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Chapter Text

It is a perfectly nice and normal day, the afternoon that Draco’s entire life is overturned. A bit boring, perhaps, but pleasant enough.

“Set that letter aside, Draco, for I have the most pleasing news.” Lucius Malfoy bursts into the room in a whirlwind of frantic energy, fussing with his sleeves and troubling this perfectly pleasant peace.

“Where is your mother? Is she reading again? Did she not hear me come in?” Wholly ignorant of his disruptive force he looks around, searching for his wife under desks and behind curtains.

Draco, beleaguered son, sighs; this level of feverish distraction doesn’t bode well for his concentration.

“Fetch me my wife, Dobby, in utmost haste. I suspect she is in the library; she is always stuck in some book when I require her attention.” He doesn’t even glance at poor Dobby, waiting, impatient, as the servant unties his coat with nimble fingers and scurries away with a deep bow, careful not to cause wrinkles or let the gloves fall.

Lucius Malfoy paces, muttering under his breath and fiddling with his hair, too excited to stand still for longer than a moment. Thereby he—quite rudely and quite accidentally—leaves Draco floundering. In the wake of such an exclamation, how could he not be invested? It’s rather typical: whenever there is a decision to be made between manners and dramatics, Father confidently chooses the latter. Quintessential Malfoy behaviour.

“What is this exciting news?” Draco asks, eager. “Is Mrs Zabini once again mysteriously widowed?”

Hearsay being something of a family tradition, Draco anticipates hearing this news nearly as much as Father anticipates telling them. Especially if there is to be another funeral—Pansy does outstanding things with black.

A town such as theirs, lamentably far from anything interesting or noteworthy, lives on its inhabitants. More precisely, it lives on chatter. In Hogwarts, everyone lives under a magnifying glass and rumours travel faster than people. Nothing escapes notice: not the ugly fabric fashioned into a hat by the tasteless and delusional, and not the great scandals—funerals and weddings and bitter fights. Theirs is not a place for secrets.

Naturally, this also makes it a place of speculation. While Lucius Malfoy is renowned for his tactless curiosity and his knack for sniffing out the most interesting tales, Pansy is better. If Hogwarts sits under a magnifying glass, it’s Pansy who holds it.

Pansy Parkinson, marvellous and devious, a sister in all but blood, is usually the first to tell Draco anything. So where is Pansy? What is keeping her, when for any event momentous enough to hoist Father into such a state, Pansy should have long since appeared on their doorstep with a wicked smile and a new tale? Quite frankly, Draco is not accustomed to having to indulge his father to learn the latest conversation.

His father, to no one’s surprise, delights in the occasion.

“Don’t be silly, Draco! This is much more important than some fateful dalliance. Although, I suppose it is indeed on the topic of marriage.” Father stills barely long enough to contemplate this, fitting his news into the context of weddings and nodding to himself, satisfied, before he paces once more.

Draco made a tactical error. His father is unbearable on the subject of matrimony, always most concerned with his son’s plans in that regard. Overzealous. Fussy. Draco has no concrete need to marry, no solid claims forcing his hand. As a young man of good family, with enough money to support a comfortable—if severely reasonable—life, there are no economic pressures acting on him, no parts of his inheritance owed to siblings or distant relatives. In short: nothing to rush this fundamental decision.

His heart, on the other hand, urges Draco to fall in love. He yearns for someone to share his life, someone to call his own, but he will not find a husband here. Nothing happens in Hogwarts. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times; new people are few, their settling down even fewer. You would have to be daft to marry in Hogwarts.

Bitter as that realisation was, Draco is content. He has his friends, has Pansy and Hermione and enough arrogance to support a lifestyle consisting primarily of judging others. Eventually, they are going to run away to London and fall spectacularly in love. It’s going to be scandalous; the best gossip Hogwarts has ever heard.

So long, he is settled with his father’s concern and his own aching heart.

Thankfully, Mother arrives before either of them has time for pointed remarks. Narcissa Malfoy has had to soothe many disagreements between her son and husband—increasingly often in recent years, she is fond of reminding them, as Draco grew more headstrong—which made her very skilled but also very displeased.

“‘Cissa, there you are!” Lucius Malfoy smiles brightly at his wife, reaching for her immediately. “Sit down, sit down—I have fantastic news.”

She is gently ushered onto the couch, next to Draco, both of them indulgent and excited. Father looks at them approvingly, basking in the scene and their attention. Preparing his announcement. Waiting for either of them to ask, truth be told, which is unlikely to happen. Whoever is foolish enough to speak would be chastised for sabotaging the moment, and they would be bound several hours, lectured about the intricacies of dramaturgy.

“Don’t you wish to know what it is?” he asks himself, finally, all opinions on the value of theatre and production forsaken.

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it,” Mother replies, not unamused. It’s a boldly dismissive statement, legitimised by her soft smile. Draco would have paid dearly for such cheek.

But Narcissa Malfoy can say absolutely anything to anyone and charm them, and so her doting husband keeps to the short version of his offended gasp.

“The Emerald Wilds Estate is let at last!” he announces, finally. Giddy.

Pauses for proper reaction.

His son is at a loss. What exactly is expected of him?

The Emerald Wilds Estate, as it was formerly and officially known, is now colloquially titled The Burrow. None but Lucius Malfoy are vexed by this. One of Hogwarts’ most imposing houses, it is realised in unpretentious grandeur and wealth with stately composure. It’s quite large, granting a lovely view of sprawling landscapes, and within walking distance to Draco’s own humble abode.

(Don’t let Lucius Malfoy hear you call his house humble; he insists on it being a Manor. In actuality, while nothing to scoff at, their home is not nearly as grand as a manor. Draco used to mourn that fact when he was little; he and Pansy could find hardly any secret passages.)

The Burrow has been vacant for many years, a lonely monument to better times, a strained promise of possibilities. Exciting people would move there one day, everyone agreed, and they would have the most exotic stories.

These days, everyone talks about the rich and eligible sure to move in soon. Matrimony and domesticity have replaced adventure, responsible tenants over rakishly charming ones. Such is growing up, Draco supposes, though he mourns the days where he was allowed to dream of husbands more entertaining than proper gentlemen.

And now, it would seem, the time of dreaming is over for good.

“The tenant is a certain Mr Weasley,” Father explains, “an affable young man with a handsome 5.000 a year. He is unattached, too. Isn’t this the best news you’ve heard all year, ‘Cissa?”

Considering the vastly different priorities separating husband and wife, this is unlikely. Considering also, however, that husband and wife are smitten with each other and enjoy nothing more than making the other happy, a circumstance most embarrassing for their son, she will not say so.

Which is not to say that she will refrain from teasing. (Another embarrassing circumstance for their son.)

“It’s interesting, dear,” Narcissa Malfoy says, sounding puzzled but polite, “but I fail to see how a simple change in neighbours justifies such excitement.”

If his favourite lounge were not occupied by his dearly beloved family, Lucius Malfoy would have fainted with affront.

“Don’t you see, ‘Cissa?” He takes her hand, down on one knee, pleading with her most sweetly. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a spouse!”

Surely she cannot be ignorant of these protocols, these machinations of civility! And truly she is not, concealing her laughter poorly as her husband’s despair morphs into a scowl of comprehension.

“Oh, you wicked woman—you are teasing me!” He declares, not without pride. He kisses the hand he is still holding, chaste but full of devotion. “I should have known; you used your beauty far too skilfully in turning everyone’s head into wishing to woo you.”

“My dear, you flatter me.” Narcissa smiles, pleased and affecting none of the bashfulness simpering fools consider good manners. “But that is some years past. At a certain point a woman ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”

Such stupidity—Lucius Malfoy will have none of it.

“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.” He kisses her hand a second time, firmly and with ardent intent, before he jumps up again, once more into his pacing. He misses the way she smiles, how she blushes. So focused is he on this new opportunity, on this vision he imagines them. “This is by far the best thing that could have happened. Don’t you think so, my love? A very happy coincidence, and even happier once our Draco is married! Can you imagine it, ‘Cissa?”

Draco, nearly forgotten among his parents’ flirtation, does not care for this future. He has no desire to marry some stranger on the sole merit of his wealth–and if he were to consider it, 5.000 a year would be nowhere near enough for Draco to trade in his romantic aspirations!

Defiantly, Draco is no longer interested in the man. He held no opinion before, but now he most decidedly does not care. Bitter experience taught him that anyone who gets his father rhapsodising is not someone Draco could stand to bind himself to in any intimate manner. As a rule, his friends need to at least initially cause his father distress and disapproval—the same should thus logically apply to potential husbands. Doubly so, he decides smugly.

Draco is not interested in the man, but he is interested in the havoc his arrival will wreck. Is, in certain aspects, already wrecking.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Lucius dear,” his mother says, not concealing her amusement this time, “but I can’t picture this future.”

His mother is a sly creature, a trait Draco usually greatly enjoys. In this very moment, he wishes she would find amusement not in the torment of others but something inoffensive—the embroidering of cushions, perhaps. Something boring that will not further the conversation and will thus set him free to leave and find his friends.

Pansy certainly knew about Mr Weasley and his settling here. She knew about the most anticipated and dreaded change in pace and she did not tell Draco.

Draco has questions that demand asking.

His parents, as usual, do not respect this.

“What do you mean, you cannot picture it?” His father would have fainted now, available furnishing or not, were it not for the irritation of such objective brilliancy challenged. “I beg you, do not play the fool. You must know that I think of our Draco marrying the man, settling proudly and well-becoming in the Emerald Wilds Estate! I should think he would be very happy there, very happy indeed, and he would be close enough for visits, still. He will have a glorious life, most envied for miles.”

He falls to his knees again, imploring her as he once more gathers her hands in his.

“Tell me, ‘Cissa. Do you truly not see it?”

Draco, it has to be said, doesn’t think he had to be present for this conversation. His parents amuse themselves in strange ways he is perfectly content not interrogating. They enter into elusive conversation that delude the onlooker but delight each other, and Draco has long since given up on following their intricacies.

His mother smiles, a secret fond smile she reserves purely for her husband.

“Silly husband, mine—do you think we could have been married for as long as we are without me knowing every thought turning in your pretty little head?” She asks, a question Lucius is too relieved to answer. “I know exactly what you have been thinking of.”

“You have no compassion for my poor nerves.” He sighs, throwing himself onto the armchair in a dramatic huff, hand reaching over the room so he need not let go of his wife.

It’s sickeningly sweet; Draco doesn’t have to witness this.

“I will do my duty as a friend and inform Pansy and Hermione of this development,” he announces, too sudden to be anything but a desperate ploy. Still, he adds, “they will be thrilled.”

Draco stands before his parents can protest. They aren’t likely to, too absorbed in their flirtations, but Draco prefers not to take any risks.

“You do that; very thoughtful of you,” his mother agrees, smirking at him. Once more, she proves to understand more than Draco would like her to. But she allows him his escape, so Draco will tolerate her knowing laugh. “And you, my long-suffering husband, you come here.”

Draco leaves the room as quickly as politeness tolerates. He has no interest in seeing his father take up the spot he so recently vacated, laying his head in his wife’s lap to bemoan their ungrateful son. 

Ritual and masks are what make a good ball. The anticipation and deliberation over dress. The performance inherent to any social gathering. The relative rarity of the event. It’s a sort of costume, the manners and the clothes—a break from the normal everyday. Different rules apply to a ball, and for a few hours, things seem possible that would never be feasible in the dull propriety of the mundane.

(Draco, young and wild, likes to think of them as abnormalities. This, quite possibly, leans too far into a pagan past.)

This particular ball was, of course, planned and organised long before anyone knew of Mr Weasley or his settling in Hogwarts. By the time hopeful would-be suitors learnt this is what they were, it was too late to dress the part. The ball was too soon to make adjustments, too late to impress, and trepidation threatened to poison the general elation.

Draco, violently indifferent, finds this amusing. To him, the timing was perfect. The most precious of blessings, he termed it, and Pansy cackled while they watched desperate creatures fight over decorative bands and gloves. Neither of them saw any need to impress the stranger that has their home in a flurry, and they felt quite smug in it.

The evening of the ball came too soon, with no word from Mr Weasley and no sightings. The normal routines of preparation and fussing took everyone an hour longer, every aspect held to what standards Mr Weasley might apply. And with everyone finally arriving, Mr Weasley is all anyone wants to talk about.

He is coming, isn’t he? He must, for it would be unforgivably rude not to. After the lengths they went to!

The music is in full swing, alcohol has established its hazy grip on the crowd, and the air is warm with joy. There is dancing and laughter and nervous glances towards the entry. In the absence of the man himself, speculation circles the room, passed from giddy girls to their mothers, between rivalling neighbours and friends determined to corner Mr Weasley the moment they spot him.

It will be a long, rather trying evening.

“It is just as I suspected,” Pansy Parkinson, standing regal, nods. She carefully and deliberately sips her drink, basking in her friends’ attention as she takes her time. “Rich people think themselves too good—that’s why they have private balls. I doubt he ever had any intentions of showing up. Why would he want to press himself into a small room with the dirty masses? Hardly more important than servants.”

Pansy looks beautiful. She always does, fastidious with the only currency a woman has, but she makes a special effort for balls. Those, after all, are her best chance to get introduced, to impress. So she is fastidious but vain, and she hides this effort behind a veneer of careless superiority. The kind of beauty that needs no cultivation. Like she put on the first thing handy and barely remembered the ball.

Draco enjoys poking at the facade, likes knowing these hidden things about her. Sometimes, he tries to poke her into confessing them, into attesting to her labour, her pride and humanity. He remains unsuccessful in his endeavours.

Today’s dress is a red so deep it could be likened to blood—indeed, this might be Pansy’s design in choosing it, macabre and alluring—rich in colour but appearing plain, with no great swirls or pearls. Pansy doesn’t need them, her skin pale and striking in contrast, her black hair sleek and elegant. It forms the only shine allowed. Only upon closer inspection, you notice the fine embroidery, the pattern added in dark thread and sprawling over the length of her, adding depth and finesse.

Pansy looks dangerous, dripping in wealth and importance. She looks like it is a certainty that she will break your heart, but you will offer it on a golden platter all the same. And then she will crush it, as you knew she would, and she will stalk off and you will think the pain worth it. Cradling your bleeding heart. Watching her leave.

Draco adores her.

“I know you think yourself jaded and cynical, but in reality you are just bitter because we entirely depend on one of them being persuaded to marry us and you miserably failed in both your attempts to charm the delightfully rich.”

Hermione Granger, true to form, doesn’t have any patience for Pansy’s bleakness. She, of course, nurtures a certain cynicism herself, but this only makes her more qualified to call it out in others. Being as they are huge hypocrites, Pansy and Hermione often spend entire afternoons arguing. They bring books and anecdotes and neither of them will ever change their mind, because they are too stubborn and enjoy the back and forth.

Their fight about the merit of performance is well-trodden and comfortable. Mellowed by repetition and fondness.

Draco, who gets sad when they fight and uncomfortable when they do so in public, is desperate for a diversion. Mr Weasley, ideally, if their guest of honour could be bothered.

Otherwise, stirring the conversation towards fashion might suit, too.

Hermione, in complete opposite to Pansy, shockingly, doesn’t care about dresses and the newest trends from London or France. This, shockingly, won’t keep her from having an opinion. Indeed, fashion might be the best subject to raise: they never looked more opposing than they do this evening.

Despite her indifference, Hermione Granger always looks lovely. A fact that used to make Draco unbearably jealous. Still does, on bad days.

Today, Hermione’s dress is a vibrant yellow, glowing against her dark skin, warm and bright as the sun. Soft details in white lace and flowers are bound in her hair, curling around her head in proud defiance of gravity. Sometimes Hermione will have submitted to having it braided, suffering through the ordeal of being fussed over by reading a book and pretending it’s not happening. She likes the braids well enough; it’s the process she has little patience for. Besides, it makes her mother happy.

In total, Hermione looks softer and kinder than her friend does. Where Pansy is certain to break your heart, Hermione looks like she might swoop in to pick you up from the dusty floor, help you mend and heal.

This is deceptive—Hermione isn’t the swooping and nurturing kind.

Draco adores her, too.

Mirroring the friends, bored and pretending not to wait the same as everyone else, the object of their dreams and speculation has arrived.

And he brought companions. Just as promised.

There are three of them, sequestered together in the doorway. Only the three, far less than any reports gave reason to expect. Which is disappointing and will be remembered to their detriment. Still, disappointingly few as they are, they command the attention of the room almost instantly as everything stops to take them in.

The man in the middle is most remarkable for his shock of ginger hair, well-cared for and neatly arranged into pleasing locks. His face is covered in freckles, his eyes bright, and his smile wide. His clothes are well-tailored, high quality and tolerably fashionable. He has the manner of a man who loves to laugh, exuding effortless charm and warmth.

Everyone likes him immediately.

To his left a woman; most definitely his sister. They share the freckles and flaming red hair, though hers is formed into exquisite braids, shimmering with elegant accents of jewellery. She is the picture of grace and beauty, standing next to her brother and surveying the room, her gown admired and envied. Yet there is something sharp to her, something that jars against intricate adornments and expensive dresses.

She covers it well, but Draco thinks she might be more content running races with the wind atop a horse than she is here, confined and gawked at. It’s the highest insult should Draco misjudge her, but he loves enough such women to confidently wage Pansy’s entire wardrobe on this being in the woman’s character.

Not that it’s a risky bet, for absolutely no one prefers being confined and gawked at.

The man on the right is… different. He doesn’t look to be part of the family—at least not by blood—his skin brown and his hair dark black. He stands taller than the man in the middle, his expression void of the amiable manners his companions share. His eyes are brilliantly green, raking over the people assembled and judging them wanting. His hair is in a state, looking for all the world like he arrived here by horse instead of taking the carriage like a civilised sort of person. But this final man seems to have braved the harsh weather sticking fingers into sumptuous curls, leaving them straying into every direction. The way he carries himself makes even that appear intentional. Artful.

Between the three of them, there can be no question who is the most intriguing. If Draco hadn’t let himself be tempted by the fire-red hair and examined their wearers first, he never would have got to them. There is something about that man, something that marks him outstanding. Special.

His clothes are just as fine as those of his friends, though more understated. He doesn’t hold himself more stiffly than any founding their self-worth on fortune, and he doesn’t break social etiquette with any of his actions. Draco can’t pinpoint it, couldn’t if pressed, but the man is arresting.

They will need to be introduced. Desperately. As soon as possible.

“Look at you: star-struck over a man in decent clothes,” Pansy drawls, slightly disgusted, ripping Draco away from the elegant stranger.

“I don’t know who you are—” Draco stops abruptly.

This moment is crucial.

Pansy is smirking at Hermione.

Pansy is smirking at Hermione, not Draco, and Hermione is pointedly not looking back at her.

This is an opportunity, singular as it is glorious. Provided Draco is quick.

It’s not the gentlemanly thing to do—Mother would be appalled—but Draco directs all of Pansy’s teasing commentary towards Hermione. Saves himself.

To be extra certain, he will join her, too.

“There is no need to pretend, darling,” he says, quickly finding his footing and only hating himself a bit. “Such a wonderful thing! Tell me, which one is it that caught your eye? We will get you an introduction and then you shall dance with him, mark my words.”

There, that is Draco’s treacherous heart covered.

(He sneaks another look at the stranger. As a treat.)

(It escalates. In barely any time at all, Draco is seeing them gracefully sweep over the dancefloor, himself held and cradled close in strong arms. He might even accidentally brush against the handsome stranger’s hair—it looks soft, would be smooth and thick and curl obliging around Draco’s fingers, would let itself be combed into something respectable if Draco just shows dedication. Jealous eyes would follow them like applause.)

Pansy, not a love-stricken fool and intimately familiar with all the stupid things Draco has ever done and contemplated, immediately realises what he is doing.

Draco thinks this most unfair. For a moment, he fears she will call him out and then Draco is silently pleading, begging her to spare him. You see, Draco talks himself into dreadfully embarrassing flushes under the right questions; an itinerary of humiliation Pansy might have penned herself for how well she knows it.

Pansy winks, which is not helping Draco’s fluttering nerves, and smirks. Because she never meant to help, selfishly amused. Draco is mournful but prepared to smother her with her own hair when Pansy turns her judgement back onto Hermione. Relieved, Draco can breathe again.

“Yes, we’ll arrange for you to dance with Mr Weasley, don’t you worry,” Pansy says, voice saccharine sweet. Pointed. Promising.

It takes Draco a few moments of incomprehension before he understands what that tone is for: Pansy knows more than he does, and she is taunting him with it. He is not released after all.

Pansy not only knows which of the two is Mr Weasley, but also who Hermione has set her sights on. Vital knowledge; Draco dreads to think how events would unfold should the same gentleman intrigue them both. More important still: only Mr Weasley will stay with them for any meaningful period of time. If Draco is doomed to lose his happiness before he knows him, he should like to at least be aware.

And Pansy, because she can’t let such a golden opportunity of torture go past, knows but won’t tell. Draco never felt so betrayed.

Before he can prod her and promise her his first born and whatever else she might want (threatening her with his firstborn might be more effective; if Pansy dreads anything, it’s the prospect of children) Draco is rudely and insistently pulled away from his friends.

“Come along now, Draco; it’s high time you get introduced to the splendid gentleman!” Lucius Malfoy declares as he drags his son.

“Mr Malfoy,” Pansy calls out, grandly, stopping Father in his tracks. “How glad I am to see you. I am told you are the man who knows the most of our curious guests.”

Indeed, Pansy heard no such thing. For one, Lucius Malfoy is so prolific in the very fabric of Hogwarts gossip, that gossip about him is virtually impossible. Secondly, more important, Draco is dead certain that Pansy knows more than his father; at the very least, she knows just as much. There is no reason to ask him, other than to make Draco suffer.

“Why Pansy, you are right!” Father beams like he was awarded with the highest honour imaginable. Possibly he was; Lucius takes pride in the strangest things.

“You see the two gentlemen, of course.” Father has the good sense to lean close as he surreptitiously points fingers. His only concession to propriety. “Mr Weasley and his companion, you understand. Word is, he is even richer than Mr Weasley himself. Isn’t he the most handsome man you ever saw, Draco?”

Draco would love to answer that, he genuinely would, but Father neglected identifying either of them. What if he agreed and accidentally robbed the actual most handsome of men of his title?

“He wouldn’t be quite so handsome if he wasn’t quite so rich,” Pansy says, but she keeps her voice low enough not to be audible over Father’s continued speculation. She smirks at Draco, waiting for him to sniff and agree.

Draco shan’t. He still doesn’t know which of them is Mr Weasley and who his companion, but he does know that the man would be just as handsome had he not a single coin to his name.

He knows better than to admit this to Pansy and Father.

“We ought to get going, I should think.” Father, disregarded in his mumblings and Draco’s own thoughts, tugs Draco forward by the wrist still held captive.

The Introduction, Draco realises in a cold rush; he had forgotten. Pansy, bad friend that she is, didn't buy him enough time—Draco needs at least a week more! But Hermione is busy pretending not to swoon, Pansy is evil and laughing at him, and Draco doesn’t know any graceful ways out of his father’s grip.

Lucius Malfoy is many things, but ‘steadfast’ is not one of them. One might think it easy to change his mind, to set his sight on something else and escape his attention, but as Draco long since learnt, his father is stubborn in the most unfortunate of moments. He is determined now, determined that Draco shall marry the rich, handsome, charming man everyone is swarming. He is determined, and there is no talking Draco could do to get himself out of his hold, no manoeuvre to free himself.

In consolation, Draco shall learn the identity of the most beautiful man he ever saw. Not a terrible fate, all things considered.

It occurs to him only when he stands right in front of these green eyes, looking Draco up and down imperiously, that they have no one to introduce them. It isn’t required, similar as they are in position and sex, but it would be appropriate to have someone announce them, to provide gravitas and vanish the keen aftertaste of a self-introduction.

Mercifully, Mr Parkinson appears out of thin air to save them. Draco smiles politely as he is introduced, thoughts preoccupied with the galling revelation that Pansy must know a good deal more than Draco came to suspect, if her father already called upon Mr Weasley. There will be stern words later, very stern words, and plenty of questions.

And then Draco doesn’t think about Pansy, because Mr Weasley—ginger, handsome, and pleasant—smiles at him and Mr Potter—the most striking man Draco ever beheld—shakes his hand.

It’s strange, the handshake, unexpected and not part of the etiquette, but to refuse the offered gesture would be rude and, just for a moment, Mr Potter looks horrified with himself for the social faux pas. Draco relishes rescuing him.

Mr Potter’s hand is warm in Draco’s, soft and dry. It’s a very pleasant handshake, the grip firm but not harsh. It’s a good introduction, too, Mr Potter almost smiling, and Draco allows his fingers to linger longer than necessary. 

If he were to be embarrassingly honest, Draco would have to confess to being quite dazed by Mr Potter. Since he knows better than to admit to this where Pansy can hear, he is dazed in miserable quiet.

They didn’t exchange many words, nothing more consequential than formal phrases of pleasure—not enough to appreciate the low smoothness of Mr Potter’s voice, warm honey in Draco’s memory. He longs to hear that voice again, to perhaps stand closer and lean in, listen to him and talk about whatever it is Mr Potter wishes to talk about.

Pansy, near psychic, pronounced him smitten the moment he returned. She was right, though Draco protested her assessment vigorously. Draco Malfoy is not smitten, never. (Except that he is, now, with Mr Potter.)

Pansy also pointed out that Mr Potter didn’t so much as glance at anyone else he was introduced to, and that he certainly didn’t shake any more hands. Draco can forgive her impertinence for that, despite the mischievous spark in her eyes. After all, Pansy wouldn’t be Pansy if she didn’t smirk and tease.

Draco is quite pleased, yes, eyes surreptitiously on Mr Potter.

Harry Potter is an interesting man to witness. He is never content to stand anywhere for long before he moves again, afraid he’ll invite conversation when he is idle. Unlike his friends, he does not effortlessly fit into this society and he sees no point in trying. The only reason for his attendance is duty, a truth he does not conceal half as well as he thinks he does. He finds himself bored and irritated and makes for an appealing study, a fact he is entirely unaware of.

Draco, who realises none of these things, finds him intriguing all the same. He is wholly absent from his friends, his thoughts engaged in finding a topic that might keep Mr Potter from politely running, when Mr Weasley clears his throat.

There he stands, suddenly, Mr Potter hovering at his shoulder, disturbing their sociable distraction.

This, finally, is what Draco had imagined.

“Excuse me,” Mr Weasley says, words directed at the group but eyes solely on Hermione, “but I could no longer stay away. Mr Malfoy, would you do me the greatest pleasure and introduce me to your friend?”

Mr Weasley doesn’t stray from Hermione, his only manner not exceedingly proper. He could have introduced himself and would have caused nothing but a few raised eyebrows, everyone altogether too charmed by him to faithfully object to the forthrightness. But his mother is a woman who firmly believes in doing the right thing, doing the kind thing—social protocol has a function, and skipping those steps without warning is neither right nor kind.

Never fully convinced of his own charm and quality, Ron Weasley seeks to allow a beautiful woman a few seconds’ worth of preparation before having to speak to him in a friendly manner. He does not understand that this is not necessary and that the woman in question has been longing to speak to him almost as long as he wanted to speak to her.

Draco, who does understand these things, does not handle them kindly. Seeing as how Mr Weasley did hand him the power and Hermione looks like she might faint from delight, he introduces Pansy first. If she had wanted to avoid the awkwardness of being introduced to a man she already knows, she might have told Draco about this circumstance.

Mr Weasley pulls himself away from Hermione for just long enough to perform the expected pleasantries. It was only Pansy’s father, then, who had already met the illustrious Mr Weasley. A relief, but still—Draco is right to pout. Pansy glares at him, not bothering to act pleased to be introduced to the most talked about man in Hogwarts.

Having nothing more to stall them on and no further punishment to dole out, Draco turns to more pleasant things.

“This is my dearest friend, Hermione Granger.” Draco gestures at Hermione, as if Mr Weasley could look anywhere else. In fact, he is so utterly absorbed by Hermione’s smile—the pretty one that blinds everyone, though she doesn’t employ it on purpose and it’s not needed to enthral Mr Weasley—that he doesn’t notice Pansy viciously stepping on Draco’s foot.

(She gets displeased when Draco implies there might be a better friend than her, which is the entire reason Draco does it.)

“Miss Granger.” Mr Weasley reverently takes Hermione’s hand and performs a deep bow. It’s an impressive display of respect and affection for two complete strangers. Draco smirks at Hermione over his back. “I wondered, if you aren’t otherwise engaged and I could persuade you away from your friends… that is, I have admired you since I first saw you and I had hoped to ask if you were agreeable to allow me the honour of a dance.”

It is the most convoluted and nervous invitation to dance ever witnessed. It speaks well for Mr Weasley, Draco decides, to be so invested in the answer that it makes the asking complicated. Besides, Hermione is neither stupid nor unwilling—they will have a capital time.

Draco is engaged smugly watching their friend lose her mind when Pansy, social disaster that she turns into when bored, addresses Mr Potter. This is unacceptable for several reasons, foremost that her aim is always to tease and embarrass Draco. Also, almost more important: Pansy hasn’t been introduced. Mr Potter seems the sort of man to prefer things done properly, which means it would have been for Draco, if anyone, to talk to him.

Naturally, he wouldn’t have. Draco would have waited for Mr Potter to break his confinement and request a dance, would have smiled coyly and fluttered his eyes and cast himself in the role of stumbling maiden. This is the scene Draco hoped for, the setting of all the greatest romances. Is it too much to ask? One fairy-tale dance?

Pansy seems to think so.

“How about you?” she demands as Draco’s brain races through several revelations—not least of them that he wants Mr Potter to behave like the reprehensible stereotype of the dashing gentleman. “Do you like to dance as well?”

In the familiar and almost crude manner of her addressing Mr Potter, it takes both of them a few seconds to realise she is doing it, ill-advised and reckless. Pansy remains unimpressed by the affronted dignities as she forges on, bold as anything.

“Draco here is quite fond of dancing, aren’t you?” Pansy all but elbows him in the side, smiling at him, making him co-conspirator in this dreadful decline of decorum.

Mr Potter stares at them in dignified shock. This has never happened to him before. This has surely never happened to anyone before.

Draco feels like melting on the spot. (He sincerely doubts Mr Potter would rush forward to catch him if he were to faint now; so much for his idle dreams.)

“I don’t dance,” Mr Potter says, once the silence stretches on long enough to be mortifying. At this point, it might have been better he said nothing at all.

“Never?” Pansy asks, because she learnt nothing from her first deathly blunders and Draco should cease all acquaintance with her. She surveys Mr Potter critically, searching for some mark to the truth of his claim. “That sounds terribly dull. How do you manage it?”

Pansy, forgetting both who she is talking to and that she doesn’t dance, either, doesn’t bother keeping her voice down as she ruins Draco’s every chance of happiness.

Mr Potter, again, stares at her. Apparently, he doesn’t know what to do faced with such insubordination. Draco can sympathise; he, too, often doesn’t know what to do with Pansy. Before he can step in to salvage this disaster—although he doesn’t think that possible, frankly—Mr Potter bows sharply and stalks off.

The rudeness is astonishing, even if you make allowances for Pansy’s behaviour. Draco gapes at his retreating back.

He can be offended now, can’t he?

“Such insolence!” Lucius Malfoy pushes between them, screeching loud enough that the entire room hears and about as dignified as a harpy. Mr Potter definitely heard, pointedly not looking but standing straighter, hands clenching behind his back.

Draco would like for the earth to swallow him now, thanks, very obliged.

“Draco! You mustn’t tolerate this! What kind of gentleman does he think he is, standing you up so boorishly? No, we shan’t accept this,” Father goes on, muttering under his breath as he glares at Mr Potter.

“The very rich can afford to give offence wherever they go,” Pansy agrees, most gleefully, nodding along to Father’s manic complaints.

It’s all very mortifying. Subtly, Draco searches for anyone else to talk to, any conversation to hide in.

“Father,” Draco hisses, when no such rescue avails itself and Father still prattles on. “He can hear you!”

“Let him hear!” Father exclaims, impossibly louder to spite Draco. “We needn’t care for his good opinion.”

The tragedy is, of course, that Draco does care about Mr Potter’s opinion. He seems to be the only one to do so, Pansy delighted in Father’s outrage and her own wickedness.

“He’s not so handsome now, is he?” She asks, as if Mr Potter could ever be less than striking.

“Indeed, he’s not,” Father agrees, because they are both blind. “I always said so, you know. It was purely in keeping so close to his friend that he appeared a good man. You will learn to spot the difference in time, but I knew he held little regard for us.”

Right, this is quite enough.

“Excuse me, Father.” Draco doesn’t wait for his father to pause in his tirade, doesn’t wait for Pansy to pull herself together. He just links their arms and escorts her off, away from Father and his dreadful opinions. The last thing he needs is Pansy adding fuel to his fire.

“I am exceedingly vexed with you,” Draco tells her as they cross the room, as far from the scene of the crime as possible.

“Why, I merely wanted you to have a nice dance.” Pansy smiles like she means it, like she does not know what she did. Draco might just believe it.

“Instead, you made certain that wouldn’t happen.” Draco genuinely is irritated. Usually he wouldn’t mind Pansy brazenly disregarding propriety. Usually, however, she makes him laugh, not lose his only chance at dancing with handsome—if aloof—men.

For a moment, Pansy has the good grace to look contrite. Then she swallows it, affecting a careless manner as she waves away his anger.

“He was no good, Draco; you saw how stiffly he reacted to a crisp little question. You are fooling yourself if you think you would have enjoyed conversation with Potter.” Pansy has a point, Draco will grant her that. He won’t admit to it, though.

What she can’t talk to rights, can’t understand, is that Draco would have liked to dance with Mr Potter anyway. Simply for the pleasure of dancing with a handsome man. They could have kept to idle remarks, awfully tedious no matter who you are talking to, and wouldn’t have suffered under Mr Potter’s adherence to courtesy.

Besides, if Mr Potter was to be disregarded for austere behaviour, Draco should make that decision. Pansy forced his hand, and he does not appreciate it.

“I wanted to dance with him, Pansy.” Explaining his motivation would do little good, he knows from experience, but he is unwilling to let it go completely. It’s the truth in its most simple form: Draco wanted to dance with Mr Potter.

It sits between them, uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy says after another moment. “But when there is no dancing to be found, we shall have to be philosophers.”

It’s a peace offering, little as she can do now that she already repelled Draco’s desired partner.

She’s lucky Draco likes her too much to stay angry for very long. 

Chapter Text

Harry Potter never understood the fuss made around balls. This is because, to him, not a single ball doesn’t pathetically fail in its objective: to be an entertaining merriment of like-minded people, to forge new and worthwhile connections, and to offer the chance to meet with old friends. This, in some cases, is plain impossible.

Harry Potter never encountered a ball that satisfied him, and Ron, long-suffering best friend, is well aware of this his distaste. But joining the very first ball possible is the neighbourly thing to do, thus Harry excusing himself and staying behind was vehemently refused. Repeatedly. That Harry himself would not be moving into the neighbourhood did not matter to Ron, who foresaw his friend staying with them indecently often.

Besides, what kind of friend would pass on the opportunity to inflict mild agony?

“Oh, lighten up.” Ginevra Weasley—who prefers Ginny—almost stumbles into Harry, standing brooding and in silence. She is flushed from dancing and dizzy from the last twirl, happy as she only ever is in motion.

Harry never understood this, either. Dancing. People must be horrifically bored to anticipate this torture; nothing else explains this feverish devotion—simpering, bored fools. All of them.

“You pull a face like someone died!” Ginny settles beside him, copying his posture in the most mocking manner she can manage. She has been perfecting the skill for two decades and thus is annoyingly proficient. She is also aware of how little Harry appreciates it, her satisfied smirk barely hidden under his mirrored scowl.

Being raised by his aunt and uncle, only his cousin Dudley to rightfully consider a sibling, one might have thought Harry escaped a sister’s prodding clutches. Maybe he would have, had he remained with his relatives, odious as they were, and less often run off to the Weasleys. Instead, the Weasleys welcomed him warmly, a sanctuary gratefully sought. Mrs Weasley took one look at him, skinny and suspicious, and declared she would not let him go until she could do so without worrying he would be carried off by a strong breeze. Several years and not one meeting where she didn’t feed him later, Harry suspects the day will never come. So Harry is stuck with them, a chosen family dearer to him than his own blood.

Even if that does include a fearless sister, who gleefully exploits the liberties afforded to her position.

“Look around yourself: it’s only a matter of time before someone will have died,” Harry mutters darkly. Not only are balls pointless and tedious, they are also the largest celebrated accumulation of incompetence. Seldom is such abundance of reckless behaviour displayed, as when there is cheerful music supporting it.

“You mean yourself dying from obstinacy, perhaps,” Ginny replies, still determinedly bright. She was a spoilt child, a fact immediately obvious in moments like this.

“As long as it gets me out of this ordeal.” Harry would shrug, might even smile, but this is a ball; Harry is not to show any signs of amusement or delight, or Ginny wins. He couldn’t abide that.

Ginny, it deserves to be stressed, adores a ball. Any ball, regardless of quality and company. She loves dancing, instigates it often even in informal settings, and she swears there is no better way to meet people than in the middle of sparking excitement. In her case, that might be true, but if Harry were to choose any companion after their dancing habits, he would pick whoever stood furthest from the crowd. Since that person is usually himself, well, Harry has a lot of time to think while he suffers.

“Impossible,” Ginny chides him, the argument as familiar as her affection laced within. “Why don’t you get a drink? That should help you find your rhythm.”

Forced joyfulness and alcohol, Harry amends; this is why balls are objectively the worst pastime. As if the party needed belligerent drunks to careen through as well.

“Why don’t you return to the music and leave me be?” Harry asks, same as every time. He knows the answer, knows and loves her for it, but it’s also the last thing that needs saying before she can leave him to his contemplation. He has had more than enough socialising—he deserves peace.

“You looked stupid standing here all in your lonesome. I’m offering a remedy to your plight.” Ginny grins, as if she didn’t gravely insult him.

He supposes she didn’t, privileges of being his sister and all. Still, this is the part where he scowls at her until she leaves. As always, she just laughs.

“Look, Ron is moving over as well. Be kinder to him, would you?” Ginny leaves before Harry can remind her that Ron doesn’t need coddling, that he doesn’t need reminding how to treat his friend, and that it’s none of her business, anyway.

She wouldn’t have listened, but it would have been satisfying all the same. Instead, he watches her join one of the circles standing around nattering. In no time at all, she will have seduced one of their women away from her engagements and into dancing. Moments like these, Harry envies her easy rapport with strangers.

“Harry,” Ron calls out, and Harry shakes it off. He wouldn’t ask any of them to dance, he knows, even if it were as easy for him as it is for Ginny. It would still be dancing.

“Ron,” he acknowledges, as soon as Ron stands close enough that it doesn’t need to be shouted. He does so very pointedly, smirking as Ron rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, impeccable manners. Now come on, I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.” Ron either doesn’t know that Ginny told him the exact same thing—in eerily similar words, too—or he repeats her because he thinks himself funny. Harry doesn’t know, but he isn’t inclined to follow either invitation, so motivation hardly matters.

Ron asking is different in only one thing: it’s not tradition. There is no well-trodden reply, no smooth refusal that would still have him laughing. And this is imperious; Harry would so hate to spoil Ron’s enjoyment, as well.

But refuse him he must, unaccustomed to it as they both are.

“I’m afraid I must refuse. Ginny is already engaged, and there is not another in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” Harry doesn’t dance with strangers, out of principle. He barely wants to talk to them. “Unless you want to dance with me?”

Ron does not. He laughs at the suggestion, because he is a good friend, but he glances back at his lovely partner because he is also a quickly besotted fool. He doesn’t want to dance with Harry, not when he might dance with Miss Granger. Which suits Harry perfectly. Honestly.

“Leave me, then; I will stand in silent judgement of your devious frivolities.” Harry smirks, anxious to make sure Ron understands he is joking. They don’t have this kind of conversation often enough for Harry to comfortably act callous.

Ginny would have laughed at him, he knows. She would have laughed and bowed and proclaimed herself the most frivolously hedonistic of them all, and Harry would have scolded her and agreed. Ron, however, is too earnestly worried about Harry’s lack of company to find humour in the situation.

“I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.” Ron gestures around the room, as if he could make them more appealing by declaration. And who knows: Ron is so genial, so earnest a person—perhaps he does possess that talent. Then he remembers that Harry's preferences lean towards male companions, and he hastens to add: “Quite a few handsome men as well, I should think.”

Ron would think wrong. There aren’t quite a few of them; just one, and Harry has been too cowardly to strike up a conversation all evening. How could he? The man is in constant conversation with his rude friend and Harry had behaved abominably.

But Ron doesn’t need to know that. The middle of a lively ball is no place to discuss these things, and Harry prefers not to be berated for his reserved constitution.

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” Harry says, and doesn’t say a word about blond hair and grey eyes.

It was the right thing to say, for Ron turns and leaves off prodding Harry in favour of gazing at the woman. From the overwhelming adoration in his eyes, you wouldn’t guess that he had known her a scant few hours.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” He exclaims, not a trace of affected exaggeration in his voice. He is quite awed, his friend, and Harry would worry were it not for the joy of seeing him thus. “But look: that’s her friend over there, Mr Malfoy. He had the kindness to introduce us, you know. He is pleasingly handsome, I should think, and I dare say very agreeable.”

Harry almost swallows his tongue. Of all the men Ron could have picked to praise, it stands to reason that fate should torture him so, let him pick the one man Harry should enjoy knowing better.

He did know Mr Malfoy introduced Ron and Miss Granger; Harry was there, after all. He made a fool of himself, so he can never return—it’s very simple. But Ron doesn’t understand these things; he is never anything short of charming and sure of being liked wherever he appears, while Harry is continually giving offence. This has been the way of their friendship since the beginning, and Harry is well used to it.

Still, sometimes he thinks about how things might be if their roles were reversed. If Harry were the obliging one, if he were capable of that sort of unthinking friendliness. He could take the few steps dividing them, confident in his elegance. He could offer Mr Malfoy his hand and be certain to be accepted. He would be affable and humorous in their conversation, would be competent in their dance, and leave an impression so thoroughly flattering, Mr Malfoy would beg him to call upon him soon.

Which Harry naturally wouldn’t do, because in reality he is socially awkward.

Harry looks away. Mr Malfoy is just sitting, watching the dancing couples idly, but Harry wants to join the man and ask what he is thinking.

Ridiculous.

It’s most unusual, most impractical, and Harry cannot ward off Ron’s well intentioned barbs much longer.

“He is tolerable,” Harry says, like he isn’t entranced by the porcelain clarity of his skin and the wicked humour sparking in his expressions. Maybe claiming to be unaffected will make it come true? “But not handsome enough to tempt me.”

An offended gasp from the seat Harry determinedly doesn’t look at.

Harry closes his eyes, prays his senseless preoccupation with Mr Malfoy caused misinterpretation. Rationally, however, he knows what happened.

This is why he would have preferred to stay home with a good book.

He opens his eyes just in time to see Mr Malfoy retreating, his pace as fast as decorum allows. Harry has driven him away. Without talking to him, without so much as conscious thought, Harry has made himself impossibly more abhorrent.

It’s a true talent, impressively unfailing.

Perhaps it’s for the best. There is no future in such an acquaintance. No sense in getting attached.

Harry watches as Mr Malfoy rejoins his friend—the rude one with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue—and watches as his newest misstep is relayed to her. Mr Malfoy gestures widely, the story already embellished and neither of them subtle in their glances and secrecy. And why should they be? They are righteously affronted. Mr Malfoy pulls himself up straighter, dons his handsome face in a grimace of displeased arrogance, and Harry knows, without hearing the affectation to his tone, that he watches himself impersonated.

This is how Mr Malfoy perceives him now. It’s not flattering. They laugh, then, breaking out into giggles, and Harry turns away, face burning.

“You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,” he says to Ron, humiliated and unsoothed by the pained sympathy on his friends face, “for you are wasting your time with me.”

The evening drags on.

Balls are terrible things; Harry has always known this. However, every evil can be sharper, as he is being relentlessly shown. This welcoming charade forced upon them is made all the more insupportable by Harry’s new found need to keep a vigilant eye on Mr Malfoy—for to avoid the man, he must be aware of his location in relation to himself.

It’s inconvenient.

Ron and Ginny are both vivaciously dancing, otherwise Harry would have begged to leave long ago. But Ron is dancing with Miss Granger like there is no one else in the room and Ginny made it her mission to dance with every woman at least once—Harry cannot cut their enjoyment short. It does not strike him as fair, that they should pay for his ineptitude.

So, bound to stay and uncomfortably aware he doesn’t belong, Harry has been reduced to dodging Mr Malfoy, his ultimate affront lingering between them. Watching him, Harry learnt more of the man’s mannerisms and humour than he should have wished to know. He is a fascinating man, Mr Malfoy, for a boring socialite.

“Harry?” Ginny asks from somewhere behind him. “Are you hiding behind that fern?”

Harry flinches, immediately steps far away from the odious green. It didn’t offer sufficient cover, anyway, not in any direction. It did afford a rather charming view of Mr Malfoy, but was that worth the humiliation of being discovered thus? By Ginny, of all people—she will tease him until the day he dies!

“No,” Harry claims, flushed, though there is no denial of obvious truths. Still, any attempt to preserve dignity is made in honour. “You are mistaken. Grossly. If you would excuse me; I’m needed elsewhere.”

Before Harry can walk away and hide somewhere else—somewhere better, with doors to lock between him and people—Ginny joins him in stealthily observing through the obliging leaves.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie,” she announces, loud as she pleases. Harry wants to shush her, wants to pull her away and urge her in privacy to keep her insight to herself—anything to terminate this mortification. However, there is no surer way of exposing secrets than sharing them.

“I should imagine not,” he says instead, tries to draw himself back into propriety and above this spectacle of insecurity.

Merciless in her teasing, Ginny arches an eyebrow; the fern is still parted to display Mr Malfoy, engaged in conversation with people Harry doesn’t recognise. Harry should have run while he had the chance.

Ginny smirks, wickedness curled in her lips and glinting in her eyes. Maybe it’s not too late to run after all? A fool caught is at least a fool with principles.

“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society,” Ginny drawls, gesturing expansively at Mr Malfoy. Because she is horrible, she also nods sombrely.

They both know very well that Harry is far from such thoughts. Maybe he thought thus an hour ago, but has since twisted himself up in awe and regret. That is the point—Ginny wants his confession, wants a positive word she can cite when Harry comes to his senses and remembers there is absolutely no redeeming factor to balls.

Harry knows this is what she wants, but he will say it anyway. She has been teasing him about his reticence all evening, is always teasing him and scolding him on his insistence on proper conduct—just this once, he wants her to know that she was wrong about him; he is as capable of human failings as everyone else.

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in a pretty face can bestow.” Harry wants to take the words back as soon as he speaks them. This is too much. Too much honesty and too much information in hands too eager to make him dance.

“I knew it!” Ginny exclaims, uncaring of the attention she draws. “Malfoy, is it?”

Harry wishes he could deny it, wishes he could tell her to mind her own business, that he doesn’t care about Mr Malfoy and what he might think of him.

He knows better, though. Ginny will not be persuaded, will not rest until she wrings every embarrassing detail out of him. The only hope left to Harry is that she may do so quietly and discreetly.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy. As well you know, Ginevra.” Using her full name is the only rebellion Harry dares. It gains him nothing but narrowed eyes and a devious smirk.

“I am all astonishment,” she says, in the most saccharine voice she is capable of. (It’s quite saccharine indeed.) “How long has he been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.” Harry watches as Ginny’s smile goes from sweet to strained; he takes utmost delight in it.

Ginny might be an expert in rankling Harry, but Harry knows her at least as well as she knows him: his darling sister detests nothing more than the suggestion that a woman’s mind should be feeble and occupied only with romantic nonsense and wedding bells.

“Fine, let us speak candidly.” Ginny isn’t smiling anymore, is looking at him very seriously amid prancing music and swirling dresses. “You have been gazing at Malfoy all evening, but have not spoken to him once since you’ve been introduced. Which is considered rude, by most standards, and will have confused him beyond all means.”

This is most accurate, though kinder to Harry than the circumstances warrant. They are, after all, too close for such realities.

“He doesn’t know you like I do, Harry—he doesn’t know that you would talk to him in an instant if you knew how. If you recall, he was quite taken with you the one time you did interact. Don’t think I didn’t notice both of you lingering over what should have been a simple introduction—even Ron noticed, and he was already drawn in by the lovely Miss Granger.” Ginny points at them, deep in conversation and oblivious to the world. Events need to be truly extraordinary to distract Ron today.

“Your point?” Harry asks, because he cannot listen to many more of his failings listed.

“My point,” Ginny agrees, though her voice is much softened, “is that you have the potential for a gratifying acquaintance in Malfoy. More than that, I wager, if you stopped assuming only people with red hair could like you. Give the man a chance.”

How is Harry to reply? Is there a polite way to close this discussion?

“Harry,” Ginny takes his hands and steps closer, her eyes wide and urging him to listen. “You have been an utter moron. I implore you to do better.”

Then she drops a quick kiss on his hands, grins at him, and leaves him behind, befuddled and gaping.

Well.

That was direct, even for Ginny.

However blundering her presence in his emotions, she has been there long enough to know her way around and speak with authority. Harry owes her words some consideration. Ginny deserves better than to be callously refused due to inconvenient presentation; he will have to make a list.

(Lists never help make sense of the chaos, but what else is Harry to do? He certainly cannot simply walk up to Mr Malfoy and rely on his natural charm. Luck, too, has been in thin supply. So, lists and reason will have to do.)

One, the one thing he knows for certain: he has himself been intrigued by Mr Malfoy since their introduction. Harry, too, suspected their handshake to be longer than necessary, but he was busy trying not to stare, so he can’t rely on his own sense of time. Ginny mentioning it proves his hopes.

The first fact is thus: they both should have enjoyed to linger longer over introductions. A good thing, surely?

The second fact is unfortunately this: Mr Malfoy’s father is a terrible, impertinent man who Harry has no patience for. He is loud, lacks tact and self-awareness, and brazes past all manners and class. He makes himself a spectacle. Harry does his utmost to avoid association with that kind of person, for his own peace of mind.

And so, third, he allowed Mr Malfoy to be pushed onward by the next eager country man. Harry watched him retreat, watched him trying to escape his buzzing father, and he thought it a shame that such a lovely gentleman should have such disagreeable relations.

That, as far as Harry was concerned, closed the case. Shame, but life is full of disappointments.

Fourth, however: it is possible Harry did more than passively watch Mr Malfoy be ushered onward. Considering his strict policy of not suffering fools—not since he acquired the power to quirk an eyebrow and make them squirm—it seems likely Harry commented on proper behaviour.

Harry doesn’t remember, but most of that meeting is nebulous to him.

To this discovery succeed some others equally mortifying. Small indignities, all of them, adding together into one comprehensive picture of snobbish disdain, Harry the one who holds the brush.

Contrary to popular opinion, Harry is not completely oblivious of the impression he leaves. At times he is excruciatingly aware of his behaviour.

Offset by that first clumsy interaction, he and Mr Malfoy have been chafing at each other, provoking and displaying traits as expected and hated; preconceived notions birthing themselves from distrust and apprehension. Which is to say: in expecting to be inept, Harry proved himself thus to the both of them.

The realisation hits like a punch to the gut.

Harry cannot stand balls. This never would have happened at a nice, civilised hunting party!

The reasonable mend to a situation twisted as theirs would be polite conversation. Perhaps even a dance—anything to smooth ruffled feathers. Sadly, while Harry is many things, reasonable isn’t one of them. It’s one of his greatest failings, he fears privately, and one that renders shallow company distasteful to him.

Failing it might be, but it also means that Harry cannot turn his back on the tension with Mr Malfoy, though it might have been the wisest choice. After all, who is the man to deserve Harry twisting himself into agony? Reasonably, Harry should forget about Mr Malfoy and go home. But such logics are foreign to Harry; his heart is set on salvaging whatever possible. (He never quite outgrew the hungry little boy.)

This instant, all he is to Mr Malfoy is the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought him handsome enough to dance with. It’s not an impression Harry wants to be associated with.

Without further thinking, Harry strides up to the cause of his headache. He will redeem himself, will be friendly and polite and observe. He will make sure to be seen doing this, so he will not be remembered as a stand-offish stalker, but rather as an active part of Mr Malfoy’s enjoyment.

It is a fine plan until Harry finds himself quite suddenly in the circle of Mr Malfoy’s conversation, not a word to say for himself. How could he—he doesn’t know what they are talking about. Mercifully, no one is shocked for very long and they pick up their conversational thread after only a few acknowledging nods. No contribution is required of Harry.

It’s remarkably easy after that. Harry just follows Mr Malfoy through the room. He tries not to be too blatant, tries to insert himself into the conversation whenever fitting—though it rarely is, and on those few occasions the conversation has often moved on before Harry has sorted all he wants to say. For the most part, Harry listens.

He didn’t dare hope there could be delight found here, at this odious ball, but listening to Mr Malfoy’s insight and wit, Harry could almost be persuaded to reconsider the benefits of such gatherings. It draws the common simpleton, yes, but Mr Malfoy brings a shine to even the most disappointing people. Harry might almost enjoy himself.

Almost, that is, until he sets out to follow Mr Malfoy into yet another conversation and, quite by accident, realises that his efforts have been lacking in subtlety. Mr Malfoy is talking to his rude friend again, the only constant in his partners. It’s evident by his tone of voice and their shared glances: they are talking about Harry.

“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about.” Mr Malfoy looks at him intensely, speaking his warning directly to Harry. Then, before Harry can do so much as acknowledge that he heard, he turns back towards his friend. “He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”

The remark stings. Harry was attempting to be civil! If his attentions were unwelcome, Mr Malfoy should have said so directly—Harry could have saved himself the effort, had he known the man to be this stubborn! He has determined Harry to be unpleasant and severe, a judgement not completely incorrect but insulting in the manner of presentation.

They shall be enemies, then. Mr Malfoy has decided it so.

It’s a pity, because Mr Malfoy showed wit and kindness, but apparently Harry misjudged him. He has a bad habit of that, misjudging people. Indeed, perhaps it’s for the best. Mr Malfoy is a child of this place—rustic charm, but not fit for a finer environment.

Lost in his morose musings, it almost drives Harry out of his skin in shock when he is spoken to.

“Mr Potter,” the portly man announces grandly, and Harry can only scowl. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”

Harry is doing no such thing, but he smiles politely all the same. It wouldn’t do to alienate their host, not beyond forgetting the man’s name and insulting his guests. He indicates a nod, making to excuse himself —

“A fine thing, a dance. Wouldn’t you say?” the man asks, cheerfully determined not to be evaded. “I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society.”

Now, that is plain nonsense. It’s ill-advised, but Harry is due a verbal response and he is not yet recovered from his most recent failure—speaking with unwelcome honesty is preferable over not speaking at all.

“Every savage can dance,” he says, the blundering end of a sophisticated judgement. It’s vicious and inappropriate and Harry wants to go home.

He does the next best thing: revel in the man’s befuddlement. Rudeness is stunningly effective in securing privacy. It is more satisfying when employed purposefully, but Harry isn’t fussy about the means to gain his quiet.

“Of course,” the man nods, eyes flitting about the room in search of rescue. Harry would be very obliged if he found it, someone else to talk to, perhaps.

“I don’t doubt that you yourself are skilled in the science, of course,” the man goes on, brave in the face of Harry’s poisonous mood. Why won’t he leave Harry be?

Harry reminds himself sharply that he possesses better manners than almost anyone in this room, that their flagrantly lax attitude is no excuse to slack, and that he is fully capable of being rude while remaining entirely proper. He can deal with this.

And then he can sneak away and hide in the library.

“I rarely dance,” Harry replies, fills the sentence with as much disdain as would fit into three small words. And then, because the wretched man is turning red and Harry fears he won’t get rid of him until he sacrifices a part of his composure, he adds: “Although everyone seems determined to motivate me to oblige today.”

The man lights up like it’s his wedding day. Harry regrets furthering the conversation instantly. He should have abandoned propriety and left, shouldn’t he?

“Indeed!” the man crows, as if it’s a grand accomplishment to have wrung the confession out of Harry. “And why won’t you? Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

Indeed, it wouldn’t be. This awful place, where Harry lost his dearest friend to the smiles of a pretty woman and found nothing but resentment for himself. No, this place does not deserve to see more of Harry’s misery.

But to say that would be to renounce any good graces he has left. Spitefully, Harry had already committed to dignity.

“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.” As diplomatic an answer as he can find, as firm as he dares. Harry could not possibly be clearer—he has absolutely no intentions of dancing. No matter who asks.

His cheerful companion looks quite distraught at that. Hopefully that settles the question for the evening; Harry could not suffer through another attack with any amount of composure.

“Mr Malfoy!” The man shouts, robbing Harry of the relief he recklessly allowed himself. “Why aren’t you dancing, young man?”

Mr Malfoy stops frozen where he meant to pass them, halted by Harry’s odious gaoler and drawn in to pick up the slack of Harry’s conversation. Mr Malfoy looks as displeased to be found as Harry felt a moment ago. Distressingly, Harry’s heart feels lighter for Mr Malfoy’s presence, not yet renounced of hope.

“You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you,” the man says to Harry, offering him Mr Malfoy’s hand like a sacrifice to a tempestuous god.

Harry would like little more than to accept, to take this wondrous escape and amend Mr Malfoy’s poor opinion of him. Certainly a dance would suffice. Mr Malfoy enjoys these affairs, Harry is positive of that from the conversations he listened to. Harry is an acceptable dancer; he wouldn’t cause himself further humiliation if he were to indulge the numerous requests made. And they would not have to speak. It might set a precedent of badgering and whinging leading to success, but Harry is willing to worry about that later.

Alas, Mr Malfoy doesn’t appear favourable, expression glacial and hand offered most unwillingly. It’s appalling, Harry notes belatedly, the way this man has volunteered Mr Malfoy to assuage Harry.

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Mr Malfoy pulls his hand away as gently as possible when so obviously reviled with the prospect of touching Harry. It’s a slight to his station, but Harry understands; he himself would react less kindly if someone presumed so much of him.

Thankfully, he is so far above these people that he runs little danger of that happening. Not even Ginny would be reckless enough to advertise him thus.

Still, Harry should very much like to dance, now that he has been presented with the opportunity.

“It is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you,” their meddling third party comments before Harry has any chance to do the dignified thing and ask for a dance himself. “Though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”

Harry would indeed not object. Quite the opposite.

“Mr Potter is all politeness,” Mr Malfoy says, his smile so cold it freezes Harry’s heart.

Their host laughs uproariously, covering the uncomfortable chasm only just now revealed to him. How did he not see it before? Did he honestly think Mr Malfoy amenable to dancing with Harry? Or was he just convenient and close?

They stand, staring at each other as the man laughs, searching for a way to rein the situation back under control.

Harry ought to say something; if only he knew what was appropriate in situations such as these.

“We cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?” Flattery, the man settles on, and Harry curses himself for not thinking of it first. When employed wrong, flattery can lead to much disgrace and silliness, but Harry doubts there is any flattery he could employ that wouldn’t be objectively true when applied to Mr Malfoy.

Mr Malfoy, it seems, is impervious to flattery. The first person Harry witnessed to be so. It’s unexpected, too, after his hurt reaction to Harry’s earlier misstep and dismissal of his charms. He would have thought Mr Malfoy the sort to preen and glow under a compliment well deserved. Instead, he arches a wicked eyebrow at Harry, speaking plenty with the absence of any words.

He leaves without apologies, only barely offering the politeness of a bow. He is gone before Harry has the chance to join in the compliments, before Harry could agree that he would very much like to make an exception to his usual abstinence of dances.

He is gone and Harry watches him leave, their ignorant host talking on like there is any point to it. 

Chapter Text

Sharing a coach with Lucius Malfoy after a ball is an odious mixture of glee and severity.

There is a very simple reason for this: his wife rarely accompanies him. Thus, Lucius is obliged to spend the journey home reminiscing and remembering to cherry-pick the most riveting moments, arrange the most pleasing assortment of jokes and scandal. Consequently, he speaks a lot—dictating his fondest memories to his faithful audience—and none of them speak at all. Only occasionally they may talk, and they ought to do so with joy lingering in their skin and smiles.

Sharing a coach with Lucius Malfoy when composing a report for his wife is excruciating. His son has done his best to prevent it from happening ever since spotting the pattern.

Today, he was unfortunate enough to lose sight of Hermione; in her dazed state, fully caught up in admiration, Hermione put up little protest as she was dragged along by Lucius. Draco could hardly leave her to suffer alone, could he? It’s his father; much as Lucius might take on a similar role for his friends, they are quick to retreat from their honorary positions when it suits them.

Draco did the responsible thing: he forced Pansy in after Hermione and Father. Ever the dutiful son, Draco stranded them listening to gossip Mother won’t care for half as much as for Father’s enthusiasm. That he never has to be present for, thankfully. He may be called upon to supplement Father’s recollections, but the actual retelling he is spared.

As expected, they have no sooner arrived home than Father instructs them to the drawing room, sending Dobby to fetch tea and biscuits, and then he is off in search of his cherished wife. Draco watches him go with bated breath, not daring to move until he has rounded the corner. It wouldn’t be the first time Father turned back unexpectedly, further questions on his mind; Draco cannot be interrupted when discussing this ball–too much of importance has happened.

Pansy audibly relaxes at the same time Draco lets go of his held breath, both of them sharing a smirk—this has become tradition as much as the silent coach rides and the joint efforts to duck Fathers grasping hands.

Hermione, amazingly, is still absent. Her mind is occupied much the same as it was the entire journey back.

“I dare say she wouldn’t have minded being left with Lucius.” Pansy watches as Hermione vaguely performs the motions of taking off her coat, as oblivious as possible of the world around herself.

Privately, Draco agrees. For one shameful moment, when he watched the ease with which Father pulled her into the carriage, Draco contemplated not joining them. Like Pansy, he figured Hermione wouldn’t notice, that she wouldn’t begrudge them catching a coach of their own.

Now he scowls at Pansy like he never heard a more foreign idea in his life.

“Appalling, Pansy dear,” he declares, and Pansy laughs.

Soon enough they have ushered Hermione onto a settee, tea in hand, and the door firmly closed. They won’t be interrupted; the tea served and the biscuits arranged, Dobby has deservedly retired for the evening. This is where Draco’s favourite time of every ball begins: his favourite sitting room.

The walls are green, deep and dramatic because Father needled Mother long enough to be allowed free rein. In the corner a piano that is but rarely used and along the wall windows looking out into the garden, catching the sun in the afternoon. There aren’t too many opportunities to sit, though it would be possible to fit in more than just the three of them, if you were to sacrifice intimacy and personal space. The furniture is plush and demure, made to sprawl over and bemoan the state of the world. (This, too, is Father’s influence.) There is a table designed to hold tea and sweets, curtains to draw for privacy, and cushions that under absolutely no circumstances are to be picked up and thrown at a friend too pleased with themselves.

It’s Draco’s favourite room in the whole world, and thus where they are most often found.

“So,” Draco starts, smiling around his teacup. “Mr Weasley?”

“Quite agreeable,” Pansy says, not bothering with her tea, eyes on Hermione.

Hermione, who blinks awake at the mention of her fancy and hurries to bury her attachment in tea. As if, by any chance, Draco and Pansy missed how taken their friend is with their new neighbour. Pansy has the decency to smother her laughter, at least, crumbling a biscuit instead of Hermione’s uncharacteristically thin composure.

“Hermione, darling,” Draco says, voice sly, and Hermione glances at him in alarm. “I reckon you have got the closest look at Mr Weasley. Tell me, what do you think of our new friend?”

Hermione looks like she would prefer drowning in her cup, thank you. Or, better yet, drown Draco. Unfortunately for her, Pansy wouldn’t be deterred; she wants to know as much as Draco does, and Pansy asks far less kindly.

In the end, Hermione knows too well who she is friends with—she has no escape but to smile and bear the interrogation. And so smile she does, fleeting enough to convince any outsider that she felt nothing but a passing curiosity for the dashing Mr Weasley.

“I quite agree,” Hermione says, and if she sounds too soft for such a brusque statement, no one mentions it. “He is just what a young man ought to be: sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

Hermione is not known to speak ill of others, no, but such effusive praise is not typical for her.

“He is also handsome,” Draco adds, because it’s true and he wants to see just how much he can fluster Hermione, “which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”

Hermione revels in his admiration as much as she is flustered by it. Her smile is bright and warm, the same as it was for Mr Weasley.

“He danced with me rather a lot, didn’t he?” she asks, suddenly shy, as if speaking of Mr Weasley and his perfections will make him disappear.

“He did,” Draco agrees, smiling. Much as he might tease her, he truly is happy for his friend. “It was quite the compliment.”

“I didn’t expect it,” Hermione says, bashful in the strangest of moments.

“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always take you by surprise, and me never.” Draco is far better with people, everyone knows that. He is also less modest, but Draco would prefer to make Hermione’s penchant for books responsible—she knows what to do with them better than she knows most people.

Mr Weasley might become an exception. Draco hopes for his sake that he has a decent library.

Pansy hums from her silent post, almost forgotten by Draco and Hermione in their eagerness to praise Mr Weasley. Pansy, they are both very aware, is the most critical out of them—she might rip the poor man apart over a technicality.

Hermione tenses as she looks at Pansy, clutches her teacup to shield her from concern.

“I give you leave to like him,” Pansy announces to general astonishment. “You have liked many a stupider person.”

“Pansy!” Hermione admonishes, even as her posture relaxes.

Quietly, Draco agrees with Pansy. He is glad to see they agree on the matter of Mr Weasley as much as they did with other prospective suitors. Not that it was necessary then—Hermione couldn’t be bothered with them, so their character wasn’t crucial beyond a laugh here or there.

Pansy, as is her nature, refuses to be admonished.

“You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.” Pansy exaggerates, but she looks so pleased with herself that Draco couldn’t bear to correct her.

In truth, Hermione is more complex. She is no fool, for one—she is well aware of the deplorable depths of humanity. The moment she has conclusive evidence, Hermione is the first to damn the deserving. That holds no shade over her optimistic disposition, however; compared to Pansy or even Draco himself, Hermione enjoys the reputation of being sweet.

“I’m being honest,” Hermione insists, the point of contention vexing enough to wane her from Mr Weasley and his many charms. “I speak as I find; there is nothing wrong with that.”

Draco tenses. This is one of his most detested arguments. He always hates when they fight, feels useless and torn between them, but this he fears the most. They are intimate, these fights, attacking each other’s very nature. They make terrible claims of each other. Hermione, naïve and blind, eager to see goodness wherever she looks, inspecting the entire world through stars in her eyes. Pansy, cold and cruel, cynical and jaded, determined to find fault and mockery in all things.

Surely they wouldn’t do this to him today of all days, when they had such a lovely time!

“Affectation of candour is common enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—that, my darling, is all you.” Pansy smiles at Hermione, honest and fond and as peaceful a closing as Draco could ask for. They shall never agree on the character of the world, but this can be dissected in daunting detail any dull afternoon, when there are no handsome men burning bright in everyone’s memory.

(Afternoons, maybe, where Draco must not be present. Afternoons where Draco is out, travelling with Nimbus and no second thought given to his friends and their conversation.)

“Well,” Hermione says, mostly so Pansy won’t have the last word. “He is a most pleasing man, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Quite right,” Draco agrees, again, and immediately regrets speaking up as Pansy’s head swivels towards him.

This, Draco is terrifyingly aware, was a strategic error. In attendance were, after all, two gentlemen worth discussing.

“What did you think then, Draco, of his friend?” Pansy asks, no illusions of anything but wicked delight in her tone.

Hermione, of course, perks right up at the change in direction. She instantly sits straighter, eyes trained on Draco and his squirming misery.

“Friend?” Draco asks, as innocent as an offended man can. “I’m afraid I don’t know to whom you are referring. More tea, anyone?”

If you asked, Draco couldn’t explain his eagerness to shirk talk of Potter. Just Potter, Draco decided, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts. Not for familiarity or fondness, but as a matter of returning the disrespect he doled out so graciously. There are no manners of a gentleman to Potter, and Draco refuses to let such behaviour go uncommented. Spite, that is all he shall ever receive from Draco.

It’s not a resolve Draco wishes to discuss, however.

For one, that would entail talking about Potter, which Draco endeavours to avoid. Apparently.

For the other, well, it was altogether a very unpleasant sort of acquaintance, wasn’t it? Perfectly reasonable that Draco should wish to not dwell on being rejected by the most beautiful and arrogant man he had the displeasure of meeting.

So no, Draco has no collection of any friends of Mr Weasley.

“Tall, dark fellow, perpetual scowl and, I believe, you called him the most beautiful man you ever beheld.” Pansy, devious little thing, smirks at him over her teacup.

“Mr Potter,” Hermione adds, helpfully, “if that aids your memory.”

This is Draco’s house, he remembers so distinctly. He could have them escorted out for impertinent foolishness.

“Come on, Draco—since when are you one for enigmatic smiles? We are going to think you genuinely felt something for the man, if you carry on like this.” Pansy has never been subtle in her manipulations, Draco has been telling her for years. However, he has also always allowed himself to be manipulated, so she never had to evolve. It’s the way of their friendship, a logic of its own.

“Mr Potter! Of course, I remember now.” Draco nods like he only just remembered, like his slights have been cast far out of his mind, eclipsed completely by Hermione’s bliss.

He doesn’t fool anyone.

“Well,” Pansy prods, because she is incorrigible. “What did you think of him? Isn’t he dreadfully insufferable?”

They talked of this before, of course, at the ball itself. The few passing hours have done little to straighten out Draco’s complex feelings. It’s appalling and disappointing but cannot be changed. A good night’s sleep might help, perhaps, or indeed his friends’ supportive glee at the entirety of Potter’s shortcomings.

That, Draco supposes, could tie up his confusion nicely.

“Dreadfully insufferable,” Draco agrees, because he was, wasn’t he? And then, because there could be no greater insult and he ought to remember that, Draco adds: “He didn’t want to dance with me.”

Hermione looks like this is the worst news she heard all evening. Considering the charmed evening she enjoyed in the arms of her paramour, this might well be true.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I assumed any friend of Mr Weasley to have more sense than that.”

“There is no harm done,” Draco reassures her quickly, “for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him.”

Yes, Draco should have liked to dance with Potter and yes, it is a shame that such an appearance should be wasted on such a character, but Draco is quite done with the matter. Quite done indeed. Potter is a man eaten up with pride and there is nothing more to it—Draco shall put him out of his mind this very instant.

“Truly, it’s a good thing you refused him when you did—it is you who doesn’t want to dance with him; remember that.” Pansy, who knows far more of Potter than Hermione does, seems to finally realise that he is no fit subject for teasing. In a week he might be, once Draco has accepted the sheer ridiculousness of hoping over nothing but charming hair and intriguing eyes.

“Quite,” he nods, because Potter has proven himself exactly this. “I may safely promise you never to dance with Mr Potter.”

There, all Draco’s dealings with the man sealed and done with. He shall be nothing but Mr Weasley’s silent companion, from now on, and Draco shan’t spare him more than a passing thought.

“Hateful, proud man.” Pansy nods, approving; that settles the matter.

“It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? Pride?” Pansy asks once they have settled back into their tea. “One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud. And yet he is most displeasing and arrogant.”

She is, of course, correct. Pride holds its place in society, and nothing is worth doing if it’s not done with pride. And yet, in Potter, Draco found himself wounded at the display.

“I think,” Draco says, slowly, “that I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.”

Pansy snorts most undignified into her tea, as if it was obvious to all the world where Draco’s antagonistic feelings stemmed from. ‘You think so’, her arched eyebrow seems to ask, and Draco scowls in reply. Pansy may roll her eyes, but matters are worth considering twice where handsome men are involved.

By now, however, Draco is certain of Potter: he displayed nothing but atrocious manners and poor taste. Draco has no desire to know more. Absolutely none.

Why are they still discussing him, anyway?

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.” Hermione makes a very serious face, sitting prim and proper all of the sudden, imparting her infinite wisdom.

Pansy and Draco are but little impressed. Pansy breaks out laughing almost before Hermione is done scolding them and Draco isn’t entirely certain yet, but he suspects he has just been insulted.

“Goodness ‘Mione,” Pansy gasps out, “where did you copy that from?”

Hermione only smirks, pleased with herself.

“Did you imply I am a vain and simpering fool?” Draco asks the far more important question.

“I did no such thing,” Hermione replies, almost calm enough to smooth ruffled feathers. “I said it outright: you are a vain and simpering fool.”

Pansy is the first to laugh, already well-entertained while Draco is still on his offended gasp. Hermione joins her, laughing at the mock-outrage on Draco’s face and honestly, how is Draco meant to look sullen when his friends are so happy?

Hermione, having danced the most, is also the most tired and earliest to excuse herself. A coach is waiting for her, as is customary after balls, though Hermione dislikes making them wait too deeply into the night.

Draco watches his friend go with great affection, suddenly intensely aware that, should she have to leave them, he wants her to join someone good, someone who will make her happiness a priority. Mr Weasley shows fine promise of being that man.

“Will she marry him, do you think?” he asks Pansy, who might hold no interest in gossiping about weddings but cares greatly about Hermione.

“If she keeps her head about herself, she likely will,” Pansy says, frowning slightly. “However, nothing reduces a brilliant intellect as quickly as a pretty face—you have seen firsthand what Mr Weasley’s face does to our dear friend.”

Draco can’t help but laugh, shocked at her concern. Indeed, he did see the effect Mr Weasley had on Hermione—how could anyone who saw them together doubt?

“I have seen it,” Draco acknowledges, biting down sharply on his laughter; Pansy can be sensitive. “I wager it’s precisely that which will bind them. Everyone likes to be flattered, Pansy; isn’t that what you keep saying?”

“That may be so, but it will do her little good if she keeps her flattery contained to after their object has departed.” Pansy is growing agitated, her posture stiff in the way it only gets when she feels she is not taken seriously, when she feels she ought to remind everyone of exactly who they are discarding.

But Draco knows already, and he knows he never should have raised the topic. Pansy is loath to speak of love, a dislike aggressively mutual; words of romance never suited her. She doesn’t understand courtship—the fine manipulations and subtle hints, the delicate flirtation with serious commitment. According to Pansy, suitors should provide a written notice of their every intention and honest feeling before ever meeting, and any subsequent changes would be announced by the same process.

Draco adores Pansy, he does, but he might have to find someone else to oversee Hermione’s courtship with, if Pansy is unwilling to even try.

Still, Draco started the conversation, and Pansy is upset, though she doesn’t acknowledge it. Draco ought to change that, ought to soothe his friend before Hermione learns of it and is accosted by Pansy’s demands of how the world should behave. (Also, he feels badly; he cannot stand to see her hurt.)

“My dear,” Draco starts delicately, aiming to remind Pansy that she is treasured, even when she is wrong.

Pansy snorts ungallantly—a most irritating habit she has picked up, solely because it scandalises her mother which, in turn, delights Pansy. It’s inappropriate and nasty, but the sound always reminds Draco that he loves her quite ferociously. And because Pansy loves him too, even when he is floundering and pushing her into discomfort, Pansy does relax.

“My dear,” Draco says again; he rather lost where he was going. “I’m afraid I simply don’t see what you fear. You saw them dancing all night, yes? In what manner would you classify such a statement as ‘holding back flattery’? There is no declaration more steadfast!”

“Of course I saw them dance, Draco, don’t be dense,” Pansy nearly snaps, and really, Draco thought they had made their way back to civility. The hurt must show on his face, because Pansy takes a deep breath, a visible effort to soften herself. “I did see them dance and you would be right, under normal circumstances. But Hermione is not normal, is she? I love her, but when has that woman ever made anything easy for anyone?”

Pansy does have a point, Draco must concede that. Hermione has high standards, and though she would not cast you aside if you failed to meet them, she would find it difficult to care for you. Mr Weasley has yet to learn that; although, judging by Hermione’s talk of him in this very room, he is doing admirably.

“Hermione has been extraordinarily pleased to dance the night away, and yet you and I are the only people to know it. I ask you, Draco, how is Mr Weasley supposed to know how great her esteem for him is when all she will give him are polite smiles?”

“They have known each other but one evening, Pansy! One fantastic, magical evening, I grant you, but only one nonetheless. There is a rhythm to these things, a careful balance; revealing your hand at the very first introduction is not how you win a heart!” Draco didn’t think Pansy would need such a basic explanation—she couldn’t earnestly have expected Hermione to confess to her startling admiration right there, in the middle of their dance! “Besides, she danced with him the entire night. Frankly, that is quite shocking enough—how much more open would you have her be?”

“Don’t you dare make me sound unreasonable, Draco! I would have her use her words, like an adult.” Pansy is back to her defensive tension, mirroring the squared shoulders Draco himself has taken on quite unconsciously.

So they are having a proper fight, then. Draco did hope they could avoid this, could agree to disagree before needing to put their positions in as damaging a form as speech.

“Words are far from the only means of conversation—you of all people should know this; there is no one more skilled in expressing contempt with the single quirk of a brow.” Pansy, as if to prove his point, twists her face into the exact expression Draco referred to. He doesn’t appreciate it. “She was telling him all he needed to know, in a manner both appropriate and designed to guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. You know this, Pansy, you know her too well to deny it.”

No matter how charming and handsome and rich—no creature on this earth could move Hermione to lose herself over an introduction and a few dances. Pansy’s demands are outrageous.

“And you think her precious Mr Weasley understood all of this in the span of a few hours, do you? Is he a mind reader, Draco? Does he perhaps possess the skill to gleam the future and realise what it is Hermione won’t admit?” Pansy’s words come out sharp, pointed like knives, designed to rip apart Draco’s defence.

“If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to discover it too. He doesn’t need any dubious powers, not when he spent all evening watching her like she was the only person in the room.” Draco knows he will regret the following even before he says it, but he says it still, because he is hurt and furious and he doesn’t appreciate being belittled. His words can be knives, too, if this is what Pansy insists on.

“Just because you fail to love doesn’t mean other people have to suffer the same.”

Pansy recoils as if slapped.

Draco feels as if he slapped her, too.

He knew he would regret saying it. It’s not even true—what was he thinking?

Pansy is up and standing before he can apologise, cold and condescending, shut down before Draco can remind her he is a heedless idiot sometimes.

“This is not about me, Draco. I would thank you not to speak of things you don’t understand.” Pansy doesn’t look at him, standing over him, imposing and strange to him. “She might want to conceal her affection from intrusive eyes, I will grant you that, but it is a delicate balance Hermione completely failed to strike this evening. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There are no winners in hiding, Draco, and I wish to spare my friend from it.”

“Fixing him?” Draco repeats, incredulous. “She isn’t acquiring a house, Pansy! Hermione seeks someone to love. Don’t you see the difference?”

If Draco wished before that Pansy would just look at him, he regrets that wish now. Pansy looks at him, dripping in disdain, a sneer on her lips that, usually, she reserves for vermin.

“You are missing the point, wilfully ignorant because of this stupid fantasy you have.” Pansy waves her hand in the air, wholly unconcerned with anything but her own agenda.

“My stupid fantasy—are you talking about love, Pansy?”

Pansy’s sneer is answer enough, but mercilessly she goes on.

“You must know it’s foolhardy to wait for love to marry.” Pansy said so many times before, but it never felt like a personal attack.

“I know no such thing!” What else is there, if not love? “What do you suggest she marry for if love isn’t good enough?”

“Don’t twist my words. I never said that.” With a last glare, Pansy turns away. As if Draco said something so appalling she can no longer look at him. “If she has the desire and the chance to marry advantageous, then of course I wish her nothing less. However, the truth is that there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a woman had better show more affection than she feels. That is how you marry for love, Draco, because if you wait too long, you will love a man married to someone else.”

He wouldn’t have missed such pain, would he? Pansy cannot possibly be speaking of experience.

“Pansy, have you…” Draco trails off, uncertain how to phrase his question.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” Pansy whirls back around to glare at him, hair whipping through the air with the force of it.

Draco wishes he could believe her.

“You know you could tell me—” Draco doesn’t get further, stopped by Pansy’s venomous look. This is a look he is familiar with, however, the kind of venomous close friends share. His heart sings to see it.

“Stop,” Pansy orders, and Draco does. Gladly. Pansy sinks back down onto her settee, a peace offering Draco is all too eager to accept. “You know full well that I would have told you every detail, had there been any. Besides, you said it yourself: I fail to love.”

His heart falls like a stone. Draco knew he shouldn’t have said it, should have swallowed his anger and said anything else. Perhaps he can temper his words now, soften the sting, reveal them to have been a lie. Pansy is capable of a great deal of love; no one unloving could argue so passionately for their friend’s happiness. Even if she does go about it in all the wrong ways.

“Pansy,” he starts, but he is interrupted yet again.

“I don’t wish to talk about it,” she says, and that is that. “The simple fact of the matter is that Mr Weasley likes Hermione well enough, but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on. Hermione should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.”

“That’s not sound, Pansy, not sound at all.” Draco takes care to keep his voice gentle, to not spook her again, but this talk is ridiculous and needs to be stopped before Hermione can hear of it. “She has known the man for all of one evening—how could she have learnt much of importance? Yes, he might be charming and handsome and yes, he does seem very infatuated with her, which shows good taste, but he is also friends with Mr Potter, if I may remind you. One evening is hardly enough to determine his character, not near enough to embark upon a life together. She can barely even be sure of her own feelings! You act like the aim was nothing but the desire of being well married, and if she were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband that might hold true, but you must know that isn’t so.”

Pansy smiles at him, tired and bitter.

“And this, my friend,” she says, “is where you are an optimistic fool, fallen to love and fancy without a man to attach them to.”

“You would have her marry a stranger,” Draco replies, carefully neutral.

“Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” Pansy holds his eyes steadily as she adds: “If you want love and happiness, Draco, you better take care to marry a man who can support you comfortably, and work on letting love come after the wedding.”

Pansy breaks his heart sometimes, when she says things like that.

It must show, because Pansy drops her head in her hands, elbows propped up on her knees and the red gown swallowing her whole, suddenly too big for her. Draco wishes he understood her better.

“It has only been the first evening,” Draco ventures, all too aware of the traps set everywhere around them, eager to snap. “She will need more time, and we shall judge better once we know more.”

Pansy doesn’t acknowledge his peace offering. She does nothing but sit there, the picture of defeat eternalised. Draco can’t watch her suffer.

Careful not to startle her, Draco stands up, making plenty of noise on his way over to her. It’s not far, which gives little opportunity to announce his approach, but he sees Pansy tense and knows he’s being perceived. She doesn’t protest, however, and so Draco sits down next to her, holding her close with his arm around her waist, encourages her to lean into him. Pansy is stiff in his arms for only a few moments before she surrenders, allowing herself to be settled against his chest. Draco holds her tighter, holds her closer.

Pansy lifts her face out of despair, just long enough for Draco to confirm there are no tears in her eyes, and then she has taken hold of his free hand and clasped it between both of her own, bringing them up to her forehead, his palm against her skin and his fingers in her hair. Draco gives his hand willingly; anything hers that might bring her comfort.

Draco drops a soft kiss on her hair, somewhere to the side of her face. It feels like the right thing to do. He rests there, gentle and warm, nuzzled into Pansy’s hair and holding her, both of them wrapped around each other. He doesn’t know the pain she is nursing, barely understands what she told him, but he doesn’t need to understand to hold her.

It’s partially about Hermione and Pansy’s worry, of that he is sure, but the rest is nebulous. That’s alright. Draco will hold Pansy until she can ask more of him, until there is more he can do for her. For now they sit, breath; Draco hopes it is enough.

Chapter Text

Mornings are sacred. They are commenced in quiet and dignity, speaking forbidden before the sun has risen for at least three hours. This remarkably reduces conflict and irritation, greatly improving on the gruelling experience of waking.

Mornings are sacred, and Draco finds himself most put out when Hermione, in full knowledge of this sacristy, interrupts his bliss.

“Oh stop glaring, Draco.” Hermione scowls at him even as she hands her coat and gloves off to Dobby. “You will thank me soon enough, for I have news and I know how you hate learning such things after Pansy does.”

The mention of Pansy shoots a pain through Draco’s heart; he could not think of her easily since the ball last week. She refuses to tell him what troubles her, of course, which hasn’t stopped Draco from asking, which, in turn, strained their relationship more than any discrepancy in opinion could have. There are no secrets between them, especially not painful ones.

“Have you seen her recently?” Draco asks Hermione, shouldering his way past the strangeness of speaking this early.

“Who, Pansy? Of course I have; I see her almost daily,” Hermione answers absent-minded, her hands ruffling through various pockets in her dress.

It’s inappropriate, the number of pockets Hermione has stowed away in pleads or stitched proudly visible, heedless of patterns or style. Ingenius and valuable, but not appropriate. It’s the most Hermione thing Draco can think of, even more so than the small volume she has definitely stashed away in there. People aren’t meant to have that many pockets, but Hermione is the sort of stubborn that is encouraged by disapproval—if she had not found tailors willing to comply with her rebellious demands, she would have sown them in herself.

“Would you like to come in, at least? If I can’t convince you to leave, that is.” Draco knows he cannot change her mind and truly, he doesn’t want to. He wants to know as badly as she predicted; he only wished she had got her news later in the day.

(He also wishes for Pansy, if they are lamenting.

Ideally, they would devote an afternoon to the recovery of their friendship, softened by sweet things and under Hermione’s careful supervision. It always helps. Sadly, Hermione, being ignorant of this dire need, cannot be expected to perform her duty. While they should tell her, Draco and Pansy have done their very best to avoid doing this. Because telling Hermione would involve questions and ugly revelations neither of them wants to share.

Besides, what kind of friend would drag Hermione away from her exciting paramour to referee a friendly spat?)

Draco invites her in despite her eye-rolling and mutterings of tedious decorum. He sits her down and orders her tea, orders tea for himself, and only lets her speak when he has forced them both to be as comfortable as they are likely to get. Which is not very, with Hermione bubbling and twitching continuously, but Draco at least sits well and cosy.

He has to admit: he is curious now, even more so than when Hermione first arrived. Few things make Hermione giddy—Draco should most like to hear this news.

“Go on then,” Draco sighs, as if still reluctant. “Tell me your marvellous news that couldn’t possibly wait.”

Hermione looks offended for all but a moment—it’s her own fault, coming here early; she knew Draco wouldn’t be pleasant—and then she smirks.

“Marvellous indeed. Do you want to guess?” The only thing Draco hates more than being interrupted in the morning is mandatory guessing games. He glares to convey his mighty distaste. Hermione doesn’t mask her laugh. “It’s an invitation, Mr Grouch.”

Hermione smiles at him as if she expects him to break out into frolics. Draco desperately needs more tea.

“Excuse me,” he says, with no explanation forthcoming.

“My news,” Hermione explains, patient and still smirking. “I’ve been invited to dinner.”

Draco blinks at her.

Is that all?

“That’s good, Hermione. I’m very happy for you—” Hermione interrupts him.

“I’ve been invited by Mr Weasley.” Hermione beams at him, brighter than the sun.

Draco blinks again. This is why they don’t receive visitors in the morning. The world makes little sense when the light is too pale.

“Sorry,” Draco says again, brain slowly catching up to the information gleefully offered.

“I’ve been invited to dinner by Mr Weasley!” Hermione doesn’t bother keeping the pretence of patience while Draco wakes up. She has got up, pacing in her excitement, eerily similar to Father. “His sister, to be accurate, but obviously he will be there. It’s his house—where else should he be?”

Draco suspects he is focusing on the wrong things.

“Oh, for—” Hermione sighs, loudly, and shoves a letter under his nose, the paper wrinkled and well-loved. “Read this; perhaps that will get through to you.”

Draco quite agrees, so he takes the paper and does his best to ignore Hermione’s continued pacing and muttering.

“Hermione, this says—” but then Draco is interrupted again, the door to their sitting room thrown open with no consideration of the early hour or importance of the news.

“What do you think you are doing?” Father hisses at them, standing in the frame, furious and glaring. Terrifyingly, he has a worse reaction to being accosted in the mornings than Draco.

Lucius Malfoy looks a mess, frankly, and not fit for polite company. He is wearing his nightgown, only a thin robe pulled on and tied, lopsided and in haste. His face is covered in creases from sleep and his hair still done up in the rolls he has Dobby do every evening, claiming it gives them swing and curls.

Looking at Lucius now, you would never guess him to be a man who treasures decorum.

Hermione doesn’t even flinch. She barely takes a moment to adjust, then beams at Draco’s father, far too charming for anyone to remain cross.

Draco hardly recognises her. When was the last time she was this absurdly happy?

“I’m going to dine with Mr Weasley,” she announces, so giddy it hurts to watch.

Briefly, Draco fears she is about to be thrown out. Father doesn’t suffer his rules to be broken, and ‘no speaking before I’m awake’ is one of the cardinal rules. Anything would be better than this. Moreover, Father rarely stands still like this, glaring and unmoved—Draco is too grouchy to indulge the mystery, but it can’t be a good sign.

Then, unexpectedly, Father breaks out into a smile.

“Hermione!” he declares, all traces of fatigue discarded like an old coat. “I knew you could do it! I said so to Pomona, I did. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, I said, that you’d be married before she could blink. Oh, I’m so proud of you, darling! I knew you were meant for greatness.”

Draco watches them fawn for a moment, blinking and disgruntled in the chaos. Reluctantly fond, as well.

He almost doesn’t want to tell them.

“Actually,” he starts, because that is how all bad news must be broached. “You’ll find that Mr Weasley won’t be present.”

That stops them right in the tracks of their happy little dance. Draco feels terrible. He does appreciate the quiet, though. (Ridiculously, this makes him feel worse. Curse this morning—they could have done this very comfortably at noon!)

“Pardon me,” Hermione finally gets out, deflated and confused.

Father is less polite, ripping the note out of Draco’s hand as if he has any right to it. His eyes fly over the paper, much more alert than Draco thought possible this early.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says to Hermione, who looks like he tore the earth from under her feet. In a manner of speaking, Draco supposes he did. “Mr Weasley and Mr Potter will both be away for the evening. Miss Weasley hopes to use the opportunity to get to know you better, unencumbered by men and their opinions.”

Hermione says nothing. Father mutters in anger, indecipherable growling.

This is why they don’t speak in the mornings: nothing good comes of it.

“Well,” Hermione says into the silence, “I suppose that’s nothing to be scoffed at, is it?”

She looks lost in the wake of Draco’s correction, searching the room for reassurance. Draco is willing to give that—Hermione is right; Miss Weasley is by far the most interesting of their guests; more invitations are sure to follow—but Father snorts.

Moments like this, Draco sorely wishes Mother were around to force a semblance of tact into her husband. If she were here, she would swat Father over the back of his head and take control of the situation. It would be charming, they would laugh, and someone would mend Hermione’s dejected face.

“This will not do, dear,” Father announces. “It won’t do at all.”

Then he shouts for more tea and claims an armchair, gestures for Hermione to sit. This is going to be fixed; right this instant.

Could Draco sneak out without them noticing? This is all a bit much.

Dobby enters with more tea soon after, placing it on the table without comment. He delicately doesn’t mention his master’s dishevelled appearance or state of undress, acts like everything is perfectly normal. Draco doesn’t know how he does it; it’s immensely impressive. Lucius accepts the tea with an imperious nod, acknowledgement and thanks on the lowest level possible.

Draco thanks Dobby for all of them, out loud and sincere. (This is why he gets the best sweets: Dobby likes him, and Dobby is friends with the bakers; no one can satisfy Draco’s sweet tooth like Dobby.) Dobby smiles at him, winks, and then he is gone, leaving Draco to the misery of too much tea and Father brooding.

Hermione watches Father as well, Draco notices after a while of peaceful floating, though far lass content in the renewed quiet than Draco. This is something he can handle, half asleep or not. Besides, that excuse has worn thin roughly an hour ago.

“Why don’t you borrow our carriage?” Draco offers, more for the distraction than genuine concern with transportation. (It will make a good impression all the same, and Draco cannot let her walk.)

Hermione opens her mouth to say something—grateful acceptance, Draco presumes, as is the polite reply—when Father snaps his fingers and calls the attention back to himself.

“That’s it,” Father says, smiling brightly at Draco like a king bestowing favours from his throne. “My clever boy, that’s exactly what we shall do.”

“Taking the carriage will solve this?” Hermione asks, justifiably dubious. Draco isn’t convinced, either.

“No, my dear.” Father shakes his head, as if he hadn’t just proclaimed it a marvellous idea. “You had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”

It’s a stupid idea, absolutely barmy. Unfortunately, Draco is familiar with that glint in Father’s eyes: there’s no stopping him, not when he thinks himself victorious. Especially not because Hermione—Hermione!—doesn’t think the plan stupid.

“You are going to fetch a cold and die,” Draco warns them, because someone ought to.

He is waved off, the two conspirators busy plotting.

It’s a shame things between Draco and Pansy are strained—she would love this.

There are moments—not many, but tempting all the more for their scarcity—when Draco thinks Father might be best confined to some shimmering paradise and relieved of his duties.

It’s pleasantly warm in the sitting room. Tea and biscuits littered in a telltale sign of a morning spent inside, nowhere to go but here.

Mother is going over the books, marking in green and red ink numbers Draco should understand. She tried to teach him—on afternoons like this, when the rain was heavy enough to force everyone inside and Draco bored enough he might give it another try—but the truth of the matter is that Draco has no brains for numbers and even less interest in them. Mother gave up, in the end. They could spend their time better, she had declared, than fostering a relationship of hounding and dodging. Grateful, Draco had agreed. Father had winked at him, behind Mother’s back, and told him he would have to be careful now: he had better fall in love with a man who can keep the books for the both of them.

That day, Draco was charmed by his father’s careless nature. Today, he foresees a tragedy.

“It’s raining,” Draco announces, barely intruded into his parents’ shelter.

Father looks up at Draco—from the numbers Draco knows for a fact he doesn’t care for, watching Mother do them and explain patiently, again, what they stand for—and over through the window, breaking out into a smile as he sees the rain.

“So it is!” Father grins, delighted. “Do you think it has been raining all night? They can’t have sent her back, surely, even if she was in a state to make the journey.”

Draco agrees, petty and silent. Most people have better sense than forcing anyone out into the rain, certain to get soaked and sick. Unfortunately, Lucius Malfoy has never been most people.

“She is still there.” Draco knows this, because Hermione has written to him. Her neat handwriting shaking, the message short as usual but so disorganised and fraught of information that it’s more the state of it than the words themselves that brought Draco the news: his friend is sick, dangerously so.

“Wonderful!” Father exclaims, clapping his hands together in excitement. “Did you hear, ‘Cissa? My plan worked! Mr Weasley will have to see her now.”

She would have seen Mr Weasley anyway; Hogwarts isn’t big enough to avoid anyone, let alone people you want to accidentally run into. Hermione would have been healthy and strong and charming, then, would have been safe and free to demonstrate her affection. Instead, she is wrecked by sweat and cold shakes—in which world is the latter more appealing?

“Lucius,” Mother scolds, too lightly for Draco’s preference. “The poor girl; there must have been better ways.”

“Nonsense.” Father waves her off, mind already on the next step of his foolhardy plan. “She will have to stay—far more intimate than any ball or happenstance meeting. The moment she is well enough to leave, Mr Weasley will miss her, you’ll see, and then we shall have an engagement to celebrate.”

“Provided she doesn’t die.” Draco didn’t mean to say it—there is little point in showing Father the error of his ways—but his friend is in grave danger and the man responsible is thinking of flower assortments! It’s unbearable.

“Of course,” Mother agrees, nodding mildly. “If she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr Weasley, and under your orders, dear.”

Is Mother is attempting to help and failing or is she is entertained and coaxing out every amusement? Draco would like to think her more tactful than that, but he has been here five minutes and no one has done anything—Draco can’t be blamed for his impatient frustrations.

“Don’t be ridiculous. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well.” Father couldn’t sound less interested, as if the entire mess has nothing to do with him.

This is infuriating. Mother opens her mouth, possibly for another gentle rebuke that won’t change Father’s mind in the slightest, but Draco has enough of standing around. Clearly, he cannot wait for someone else to be responsible.

“I will go see her,” he announces, the very thing he came to say. The only thing. “I’ll take Nimbus and I will not be dissuaded.”

This, finally, gets his parents’ attention.

“It is raining,” Father says, appalled. At long last; Draco feels like tearing out his hair. “You will catch a cold, darling.”

“People do not die of trifling colds,” Draco repeats, moving towards the door. “Besides, I’m a better rider than Hermione; it shall only take me half the time it took her.”

“But you will get wet and muddy—you will not be fit to be seen when you get there!” Father, reliably, is concerned about the wrong thing entirely.

“I shall be very fit to see Hermione—which is all I want.” Draco won’t be kept for a moment longer; he has lingered far too long already.

“Draco, dear,” Mother says, still gentle enough to be enraging, “are you quite certain we can’t send for a carriage, at least?”

“Quite,” Draco answers. “I will be faster on Nimbus.”

“And why would you need to be there?” Father asks, snappish and irritated. “You are no doctor, Draco; what shall you do when you get there: hold her hand at her sickbed?”

“That is exactly what I shall do.” With a last look towards his parents, sitting bewildered at their desk and numbers, Draco exits the room. Nimbus should be ready for him, and Hermione waited long enough. 

Chapter Text

Harry has been told, often, that he can be rather dull.

Even more often, this insistence on manners is not discussed with him directly, but whispered in his absence. Gossip, Harry calls it, but whenever he does, Ginny laughs and tells him that talking about each other is simply what friends do. Harry considers very few of those talking about him friends, a distinction they discuss but rarely. Whatever the term, the glaring implications remain: Harry is too formal and would benefit from shaking loose.

Inappropriately, it’s the only thing Harry can think of, watching Malfoy drip murky water onto pristine floors.

“Mr Malfoy,” Ron greets him, surprise showing clear and open. Harry sits up straighter, reminds himself sternly that there is nothing worth striving for in ardour. “Please, come in.”

Harry watches Malfoy track dirt into the room, water dripping from his hair and clothes. The man looks like he has never set foot inside, like he grew up feral and uncivilised, not a brush or servant to clean his clothes. The picture is so absurd, it doesn’t even occur to Harry to question why Malfoy is here; there is no reason to him.

“You are here for Miss Granger, I presume?” Ginny asks, smiling like Malfoy hasn’t dragged himself through wind and weather for a minor cold.

This is preposterous—they should send him back outside, should find him dry clothes and a strong cup of tea. Then, maybe, he could be permitted back inside. On proper invitation, of course.

Discreetly, Harry calls for a servant and orders a towel to be brought. Malfoy glares at the quiet order, as if he heard and disapproves the notion of drying himself. Tough—Harry refuses to have the man shiver himself to death in Ron’s breakfast parlour.

“Indeed,” Malfoy agrees, ignoring Harry. Then he smiles, still as charming as he was at the ball, and Harry forgets to worry about the rain water pooling to his feet. “I hope I don’t offend you terribly, but I must insist on being shown to Hermione’s room this instant. We are dreadfully worried, you understand.”

Harry does, in fact, understand. Malfoy’s gaze is very pointed, like he might not, but Harry isn’t heartless. If Malfoy had done the sensible thing and taken a coach—if, indeed, it was absolutely necessary to appear in person—Harry should have no objections at all.

Malfoy, to Harry’s chagrin, sees no fault in his method. He stands tall, surrounded by his superiors in rank, money, and reputation, and refuses to be shamed for the dirt he brought into their circle. He holds his head higher for bearing Harry’s disapproval, and water traces the features of his face gently, taunting Harry. Daring him to object.

Harry doesn’t. He sneers, instead, because it’s the only answer to challenges so blatantly thrown his way.

Thomas appears just before Malfoy can say something impertinent, offering the towel Harry demanded. Malfoy blinks, taken aback, and finally slightly abashed. He thanks Thomas as he accepts the towel. He also doesn’t look at Harry, likely doesn’t connect the two at all. Harry commits to his tea to grant the man privacy while he dries his face and hair.

Proper, yes, but a catastrophic miscalculation: Harry was not prepared for the transformation Malfoy would undergo once roughly dried off. Rosy-cheeked and blond locks fluffing up in all directions, Malfoy looks more soft and incongruous than he did before. Malfoy looks touchable, charmingly indecent—Harry needs to stop thinking immediately.

Why hasn’t anyone shown Malfoy to his friend yet? Why is Harry still forced to deal with this?

“Didn’t you say you came for Miss Granger?” Harry prompts, voice strangled in the most undignified manner.

Ginny, of course, notices. For once mindful of propriety and mercy, she bites back her snort as she merely raises an eyebrow, promising extensive discussions as soon as Malfoy is gone.

“Indeed,” Malfoy says stiffly. Somehow, Harry just sunk further in his estimation.

“I suggest you follow Thomas,” Harry says, coldly; he has had quite enough of this.

“Wait,” Ron interjects, finally coming out of whatever occupied his mind so thoroughly that he neglected all hostly duties. “You can hardly go like this—it would not be advantageous to Miss Granger’s health. I will show you to her room myself, with a small stop at my own chambers to fetch you a robe.”

Harry watches as Malfoy relaxes, shoulders sinking from their tense height and a genuine smile breaking out over his face.

“Very kind of you, Mr Weasley,” Malfoy says, approving and grateful. The implication that Harry has not been kind is subtle; Harry will graciously overlook it.

The whole ordeal is almost survived, Ron stood up and guiding Malfoy towards his rooms, when Ginny stands as well, stopping them in their retreat.

“It seems to me that, while your offer is very generous, brother dear, Mr Malfoy’s stature more closely resembles Harry’s. It would therefore be prudent to go through his closet, don’t you agree?” Ginny smiles, pretending to speak of a place of concern instead of devilish interference.

She is correct, though. Ron’s shoulders are far broader than Malfoy’s, his waist thicker—they are both taller than Malfoy, but at least Harry’s clothes would only hang too long, not swallow the man whole.

A tense silence follows Ginny’s declaration, filling the space where Harry should be effusive and eager to help. Perhaps he should rise, too, take Malfoy to his chambers himself and pick something to share with the other man.

Harry is too busy searching for a way to respectfully deny the plea to fill said silence.

“You are too kind,” Malfoy says, the first to break Harry’s silence. “I couldn’t possibly impose upon Mr Potter.”

“Not an imposition at all,” Harry assures, before he realises it. Why did he do that? Malfoy offered him the perfect excuse! Harry should have accepted Malfoy’s refusal; not even Ginny couldn’t have blamed him for respecting the man’s wishes.

Too late for that now. Malfoy stares at him in surprise, his face unreadable, and Ginny is loudly considering which of Harry’s clothes will look best on Malfoy.

This is torture.

“Ron,” Harry interrupts her, “I trust you will choose something appropriate for our guest. Indeed, I trust you will do so swiftly, for we have kept Mr Malfoy from Miss Granger far too long.”

And that is that. Malfoy offers him a frosty thanks, Ron berates himself for forgetting about poor Miss Granger waiting on her friend, and Ginny smirks without shame or discretion.

Breakfast shall be abandoned as a lost cause.

Whenever Draco leaves Hermione’s sick bed for longer than five minutes, he realises his staying here was a bad idea.

First of, Draco can’t do anything. Hermione lies still and clammy, heavy breathing making talking difficult, and there is not a single thing Draco can do. He can talk of inconsequential things, can comment on the tasteful splendour that adorns the Burrow, or the obvious care and concern Mr Weasley feels for her, but effectively Draco can do nothing but hold her hand and change the towel cooling her forehead.

Second, in between bouts of excruciating panic, Hermione will sink back into sleep, leaving Draco to more worries. Such as: should he have brought Pansy? Pansy is even worse at sickbeds, but she should have liked the option.

Does she even know? Draco should very much like to write her, maybe issue an invitation, but that would be presumptuous. He is already wearing Potter’s clothes—now he should extend invitations on their behalf as well? Draco was raised better than that.

Third, Potter himself.

If Draco is honest, Potter is the main reason Draco sometimes, almost, regrets coming. Odious man—Draco will never forget how Potter looked at him, sneering at the mud on his boots and the rain in his hair. He acted as if Draco were a savage beast erroneously allowed into the house, bringing dirt into his perfectly laced morning.

Every time Draco has to leave Hermione’s side, he is viciously reminded that while formally, the Burrow belongs to Mr Weasley, Potter took it upon himself to act as chaperon. And he does not approve of Draco’s presence. It’s unclear how much sway Potter holds over his friend, but Draco should not be surprised if Potter happened upon him, if it was strongly suggested he abscond.

It doesn’t help that Draco is wearing Potter’s clothes.

(They are nice, a welcome relief after his own soaked ones. The clothes are too long, Miss Weasley was correct, making their cut more loose than Draco prefers, but there can be no denying the fine quality. Does Potter enjoy that? Does he ever stroke his hand over a richly adorned waistcoat and smile to himself, appreciating the rich colour and soft material, the sheer expertise informing every hidden stitch of the needle?)

It is also Potter who made Draco hesitate joining the drawing room for the evening. He had his dinner separate, sat beside Hermione to ensure she ate. It made for a good excuse and Draco is certain he didn’t offend anyone in evading dinner. This, however, shall not be dodged. Partly because Hermione is cross that she is too shaky to feed herself, and partly because withdrawing any longer would be rude.

Mostly it’s Hermione, though.

There is only so much rudeness that can be forgiven, even where concern for sick friends lies heavy. Hermione reminded him of that, rather sternly, and ordered him down. She should like time to herself, she claimed, and Draco couldn’t deny her. Especially not as she passed out, which forbids all possibilities of arguing and makes Draco nervous with fear.

So he came to stand here, at the foot of foreign stairs, searching for the drawing room he was cordially invited to. He wasn’t given a map, an oversight on Mr Weasley’s part, and after spending almost the entirety of his stay here in Hermione’s chamber, Draco is unfamiliar with the house. With confidence, Draco follows the path to the left. Confidence is the key to everything, after all.

Draco walks until he hears sounds from one of the closed doors. Surely that cannot be right? Why would they close—oh, but it isn’t closed at all, merely set ajar. And someone is definitely inside, soft sounds of movement passing through the air. Yes, this is the place, and Draco shall proceed with confidence. Smile, Malfoy.

He nudges the door open, gently, and enters before he can lose his nerve and wander about the house in search of a different drawing room hosting the evening. Draco enters the room, prepared to be bored and worried and judged, and promptly finds himself face to face with Potter.

Potter, who dropped the jacket and stiff posture, who looks as loose and relaxed as Draco could ever have imagined. Not that he did imagine, even if Potter remains by far the most handsome man, despite his ghastly manners.

Potter, who leans low over a table of billiard. Draco saw him this morning, of course, saw him in exactly these clothes, but Draco was thinking only of Hermione then and Potter was sneering. Here, they are both too surprised to do anything but take each other in.

The green waistcoat is simple—Draco knows his collection now; he knows Potter has a fondness for subtle designs and hidden riches—but deep in colour to compensate. It fits him snugly, a stark contrast to the white shirt he wears underneath, puffy at his shoulders and the flowing length of it rolled up to his elbows, to allow for better movement. It also affords Draco an inappropriate view of Potter’s forearms, of dark brown skin and a simple silver band, wrapped around his left wrist. Secret jewellery, like the elegant patterns, a well-guarded pleasure. Draco would think it delightful in Pansy, he is sure, but it’s more difficult to class in Potter.

Draco is mustered in return, standing in the doorway in Potter’s clothes, his own sleeves also showing too much skin, his figure concealed by the loose cut. Potter’s resentment over having to share his clothes is poignant between them. Yes, Draco is mustered, Potter’s eyes rowing over him and flitting away, resting on the table between them, on the dark wood panelling, on the plush carpet—anywhere but Draco.

Draco is mustered, and he is dismissed.

“Excuse me,” Draco says, stiffly as it dawns on him he intruded upon an intimate moment. “I was searching for the drawing room.”

Potter looks up at him, frowning. The expression is familiar to Draco, its crossness unencumbered by the informality of his dress.

“The drawing room? I expected you to sit vigil at your friend’s side.”

Disapproval has never been clearer.

Briefly, Draco contemplates turning around and just… leaving. He could leave Potter to his game of billiards and find the drawing room on his own; he has no obligation to bear Potter’s opinion on his bedside manner.

“There is very little I can do for her,” Draco explains instead. “She needs sleep and rest; my fretting would only upset her.”

Potter says nothing, merely hums as he considers Draco. Likely he wonders why Draco came when his company is all he can offer. Draco stands taller under the assessing gaze, defying in all but words.

Although Draco isn’t known to hold his tongue. He refuses to make an exception for Potter.

“From my understanding, billiards is a game better played between two people,” Draco offers, as if it doesn’t matter to him either way. Potter’s frown intensifies. Draco bites down on a pleased smile.

“You are correct,” Potter admits, tilting the entire world for a moment of surreal triumph. “Unfortunately, no one could be prevailed upon for a few rounds. Besides, I enjoy the quiet.”

Another dismissal, albeit a subtler one. Who would have thought Potter capable of learning?

“The rules are rather simple, are they not?” Draco asks in place of leaving. It’s rude, appallingly so, but Draco is intrigued and enjoying himself. Besides, it’s not like Potter’s opinion could be any lower or less relevant.

Potter nods stiffly, displeased by Draco’s continued presence.

“They are, but the game is more complicated than a mere mastery of its rules.” Potter twirls the cue between his fingers, looking at that instead of Draco. For all the attention Potter grants him, Draco might as well not exist. “Have you never learnt to play?”

No, Draco has never learnt to play. Billiard is the sort of tedious and frivolous game only the very rich and very pretentious can enjoy. Draco doesn’t quite qualify for either of these things. Which Potter must know, thus why he asked. Arrogant, unpleasant man.

“No,” Draco answers, careful to keep his tone light and away from ‘murderously insulted’. Which he isn’t, because he doesn’t care about Potter. “I was never unoccupied enough to resort to teaching myself the rules of a game none of my friends enjoy playing.”

Potter looks appropriately offended. At least he isn’t dim.

“Would you like to?” he offers out of nowhere. Casual, as if asking about the weather.

“Would I like to… what?” Draco repeats, because apparently he is dim enough for them both.

“Would you like to know how to play?” Potter does look at him now, eyes intense and piercing. “I could show you, if you wanted.”

The vision assaults Draco with a ferocity he wasn’t prepared for, rearing its head with Potter’s words. Draco can see them now, both standing on the same side of the heavy table, close by necessity. Potter would hand him the cue, would show him how to hold his hands and how to adjust his stance. He would guide him with precise words and hands, gently nudging and guiding Draco down, showing him how to aim. He would be warm at Draco’s side, grip steady and—no!

No, this is not what Draco wants. He had forgotten, over the clothes and the jewellery and the soft timbre in Potter’s voice, but touching him would result in frostbite and Draco cannot stand the man. He never wanted to learn billiards, and even if he did, Potter would be the absolute last person he wanted to learn it from.

“Absolutely not,” Draco answers sharply, pulling his mind back up into focus and away from Potter’s mussed hair, his confused eyes.

Draco leaves him to it, cheeks hot and flaming at the lingering traces of his vision.

Horrible man, Potter. 

Draco did eventually find his way to the drawing room, materially aided by a discreetly amused servant. Arrived at the room, Draco spoke the bare minimum required before taking cover behind a book, leaving brother and sister to a game of cards, played more to occupy their hands than minds.

As for Draco’s mind, well, it’s stuck on Potter. In his head, Potter is smiling as he whispers instructions, close and intimate as he adjusts Draco’s posture. Draco almost doesn’t hear Mr Weasley’s inquiry after Hermione’s health, Potter smirking at him in the low light.

Draco clears his throat, shakes his head.

This is mortifying. Can there be no escaping this man?

Before Draco can answer the most pleasing question, perhaps ask a few of his own to establish Mr Weasley’s regard for his friend, Potter enters the room. He is once more in full attire, posture stiff and expression closed off.

Draco feels like throwing the book. How much longer until he can escape into his bedroom?

“You don’t play cards, Mr Malfoy?” Potter asks, bland as anything. Draco wonders why he bothered.

Miss Weasley answers before he has to parse out a polite reply, eager for the distraction Draco refused her.

“Mr Malfoy is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else,” she claims, pouting her pretty face up at Potter.

Draco smiles behind his raised book. He liked her at the ball, he remembers, liked her elegance and her energy and her refusal to do as expected. Miraculously, he isn’t offended at her words, too familiar by far for a virtual stranger. Then again, calamity has a way of bringing people together, doesn’t it?

“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure: I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” Draco smiles to make sure there is no offence given in his words. This is the tricky part in forming new relationships: people are vulnerable to the strangest things, and it wouldn’t do to trample sensitivities.

“Nonsense,” Miss Weasley replies, grinning at him wickedly. “You would be far more comfortable in the library—you took no pains to hide it.”

Draco laughs, delighted. Perhaps this evening shan’t be too miserable.

“You caught me,” Draco allows, putting the book aside. He doesn’t think he’ll need it anymore. “Only this evening, I promise. However fond I am of libraries, I’m not known to hide in them.”

Potter makes an odd face at the corner of his eyes, but Draco resolutely ignores him. He is making a friend, a good friend—if Potter has a problem with that, he can go back to his lonely billiards.

“I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit,” Mr Weasley says, looking cheerfully at the small staple of books lying on the table. “But I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.”

Hermione won’t appreciate that. On the other hand, there is little Hermione enjoys as much as collecting books, so she might relish the challenge. Either way—this time next year, Mr Weasley will have a library most impressive.

“I should be surprised if you had been in your new library twice,” Potter says, coming to sit in their circle. “Rest assured, it does you no disservice, modest as it may be.”

“I’m sure it is a very fine library.” Honestly, Draco just wants to contradict Potter. This is no way to talk to friends, disparaging libraries without even the grace to do so properly.

Mr Weasley smiles at him, pleased, but before he can answer, his sister interjects, leaning closer as if sharing a secret.

“If you want to see a delightful library, Mr Malfoy, then you had better talk to Harry—there is no greater library than the one at Gryffindor.” Miss Weasley winks at Harry, who makes an odd choking sound while also looking very pleased with the compliment. It is a startingly human conflict, almost endearing were it not for the Potter of it all.

“It ought to be good,” Potter says, smiling fondly either at Miss Weasley or at the memory of his—apparently—beloved library. “It has been the work of many generations.”

Curious. Potter doesn’t seem the type to tolerate anyone speaking to him like that, and yet there comes no reprimand. Iis Miss Weasley the exception? Is she allowed to wink and tease and be informal?

May she even be allowed to be flawed?

“Don’t be humble now, old friend.” Mr Weasley claps Potter on the shoulder, touching him with a casual ease that speaks of habit. It’s bizarre, watching Potter interact with his friends. “You have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.”

“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these,” Potter agrees, distaste clear in his voice.

“I should like to have a library such as yours,” Miss Weasley says, and then they are off, discussing libraries and the books they must contain.

Unsurprisingly, Potter has opinions.

Rather more surprisingly, Draco doesn’t mind leaning back and listening to them. He only interjects occasionally, when Potter says something exceptionally stupid, or he thinks of a good book that ought to be added.

It’s a good evening, all together, and Draco barely thinks of Potter loose and agreeable behind his billiard table. 

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy is a surprise wherever he goes. That said, usually he is at least vaguely expected. At the Burrow, however, just one day after Draco’s own arrival, he was not.

Everyone safe for Hermione, who was left to recover from Father’s fussing, is now collected in the sitting room. It’s not quite spacious enough to fit six people, forcing everyone closer than customary, but Father gave them no time to prepare something more suitable. And so Draco finds himself next to Pansy, more intimate than they were in days and yet unable to talk freely. His father sits to his other side, filling the small settee to its limits.

Mr Weasley and his sister sit opposite them, both of them in an armchair of their own but so closely positioned they might as well have shared a second settee. Potter, eager to be as little connected with the proceedings as possible, stands at the window. He cuts a sharp silhouette where he gazes out at the yard, longing to call for a coach.

Horrifyingly, Draco is tempted to join him.

“She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr Jones says we must not think of moving her,” Father stresses again, far too gleeful for a man concerned. “We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

Mr Weasley, because he is a good man, doesn’t mention it. Indeed, he looks aghast at the very thought of Hermione being moved.

“Of course! I would not hear of it—Miss Granger is welcome as long as she should desire; especially in such dire circumstances.” Mr Weasley sounds so earnest it hurts, reassuring Father for the third time in five minutes that no one has any intentions of refusing either Hermione or Draco.

“That is very good of you,” Father replies, making a show out of genuine gratitude. “If it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met with.”

Well, that’s just not true.

Pansy snorts into her tea, barely concealing the undignified sound as a cough. Father doesn’t pay her any attention. Draco catches her gaze and rolls his eyes, smiling as Pansy smirks. This is an old routine, making unbearable situations bearable in each other’s acknowledgement. It’s a relief they still share this, despite the loathsome distance.

“You have a sweet room here, Mr Weasley, and a charming prospect over the gravel walk,” Father says, the change of topic jarring to anyone but him. “Indeed, you have a pleasing view onto the lawn from a great many rooms. You can tell the quality of a man by his lawn, I always say; there is nothing more important to a proper gentleman than the appearance of his yard. You understand, of course, the prestige attached to these matters, the importance of a neat cut and healthy colour. Do you employ a gardener yet? I could recommend you excellent workers, if you wished—everyone will soon be talking of the striking lawn of the Emerald Wilds Estate.”

Poor Weasley, the man hardly knows how to answer! Draco can empathise—no one knows what to say once Father starts on lawns. Most people let him talk, make occasional agreeing noises, and pray for a swift rescue. Mr Weasley will soon recognise this to be the only way.

“Pardon,” Miss Weasley interjects. Draco realises the mistake she is going to make a mere second before it’s too late. “The Emerald Wilds Estate, you said?”

“Yes!” Father nods, his second grand passion blazing. “For Emerald Wilds Estate is the true name of this magnificent house you rented; named after the lawn, you understand. It’s a shame, but with no permanent tenants to enforce the dignity owed to its station, I fear the name has succumbed to the most common and plebeian of abbreviations. I tried my best to prevent it from happening, I assure you, but the sad truth is I don’t carry the required authority. You, however, Mr Weasley, are the utmost authority—you will reinstate this house to its due respect.”

“The Burrow, you mean?” Mr Weasley asks, because he is new and doesn’t yet know not to encourage Father. “That is what it’s called, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Father nods again, giddy now that he deems himself victorious. Draco almost pities him; Mr Weasley is so unpretentious a man, Draco wouldn’t be surprised should he make the change in name a legal one. “Horrible, wouldn’t you say?”

“I find it charming,” Mr Weasley replies and ignores Father’s appalled gasp. “Indeed, I shall much prefer it over the Emerald Wilds Estate, if you don’t mind.”

Father does mind. Draco watches his face flicker between the urge to lecture and the need to be liked. It’s entertaining and painful and high time to change the topic. If only Draco could think of anything else uniting this room of people—it’s no surprise they landed here.

Pansy, heavens bless her, breaks the terse silence.

“Either way,” she says, putting the issue to rest without expressing how very ridiculous and trivial it is, “you will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” Mr Weasley answers brightly, everyone ignoring the wounded noise Father makes in response, “and therefore if I should resolve to quit the Burrow, I should probably be off in five minutes.”

This isn’t good.

This is worse than the tension over a silly name—Mr Weasley leaving, that would be a true tragedy. Yet he sits here, boasting it would be easy and quick! Someone must distract Father before he thinks to protest and scares Mr Weasley half the way back to London. Pansy clearly cannot be trusted with the responsibility, so the task will fall to Draco.

What could he possibly answer to such a candid revelation? Why is this conversation so awkward?

Draco nearly says something inane about the weather—anything is better than tortured silence—when Miss Weasley clears her throat and, none too gently, steps on her brother’s foot. The movement is almost entirely concealed by her dress, her face smooth and without expression, so it’s only Mr Weasley’s pained glare that gives her away.

What follows is the most interesting display of confused indignation, raised eyebrows, and horrified understanding, as Mr Weasley finally understands what he announced to the room full of people very much hoping he shall stay a long, long time.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, frantic in his rush to reassure. “I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

“I expected nothing else of you,” Draco agrees, unspeakably relieved; they had better talk of something innocuous now.

Mr Weasley thankfully recovers quickly, laughing in the affable and easy manner they have come to know.

“You have me all figured out, have you, Mr Malfoy?” he asks, no defensiveness or suspicion to his words. Good. It wouldn’t do to circumvent mention of his staying in Hogwarts, only to land on the reason of why Draco paid such close attention. Adding Hermione and their shared affections into the mix—Draco can’t think of a surer way to make the situation worse.

“Indeed, I have,” Draco agrees, smiling. “I must confess, studying people is a passion of mine. Understanding your character, Mr Weasley, is no great mystery.”

“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful.” Despite his words, Mr Weasley loses none of his cheer, not even when Potter audibly scoffs from his place at the windows. Draco glares at him in his friend’s stead.

“Do not be discouraged—it does not follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.” Draco pointedly doesn’t look at Potter, but out of the corner of his eyes he can see the man arch an imperious eyebrow. Draco will require more effort than that if he is to be cowed.

Besides, Pansy is amused, laughing next to him, and her opinion matters far more than anything Potter might say or cryptically hint at.

“Draco!” Father scolds, as if he were still a boy of 10 years, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

“I did not know before that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study,” Mr Weasley says almost immediately. He learnt quickly that, sometimes, it’s best to ignore Lucius Malfoy. They might have had an uncomfortably private argument this very instant, had Mr Weasley not shut Father down.

Draco is extremely grateful for his swift thinking. Simple Mr Weasley might be, but a good man all the same. That is much more valuable.

“It is indeed most entertaining,” Draco agrees. “Intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage.”

Summoned by the challenge, Potter finally remembers his manners and returns himself to the group, looking at Draco shrewdly.

“The country can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study,”he says, with the conviction of a man who does not know what he is talking about but thinks the world should bow to him, regardless. “In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”

It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to ask him if he explored many a country neighbourhood, if he found them as distressing as this one—but he wouldn’t want to start an argument. It’s poor form.

Instead he smiles, as if he cares even one jolt about Potter’s unfounded opinion.

“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever,” he replies, bright as anything. Ironically, Potter himself might be the best example for alteration—in every conversation Draco discovers something new to despise.

Father, sniffing an opportunity to endear the country—and especially their country—to Mr Weasley, lifts his chin high as he addresses Potter.

“The country is not as small as you think it, Mr Potter,” Father claims, which is false. The country is exactly as small and confined as Potter said; meeting new people is such a rare thing that they are all here, fawning over Mr Weasley as if he was already engaged to Hermione. “I assure you there is quite as much going on in the country as in town.”

Potter stares at Father, dumbfounded as to what to reply. Nothing, he finally decides, turning away and back towards his windows, now that he is done torturing Draco.

Father, naturally, takes this to be his victory over the urban aristocracy.

“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places.” Father waves it off as if that isn’t all Draco ever yearned for. Then he leans forward, thrilled with himself, and smiles at Mr Weasley. “The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr Weasley?”

It’s a miracle if Mr Weasley shall ever look at Hermione without thinking of this dreadful afternoon, when she lay dying and Father made an impertinent spectacle of himself. All that is left to hope is that Mr Weasley will remember Father is not Hermione’s father, and that it’s slightly inappropriate he is here to see her.

Ever affable, he continues on.

“When I am in the country I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same,” Mr Weasley replies diplomatically, expertly soothing Father’s ruffled feathers. “They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

“Aye—that is because you have the right disposition.” Father nods approvingly. Thank heavens—now they can all profess how perfectly agreeable Mr Weasley is. They shall talk of nothing else, until Weasley, very agreeably, will end this impromptu afternoon tea. Hermione’s prospects might yet be saved.

Father, however, glares at Potter. Draco feels his heart fall all the way through his chest. He will die of mortification, won’t he?

“But that gentleman,” Father says, words twisted in a sneer, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”

Mr Weasley doesn’t have a reply to that. Neither does Miss Weasley, looking anxiously between Potter and his accuser.

“Please, Father,” Draco says, not knowing what he is pleading for except for silence, blessed silence. “You quite mistook Mr Potter. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were,” Father nods in the way that means he doesn’t agree at all, and that he will not let it rest. (Imagine doing the sensible thing—such horror!) “But as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

Potter at least has the good grace to hide his snicker in the window, his shaking shoulders the only implication that he is terribly amused.

Enough is enough. His father might be a ridiculous man, woefully inept at social interactions and not self-aware enough to realise this, but Draco won’t tolerate Potter laughing at him. Lucius Malfoy is a vital part of the community, a beloved part, much as his tendency to monopolise a conversation is dreaded—Father is a more genial man than Potter will ever be. If he thinks that a useless virtue, he can count his money and arrogance alone while everyone else has a good time.

“Have you seen Mrs Zabini lately?” Draco asks Father, because everyone likes talking about Mrs Zabini. Draco isn’t certain if they are awaiting a wedding or a funeral—things change so quickly, and between Mr Weasley arriving and Hermione falling ill, Draco’s mind is quite scrambled—but it will be dramatic and tasteful. Potter will hate it.

“Oh yes,” Father replies, eyes lighting up. “Cissa and I met her just yesterday when we were walking through town. She is such an interesting woman, isn’t she? Always a story to tell and quick to extend an invitation, that’s Mrs Zabini. We convinced her to throw another masquerade ball, you know, on nothing but the fond mention of her last one. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”

Potter placidly ignores the barb. Perhaps he is indulging the hatred he feels for masquerade balls. Draco would be happy to leave him to it—if Potter is appalled, the risk of him coming will be lower—were it not for the determined tilt to Father’s head. He will hound Potter on his silence, unless they find something more intriguing than the promise of a far off ball.

“How fares her husband?” Draco asks, somewhat desperate and not at all aided by Pansy, who doesn’t appreciate the urgency of orchestrating yet another distraction. Draco glares at her, reminds her she promised long ago to be savvy enough to handle Father, and that she should use her talents for good.

“Don’t be silly, Draco,” Father replies, and that at least answer the question of Mrs Zabini’s next big event. Good thing, too; Draco much prefers weddings over funerals. “There was a suitor, you know, the most considerate man you should ever have met. He fancied himself quite in love, the poor man, but he had only the chance to write her one poem and then she sent him away.”

“Such a shame,” Pansy adds, which does not help. “I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”

Potter, because he is a wretched man with odious timing, looks at them so sharply one might think they attacked him personally with their idle conversation.

“I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” he says, daring Pansy to repeat her assessment, now that she has been declared wrong. Little does he know poetry and romance are Draco’s area, and there shall not be a discussion on them without Draco making his opinion known.

Potter will have to tolerate Draco’s unasked contribution, as Draco had to bear his interruptions.

“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” Draco has seen it often enough, Mrs Zabini only the latest example in a long row of flirtations smothered under the weight of poetry.

Draco doesn’t suppose Potter has the same experience. He can hardly know enough people telling him of their ended fancy, and Draco should be very surprised if Potter ever picked up the pen himself, wrote his heart to lay it bare on the feet of a paramour.

There is a long pause as no one says anything. It is obviously Potter’s turn to speak, but the man only ever opens his mouth to ridicule or chastise. It seems, for now, he is done with both.

“I should like to hear music,” Pansy says, out of nowhere, making everyone breathe in relief. Pansy smiles at the Weasleys, something wicked in her expression that goes unnoticed by the room at large. “Did you have the pleasure of hearing Draco play yet?”

Draco playing the piano is guaranteed to bring no pleasure for anyone, least of all Draco. Pansy, his best friend, knows that full well. It is likely the exact reason she keeps volunteering him—she is a terrible person who delights in Draco’s suffering.

“Indeed, we have not,” Miss Weasley replies, the same wicked delight on her features. She did realise what Pansy is doing, then, and wholeheartedly approves. Draco isn’t sure he likes her much, anymore.

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable.” Proper protest is important, even as Draco resigns himself to his fate. It wouldn’t do to let people think Draco would allow anyone but Pansy to bully him into playing. 

Chapter Text

Excruciating as Father’s visit might have been, it had its merits.

For one, Draco is back in his own clothes (a discreet bag, thoughtfully delivered) so that he may stay and care for Hermione as long as they would both be tolerated. It was so expertly done that, if such foresight wasn’t beyond Lucius Malfoy, one might suspect him of moving his whole family into the Burrow, one by one, until they may outnumber Mr Weasley.

Second, more immediately relevant than the improbable invasion: when they were busy marvelling at the tactless things Father said, they at least weren’t bored.

“You write uncommonly fast,” Miss Weasley says, and Draco feels himself falling asleep. Potter, the recipient of the observation, doesn’t look up from his letter.

Privately, everyone is biding their time for an acceptable hour to retire. It’s early yet, and nothing short of claiming a headache can excuse them from attendance. There is little conversation, each of them lost to their own entertainment.

Draco has a book open in his lap, its topic long since forgotten, if he ever knew it. Mr Weasley actually does read, going through the notes the doctor left on Hermione’s condition and care. It’s sweet he worries, but Draco has no interest in watching him. Potter is well occupied, writing with no great speed and oblivious to the world. Ginny Weasley proves incapable of sitting still and waiting the minutes out, which makes her by far the most interesting. She gets up to pace through the room in irregular intervals until she grows bored with that, too, poking at everyone about what they are doing, prodding in the vain hope it will spark something engaging.

Draco doubts she will find enthralling details in Potter’s writing practice.

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” Potter doesn’t acknowledge them, painstakingly tracing words and meaning. It’s meditative, watching the swoop of his hand and the controlled way in which Potter dips the quill in ink. He moves with a simple elegance, his face focused and handsome, and if Draco doesn’t remember soon that he must be writing hateful things, he will gaze at Potter all evening.

Letters are a tedious subject, but Miss Weasley is desperate for diversion and thus doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even mind that Potter doesn’t look at her to answer. Indeed, her own eyes are locked on the ceiling, her body sprawled dramatically over the lavish settee, inappropriately free with her limbs.

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” She traces one hand over the soft carpet, following the swirls in the pattern as far as she can reach from her position prone on her back.

Draco feels indecent just watching her—he doesn’t know her well enough to witness such bold flaunting of propriety—but she is the most engaging thing next to Potter. Potter, who Draco better not look at for too long. He is as likely to start a fight as compliment the man—both things he wishes to avoid.

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”

Potter is still talking about the letters.

How are they still talking about the bloody letters?

There follows a brief lull, Miss Weasley watching Potter write, Draco watching her, and Mr Weasley impartial to it all.

“I am afraid you do not like your pen.” Miss Weasley announces, bolting upright with a sudden determination, her hair flicking through the air quite violently. “Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you—but I always mend my own.” Potter still doesn’t favour her with a glance, but Draco swears he sees him smile as Miss Weasley slumps down, sapped of her purpose and pouting.

“Do you always write such charming long letters?” she asks after a short while, eyes once more on the ceiling. Does she care to hear the answer or is she just asking for the sake of asking?

Provoking a fight with Potter sounds more appealing with every passing moment.

“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”

Potter’s answers never waver in tone, patient and instant to anything Miss Weasley demands of him. Admirable, if only the topic wasn’t so dragging.

“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill,” Miss Weasley says primly, watching Potter with assessing eyes.

“That will not do for a compliment to Harry, Ginny,” Mr Weasley declares, looking up from his papers with a barely contained force that speaks from him having listened and yearning to interrupt for a long time. “He does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Harry?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours,” Potter replies, expression plain but tone like a self-satisfied smirk.

Miss Weasley laughs, delighted at her brother joining the conversation, determined to keep him there. She sits up again, so as to better look between Potter and Mr Weasley.

“Ron writes in the most careless way imaginable,” she says to Draco, explaining the joke. Potter’s joke; the words sit uneasily next to each other. “He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all.” Mr Weasley smiles, charmingly close to embarrassment.

“Your humility must disarm reproof,” Draco tells him, as if the man wasn’t well aware. Then again, Mr Weasley is not the kind to exploit his agreeable nature—perhaps he truly doesn’t know that anything will be forgiven under his smile.

Potter scoffs, finally looking up from his letter to inspect Draco.

“Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility,” he declares, because he cannot allow Draco one uncontested sentence. “It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”

“And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?” Mr Weasley asks, unbothered by Potter’s rudeness.

“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting.” It’s a shock, but Draco has to agree: in anyone less genuine than Mr Weasley, he would suspect much the same thing. “The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you said this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting the Burrow you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitant which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

Reassuringly, Draco disagrees with Potter once more. It’s dreadfully dull, this approach he preaches, and though he might be technically correct, it is the same logic that can talk about writing letters all evening. Does Potter never do anything ill-advised and spontaneous, anything fun?

“Nay,” Mr Weasley protest, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off.”

Potter smiles at his friend, a sight so incongruous that Draco has to look twice to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Weasley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it—and at another word, might stay a month.” Potter smirks as if he won an argument.

Draco cannot stand that expression.

“You have only proved by this that Mr Weasley did not do justice to his own disposition,” he interjects, smug as Potter’s smirk becomes a frown. “You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”

Mr Weasley laughs at that, speaking before Potter can: “I am exceedingly gratified by your converting what my friend says into a compliment. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

Draco is little surprised to hear it; Potter is the sort of recalcitrant that denies reason for his own irrational plans. Friends and sentiment are unlikely to sway him.

“It appears to yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you,” Draco tells him, uncaring of the derision in his tone.

“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either,” Potter replies, as if that were remotely Draco’s point. Potter reminds him of a prickly cat, too good to be petted by most and fancying himself all the more gracious when he does allow it; bestowing great favour by being of cold heart to everyone else.

“You appear to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection.” Watching him interact with the Weasleys, Draco wouldn’t have thought so. “A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. In general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

Potter scowls, displeased. He does not appreciate having his rude behaviour illuminated.

“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

Potter thinks himself very clever. He thinks Draco must agree, must bow his head to Potter’s wisdom and admit that of course, how silly of him, they could never settle this matter outside of specifics.

Surprisingly, it’s Mr Weasley who speaks next, interrupting them before Draco can accuse Potter of wilfully missing the point.

“By all means let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Mr Malfoy, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Harry were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference.” Mr Weasley throws his hands up in exasperation, the most restrained version of pacing the room. “I declare I do not know a more awful object than Harry, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”

Everyone stares in shock at his outburst. Draco isn’t certain when things went from tedious to tense, but it’s safe to assume Potter was involved.

“I see your design, Ron,” Potter announces, smiling once more in fondness. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.”

“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Mr Malfoy will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.” Mr Weasley refuses to be shamed for this sensitivity, meeting his friends’ eyes defiantly.

“Please stay,” Draco says, before Potter can say something ugly. “What you ask is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr Potter had much better finish his letter.”

Miraculously, Potter doesn’t protest. 

Miss Weasley is no great musician. She has a decent understanding of the craft, but she plays without passion or conviction. She plays because she can do nothing else, because they were forbidden from fighting over letters and the etiquette of friends, and because the evening stretches long before them.

Miss Weasley is no great musician, but Draco appreciates her efforts. He might join her—they can be not great musicians together—when Potter rudely inserts himself in Draco’s line of sight.

Draco hadn’t realised Potter had finished his letter. (That’s a lie. Draco is unfortunately aware of Potter’s every move. He knows the exact time Potter packed up his writing.)

“Mr Malfoy,” Potter says, posture stiff and hands behind his back, face imperious. Draco might get scolded for ignoring the book he professed wanting to read. Or perhaps he has looked at Miss Weasley too long? Is Draco about to be informed that he doesn’t know enough important people to join her—a sister to Potter—and that he had better look somewhere else?

“Do you not feel this music requires a dance?” Potter asks, confrontational, and the world stops.

Draco blinks up at him, shocked and confused. The music tapers off in a most graceless series of wrong notes, and Mr Weasley turns towards them with such alacrity that Draco notes the movement from the corner of his eye. Merely Potter remains the same, standing tall and steady amid the chaos he caused.

Potter just asked him to dance, didn’t he? In the least agreeable way possible, as is his nature, but that is almost certainly what he said.

Why would he? He made it very clear that Draco is not worth dancing with, that he would rather stand in a corner like a cranky coat rack—why would he undertake such efforts to ask Draco to dance when there is no societal pressure or expectation?

Is that why he asked? Is that what Potter does to amuse himself? Flaunt all the rules and well-settled understandings? Upset routine for the sole purpose of laughing at people now wrong-footed?

It’s despicable. Draco will not dance with Potter. Foul man.

“Mr Malfoy?” Potter repeats, impatient. Presumptuous, too, as he offers his hand to help Draco up. As if the couch were the perpetrator in Potter demanding a dance. “I asked if you didn’t feel inclined—”

“I heard you,” Draco interrupts, because he doesn’t want to see the smirk on Potter’s face when he repeats his order. “I was contemplating your request.”

“Oh?” Potter asks, the hand in front of Draco shaking slightly at the prospect. “Did you decide?”

“Indeed, I did. You wanted me to oblige, I know, so that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt.” Draco is aware of the Weasley siblings watching them, but they fade in importance when there is Potter’s frown to delight in. “Thus I decline; I will not dance with you—and now despise me if you dare.”

Potter stares down at him, eyes wide, displaying more feeling than Draco thought him capable of.

“Indeed I do not dare,” Potter answers, his voice so soft Draco has to strain to hear him. The offered hand falls away, reared behind his back, out of sight and unavailable. Draco feels bereft.

Potter walks away like a man dazed, the same hazy quality to him that Draco experiences occasionally, when he falls asleep basking in the sun and wakes hours later, the entire world slightly off but contentment so deeply settled in his bones that he can’t mind. Potter looks like these hours feel, smiling in vague wonder at being rejected.

Will Potter never stop surprising Draco?

Draco watches him go, watches him settle into a comfortable armchair, watches him as Potter’s gaze lands back on him, that same slight smile at a miracle not quite understood. Draco has the strangest urge to return the smile, to see if he can’t widen that small expression—he stands instead, abrupt and harsh.

This is most uncomfortable. He meant to do something, meant to go somewhere and not think about Potter, but nothing catches his attention like Potter does and everyone is looking at him, Potter still smiling —

“Mr Malfoy,” Miss Weasley stands, smiling at him. “Join me for a few rounds around the room, won’t you? It’s most refreshing, I promise you.”

Draco takes her offered arm like a man drowning, clinging to her full of gratitude and devoid of grace. They are about the same height, which is convenient when passing words quietly, heads easy to bend together. She takes his arm without hesitation, linking them together and pulling him close.

“Welcome to secrecy—we have a few things to discuss.” She smiles at him, wicked and pleased, red hair falling in her face and eyes bright with intrigue.

She reminds him so much of Pansy, delighted in things that aren’t proper, a wild hunger for entertainment, a brazen disregard for anyone who might stop them. Draco knew he would like her, knew it the moment he saw her at the ball in a beautiful dress she was itching to be free of.

“I should be glad for a friend,” he tells her, leaning in close so that they may have the promised secrecy. “And you possess by far the most sense of anyone in this room, Miss Weasley.”

She laughs, pleased by the compliment or the gentle barb against their companions. Yes, Draco thinks, they will get along famously.

“If we are to be friends, Draco, I will have to insist on you calling me Ginny.” She smirks at him, delighted in the blatant breach of etiquette. “It seems silly, doesn’t it, to enforce such formality when we share secrets.”

It does indeed. With everything Ginny says, Draco resolves more to introduce her to Pansy. She already knows and likes Hermione, of course, but Draco wagers Pansy is closer to her own temperament. He will regret bringing them together, but he is certain of the joy a friendship would bring both women; to deprive them to spare his own ego would be exceedingly selfish.

“Ginny,” he agrees. The name fits her far better than Miss Weasley or, possibly worse, Ginevra. “Do you think we have sufficiently dispersed the tension in the room?”

Ginny looks around, eyes lingering on Potter longer than her brother, and Draco knows the answer before she shakes her head, eyes sad when they leave Potter.

“He really wanted to dance with you, you know?” Ginny nods at Potter, watching them idly and nothing else to occupy him.

Draco can’t hold back the snort. It has become an ingrained response to anything Potter.

“I have it on good authority that I’m not handsome enough.” Draco winks at her, pleased by her immediate outrage.

“Not handsome enough,” she exclaims, loud enough for Potter to hear. “Harry, I hear you have been saying terrible things about my new friend!”

To Draco’s immense satisfaction, Potter looks like he might die of mortification.

“It’s alright, darling,” Draco tells her, laughing. Whatever Potter might have to say in his defence, Draco doesn’t want to hear it. “We can’t all have good taste.”

Ginny allows herself to be guided back to their walk, but she glares at Potter for a moment longer. There will be words had about this, Draco is sure of it. It’s good to know; Draco is quite offended still—though he won’t admit to it, for obvious reasons—and Potter should learn to keep his derisive comments private. It’s a simple matter of adjusting your voice—surely even the great Mr Potter can lower himself to learning that!

“Well, he regrets his words now,” Ginny claims, though Draco finds that hard to believe. “Trust me, I’m his sister; I know these things.”

“You know how he thinks, then?” Draco asks. He wasn’t convinced such a thing was possible—Potter remains a mystery to him, and Draco extended more than reasonable efforts to understanding the man.

“Oh yes,” Ginny nods, “not a thought passes through his head I’m not privy to.”

“Tell me then, what does he think of when he watches our conversation so intently?” It’s an intriguing prospect Ginny offers, insight into Potter’s mind—Draco would be a fool not to take her up on it.

And Potter has been staring quite obsessively. He can hardly object to being the topic of discussion.

“It’s not me he’s watching,” Ginny replies with a smirk, implications so heavy she might as well have spelt them out.

“Does he take terrible offence at my form, do you think?” Draco wagers Potter does; Potter takes offence at everything Draco does.

“Why don’t we ask him?” Before Draco can stop her, Ginny has turned them around to face Potter, her hands clamped tightly around his arm to keep him in place. She is well versed in dragging reluctant parties into her mischief; Draco must grant her that.

“Harry,” she declares imperiously, and Potter is terrified. “Draco should like to know what you are thinking of, watching us walk.”

“He does, does he?” Potter repeats, eyes heavy on Draco. He regained control of his face remarkably fast—the only indication that he even knows the definition of fear.

“He does,” Ginny confirms. “Why don’t you come join us? We could walk through the room together.”

“No,” Potter replies, as Draco knew he would. “That would defeat the purpose of your walk.”

Draco hates to acknowledge Potter, but he asks after his meaning almost before he realises it. Seeing Potter in easy rapport with others makes him approachable, like there might be more to him than cold arrogance and sneers of superiority.

Perhaps there is; it would explain Ginny’s affection. Whatever Potter is hiding,it’s utterly inaccessible to Draco, who is evidently unworthy. Draco isn’t bitter—Potter’s abhorrence towards him fits with his own desire to be as far away as possible.

Except when there are motivations to pick, of course. Except when there are chances to glean more pieces for his gleefully disapproving character study.

(Except when Potter doesn’t talk and looks soft in dim lightning, when he offers to teach Draco billiard. But that is neither here nor there. Eventually, Potter always talks.)

Potter looks at him for the longest time after Draco demanded an explanation. Weighing if his reputation can survive answering to him, perhaps. It’s only when Ginny clears her throat that Potter shakes himself awake.

“The way I see it, you can have but two motives in walking,” he tells them with a smirk barely contained under politeness. “I should get in the way with both; I had much better stay here.”

“Which motives would that be, exactly?” Draco asks, because he already started questioning Potter’s cryptic remarks—he might enjoy this.

Potter answers him quicker this time, like he enjoys this interrogation as well.

“The first option is that you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss,” Potter explains patiently, taking his time to savour the words. “My presence would make that impossible.”

“That is the obvious one,” Draco agrees, because everyone knows that walking around a room is stupid unless it involves secrets. “What is the other one?”

“The other one,” Potter says and leans forwards, incredibly pleased with himself, “is that you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”

Ginny laughs as Draco gapes, her head thrown back and whole body shaking from it. Potter looks very smug.

Draco feels like he missed a step on the stairs, stomach swooped and heard beating fast, Potter’s smile proud and affectionate.

“Abominable logic, Harry,” Ginny gasps out, “Horrible man.”

Draco called Potter many things similar, privately and in his head alone, but it’s still startling to see Potter react pleasantly to them, smile softening into warm fondness.

“We shall have to punish him,” Ginny says to Draco, laughter still written all over her and making her words giddy. “It’s only fair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” Draco nods, eager to regain his composure. “Or he shall never learn.”

“Just so.” Ginny nods as well, trying masterfully to contain her giggles. “What do you propose?”

“Nothing so easy,” Draco answers, certain of it. “Tease him—laugh at him.”

As expected, Ginny laughs again, thrilled and eager. Draco can’t stop his answering grin. He doesn’t look at Potter.

“Laugh at Harry?” Ginny asks, incredibly pleased with the idea. “Impossible.”

“Is it?” Draco doubts that. So must Ginny, who could laugh at anything. Still, here they are, Ginny arching her eyebrow at him and smirking, pushing him onward. “No minor fault, no silly superstition—nothing even remotely amusing?”

“Upon my honour—there is nothing,” Ginny tells him, too serious to be anything but teasing. “A man without fault, our Harry.”

“A man without fault,” Draco repeats, incredulous, and turns towards Potter. Looking at Potter is dangerous, but Draco must see his reaction.

Potter sits in his armchair, unmoved, grimacing slightly. Draco can see plenty of faults from that image alone.

“Ginny has given me more credit than can be.” He glares at his sister, who doesn’t look remotely repentant.

“I swear it is true,” she says instead, studiously earnest. “There is nothing worthy of ridicule.”

“Mr Potter is not the be laughed at,” Draco surmised, satisfied by the displeased twist to Potter’s lips. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Malfoy,” Potter says, as cold and reserved as Draco has ever known him. “The wisest and the best of men may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke. Your pastime is safe.”

“I should think I am not one of these people,” Draco replies, indignant. “I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies—these are the things I enjoy. Precisely what you are without, I suspect.”

“It has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.” Potter has the gall to look smug, like denying Draco fun is his life’s goal. He looks very proud of himself.

Also, he is grossly misinterpreting what Draco said.

“Weaknesses,” Draco says, like he has to think about what might have befallen Potter. “Such as vanity and pride.”

“Vanity is a weakness indeed.” Potter glares at him; Draco hit a nerve. “But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

Draco has to suppress a snort. Of course, Potter would think himself entitled to his obnoxious self-satisfaction.

“You maintain you have no faults, then?” Draco ought to just leave Potter to his delusions. He ought to check on Hermione, perhaps, write a letter to Pansy as promised—Draco has more pressing things to do than argue with a man who doesn’t listen.

A man who, when he has nothing clever or condescending left to say, will sit stiffly in his fancy clothes and indulge in silence. It’s disappointing. Draco hoped winning an argument with Potter to be more gratifying. A proud moment of intellect and wits, he expected, instead of Potter pouting and everyone being tense.

Draco shall retire for the night.

“I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding,” Potter says, a moment before Draco announces his departure. “My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”

Potter’s eyes are heavy on Draco, lips curled into a sneer, as if anyone needed confirmation of just who he is talking about. As if there could be any doubt.

“That is a failing indeed,” Draco says, head held high, because he always refused to be lessened by Potter. “But I cannot laugh at it.”

Potter frowns at him, displeased. Did he want Draco to applaud him for his boorish inability to listen to anyone else?

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” Potter is explaining himself, asking Draco to understand him scorning everybody from his ivory tower.

A natural defect, he calls it, like he has no control over the words that come out of his mouth, like he has never learnt a skill. Is that what it’s like to be rich? You can do whatever you want, be as repugnant as you wish, and no one will say anything because you have the money to buy their good graces?

And to have the audacity to feel superior to those who work to be liked!

“And your defect is to hate everybody,” Draco tells him, unreasonably angry. Fury doesn’t impress a man like Potter. Draco knows that before he spits his curse, but what is left when reason has been denied and compassion never learnt?

It’s just not fair, is it? That Potter should get to despise Draco and applaud himself for it as well? To hide behind his temper and cite nature to never have to consider Draco a second time. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever, he said, and Draco doesn’t know what he did or if he ever held it in the first place, but he does know where he stands now.

“And yours,” Potter says, placid and smiling, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”

“Music!” Mr Weasley declares, sudden and desperate, and Draco allows him to change the subject. There is nothing left to say; Potter isn’t worth his time. 

Chapter Text

Harry loathes sharing his house with guests. He never could have expected Malfoy to stay as long as he did, or he would have excused himself to take refuge far away. It would have been rude to be absent for the exact time that Miss Granger had her sick bed here, but Harry was to be rude anyway—he might as well have spared himself the humiliation of being looked at while he mis-stepped.

It is, of course, too late for such fantasies. The only upside is that Malfoy will shortly be gone. They received the glad tidings earlier this day: Miss Granger is feeling better and shall very soon be fully recovered. Ron talks of nothing else.

His friend has been exhausting during this ordeal, another complication added to their antagonistic guests and Ginny, who doesn’t grant him a reprieve even under such circumstances. Harry is stretched thin, a persistent ache behind his eyes and the constant chase for a room—one would suffice!—where no one would bother him.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Ron that he searched solitude, not a friend.

“It is quite certain now, don’t you think? The doctor wouldn’t promise a recovery when he wasn’t certain, would he?” Ron paces through the library, anxiously past the huge armchairs meant to keep Harry hidden from the world. Ron’s hair is torn by nervous hands and his lips bitten, his eyes heavy from too little sleep. “Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, before he recalls what he is agreeing with. “You made sure she has the best doctor, Ron—he wouldn’t bring you false prospects, or mistake her state. Rest assured, it is only a matter of waiting now. One day, perhaps two, and you shall see for yourself that she is well and happy once more.”

Ron looks relieved at his words but, sadly, not quite relieved enough to leave. Harry feels uncharitable just thinking it. Ron is his friend and Ron needs him—Harry should make more of an effort.

It’s just—Harry was looking forward to an hour of silence. He should have gone into his billiard room; Ron knows not to interrupt him there, but Harry hasn’t been able to sit there for five minutes without remembering Malfoy. They had almost held a civil conversation, for a moment there.

“How about you, my friend? How do you feel?” Harry knows full well how Ron feels; it’s scrawled all over him, but sometimes Ron needs to be asked before he realises himself. He worries too much about other people, about situations he cannot change. No one would be helped by Ron ending in a sickbed next to Miss Granger.

“I’m fine.” Ron waves him off without thinking, starting up his pacing again. “Ginny never should have invited her when the weather was so grim. Why does she always do that, Harry? Why does she insist on vetting anyone I smile at as if they pose any danger?”

Harry could answer that, could tell him he approves, actually, and that Ginny has done more to ward off untoward attention than Ron should ever know—but that’s not important right now. Right now, Ron needs to stop. He needs to sit down and not worry. He needs to rest.

Incidentally, so does Harry. It’s quite fortunate.

“Ron,” Harry starts and Ron stands still immediately, swivelling to look at him. “Would you mind terribly sitting down? All this walking is making me rather tired.”

Ron blinks at Harry, eyes clearing like he didn’t see him before. Harry wouldn’t be surprised; Ron can get lost in his heart sometimes.

Harry doesn’t like it—admitting weakness is an odious thing, even when the weakness is already well known—but Ron nods. He doesn’t say anything, just drops himself into one of the armchairs Harry was aiming for. Moments like these, Harry is immensely grateful for Ron’s affable tact.

It’s not the solitude Harry wished for, but Ron is already sitting, gesturing patiently at the other chair for Harry to sit as well. He does.

The world feels quieter, here, sheltered by books and the heavy sides of the chair encasing him, condensed to Ron and this library they gently disparaged just a few days ago. Was it Malfoy who said something scathing, or Ron himself?

Ron grins at him, wry and very aware suddenly that Harry doesn’t want to talk, and Harry decides it doesn’t matter. It was probably Ginny, anyway. Truly, the library is nothing to be proud of, which makes it the ideal hiding space. Which, paradoxically, is something to be proud of. If British men were allowed to profess to needing a hiding space, that is. As things are, there might be a quiet pride, not spoken of and yet shared by all who found refuge here.

The sanctuary of a hidden library and a good friend—how did Harry get so lucky?

Being indeed a British man and thus not allowed—or capable, Harry fears—to talk about feelings, Harry doesn’t say any of that. Ron doesn’t need him to; he already knows. Ron knows and allows him to avoid his feelings, to look out of the window and not think of the chaos and confusion wrecked over his life.

Malfoy is not so considerate. Of course he’s not.

One of the things Harry likes about this house are the windows. They are fantastically situated to present unexpected but orphic views onto the property. Whatever the architects were thinking when they opened one of the library windows to the stables, Harry curses them now. Or possibly he thanks them; it’s all a bit muddled.

Malfoy doesn’t know himself observed. There is no one around for him to portray anything, no one to make expectations or demands, just the horses not yet out for the day. Malfoy’s horse, the one he rode in on, stands placidly next to Harry’s own, as if their owners don’t have the most frustrating relationship known to man.

Then again, Harry doesn’t suppose horses care about the messy feelings of people. What reason should his horse have to scorn Malfoy’s offered sugar cube? None, absolutely none, and Harry finds he doesn’t begrudge Malfoy his entertainments. Not when they make him smile brightly, petting Hedwig and speaking to her softly as if he’d known her all his life. Would he behave like that if he knew her to be Harry’s? Perhaps. Malfoy is a difficult creature to predict.

Whatever else, seeing Malfoy interact with the horses as easy and carefree as he holds himself amongst friends is charming to the extreme. Much more so than Harry thought possible. It’s ridiculous. So Malfoy is good with horses—the knowledge should not make Harry smile fondly. It shouldn’t impact him at all. It should not make his heart beat faster, thinking of the possibilities, of offering him rides and excursions, of asking to be shown the neighbourhood in this efficient and exhilarating way.

Harry is bad at requesting dances, but this he could do. He could offer Malfoy an official introduction to Hedwig. He could tell him how she saved his life, how he doesn’t like going anywhere without her, how she was the first living thing to bring him joy, gifted by his groundskeeper not long before he met the Weasleys. Harry could tell Malfoy all the intimate things that make up his person and, perhaps, Malfoy would tell him a few secrets of his own. They might become friends.

Harry should like that, he thinks.

Malfoy is a skilled and passionate rider, Harry knew that, but seeing the care with which he treats the animals is a different reality all together. Few people understand showing kindness to animals, Harry found. It’s a sick twist of fate that Malfoy should. Harry has to stop watching him, has to remember that he is not a horse and that Malfoy holds less fondness for him, that he already used all of his patience. They don’t have a relationship where Harry could casually suggest they escape the confines of the world for an afternoon, let the cook pack them up a cold lunch and explore the countryside.

Prime example: just a few hours earlier, Malfoy was inside with Harry. Neither of them spoke for a good half an hour because Harry is a stubborn fool, determined not to acknowledge Malfoy. He thought it would help disentangle the turmoil in his mind—no new impressions and thoughts until the mess is cleaned—but their silence added more guilt to his conscience.

Now he finds himself wistfully watching Malfoy spoiling his horse—that much for no new impressions. Well done, Potter.

Truly, Harry deserves this for thinking he could end Malfoy’s stay on a positive note. It made sense in his head, the knowledge that he allowed Malfoy to draw him out too much, that he displayed his ill-advised moments of joy too plainly—it was very foolish and more fond than Harry strives to be; if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. And so he resolved not to talk to Malfoy, not until he could do so without his heart fluttering in his throat. Sensible, no?

Harry had resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should now escape him, and almost immediately his resolve is tested and broken, Malfoy staring at him balefully when in the same room in tense silence and then, not a day later, warming his heart further with the most guileless of displays.

Perhaps it’s time to close the curtains, shut all of the world out. At least until Malfoy is gone and the house and grounds are safe to wander again.

If Harry were the melodramatic sort, he would cry out to the heavens and demand justice for his tortured soul. 

Chapter Text

Returning home is a blessing for several reasons. First and foremost, going home means Hermione is recovered enough to do so. That alone will make the journey a joyous one. At the same time, returning liberates him from Potter’s inspection. From his eyes picking flaws and his lips curling into sneers. His relentless judgement.

Draco Malfoy is a grateful man, this morning.

Back on his horse, his belongings packed and his friend ushered into a carriage, Draco can admit Father’s plan worked. Harebrained and reckless, unquestionably, but none can deny the closeness shared over a sickbed.

Draco built a strong relationship with Ginny; they are now intimately acquainted and mutually fond. The very fact he calls her Ginny proves this regard. Mr Weasley, pleasingly worried, was of no mind to form friendships. All the same, Draco has seen behind Weasley’s affable facade, through to the man behind the title. He has seen enough to feel strange standing on formality, enough to know Weasley is indeed good-natured and kind, enough to know he cares deeply for Hermione.

The Weasleys are a good sort, Draco confirmed, and he is closer to them now than any other here can boast.

The same can’t be said for Hermione, who was delirious and secluded for most of their stay. In that regard, she might as well have declined the dinner invitation and remained dry. However, even here a victory is to be found: seeing Hermione vulnerable and struggling with life’s fragility made her more precious to Weasley.

Draco should be very surprised if they have to wait much longer on the engagement.

Unfortunately, getting to know the Weasleys necessitates exposure to Potter. Draco should have wished him gone on urgent business if he had the power. Doesn’t the man have things to do besides hang around his friends and glare at anyone standing too close? Draco found Potter to be most odious—a predictable plight Draco would have dreaded, had he spared the man a single thought when he set out.

It’s of no consequence—Draco will be home soon and Potter nothing more than a menacing shadow skulking around the corners.

Breakfast isn’t the same without his parents being inappropriately in love. Not that Draco missed it—it’s not decent, surely, to be this affectionate? Draco is trying to eat his tea here!—but it does settle the last restless stirrings and worries.

They rarely share breakfast—them being in the morning and mornings being silent—but Father insisted it was the only proper welcome. After the required hours of silence.

Everyone was desperately hungry by the time Lucius’ propriety finally allowed them to eat. Breakfast was subsequently urgent.

There is nothing celebratory or communal in starving down food, Draco is excited to report. Truly excited, for, it turns out, there is little as entertaining as hungry people trying to eat in a civilised manner. It would be funnier still if Draco himself wasn’t part of the hungry people, but not even Dobby could have smuggled enough pastries to tide him over until their late, official breakfast.

Conversation, thus, has to content itself until after the first appetite is stilled.

“I hope, my dear, that you have ordered a good dinner today.” Narcissa smiles as her husband gapes in offence, quick to assure that of course he ordered a good dinner; he always does! Side-stepping his grumbling about being under-appreciated in this household, she goes on: “We are expecting company, you see.”

“We are?” Lucius perks up, interested despite himself. Then his smile shifts into a frown. “I wasn’t aware—is Pansy coming?”

“No.” Narcissa smiles, pleased, and Draco masterfully holds back a groan. This will be exhausting. “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”

“A gentleman and a stranger!” Father exclaims, breakfast forgotten in favour of the new thrill. “It is Mr Weasley, I am sure! High time, too—I invited him weeks ago! I shall have to talk with Dobby immediately; previous plans will not do, not at all—”

“It is not Mr Weasley,” Mother interrupts as gently as one can interrupt a whirlwind. Which isn’t gentle in the least but stern and sudden, no matter how much you soften the edges. Father cannot be reached when he gets like this, not without cutting down his joy. “It is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.”

Father frowns. It’s quite undignified, wrinkles creasing his forehead. Observing this, Draco frowns. Mother smiles at him, the smile she usually bites back before Draco can see. Never a good sign, that smile. Draco doesn’t like it. Whatever has her smiling so—oh, his frown, the exact same as Father’s undignified thinking expression. (Draco quickly smooths it out.)

Mother smiles even more, but Draco is busy drinking tea and doesn’t take notice. This is a victory, Draco is not pleased to resemble his father. He is also not invested in her guessing game.

Turns out, he didn’t miss home after all.

Lucius maintains his index, recalling every single man they know, whether vaguely or intimately, headless of his wife’s reminder that neither of them ever met their mysterious guest. No tea could be strong enough, nor pastry sweet enough to make this bearable.

“Will you just tell us, Mother?” Draco asks after another round of quick-fire names.

Father glares at him for the interruption, but he doesn’t protest. This is sufficient agreement for Mother, and she produces a letter out of the folds of her skirt.

“About a month ago I received this letter.” She holds up the letter, showing it around for assessment. Basking in the attention, Draco thinks, but he knows better than to accuse her of such frivolous games. Dramatics are purely reserved for the men in her life, she always says. “About a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention.”

Draco doesn’t bother hiding his snort, Mother’s own amusement meant to be shared. Father is too impatient for such humour: harshly, he motions for her to get on with it, to read the letter or, at the very least, reveal a name. Now it’s Draco’s turn to agree through a lack of protest. He ignores Mother’s fondly exasperated smile; they have more important things to discuss than family resemblance.

“Do you remember your old friend Goyle?” Mother asks, carefully blasé. Draco knows to be wary of that tone.

Father either doesn’t recognise the tone or plain doesn’t mind it, promptly launching into angry monologue. He says something about Goyle being a bastard, which Draco gathered from context, and a lost poker game. A long-standing rivalry—which could mean anything—followed by an even longer sulky silence, maintained until one of them (Goyle) apologises. Lucius isn’t certain what Goyle is currently doing, but he will never get their house!

By the time he pauses for breath, Draco understands even less about the situation.

“Mark my words, ‘Cissa: the day that man sets foot inside the Manor is the day I die!” A highly dramatic declaration for breakfast, but Father barrels on before Draco can reprimand the fervour. “He won’t even acknowledge it’s a Manor! He used to call it quaint, do you remember? Quaint!”

Their house is, indeed, not a Manor. It’s lovely and Draco couldn’t bear to live anywhere else, but it’s not a Manor. Not in anything but name. Malfoy Manor, Father insists, and doesn’t care that it sounds ridiculous or that he is the only one calling it that.

“He did win that game, Lucius,” Mother interrupts, for once not indulgent. Her tone isn’t quite cold, not yet, but her husband hears the warning loud and clear.

“They can’t have a strong case, legally speaking, and I don’t believe he would sincerely press his right. Why should they do so now, after all these years? However, the matter has recently risen again.” She takes up the letter, ominous in the warm sunlight.

Draco didn’t know they might be at risk of losing the house. Surely they won’t? You can’t win houses in poker games; it’s not done!

Father doesn’t say anything, looking at the paper like it’s the letter’s fault they might be facing eviction.

“Goyle is coming?” he asks, voice hollow.

“No,” Mother says, and he slumps in his chair. “The letter was written by his son, who hopes to mend the rift.”

Father perks up, looking like he did when Mother first mentioned a guest. The guest who is due to arrive this evening and might take Draco’s home. This is a lot to take in.

Then Father frowns, not pleased after all. “He wishes to do what?”

“Mend the rift, my dear,” Mother repeats, saccharine sweet. This is Good News, it has been decided. To make certain Lucius understands that, she adds: “Splendid, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is not!” Father declares, heedless of his wife’s glare. “I think it is very impertinent of him to write at all, and very hypocritical. Why could he not keep on quarrelling with us, as his father did before him?”

“Goyle isn’t dead, Lucius!”

“Then why should I listen to his son?” Father looks stunned, like he genuinely doesn’t know. “His son holds no authority, absolutely no importance.”

“He’ll be dead soon enough, if that soothes you,” Mother says without batting an eye.

This is no way to talk of old friends—rivals?—and everyone except Lucius is aware. Lucius, unaware, contemplates the olive branch in silence.

“It does,” he declares with a nod. “Proceed.”

“Thank you,” Mother replies, tone dry as anything. It makes Father smile, because they are still besotted with each other, even when they fight.

Draco, for his part, would like to know if they will be banned from their home. Unfortunately, reminding one’s parents what their priorities should be is considered rude.

“Goyle Junior,” he reminds them anyway, subtly. The man will be here this evening—this is no time to be content with life.

“Yes,” Mother agrees, pulling herself together. “Gregory, that’s his name. He is a clergyman, he informs me, and pained by the bitter silence between two old friends. He wishes to build a bridge, so to speak, and resolve the issue of the house. He doesn’t mention how he plans on achieving that feat, but he does seem determined. It is a matter of great importance, he assures me; his patron, the Right Honourable Lady Petunia Dursley, cannot bear to be at odds with anyone. A philosophy he admires and recommends fiercely, and will come here to live out. We may expect this peace-making gentleman at four o’clock.”

Stunned silence. Just what is one supposed to say after such a letter?

Should Draco profess his immediate dislike of such words or is that unanimously understood? Mother is clearly amused, maybe softened by the repeated reassurance that Goyle has no intentions of taking their home, maybe entertained by the pompousness of the whole affair. It’s hard to make out, but Draco is eased by it. Things can’t be truly bad when Mother is laughing.

“Could he be a sensible man, Mother?” Draco asks, because there is no way of knowing if he doesn’t.

“No, my dear, I think not.” Mother smirks at him, delighted at this development. “I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse.”

Father is oddly silent, face laid into serious frowns as he considers the news. Guilt, Draco might guess, if he didn’t fear his father incapable of such a feeling.

Mother is puzzled as well, that’s abundantly apparent, but before she can ask, Father stands from their late breakfast. Determination has settled over him.

“I will fix this; don’t worry, my love.” Father bows to her and presses a soft kiss onto her forehead. “I caused this predicament and I will fix it. Pomona will know what to do.”

And then he is off, calling for Dobby to bring his coat and the carriage.

Wife and son watch him go in astonishment. Lucius Malfoy is on a mission to protect his honour and family, and woe be all who would stand in his way. 

Goyle is perfectly on time. Draco never understood the urge to subjugate one’s life to the nagging ticking of a clock, but Goyle values punctuality. Obnoxious, Pansy would call it, and she would be right.

Draco wanted very badly for his friends to be here when Goyle arrived—it would have made the ordeal much more bearable. Cruelly, Father chose this trying day to remember that, as far as blood is concerned, neither Pansy nor Hermione are technically family, and as such, guests might take offence at their presence. Never mind that they should be far more welcome than snobbish strangers.

Pansy and Hermione will come to dinner, the soonest Father would allow them back.

It’s most unfair; if Goyle were to rob their house, they’d all feel the loss keenly. Pansy and Hermione might not have spent as many nights here as Draco, but plenty of days—the Manor is as much their home as it is his. Thus, they are very interested in Goyle. All the more so because chances are he will be a ridiculous, entertaining sort of man.

Draco himself is too worried to take heart in that likelihood. He never had to confront the possibility of losing his home. Not in this manner, at least. The closest his thoughts have ever come is marriage, when he would one day fall madly in love and marry, moving in with his husband. They might buy a house together, Draco had thought, unless his future husband has grounds and a house Draco could approve—the point is, the only way Draco saw himself leaving this house was with his parents at his back and an invitation to return whenever he liked.

This is not how things are supposed to go. Hopefully, Goyle is as friendly as he made himself appear in writing.

When Goyle arrives, offensively on time, everyone is lined up to meet him. Lucius is set and determined, Narcissa is prepared to be amused, and Draco is fretting.

It will be alright, Pansy promised him. Worst-case scenario, she owns a shovel and vast acres of land.

Goyle doesn’t seem a threat. He is a big, pasty man, carrying a chubbiness that speaks of languid afternoons and appreciation of good food, wrapped up in a nervous smile. Judging him thus unlikely to cast them out is a relief for several reasons. Chief among them is that, seeing his stature, resorting to Pansy’s pitch black offer would be more exhausting than anticipated.

Then Goyle smiles at them and stumbles out from his carriage and, well—Draco just doesn’t think he can, after that pathetic display. Goyle moves in an awkward manner, shuffling and wavering, like he is uncertain of where he should like to go. His hands are sweaty as he shakes Draco’s, his smiley dopey, and he leans far too close, invading space Draco thought everyone knew better than to encroach on.

Why is every introduction he gets lately to men he wishes weren’t in his life? Potter at least is easy on the eyes and so far stuck in his own superiority that he barely spares a glance for Draco. Goyle, on the other hand, is all but clustered around him. Most disturbing: Father approves. He even winks at Draco over Goyle’s shoulder!

Draco really needs Pansy and her shovel. Someone fix this! 

Pansy, as expected, does fix it. There is nothing that can’t be born with a smirking friend making fun of all the things oneself makes fun of and pointing out what one might have missed. With Goyle talking himself into hoarse ecstasy over his patron and her estate and generosity, they have plenty to point at. Everyone is laughing, in fact, except Goyle, their utterly oblivious source, and Father, too set on not letting Goyle get his grubby hands on his Manor.

Father only spoke once and glared in threatening silence ever since Goyle had complimented the food—suspiciously fast, making it hard to tell if the compliment was genuine or formality—and asked who he had to thank for such an outstanding meal. He accompanied his question with an oily smile, eyes already heavy on Draco, when Father sharply informed him they were perfectly able to employ a cook, thank you very much!

Goyle grew furiously red in a matter of seconds, rushing flustered apologies so fast they were not to be followed. Mother saved them after five minutes of agony, Goyle still apologising. She asked after his esteemed patron, the one he wrote of in length, and Goyle gratefully took the suggestion.

He has yet to stop talking about her gracious condescension.

“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her Ladyship’s residence,” Goyle explains, eyes wide and sweat shimmering on his face, unattractively highlighted by the flickering candles. Next to him Pansy is nodding, face set in grave deference.

Rumour has it, ‘Rosings’ is not the official name of the grand Lady’s land. A recent change, whispers go, because the honourable Lady Petunia couldn’t bear to reign over a land named ‘little’ anything. The second part of the scorned name everyone disagrees on, but no one contests that, if anything, it should be Little Rosings Park. Draco considered asking Goyle to verify these rumours, just to see the man work himself into a huff to compliment and flatter her absent Ladyship.

He thought better of it. If Draco conjures up a storm of feverish worship, he will have to bear all of it, long after it stopped being entertaining.

“By only a lane!” Hermione, seated next to Draco, repeats, feigning awe. Goyle, the ignorant fool, nods and agrees, eager to assure them that yes, indeed! Only by a lane! How generous her Lady Petunia is, isn’t she? The most generous, one feels compelled to say.

“She is a widow, isn’t she?” Pansy asks, because she has no tact and everyone wants to know.

Goyle, caught unaware by the blunt nature of her question, splutters and looks around wide eyed, begging to be saved. Draco would, of course, chastise Pansy for her prying rudeness, if only he wasn’t eating at the moment; it’s uncouth to talk with your mouth full.

“She is indeed widowed,” Goyle answers after a tense pause where everyone is extremely preoccupied. “It is a great wound still, the passing of her Lord Husband. She is very brave, however, and comports herself with such dignity that you could hardly guess her grief. She is an admiration to us all.”

Agreeing murmurs all around, everyone hanging their head in a respectful silence. In truth, Draco might feel much more sympathetic if this conversation wasn’t utterly ludicrous. And if he didn’t suspect Lady Petunia to be a most displeasing person. The rich often are, and Draco cannot imagine the loss of a spouse should sweeten any temperament.

“Does she have children?” Draco asks, doing his level best to sound like he is asking out of concern for her and not curiosity for himself.

“Oh, yes!” Goyle brightens instantly, the topic familiar and much less delicate. “She has a son, her pride and joy. He is a most charming young man, her Dudley, most decisive despite his restrictions.”

Mother makes a questioning noise, gently pushing Goyle to expand on Dudley’s undoubtedly charming nature. Goyle is only too happy to comply.

“He is unfortunately of a sickly constitution,” Goyle tells them, as if confiding a great secret, “which has prevented him from making that progress in many accomplishments which he could not have otherwise failed of. He cannot leave the house very often because of this his constitution, but he often drives by my humble abode and waves. He has several horses for that purpose, all of them exemplary in beauty and skill, ready to take his carriage at a moment’s notice should the desire for fresh air strike him.”

“Has he been presented at court?” Mother asks, masking her distaste masterfully.

“He hasn’t,” Goyle confirms, as demure as if was his personal failing. “His indifferent state of health unhappily prevents him being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Petunia one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament.”

Goyle pauses here, letting the words unfold their full dramatic effect as he looks around the table, pleased with himself and his flattery.

“Her Ladyship is always very happy to hear that,” he continues, when everyone fails to be suitably impressed. “One can quickly forget the value of one’s treasures when there is no comparison to be had, don’t you agree? So you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable. These are the kind of little things which please her Ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.”

Draco bites his tongue until he fancies he tastes blood, but he doesn’t laugh. The confession alone, proud and conspiratory, would have been enough to challenge his composure. Pansy is smirking at his efforts, arching one perfectly unaffected eyebrow—it’s not fair, most cruel behaviour.

“Very proper,” Mother praises, endlessly amused behind her controlled expression.

“If I may ask,” Hermione starts, voice astonishingly even. If Draco couldn’t feel her suppressed laughter, he should have thought her demure and earnest. “Do these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they result of previous study?”

Draco almost chokes on his composure. It is easy to forget—especially lately when so much of Hermione’s time is taken up with her venture not to fall in love—but she can be at least as devious as Pansy.

Goyle is pleased with her interest, oblivious to Pansy’s wicked delight and Draco’s shallow gasps for air.

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time,” Goyle answers after a brief period of contemplation. Draco thinks he might make it through dinner with his dignity intact. “Though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

Draco gives up on dignity and posture, collapsing into laughter. 

To no one’s surprise, Goyle likes to read important and dull books out loud. It is only fitting, for it combines two of his favourite things: hearing his own voice and lecturing others.

“You are certain you don’t want to walk into town to see the officers?” Pansy interrupts Goyle mid-sentence, then immediately proceeds to act like it was an accident. Impossible to fathom for Draco, who knows her menace well, but everyone understands that under no circumstances did she wish to disturb Goyle. Such a silly girl, their Pansy. Just obsessed with the officers.

“It’s quite alright,” Goyle reassures her, tone indicating her interruption is many things, none of them alright. But Pansy smiles and simpers and Goyle visibly softens, the guileless fool.

To general relief, he puts the book away. Goyle had suggested that same book yesterday evening, as it was his favourite and asked whether they would mind terribly if he read to them for an hour or two? Draco did mind—they had an entire dinner to discuss! So he had excused himself, had taken Pansy and Hermione with him, and instead of listening to Goyle’s tedious reading, they mercilessly mocked every quirk of the ridiculous man.

No one expected Goyle to bring the book up again—in the bright midday sun no less!

“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction.” Goyle, remarkably oblivious to the dropped temperature in the room, strokes the back of his book.

“Fascinating,” Hermione says, tone so cold even Goyle notices. “What you fail to see is that we are capable of choosing for ourselves from whom we take advice.”

Hermione stands without further notice, leaves before she can say something truly inappropriate. Good idea; Draco follows, taking Pansy with them as well. He is worried what he might say, should he be foolish enough to open his mouth—Pansy is even more reckless.

Perhaps a walk would be wise; anything, to escape Goyle and his smarmy smiles. 

Unsure as to why Draco finds himself on a walk not with Pansy and Hermione, but with Goyle walking beside him, monologuing passionately.

It was Father, Draco is reasonably sure, who suggested they take Goyle with them. Show Goyle the neighbourhood, he had said, and winked at Draco like they shared a secret ploy. So very secret that not even Draco knows, his arm taken firmly by Goyle at the first opportunity. The man has no concept of personal space; Draco has yet to find a polite way of enforcing distance.

Pansy and Hermione are walking ahead of them, their arms also linked and their heads together; talking about Goyle, no doubt. Draco shoots him a glare—he should be with them, not stuck with the object of their derision.

Goyle, miracle of miracles, notices Draco’s frequent yearning looks toward his friends. Less surprising, he doesn’t arrive at the decent conclusion, which would be to relinquish Draco, but forces him to talk about it.

“You are close friends since childhood, I understand?” Goyle prompts.

Who told him that? Father, most likely; the man swings between ruthlessly ignoring Goyle and sharing uncomfortably private details about Draco. There is, famously, no privacy with Lucius Malfoy in the house.

“Yes,” Draco agrees, instead of telling him he wouldn’t have known that were it not for Father taking liberties. It’s none of Goyle’s concern, but Draco would rather talk about his friends than wander in silence. “They are like family.”

Goyle hums next to him, like he understands. Interesting; Draco didn’t think he would. Mainly because he didn’t mention anyone, aside from Lady Petunia and her sick son, who he cannot go an hour without praising.

“I had wondered,” Goyle continues, unconcerned by Draco’s reticence. “There is an intimate closeness about you that appears… inappropriate. It is reserved for spouses and blood, wouldn’t you agree?”

Draco doesn’t agree, actually.

“No,” he says out loud, surprising both of them. “I find people to be the greatest joy in life—it seems unreasonable to not form connections or limit bonds just because we don’t share blood. Besides, I don’t have siblings; my childhood would have been very lonely had I only ever talked to my parents. Closing myself off from the world is not something I strive after.”

“But surely you understand that it’s not proper—” Whatever Goyle has to say, Draco has no interest in hearing it.

“With all due respect, Mr Goyle,” he says, as firm as he can without snapping. “I do not value propriety over happiness. I don’t claim to know all the rules, and I never sought to compose a list of the ways my life would scandalise at court, but this is the country. There is leeway here, you understand, a willingness to tolerate the quirks of others because you, in turn, may be as queer as you please. I love them like sisters, which is all you need know. Disapproval may be had quietly.”

“Of course, Mr Malfoy.” Goyle smiles at him, that same feeble smile Draco has come to internally roll his eyes at. At least he seems incapable of silent judgement, so the lack of vocalised protest suggests the matter resolved. Draco will content himself with that.

They walk in silence for a few minutes. It’s almost long enough to make Draco think Goyle a man of sense. While silence can mean many things, Draco is determined to take this one positively—surely it’s a good sign, and Goyle is considering what Draco said. They might talk more on the colourful plethora of relationships possible to humanity.

It might have been interesting, had Draco seized the chance to strike up a topic of his own choosing. Instead, by the time the possibility of willingly entering a conversation with Goyle occurs to him, Goyle has taken the word for himself.

“It was the lovely Miss Parkinson, I believe,” Goyle says, “who suggested this walk for the chance of seeing the officers. I understand nothing attracts admiration as much as the proud regalia.”

In a turn that is quickly becoming a tedious pattern, Goyle has misunderstood. He is correct about the allure of the militia—few are unmoved by a red coat, Draco can confirm first hand—but he is mistakingly assuming this to be Pansy motivation. Pansy doesn’t want to see the officers temporarily in town; she wants to see the entire world screech to a halt around them. She points this out every time, how everything stops and reorients itself around the men and women in red, how every conversation must mention them at least once, how every ball is a failure when it doesn’t attract a decent number of officers.

Pansy likes the military because she finds entertainment in the way everyone falls over themselves to accommodate and please. She especially enjoys seeing the officers with Lucius, who is dramatic and excited over the most routine aspects of their life, and utterly shameless in the vicinity of any red coat. If Draco weren’t frequently exposed to the infinite adoration of his wife, he too might believe the rumours that one day, Lucius Malfoy is going to disappear into scandal and frivolity with one of his beloved officers.

Narcissa finds the entire thing amusing, of course.

Thankfully, Draco doesn’t have to find a tactful way to tell Goyle exactly none of that, because the first houses raise into view. He feigns more excitement than he feels, leaving Goyle and all his questions, declaring that they will undoubtedly meet later but that he must be in town. Right this instant.

If Draco hurries, he might find a hiding space so good, he won’t be found for hours. 

Chapter Text

Running through town while pretending you aren’t is exhausting. Draco keeps his pace brisk, well aware of the looming company behind him, but he needs to smile and greet and why does he know so many people? And so self-obsessed—don’t they see he doesn’t have time to stop and chat?

Draco waves at Mrs Zabini, who smirks and knows exactly what Draco is doing. It’s an uncomfortable moment of kinship, unsettling despite his admiration for her. He’s not quite ready to be Mrs Zabini just yet. Draco ducks, hides and sneaks into a smaller side street, right into a strange man.

He doesn’t realise this. Draco walks and then there is a broad chest, and he makes an embarrassing squeaking noise, rocking back and hurtling towards the ground, falling to complete this undignified meeting. Draco almost wishes he had kept not realising.

But Draco squeaks and he falls and has nothing to hold on to, nothing to catch his fall or prop himself up on, and then strong hands competently catch him, a bright smile, and Draco blinks up at the man cradling him, cut out sharply against the sun and illuminated like an angel.

It’s the most dramatic almost-fall ever to be witnessed.

Draco has to sincerely question if he didn’t fall after all, if he hit his head and knocked a few things loose. But no, the man’s hands are warm, holding him steady and sure—Draco might stand at an odd angle, but he could never fall; not with his very own saviour to catch him.

“Hello,” the angel says, smile widening and the light growing brighter.

Seriously, did Draco hit his head?

Draco is pulled up, the world shifting and morphing around him, light passing and dimming, but that’s okay because the hands don’t leave him for a moment, gentle through this transformation.

And then Draco stands in some random alley, a stranger’s hands on his arms, his friends entirely unaware of his escape and subsequent rescue. Dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous—this is how handsome young men disappear.

Strangely, Draco doesn’t mind the indecently familiar stranger. He is beautiful. He also saved Draco’s life. Not a vile criminal, but a dashing protector.

“Oh dear,” the man says. If Draco expected to get his brain back, both feet on the ground and upright, he was just informed otherwise. “I’m afraid I have quite startled you. I would love to offer you a strong tea for the shock, but alas—”

“Draco!” The man is interrupted by Pansy’s sharp call, his friend at his side and glaring in an instant. Draco is still muddled, so that might be a good thing.

The man looks at Pansy; Draco misses his eyes immediately. Which he thankfully doesn’t say out loud. He would have, had anyone required him to speak. It’s definitely a good thing Pansy is here—who knows what Draco might say on his own!

“Good day!” The man smiles at Pansy, the same kind brightness he offered to Draco. That’s quite the feat; Pansy is suspicious and scary and glaring—most people turn into meek mush when confronted with a determined Pansy.

The man is beautiful, though. Did Draco mention? There is his smile and his blue eyes, sparkling and clear, blond curls sneaking out of their enforced elegance to fall into his face. He is handsome, his features strong and distinguished, broad shoulders and impeccable posture. He also still holds on to Draco, although the risk of falling has long since passed.

“Unhand my friend this instant,” Pansy hisses, everything about her screaming malevolent threat. Draco loves her, but it’s unnecessary; he likes the hands just where they are, thank you.

“At once, of course,” the man agrees, eyes back on Draco. “If you feel steady enough, that is. I couldn’t in good conscience release you if you wished to support yourself on me.”

Pansy growls, mutters something very inappropriate, but Draco doesn’t pay attention. No, Draco is blushing furiously, his heart beating in his chest and heavy on his tongue. He is hit with a sudden and violent awareness of how close they are standing, the fact that this man is a stranger, and that Draco still doesn’t want him to let go. Ever. So much so, perhaps, that he would pretend to be an invalid in need of carrying about.

Wouldn’t that be a glorious fate, to be carried around by this angel?

Pansy rudely steps on his foot. Draco catches himself, clearing his throat against the mortification and blood rushing.

“Very kind,” Draco says, lost for anything else and voice strangled. What do you say to beautiful men who rescue you from certain death and smile like that even after you repeatedly made a fool of yourself?

Next to him, Pansy rolls her eyes so emphatically Draco can feel it. She also relaxes, however, and the threat drains from her body, settling back into the normal levels of her sharp tongued impatience.

“There you are!” Hermione shouts from behind them, pace brisk until she comes to a stop on Draco’s other side. Her eyes take in the scene lightning fast, flicking over Draco (whole and hale), over the hands on his arms (protective), and the man they belong to (unknown but charming). They must make quite the tableau.

Finally, she settles on Pansy, exasperated but reassured.

“I missed the excitement.” Hermione smirks, the kind of smirk that means Draco really doesn’t want her to know. Friends are dangerous, especially when they are prying and sarcastic.

“In here, Mr Goyle,” Hermione calls out, because apparently there weren’t enough people intruding upon this very intimate moment.

Could this get any more mortifying?

Goyle takes a while to join them, everyone standing still in anticipation when Draco hears his footfalls. So much for hiding from the man; Draco earned himself a lecture.

“Mr Malfoy, we were so worried,” Goyle starts, then trails off when he notices the stranger. Draco’s hero might be an actual angel—no one can shut Goyle up this quickly and smoothly; the man has no shame to level against him. Befuddlement, though, that does the trick.

So now they stand here, all of them excruciatingly aware of how highly peculiar the scene is, of the stranger’s hands on Draco’s arms, of Draco’s dazed and useless mind. The man was right; Draco could do with a strong cup of tea.

“Hello everyone,” the man says, utterly charming. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

This is all rather humiliating.

Anyone else who wants to see? Has Father been informed yet? Draco’s world cripples itself laughing at him, the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by the ground the man’s hold on him, steady and safe. His smile, equally, never falters. He looks at Draco with nothing but gentle patience, like he could stand here and hold him all day if Draco so desired, like he would shoo away his mean friends—anything; whatever Draco asks, it shall be done.

“May I say that this is most—” that’s as far as Goyle gets before Hermione glares and he wisely stops.

“What do you say, darling,” the man says, looking at Draco as his heart does a somersault, “should I let you go now?”

No, Draco wants to say. Hold me closer, he wants to beg, I’ll send my friends away, just hold me closer.

Bravely, he doesn’t.

Draco clears his throat (again) reminds himself that he has feet, that they work remarkably well, and that he wants to make a good impression on this man. There is plenty of room for improvement.

(He doesn’t think about the inappropriate endearment. It should be patronising, should be uncomfortable and annoying, but Draco feels light and fluttery and he wants to be called ‘darling’ again, wants it to warm his chest and smile, luxuriating in the feeling.)

(As he said, he doesn’t think about it. Not much.)

“Yes, thank you, Sir.” Draco nods, prim and proper and mournful at the impending loss.

The man smiles, just as bright as he has the entire time, and he squeezes Draco’s arms. Then he lets go.

Draco doesn’t fall.

He wasn’t sure whether he could stand on his own, if the man would disappear along with his hold, if it’s worth the risk. But Draco doesn’t fall, and the man is still there, still smiling and charming and surely now Draco can talk to him? He is done being an embarrassing idiot?

From this new distance, the man has more to offer than just an irregularly handsome face. He has all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. His clothes are fine and well cut, his coat light and powder blue, the colour so soft it should have been ridiculous. His waistcoat is white, his shoes polished to perfection, and he smiles at Draco as if he never saw anything so pleasing in his life.

“Pansy Parkinson,” Pansy introduces herself, because Draco is not done being an idiot. “I dare say you already know my good friend Draco Malfoy.”

Draco splutters—undignified, but it’s not like his situation could get worse—and doesn’t hear the rest of Pansy’s introductions.

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” the man introduces himself, bowing before all of them. He winks at Draco when he comes up, perfectly unruffled. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“May I suggest we move out of this alley.” Pansy has already switched from worried to teasing; she is too perceptive for Draco’s good.

Her proposal is sound, however, made all the more so by Mr Lockhart’s genial smile and the arm he offers Draco. Draco wishes it were slimy, that it was arrogant and mocking, but it’s nothing short of gallant and welcome—he near throws himself into his side, desperate to get back into his embrace.

The only advantage to the mortifying manner of their meeting is that Draco can behave however he pleases now—he will never do anything more embarrassing.

“Lead the way, dear.” Mr Lockhart smiles at him and Draco swiftly moves them onward, lest he die on the spot. That would be a shame, all things considered.

“What brings you to Hogwarts?” Draco asks as they walk, finally remembering his words and manners. Also, he can hear Hermione and Pansy whispering and snickering behind them—anything is better than listening to them disparage Draco’s fluttering heart. Even inane questions and tedious small-talk.

Should it even come to that. Should it turn out, against all expectations, that Lockhart has to pay for his perfections in some way and thus lacks the skills needed for intelligent conversation. Draco doubts it, but he is prepared for the worst.

“Good fortune,” Mr Lockhart answers, warm and intimate at Draco’s side. Draco worried for nothing, he can already tell.

“Miss Granger,” someone calls, and Draco searches for them on instinct. It’s not him they called, but they might as well have, and if he looks at Lockhart for only a moment longer, Draco fears for his sanity.

Weasley looks stately on his horse, his outfit assembled of rich browns and stark whites, an exquisite riding coat the dominating feature. His smile is warm and delighted, his hair ruffled from the wind—he is the picture perfect country gentleman. He dismounts gracefully, making his way towards their little group. Towards Hermione.

Draco’s eyes catch on Potter. He sits proud and arrogant, his own hair trapped under a top hat and his coat a rich green. Draco would like to step closer, to inspect Potter’s clothes more directly for the delight in finery Potter has hidden in them, but nothing is as effective as that sneer in reminding Draco he wants away from Potter.

More surprising than Potter’s appalling attitude and fascinating clothes is the horse he sits on, a white beauty Draco remembers well from his stay at the Burrow. He loved that horse, snuck her treats and apples and petted her long enough for Nimbus to get jealous. A gentle creature, Draco thought her, intelligent and patient.

To see Potter on her back is as incongruous as it is offensive.

Potter, as expected, does not dismount. Pompous prick.

Draco pointedly ignores him as he greets Weasley—mere politeness so he can proceed to talk to Hermione—and when he looks back to sneer at Potter, Potter is looking more shocked and resentful than Draco has ever seen him. Quite the feat. At his side, Mr Lockhart has gone stiff, meeting Potter’s disdain with cold challenge.

Draco has no idea what is happening.

Do they know each other? Surely they must! Surely there cannot be such hatred among strangers; for Potter, perhaps—Draco would put nothing past that man—but not for Mr Lockhart, who is affable and agreeable and proved himself nothing but a gentleman. It is impossible to imagine; it is impossible not to long to know.

Before Draco can ask, Potter inclines his head sharply and rides off. He leaves behind his friend and more questions than Draco cares to count. Especially so because Mr Lockhart seems nervous, glancing at Draco and away again, taking deep breaths, preparing himself for speech but never opening his mouth.

It is most irritating, all the things Potter’s mere presence can ruin. Draco is not ready to release Mr Lockhart just yet, far from it.

“Tell me, Mr Lockhart,” Draco says, trying to act like Potter was never there, like he isn’t curious and angry. “Have you many plans today? We are expected by a dear friend, you see, and I should very much like it if you joined us.”

Mr Lockhart looks at him like he can’t believe his luck. Then he glances in the direction Potter has ridden off into, eyes once more uncertain.

“Don’t concern yourself with him,” Draco tells him, as kindly as he can. “Mr Potter takes offence at everything. It is best to ignore his opinions entirely.”

“Is that so?” Mr Lockhart asks, eyes wide and hopeful on Draco. Did the poor man honestly think anyone could give Potter credence over him?

“Indeed.” Draco nods, assuring, and Mr Lockhart breaks out into a smile.

“Well then, love,” Mr Lockhart takes up Draco’s hand to lay a gentle kiss upon its knuckles. “I would be delighted to join you.” 

Sprout fusses over them the moment they cross her doorstep. She doesn’t object unexpected guests, never would and even less so when it’s charming Mr Lockhart, efficiently flattering her into a state of gentle blushing. Draco watches, gratified to see someone else succumb to Mr Lockhart’s charm and lose their mind.

(Tragically, he is also put out that it’s not him receiving compliments.)

“Don’t pout, Draco,” Pansy whispers into his ear, sneaking up on Draco while he was trying not to resent Mr Lockhart for doing the proper thing and complimenting their host.

“I don’t pout,” Draco claims primly, uselessly. It is evident to all with eyes that he does very much pout.

Pansy, mercifully, doesn’t push. She stays close, standing behind Draco with her chin on his shoulder. Together they watch Mr Lockhart laugh with Sprout, Goyle awkwardly to the side, nodding.

Hermione has slyly disappeared—to the library, possibly, raiding Sprout’s shelves for recent additions. It’s highly unlikely she will find something new; they were here just last week! More likely she will have to content herself with one of Sprout’s tomes on plants. It’s an astonishingly extensive collection, impossible that Hermione should have read them all. (Improbable, Draco should say.)

“A very pleasing sitting room.” Goyle looks around in appraisal. Draco dreads his next words, realisation not quick enough to prevent them. “I am strongly reminded of the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings.”

Draco watches Sprout grimace, watches Mr Lockhart wince. Goyle, oblivious, details the similar ornaments in the ceiling at Rosings. Blissfully ignorant his environment grows more hostile with every offense.

“Poor man.” Pansy’s tone is utterly devoid of compassion. She waits until Draco takes another sip of his tea—excellent, always excellent—before she adds: “did you realise yet that Lucius intends on you marrying him?”

Draco almost spits his tea, most delicious or not. Pansy laughs quietly, sneaks her arms around his waist to keep him firm against her, lest he do the sensible thing and run.

“Sprout, dear,” Pansy calls while Goyle talks himself hoarse in his rapture of Rosings. “Do not take offence, for it’s not intended. Rosings is remarkably grand, you must understand. You will find no admirer better versed in the details than Mr Goyle, and so should let him expound the high honour bestowed with his compliment.”

Goyle, thus taught another piece of politeness and the world outside of Lady Petunia’s condescension, is quick to explain himself, flustered and eager to please.

Draco could take more amusement in the sight if Pansy’s words didn’t taint his vision.

“Has Father said anything to you?” Draco asks, wanting to deny and wanting to know at the same time. “Are you sure?”

“He has said nothing,” Pansy reassures him, granting Draco a moment’s peace before adding: “he didn’t have to. Your father is not a subtle man, Draco.”

Draco wishes he wouldn’t, but he can’t help thinking back on his interactions with Goyle. Did he miss something? He remembers Father’s panic and guilt, remembers his resolve to fix things. He remembers Father didn’t laugh, remembers his insistence that they take Goyle with them on their walk—Pansy is right; Father is not subtle.

It makes a horrible sort of sense.

There can be no fight over the Manor when they both own it—what better way to achieve unity than marriage? He can almost hear Father justify, stress the dire urgency and the risk they are facing, that they might be forced out of their home if Draco doesn’t secure it. The clergy is an honourable profession, he might say, a living so close to Lady Petunia surely plentiful and good.

He can hear Father demonstrate the benefits of marrying the bumbling fool and Draco wants to scream. Is this how he is to be treated—a mere pawn in his own life? Should it be Draco’s duty to pay for his father’s mistakes?

By now, Goyle has talked about Rosings for such a long time and with such admiration, that Sprout would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper’s room. He gleams in proud sweat, tapping at his forehead and licking his lips, talking still.

How is Draco meant to marry such an insipid creature?

He shan’t! Not to save all the Manors in the world.

Pansy, warm and steady at his back during that abhorrent succession of realisations, tightens her arms around him into a squeeze, grounding and reassuring him.

“I thought you should be prepared for the proposal,” she says, and Draco might faint were it not for Pansy holding him. “Now go kidnap your Mr Lockhart and let him distract you with more pleasant talk. I’ll take care of Goyle.”

Draco knows she means to make sure he doesn’t mortally offend Sprout, but he can’t help remember Pansy talking of shovels and nightfall. She looked entirely serious then, prepared to do anything, should Draco only ask.

“Thank you, Pansy.” Draco feels hollow, shell-shocked at her revelation. He doesn’t even protest when she plucks the tea out of his hand and pushes him towards Mr Lockhart.

Mr Lockhart, who looks dapper and capable, standing tall and elegant next to Goyle, sweating his humility and talking ever faster of his station, so graciously provided by her Ladyship’s generosity and condescension. It’s not Goyle Draco could see himself marrying, and he leads Mr Lockhart away before he can dwell on that thought. Pansy was right; he needs a pleasant diversion.

What could be more pleasant than Mr Lockhart?

“You seemed in desperate need of rescue,” Draco tells him as he loops their arms together, walking them as far away from Goyle as the room allows.

“Am I that transparent to you?” Mr Lockhart smiles, delighted at the idea.

“Indeed you are, Mr Lockhart.” Draco has no choice but to answer his smile in kind, nightmares of Goyle fading.

“Please, Mr Malfoy—shall we not drop these tedious formalities?” Mr Lockhart leans in closer, drops his voice lower, makes Draco’s mind buzz and his skin tingle. “We know each other quite intimately, having saved each other’s lives.”

“So we have,” Draco agrees, voice breathless. “It would be silly to enforce distance now, wouldn’t it, Lockhart?”

“Indeed, it would, Draco.” Lockhart winks as Draco chokes, as unmade by his given name as he was by every endearment Lockhart gifted him.

Of course, there are some lines of propriety even Draco won’t cross. After all, what good is a treasured first name if he can’t present it unblemished at his wedding day? It is meant to mark an entirely new era in his life, a new intimacy between him and his beloved husband. Draco had looked forward to that day since he was a little boy.

“We can’t,” is what Draco says, begs, instead of the firm scolding he aimed for. Who could ever be cross with such pert daring?

(He very much likes the sound of his name on Lockhart's tongue.)

“Don’t worry, sweet,” Lockhart soothes him, warm and solicitous. “It shall be our secret.”

If Lockhart doesn’t stop saying these things, Draco’s complexion will never recover. He will walk around perpetually red, flushed at the mere memory of being treasured.

It’s not the worst future Draco was shown today.

“Let us sit,” Draco says instead of that. He met Lockhart two hours ago—Draco would do well to keep a few mysteries.

Lockhart looks good on Sprout’s settee. He looks like he belongs. His clothes are more formal than customary here, safe for at balls, but they suit him. He sits comfortably but well, aware of the room at large and yet focused on Draco. He doesn’t sit too close to Draco either, nothing scandalous—which is a bit of a disappointment—but close enough that they may talk pleasantly, that they might talk privately. Good; Draco has questions.

“Tell me about Potter,” Draco demands, rude and impatient, but Lockhart laughs.

“Potter, is it?” he asks, still smiling though his eyes have gone cold, assessing Draco. “Are you much acquainted with Mr Potter?”

“As much as I ever wish to,” Draco tells him, as honest as possible. More honest would be to say that Potter is a puzzle Draco hasn’t quite cracked yet, that there are stories that don’t make sense and edges that don’t fit. Studying Potter is a fascinating sort of addiction, though Draco neither likes it nor the man at the centre.

Lockhart nods, satisfied.

“You might be surprised, after seeing, as you probably did, the very cold manner of our meeting,” Lockhart continues, careful, scrutinising Draco like he might leap to Potter’s defence. Draco has no intentions of doing so; he remains placid and strains to not even smile, just nods. (Probably, he says, as if it wasn’t obvious. As if Draco could want to ignore Potter’s faults. It’s amusing, but Draco would rather learn this tantalising secret than share the joke.)

“I did indeed see that,” Draco confirms, calm, seeking to put Lockhart at ease. “A most disagreeable man.”

Lockhart laughs, relief plain on his handsome features.

“You noticed!” he says, almost congratulating Draco. “It will astound you to hear that I grew up with the man and didn’t realise how obstinate a fellow he is.”

Draco can hardly speak for surprise. They have grown up together? Lockhart and Potter? But how is such a thing possible?

“I see I have confused you, and rest assured that I will explain in time, but let me preface my story with this: I have no right to give my opinion as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one.” Draco wants to protest, wants to tell him that of course he is allowed an opinion, especially when it so closely resembles Draco’s own, but Lockhart shushes him before he can open his mouth to indignation. “I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial.”

Draco wishes he could argue. You can’t know someone too well to judge their character—it sounds like the kind of nonsense Potter might make up to save his reputation. Draco doesn’t insist upon it though, not now, not when Lockhart is pained to tell his story.

There is one thing Draco can do.

“Everybody is disgusted with his pride,” Draco tells him. “No one could judge impartially.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry.” Lockhart smiles at him. He takes Draco’s hand, holding on to it soft but firm. “The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

“Not here,” Draco repeats, clasping his hand. Lockhart smiles down at them, grounds himself in the contact. “You could hardly find a place where Potter is less well liked. Ask anyone.”

“Does he plan to stay long? I cannot imagine he would enjoy Hogwarts, where he is seen and despised.” Lockhart looks up at Draco, his blue eyes wide and devoid of the charm and fluttery he has displayed so far. A proof of trust, Draco thinks, one step closer to the vulnerable heart of him, just a man like everyone else.

Draco is all the more endeared for this revelation.

“I’m not privy to any plans,” Draco says, though he knows it will be a disappointing answer. “I hope your own plans will not be affected by Potter’s presence. Know that we like you much better; we should like you to stay.”

“Very kind of you to say, Malfoy.” Lockhart squeezes his hand and Draco’s heart tumbles over itself, proud at the reappearance of Lockhart's confidence. “You need not worry—it is not for me to be driven away by Mr Potter. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go.”

“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it.” Draco almost wishes Potter had overheard—maybe the man would finally see that he isn’t welcome, maybe he would do the decent thing and leave. They would take care of his friends, better care than he could. Promise. “Will you tell me all the embarrassing things Potter did?”

“You are a devious creature, Mr Malfoy,” Lockhart accuses him, but there is laughter in his voice and eyes. “I fear I cannot honour your request. In truth, I never spent much time with Potter, proud from birth as he was. I was merely the son of his uncle’s steward, you see, barely worth his attention. Truly, it is the late Lord Dursley who holds my affections, one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had. He loved me like his own son, like he loved his nephew, and Potter never forgave me for it.”

“What happened?” Draco asks, breathless and immediately feeling foolish for it. It is perfectly apparent what happened.

“He died a good few years back. They were nothing alike, uncle and nephew, but I still cannot look at Potter without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of such a good man. He loved me like his son, as I said, and though he could not provide for me as he could for his family, he promised me a parish. A good parish, he said, the best he had to offer.” Lockhart smiles sad and wistful. “I should have very much liked to join the clergy; can you believe?”

Indeed, Draco cannot. Nothing about Lockhart seems like it would do well clad in holy robes, confined by the ancient rules he preaches to others. Then again, the duties of clergymen contain more than wearing pretty clothes and reading old books. Lockhart would have had people to care for, depending on his help and guidance. He would have had marriages to officiate and children to bless. He would have done well, Draco thinks, charming and free even in black, welcoming people into his church. His service would have been most interesting.

Yes, Draco can imagine it, though he doesn’t need to. There is open grief in his words, enough to erase any doubt of the happiness Lockhart would have found leading a parish.

“Alas, when Lord Dursley had died and the living he promised me so faithfully was in need of a clergyman, it was given to someone else.” Lockhart clings to Draco’s hands now, eyes casts down and away, thinking back the years since this loss.

Draco is shocked. Appalled, even!

“How can that be? Did he not make his will known?” It’s the only civil reason, though there are more sinister explanations: Potter.

“He did,” Lockhart agrees. “A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Potter chose to doubt it. He attacked his late uncle’s widow viciously, disparaged my character to anyone who would utter so much as a neutral word about me. He would not rest until no one could, in good faith, trust me with anything, let alone the wellbeing of the people. Potter claimed I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. I knew well enough what he meant: my preferred style of clothes, my easy laugh, my popularity among people who barely tolerated him.”

“That is hardly fair!” Fair doesn’t bear much importance in these matters, but that doesn’t mean it should be silently accepted.

“No, it wasn’t, but Potter is a man of many means. The only people in position to defy him were too wrought with grief.” Lockhart, remarkably, does not hold grudges at being abandoned in his hour of need. Draco doesn’t know that he himself would be so gracious.

“You know Mr Weasley, of course,” Lockhart says and Draco nods, though confused at the non sequitur. “Then you know of their close relationship, and that Potter considers the Weasley’s more family than his relatives by blood. I cannot begrudge him that—by all accounts, Mr Weasley is an agreeable man, and his mother is well known for her kindness—but I do wish he had made similar efforts with his uncle. It pained him greatly, you must understand, to see his nephew so absent. The engagement had been decided some 20 years before. Potter and his cousin were promised to each other when they were both little more than children; it worried the late Lord Dursley to see them driven apart by Potter’s obstinacy. He wanted the three of us happy, that’s all he wished for. Potter made that impossible.”

“Such a horrible story you have told me! Surely that cannot be where it ends?” Fate isn’t that cruel, is she?

“Indeed, it is not,” Lockhart looks up at him, the smile pained but genuine. “I have the freedom to travel wherever I want and to stay however long I please. I am not beholden to anything but my own whims and pleasures. So here I sit, holding the hand of a beautiful man and unburdening all my troubles onto his kind heart—not such a terrible ending, don’t you think?”

Draco doesn’t know how to answer that, pleasure humming under his skin at the declaration.

“The simple truth about Potter and me is that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me. There is nothing more to it; I have made peace.” Lockhart smiles again, almost back to his usual confidence and charm. “I can be happy with very little; I don’t need his grace.”

“I’m not little,” Draco says, without thinking. Lockhart laughs, loud and freed from lingering sorrows.

“Perhaps not,” Lockhart agrees, eyes twinkling, “but that only means that my happiness in your company is all the greater.”

Draco smiles, content for only a moment before his mind returns to Potter. How could he treat such a good man so abominably? Draco had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this. Not even Potter, he would have thought, is capable of such cruelty.

“He deserves to be publicly disgraced,” he declares, unable to make peace as gracefully as Lockhart.

“Some time or other he will be,” Lockhart agrees, terribly gentle as if not to anger Draco, “but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his uncle, I can never defy or expose him.”

“You are an admirable man, Mr Lockhart.” The very best of them, Draco is quickly coming to suspect.

Lockhart laughs as he thanks him, waving away his own accomplishments as if they are nothing.

“Let’s not dwell on such unpleasantries, my dear. Tell me: what is your favourite thing in the world?” Lockhart leans forward, indecently close, their hands still clutched together—Draco doesn’t mind. He blushes as he leans in, strokes his thumb over the back of Lockhart’s hand. No, Draco doesn’t mind at all.

Soon he is talking about their trip to Brighton, about the sea side and Hermione’s bafflement, her total incomprehension of Draco’s fascination. He is talking about the wind in his hair and the vast freedom of aimlessly riding a horse, urging Nimbus faster and higher until his entire body sings. He talks about Dobby’s sweet pastries and the biting comments Pansy will whisper into his ears. He talks about the dried and pressed flowers hidden in Mother’s lexicon.

Draco talks absolute nonsense, a fool besotted with the world. Lockhart listens with patience and enthusiasm, holding Draco’s hand as he asks to know evermore.

Chapter Text

Lockhart remains as charming and entertaining after two weeks as he was after an hour. He is exciting and funny and makes Draco near forget the ball being prepared at the Burrow. It’s a miracle that Draco should have missed the hubbub; from the very moment Weasley had had his promise extorted, it was all anyone in Hogwarts could talk about.

Everyone, that is, but Draco and Lockhart.

Draco hadn’t doubted that Weasley would keep his word, or that it would be a most splendorous affair, and yet he didn’t count the days as he would have done usually. A big oversight, he realises now.

“A ball,” Lockhart exclaims, excited at the mere prospect. “I should very much enjoy that. Promise you will dance with me, Malfoy, at least two.”

Draco agrees easily—he would dance with none but Lockhart the whole evening, if he only asked.

They were sitting out in the Manor’s garden, enjoying a small picnic of sugary sweets and strong tea, when Hermione interrupted to announce the news: the date had been set.

“Do you plan on going, dear?” Draco asks, just to see her flustered. Despite remaining calmly poised, she must be thrilled at the prospect of dancing with Weasley again.

Unfortunately, Hermione brought the happy tidings to Pansy first, and is thus as teased as she can be. She barely even hesitates as she replies, smooth as anything: “Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”

“How public spirited of you.” Draco smirks as Lockhart laughs next to him, Hermione glaring down at the both of them.

“Do you want to sit? Dobby will bring you a cup as well, something to warm you as you enjoy the blooming flowers with us.” Lockhart moves closer towards Draco to make room on their blanket for Hermione, who looks surprised to be invited.

“I promise I won’t ask too many impertinent questions.” Draco winks up at her; no such thing as too many questions. Hermione’s wary look informs him she is well aware of this quirk in definition.

In all honesty, though: Draco has missed his friend. He has been wrapped up in avoiding Goyle, spending as much time as possible with Lockhart instead, hiding in Hogwarts’ various nooks and crannies.

“I’d rather not take the chance,” Hermione says, declining their offer. “Besides, I must go—I’m far too busy to be interrogated. I just wanted to ensure you knew the date; you have been absent.”

There is no judgement in her tone, nothing that suggests she is cross with Draco for his disappearance. But Draco feels guilty all the same.

“Fine, no interrogation today,” he agrees, aiming for light and fun. “But don’t think you have escaped—you will be thoroughly questioned before you can even decide on a dress, young lady.”

Hermione laughs, retreating, mind on wherever she has to be next. Or the dashing Mr Weasley, more likely.

“I already have a dress,” she tells him, smirking. Then she is gone, back into the house and out through the front door.

“Do you want to go after her?” Lockhart offers, softly. “Though I enjoy our time together, I did not intend to steal you away from your friends.”

Draco forces himself to smile at Lockhart, to not think of it anymore. He will see her tomorrow; he’ll make sure of that. Besides, they have been friends for two decades—a few weeks not immediately next to each other won’t change that.

“No, darling. I am right where I want to be.” Draco smiles at Lockhart and takes his tea up again, settles back into his place.

He truly does want to be here, even now that he misses his friends. The garden is beautiful this time of the year, Sprouts labour of love, and Draco feels he never properly appreciated it. There is a rigorous system, Draco knows, but to him the garden is an explosion of flowers, gentle paths looping through and trees standing tall, growing out of the ocean of soft colour.

Draco used to help Sprout, when he was younger. She got him a small straw hat to protect his skin from the sun and gloves that were much too big for him. Looking back, Draco can’t have been much help. He carried things around, held flowers as she created bouquets, and watered plants that didn’t rely on his dedication. A merciful independence; Draco distinctly remembers running off because he saw a dragonfly.

He grew out of it, of course. It didn’t take long until Draco started appreciating having clothes that weren’t dirty and ill-suited to kneeling in the earth. The only thing he maintained himself is the sacred knowledge of how to braid crowns out of flowers. They used to do that often, Sprout and him, each of them binding a crown and presenting them to Father, their creator concealed to make the jury impervious to personal feelings. Father would then choose the crown he liked best and wear it for the day, the greatest honour Draco could imagine at that age.

Would Lockhart like a flower crown? Draco would like to make him one, would like to take him through these gardens and tell him the meaning behind the flowers as he picks them. He has years of practice—Draco could fashion him the most beautiful crown ever beheld.

Then again, it is a very silly thing. Lockhart is not a silly man, charming and humours as he is, and he is particular about his clothes. No, Draco would do best to forget the flower crowns, before he forces an awkward position, where Lockhart has to gently refuse and Draco has to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

He is too old for flowers, anyway.

“Do you plan on coming to the ball?” he asks instead. The upcoming ball is a much more relevant and appropriate topic. Belatedly, he realises Lockhart already confirmed this.

Lockhart smiles at him all the same, bright as the sun. Indeed, it’s better Draco doesn’t adorn him in flowers—there is only so much beauty that can be born.

“Mr Malfoy!” Goyle shouts from somewhere behind them. Draco can barely stifle his groan—how did the man even find them?

“Mr Goyle,” Draco greets with a smile so false, not even Goyle should be oblivious. Hoping against hope, Draco thinks Goyle might only have a minor question and leave once answered. “What can I do for you?”

“You are a difficult person to pin down, do you know?” Goyle seats himself in the space intended for Hermione, unaware of the tension. “Miss Granger was sure I wouldn’t find you here, told me to turn right back around, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to cast a quick look—and here you are!”

“Indeed,” Draco replies, drily.

Is there a polite fashion to ask Goyle to please conduct whatever business he has deemed worth interrupting them for and be on his merry way? If there is, Draco can’t think of it.

“Such a pleasure to see you again, Mr Goyle,” Lockhart says, sounding so genuine that Draco can’t blame Goyle for believing it. “What brings you out here?”

“The happy news, of course!” Goyle smiles brightly, even that somewhat bumbling on his face. “There is to be a ball at the Emerald Wilds; you must have heard.”

Lockhart confirms that yes, they had. Draco tries not to glare Goyle into fleeing.

“I should have thought you disapproved of balls,” Draco says, more caustic than he could have rightfully meant to. Goyle doesn’t take offence, if he even notices.

“Nonsense,” he declares, like it’s a good thing. “I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the chance of dancing with you, my dear friend.”

There is no course to respectfully decline such a repugnant offer. Goyle isn’t asking and so, before Draco knows it, he has pledged at least one dance to the man. By the time Draco realises this, Goyle is talking about Rosings, about how it might compare to the Burrow. He calls it Emerald Wilds Estate, of course, which is undoubtedly Father’s doing and makes the entire speech exponentially more insufferable.

“—and the staircase alone is worth 800. It’s exquisite work.” Goyle nods, proud as if he built the stairs himself. How much longer shall Draco bear this?

“800?” Lockhart repeats in mocking awe, making Draco smile over Goyle’s shoulder. “That’s impressive. I dare say it must be a very long staircase!”

“Indeed it is,” Goyle agrees, eagerly, prepared to detail every staircase in Rosings. Thankfully, Lockhart doesn’t suffer fools.

“Did you hear that?” he asks, straightening his posture as he looks back at the house, frowning. “I think you were called, Mr Goyle.”

Draco, happy for every opportunity to get rid of the man, nods.

“Yes, it sounded quite urgent.” At Goyle’s puzzled look he adds: “You truly didn’t hear?”

Goyle, it cannot be stressed enough, is not a confident man. When there are two people telling him he is wrong and should hurry back inside, he will not waste time trusting his own ears but scurry to do as he’s told. Draco’s low opinion of the man sinks with every step he takes back to the house.

“Ingenious, dear,” he tells Lockhart, even as he sneers at Goyle’s retreating back.

“Anything to make you smile, my love.” Lockhart winks at him, beautiful in the grass and sunshine, and offers Draco the last pastry. “Could I use this, my humble offering, to bribe you into granting me the honour of dancing more often with me than him?”

Draco, he realises with a pang, might be half in love with the man. It would be most inconvenient, if it didn’t make him so giddy.

“It would be my pleasure,” Draco declares, solemn over his fluttering heart, and then he snatches the pastry out of Lockhart’s hand.

“I was worried you wouldn’t like to come,” Draco confesses, eyes on his sweet loot so Lockhart won’t see just how worried Draco had been. “Potter will be there.”

It made sense, in Draco’s mind, that Lockhart would decline this ball. Draco would, before his good humour be spoilt by the odious man who ruined his life. Lockhart’s relationship with Potter is more complicated than that, however, and his temper is more sanguine than Draco’s—it wasn’t worry but incessant hope that kept Draco up at night. Hope that gave him questions and worry that stopped him asking.

“I told you before: it’s not for me to avoid a meeting,” Lockhart says, exactly as Draco hoped. “I promise you, sweetheart: I will be there and dance with you until you can’t stand anymore.”

Draco can’t stop the blush, pleased and deeply gratified. He doesn’t mind, not with the way Lockhart smiles at him, his own feelings reflected in the curve of his lips.

Draco has never looked forward to a ball quite as much.

Goodness! What is he going to wear? 

The one thing worse than being forced to attend a ball you don’t care for is being forced to organise this very same ball. Previously, Harry could boast with some pride, to lack certainty on this issue. He had quite happily assumed it a plague, an assumption he can now unhappily confirm.

This is the price for his inability to deny his friends.

“Harry!” Ginny calls to him, well hidden in his darkened hallway. That is, he thought himself well hidden. “Stop moping and greet our guests. I will not tolerate for your hostly duty to be skirted any longer.”

“I will remind you that this is your brother’s infernal ball—I have no duties, hostly or otherwise.” They had discussed this when they quizzed Harry on the perfect phrase for the invitations or the punch they should serve. The strongest they could, Harry had answered, and resolutely excused himself. (They did follow his advice, though. Harry is intensely grateful.)

It remains a mystery to Harry how he became responsible for this ball—a poorly disguised ploy so that Ron may see Miss Granger again. Harry had studiously avoided involvement and still he was asked enough opinions that he can claim the dubious honour of having organised a ball.

That does not, however, make him a host.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny says, and that is that. Harry is to play the joyous host, welcoming people he prayed would stay away.

Moments like these, he wished he could point out that he isn’t actually her brother, and that she better mind how she treats him. (He only did so only once. His foolishness led to a prolonged period of hurt silences that no one enjoyed and the firm understanding that Harry is an idiot and not to be trusted with this kind of thing. ‘This kind of thing’ being a nebulous term, encompassing whatever Ginny wishes.)

“Honestly Harry,” Ginny scolds as she fusses with his clothes, “you look like you have been crouching through the attic.”

Uncharitably, Harry doesn’t think it matters much for the guests they expect. Harry neither cares about their estimation, nor depends on their goodwill towards him. These people can think whatever they want of him, including offence at being considered too small (and too rural) to be the foremost expert on style. They shouldn’t mind his appearance, he thinks, and because he is being tugged at and irritable, he says so.

Ginny, a perfect angel in her elegant dress, her hair slick and smooth, smirks up at him. Harry’s heart plummets in his chest, right where her hands come to rest.

“Malfoy is to arrive soon,” she tells him, not bothering to hide her delight. “I should think you’d rather not appear all skewed and dusted in front of him.”

She would be right, wicked woman, and she knows it. Ginny laughs at Harry’s dignified silence, pulling him along as easily as if he were a tame poodle. If Harry were less anxious about Malfoy’s imminent arrival, Harry might mind that. Anxious as he is, he gratefully follows her lead.

Ron smiles when they reach him, glad to see him and strangely, just as anxious. Harry wants to dwell on that, wants to take him to the side and ask if he is truly nervous about seeing Miss Granger, wants to ask what happened to his charming and agreeable friend. But Ginny sees him looking, and he thinks better of it. She stands close enough that, should the need arise, she could stomp on Harry’s feet and no one would know, the attack concealed under her dress.

He can’t risk it.

Harry will need all his toes functional and attached to dance with Malfoy.

So he stays and smiles and greets guests while Ron freaks out and Ginny glares.

Balls are the worst.

It is a long, torturous wait before Malfoy’s presence might make this endeavour worth the headache.

Finally, though, Malfoy stands before him.

Harry forgets to breathe, for a moment.

Malfoy looks (as Harry privately expected) better than he has any right to. His clothes are cut to perfection, flattering his figure and emphasising his broad shoulders, the clean lines of his body. The colours of his suit are understated greys and blues, shades that might easily be faded and dim but highlight his fair skin, his bright hair. Malfoy looks a vision of soft colours, the only improvement Harry would make a bit of silver thread woven in, to match the sparkle of his eyes.

Harry watches Malfoy smile at Ron and wink at Ginny, watches him laugh and charm, and how the hair brushes over his face. He is indeed worth the headache.

All Harry is granted, however, is a stiff nod and barely a moment where their eyes meet.

Harry shall content himself with that. He will have more of Malfoy’s attention later, once he has acclimatised to the way looking at Malfoy makes his brain stutter. Harry might even be capable of words!

Malfoy pushes his friend forward, Miss Granger looking pretty and polished, the same as everyone else Harry was forced to greet. Her hair is intricately braided, her dress is blue and beautiful, and Harry doesn’t care, eyes back on Malfoy. Ron, on the other hand, takes in every detail and still cannot look away from her guarded smile.

Perhaps this is a good time to say—but no, Malfoy has moved on. He still stands in front of Harry, next to Miss Granger laughing with Ron, but he doesn’t pay attention. He looks past Harry like he doesn’t exist, peers into the bustle in search of entertainment. It’s remarkably rude. Harry has half a mind to call him out on it, demand his respect, but then Malfoy is dragged away by his father.

He is gone far quicker than other guests, not lingering and trying to coax Harry into conversation or smiling. No, Malfoy disappears with a polite nod and a general air of disinterest, walking more intent the further he gets away from Harry.

Not that Harry watches.

He doesn’t, because that would be irresponsible and intrusive.

It just so happens that he notices Malfoy looking for someone, that he doesn’t find them in the parlour, and that he is disappointed but not discouraged. Harry watches him go, wishing more than anything that he could follow him.

Then Ginny stops on his toes, and Harry grimaces at the next guest. It will be a long time before he can sneak away to find Malfoy. 

Chapter Text

It is amazing the things you fail to notice when distracted by a pair of fine eyes.

An unfamiliar man hangs around Malfoy and his friends this evening. Harry, distracted, did not see him come in. He is of moderate height and heavy, licks his lips too much and fiddles with his hands. He interjects with lengthy monologues until any conversation is dead and forgotten, everyone bored under his speech. He appears most unpleasant.

The stranger is send away, humming on his way to the punch, and Harry drifts closer before he can think better of it. It’s atrocious manners, premeditated eavesdropping, but Harry finds he doesn’t mind. Highly unlikely he’ll work up the nerve to ask Malfoy to introduce his companion, but that doesn’t mean his curiosity isn’t overbearing. Besides, it’s good hostly etiquette to know your guests.

Malfoy, surprisingly, does not talk about the man. He seems to have forgotten him, which borders on a miracle because he can’t stop staring at Malfoy, even from across the room. Malfoy, however, is still looking for someone else.

“Given the absolute fact of his absence I declare you can quit searching now.” Miss Parkinson, glittering in her extravagant dress, sounds more sympathetic than Harry thought her capable. Granted, he barely knows the woman, but from what he witnessed he judged her to be cold and rude, cynical, and assured of her own superiority.

“He promised, Pansy,” Malfoy tells her, tense and unrelenting in his scrutiny.

“Maybe he was called away on sudden business. You know how it goes.” Miss Parkinson doesn’t sound convinced. Neither is Harry, and he doesn’t even know the gentleman in question.

Malfoy snorts, eyes brushing over Harry in his search and quickly returning, frowning as Harry stands frozen.

“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.” Malfoy doesn’t mean for Harry to hear, he imagines, but sound carries and he is still glaring at Harry—if he wants his scorn to be private, Malfoy will have to try harder.

“Come now, darling. There is no need to be so very disappointed. You will see your Lockhart before the week is out, no doubt. Sooner, even, if you are right and it’s this ball specifically his business forbids him.” Miss Parkinson takes Malfoy’s arm as she leads him away, abandoning their strange companion with too many punch glasses and Harry with a shock so great that he forgets the busy crowd around him, shattering of inconsequential things.

Lockhart. Harry had hoped to never have to hear that name again. He had hoped the man would vanish in disgrace and frivolity, as was his wont, and that Harry was well and truly rid of him. And now Malfoy has grown fond of the menace, looking for him excessively and glaring at Harry as if he were the scoundrel.

Harry had hoped seeing Lockhart in town would urge the man on, that he had enough common sense to avoid Harry, but he underestimated Lockhart once again.

Malfoy is a man not formed for ill-humour. He is laughing barely half an hour after his pronounced indignation on Lockhart’s absence, ducking behind pillars and large flocks of conversation to hide from Mr Goyle, the mysterious companion. Harry himself observed several occasions where the poor man lit up, having spotted Malfoy and Miss Parkinson, only to dim once his laborious way through the crowds proved fruitless, his desired partners long since disappeared in giggles and haste.

It’s undignified and improper and Harry cannot but smile whenever he catches a moment of their pursuit. Thankfully, both Ginny and Ron are too busy hosting and flattering pretty girls to see.

Harry is still amused when Mr Goyle finally—through sheer dumb luck—corners Malfoy and Miss Parkinson. The inevitable solution is satisfying, no matter how much Harry enjoyed the chase. Watching it play out he wonders what it is Mr Goyle wanted so desperately, how disagreeable a thing that would induce Malfoy to flee him all evening, playful as it might have been.

Looking at Malfoy’s pale face, his obvious horror at being caught, Harry isn’t sure anymore it was playful. Malfoy certainly doesn’t look it, and if Harry hadn’t seen him behave like a giddy child, he should be very concerned. In fact, he is concerned either way. Should he intervene?

Harry looks at Miss Parkinson, next to Malfoy and informed of the details and complexities. Miss Parkinson is laughing. She smirks and pushes Malfoy towards Mr Goyle, who is smiling brightly and offering his arm—a dance! Mr Goyle chased Malfoy to dance! And Malfoy isn’t keen on the idea. He goes willingly, anyway, throwing his friend sharp glances, altering in despair and accusation, but he does go.

Irrationally, Harry wants to do what Miss Parkinson didn’t and rescue Malfoy from his abhorred fate. It’s ludicrous—not only can’t Harry reproach people for daring to dance at a ball, but he also doubts Malfoy would allow himself to be rescued. He is a proud man, Malfoy, and however much he might not want to dance with Mr Goyle, Harry wasn’t supposed to realise.

Mr Goyle is either oblivious to this turmoil or cheerfully resolved to ignore it. He beams as he leads Malfoy towards the dancing couples, joining them with bumbling hesitation and causing a steer. There are more graceful ways, Harry has to say.

Everyone quickly learns that Mr Goyle is not a good dancer, or even a passable one. He is awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it. All the while he keeps trying on smiles, as if that could save his miserable performance, clutching at Malfoy like a man drowning. Harry understands why Malfoy sought to avoid this dance of mortification.

Harry watches them as one watches any tragedy: supremely uncomfortable yet unable to look away. He watches Malfoy’s strained smiles and his furtive looks around the room whenever Mr Goyle missteps, checking for witnesses to his shame. He watches as Malfoy hisses at him to concentrate, as he apologises on Mr Goyle’s behalf. Even more than before, Harry wants to save Malfoy.

Miss Parkinson is still laughing, highly amused at her friend’s misfortune. She won’t help, despite her being the only one who could. Harry’s hands are bound by propriety, but Miss Parkinson could step in, could salvage what is left to salvage.

If only Harry could do the same, he would firmly command Mr Goyle away from the dance, perhaps command him away from the ball entirely—due to incompetence; no ball should tolerate poor dancers—and dance with Malfoy in his stead. In this imagined scenario, Harry would be smooth, would speak with calm authority and have the matter dissolved before Malfoy even noticed, occupied with a turn or other, realising he has been released only when he twirls back into Harry’s arms instead of Mr Goyle’s. He would smile, then, face open and sweet as it seldom is when addressed at Harry, and he would thank him —

Miss Parkinson is glaring at him. Harry looks away with haste, blushing fiercely, but the damage is done. He doesn’t know how long he had stared, dreaming of dancing with Malfoy. Too long, whatever the exact minutes. Bitterly, Harry wonders what she will tell Malfoy, if they are going to talk about snide Mr Potter, who cannot enjoy himself even at his own ball.

Harry shall have to try harder to prove himself. He will ask Malfoy to dance immediately, before his friend can fill his head with more of Harry’s least flattering moments. Heaven knows Harry provided more than enough of those.

Malfoy couldn’t look more shocked if Harry had slapped him. He didn’t, did he? Harry goes over his words again, wonders if he missed something, if he gave offence. Asking someone to dance is difficult enough, but asking someone who doesn’t particularly appreciate you is much more difficult still.

Miss Parkinson, smirking at Harry and Malfoy and at the entire mess, very obviously pokes Malfoy in the ribs. The gesture reminds him so much of Ginny that Harry almost feels reassured, almost forgets himself and smiles at her. Malfoy, being the one poked and entitled to feeling reassured and supported, jumps with a surprised noise. He politely accepts Harry, the words automatic and without thought.

“I would be honoured,” he says, and then looks horrified with himself. For his pride, Harry chooses to believe that has more to do with his momentary loss of control than that his agreement to dance.

Harry bows, sharper than necessary, and leaves before he can ruin things. After his last request for a dance was rejected, Harry doesn’t dare tempt fate—or Malfoy’s manners.

Fate must hold more impressive grudges than Harry, because he cannot remember what he did to deserve such torture. He thought he would be safe walking away, rude and abrupt but safe. He thought wrong.

“Why couldn’t I think of an excuse?” he hears Malfoy hiss behind him. Harry was not meant to hear that, which is a small and useless mercy.

Fate might haunt him, but in the end it’s curiosity that fells him. Harry stops not long after his resolve to remove himself from the situation, still in earshot but concealed. He must know, if only so he can prepare himself for how much Malfoy will accidentally step onto his feet.

“Because you are an abysmal liar.” That’s Miss Parkinson, dispassionate and preoccupied. How can a person like her be friends with a man like Malfoy?

“Pansy,” Malfoy snaps, possibly thinking along similar lines. “I am experiencing a crisis! I would be ever so obliged if you could spare me a moment’s notice.”

Miss Parkinson does not.

“Don’t fret,” she tells him instead with a heavy sigh. “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”

“That would be the greatest misfortune of all!” Malfoy declares hysterically, forgetting to lower his voice until Miss Parkinson shushes him. In a much suppressed whisper he adds: “To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.”

This is why Harry doesn’t eavesdrop; it’s nothing you want to know. The process is also terribly undignified, standing around lost and hurt, pretending he didn’t hear.

“Oh, would you listen to yourself,” Miss Parkinson snaps, though if in Harry’s defence or at the end of her patience, he doesn’t know. “He is a handsome man, is he not? You said so yourself, Draco, said so often and in ridiculous detail. Worst-case scenario, you get that dance you wanted back when you were introduced—do you remember how cross you were with me for scaring him away?”

Harry was not scared. He wants that to be very clear; he was not scared. He had somewhere else to be, that’s all. Completely unrelated.

Malfoy grumbles what might be agreement. It does something fluttery to Harry’s chest, something warm and distracting and hopeful.

“Exactly,” Miss Parkinson says, better versed in Malfoy’s moods and communications. “You are going to dance with that man and you are going to enjoy it. He doesn’t dance, remember—this might be your only chance. You will smile and you will be pleasant and you will not to be a simpleton, and allow your fancy for Lockhart to make you appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Do you understand?”

Malfoy mutters a sullen reply, but Harry is finally moving, his lesson more than learnt. He heard enough to take heart, enough to face Malfoy and not fear all chances of a civil rapport between them entirely lost. He knows Malfoy thinks him handsome and, once upon a time, he wanted to dance with Harry badly enough he was angry with his friend when they didn’t. Harry will relish in that, and pretend Lockhart was never mentioned.

To say that Harry is surprised Malfoy is still there when the next set starts would be an exaggeration. Harry didn’t expect him to rush back into hiding, to hide from Harry as he hid from Mr Goyle. Still, it’s a relief to find him where Harry expected him. Reluctant and grasped firmly by his friend, but there.

Good enough. He accepts Malfoy’s hand graciously and leads him into formation, defiant of the first staring eyes. This is the only disadvantage to insisting upon not dancing unless one wants to—everyone takes notice when such a time arrives.

They know better than to address their curiosity to him, but Harry would have to be blind and deaf not to notice the whispers. The fact that it’s Malfoy at his side and that Harry is extremely proud of that makes the situation slightly more bearable. Although, there might be less speculation had Harry asked someone less beloved—a reprieve paid for with Harry’s distaste in his partner. There is no winning at a ball; Harry would much rather suffer with Malfoy than anyone else.

They take up their respective stances opposite each other, as the dance demands, and Malfoy gives him the exact same smile he gave Goyle, tight and strained. Harry resolves to earn himself a genuine smile.

The musicians start and Harry bows, holds his hand in offering to Malfoy. It’s hard to concentrate with him so close, shimmering and judging.

Harry does his best to lose himself in the music. It doesn’t come easy to him, this sort of relaxation and relinquishing of control, but if he doesn’t, he will think himself into the most embarrassing mistakes. It works remarkably well, his head filled with the score and its movement and almost no other thoughts.

It’s several minutes in that Harry realises he didn’t lose himself in the music so much as he lost himself in Malfoy. The man moves with awe-inspiring grace, fluid and sure, surrendering his soul to the dance. He never misses a step, perfectly in tune with everyone else now that he doesn’t have to compensate for a partner as inept as he was oblivious. Harry can watch as his smiles grow more free and content, as his posture relaxes and he forgets he hadn’t wanted this dance. Sometimes, when their hands brush or they pass each other closely, that smile is directed at Harry, Malfoy’s face tilted upwards and their eyes meeting and Malfoy still smiling.

It could be perfect, were it not for the silence heavy upon them. Malfoy is not a silent creature, Harry knows this, and dances were designed for the most intimate of conversations—provided one knows how to start them. Harry is woefully inexperienced in the art.

“You have chosen your dance well,” Malfoy allows, his voice stiff in a way his manners aren’t, effort apparent behind his words. This is Harry’s opportunity to start an exciting and entertaining discussion, something that will impress Malfoy and make him want to talk to Harry. Something that will make him consider Harry less harshly.

“Thank you,” Harry replies, and forgets every other word he ever knew.

What else is there? What could he possibly have to discuss that would charm and interest Malfoy? The only thing Harry can think of that a) affects them both and b) he feels confident speaking about, is the weather. But to bemoan the weather is to admit defeat. A dull one at that.

Malfoy has stopped expecting more of an answer. He is not looking at Harry anymore, his shoulders rigid and his jaw set. Harry is dismissed, proved himself inadequate in this most simplest of tests.

Their hands brush as they turn around each other, spinning and touching and Malfoy’s hand warm against his, long fingers and soft skin, pale and striking against Harry’s own, brown and itching to wrap himself around Malfoy’s. The entire world falls away as they whirl, bodies close but not touching, not quite, only their hands.

The dance doesn’t have enough of these moments, Harry decides when the music takes Malfoy from him, when they part and turn towards new partners, towards neighbours neither chosen nor wanted. Another thing Harry doesn’t like about dances: they are community events, and Harry wants Malfoy all to himself.

“It is your turn to say something now, Mr Potter,” Malfoy informs him once they returned to each other, formal and impatient. “I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

Harry finds himself extraordinarily pleased by anything Malfoy does, even ill-tempered demands to be entertained. He suppresses his fond smile before it can be more than a twitch, hiding his affection out of habit and in the attempt to shield his heart from harm.

But no amount of warm sentiment can provide him with something to say.

“Tell me what you wish me to say,” Harry says instead in a stroke of genius, “and I shall say it.”

Malfoy smiles at him, surprised and pleased. Good. Maybe Harry can salvage this conversation, if Malfoy will allow him a chance.

“That reply will do for the present.” Malfoy nods, his approval curling warm in Harry’s stomach. “Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” It seems more suited to Harry, a trick to brave conversation with near strangers. Malfoy is braver than that, is better than that, able to delight and bewitch anyone in a matter of mere minutes.

At least, that is Harry’s experience.

“Sometimes,” Malfoy admits like it’s nothing, perfectly pleasant in his confession. “It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

Well, Harry can’t argue with that. Yet he doesn’t mind silence; he much prefers it over meaningless pleasantries. He enjoys the effect his silence has on people, how it makes them squirm and itch to say something, anything, to breach their discomfort—it’s for their sake Malfoy is arguing, for those who can neither bear speaking nor keeping silence. Harry always thought the responsibility to be theirs—it’s not him who longs for distraction, so why should it be his duty to provide it? He isn’t philanthropic, doesn’t dedicate his life to making that of others easier or more pleasant.

This is different, though, as is everything Malfoy-adjacent. Harry never wants him to stop talking—who would?—and might even stoop to small talk to achieve this. Harry would do the work if Malfoy needed him to.

It’s most unsettling.

Harry doesn’t like it.

Still, he does want Malfoy to talk.

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” It’s for Harry’s sake, he is pretty sure, but he also thinks this is how conversation works. He is meant to ask, isn’t he? Show an interest?

“Why, Mr Potter.” The smirk is so unexpected that Harry almost misses a step, falling into Malfoy’s arms and wickedly sparkling eyes. “It’s for both of us, of course. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room.”

Harry has to choke back the laughter bubbling up in him. Devious man—Harry can count the people who would dare say that to him on one hand; most of them are ginger.

Malfoy is fairly accurate where Harry is concerned. Ginny might say the exact same thing, sole differences in fondness and willingness to badger him into getting over himself. Malfoy merely states, proud of himself and delighted by his flagrant disregard for etiquette.

As fitting a description as it might be for Harry, he would use none of the words to describe Malfoy.

“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.” Harry has seen him laugh too freely, entertain too many people to believe that. Malfoy is doing himself a disservice if he believes this to be true of himself.

“You can hardly expect me to judge myself.” Malfoy shrugs, careless of the insult paid to him, and Harry doesn’t know how to reassure him he deserves more praise than that, that he deserves someone more skilled than Harry to list his qualities.

They fall into silence once more. Harry doesn’t know how to compliment and Malfoy considers a break in conversation acceptable. His eyes flit over the room, resting on acquaintances and raising his eyebrows at them, smirking, his face extraordinarily expressive. Harry only sees half the conversation, but he doesn’t care to catch whoever Malfoy is talking to—Miss Parkinson, if Harry were to wager a guess—and he probably shouldn’t, anyway. He should allow Malfoy his privacy.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s face grows hard. There is a tense tightness around his eyes, his jaw set, and he looks up at Harry, challenge written all over him.

“I believe you know Mr Lockhart,” he says, not really a question. Harry grimaces in answer anyway. Malfoy nods, grave. “I myself just met him in town. He has become a very dear friend to me.”

This is what Harry feared from the moment he saw Lockhart cling to Malfoy, even over the shock of seeing him at all. It has only been a week, but Lockhart has done more despicable things in less time. Harry wishes there was a way to warn Malfoy without sounding bitter.

“Mr Lockhart is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.” True, but insufficient. “He is not a good man.”

Malfoy almost physically recoils. If Harry wasn’t holding on to his hand—pure chance, his recklessness caught by the dance—Malfoy might have fled to the other side of the room, Harry scorned for daring to say what he didn’t want to hear.

“I’m serious, Mr Malfoy,” Harry whispers, furious with himself and Lockhart and Malfoy, set on his ignorance. Harry pulls Malfoy closer, leans down to speak directly into his ear, voice like the growl of a wild beast. “I will spare you the details, but know that you would do best to stay away from Lockhart. He lies, Mr Malfoy, about everything and for no other reason than that it suits his fancy.”

Malfoy looks like he wants to slap him. Harry would deserve it, behaving like a brute and scaring the man in his stumbling attempt to protect.

Harry lets go of Malfoy’s hand, steps away to breathe. He didn’t think he was still this angry.

Malfoy, shockingly, is still there when Harry opens his eyes again. The dance moves around them, people are talking and laughing, but Malfoy stands tense, gaze cold on Harry. What little trust they built has been shattered by Harry’s outburst, the tentative bond cleanly severed.

“I do not wish to dance anymore.” Malfoy bows to him, stiff and furious. Abandoning Harry where he stands.

Rationally, Harry knows he is correct to. He knows he should honour Malfoy’s wishes and boundaries, that he should allow him time to hate Harry and cool off, but his heart won’t listen to reason. Not where Malfoy is concerned. Harry follows him away from the dance before he can argue himself out of it.

“Mr Malfoy,” he starts, stopping himself in the last moment from reaching for Malfoy again.

Malfoy stops on his own, whirling around to glare. The words die in Harry’s throat.

“It was kindly meant,” he stutters out, Malfoy’s cold wrath unimpressed.

Before Malfoy can say something devastating—and it would be devastating; people who look like that are long past caring—they are joined by a portly woman, jolly and oblivious to the tension crackling between them.

“Draco!” she exclaims, hugging him tightly and fussing over him.

For a moment, Harry hysterically questions who invited her. How do they know anyone so improper? The distaste must show on his face, because Malfoy’s face grows impossibly more grim. Harry is committing mortification after mortification—and things started out so well.

“Auntie Sprout,” Malfoy says, eyes on Harry, challenging. Harry feels the sudden urge to vacate the premises immediately.

Malfoy stands close to his aunt, declaring his allegiance and protecting her against Harry’s vicious tongue. This is no introduction. Harry isn’t worth being introduced to his family, Malfoy makes that clear, but the woman in question doesn’t mind. She doesn’t seem to mind anything, turning towards Harry with an insipid smile.

“You were dancing with our Draco, were you not?” she asks, not giving Harry any time to answer before she goes on: “Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It was truly a joy to watch you. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated.”

Malfoy couldn’t move less if someone had turned him into a statue, made of stone and unyielding. His eyes bore into Harry over his aunt’s cheerful shatter, his hand on her shoulder.

“Especially when a certain desirable event shall take place.” Mrs Sprout winks at him, as if they were conspiring. She glances pointedly towards Ron and Miss Granger, who are standing close and talking quietly, their heads bent together.

Now Malfoy does speak, low and urgent and to Mrs Sprout, not Harry. His eyes, though, remain firmly on Harry, pinning him into place and pressing the breath out of him.

Mrs Sprout laughs, slaps the hand on her shoulder playfully. Harry can barely bring himself to smile.

“What is Mr Potter to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him?” Mrs Sprout winks at him like they are sharing a joke. “I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”

Harry doesn’t know what she is talking about. He doesn’t know what she was talking about before, either, which ‘certain desirable event’ she was obliquely referring to. What is happening? How can he fix it?

“It shan’t be long now, I declare, and soon we will have a wedding to plan,” she exclaims, clapping her hands together in excitement. “What congratulations will then flow in!”

The surety of the words shock Harry, a punch to the gut.

Is that what people think? Is that what they see when Ron smiles at Miss Granger, when he asks her to dance?

Is that what Ron means?

But he can’t! Harry thought it obvious, was so certain that his friend would be wise about his affections and keep them restrained—he hasn’t been, has he? Ron does nothing in a restrained manner, throws himself into everything with his whole heart. Of course he didn’t dampen his feelings.

Marriage, Mrs Sprout says, with a certainty that makes Harry sick.

“But what am I doing?” Mrs Sprout goes on, not stopping a millisecond after shattering Harry’s world. “You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young boy. Treat him well, our Draco, will you?”

She is gone before Harry understands a word she said. His eyes are on Ron, laughing and loving and offering all he is. How did Harry not see this?

Malfoy clears his throat. Mrs Sprout is gone, Harry notes, absently, and Malfoy is tapping his foot expectantly, smirking at him. There is nothing charming about it now, nothing but cold glee, gloating and malicious. (He looks unfairly handsome all the same.)

“Back with us, Mr Potter?” he asks sweetly, mockingly.

How is Harry meant to answer that? How did they go from enjoying their dance to this, to Harry stumbling and helpless and Malfoy watching him, tripping him further?

(Where is Ginny? Harry can’t do this.)

“Of course,” Harry says, tries to mean it. He clears his throat, searches for something to say, something to save this disaster. “What were we talking about?”

“We were not talking at all,” Malfoy says, tone snide. “Sprout could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.”

Harry winces. He remembers it now, the matter of Ron and his doomed love postponed for later scrutiny. He has his own heart to worry about.

“I remember hearing you once say, Mr Potter, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable.” Malfoy stops, waits for Harry to nod. “You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”

Is this about Lockhart again? Will Malfoy not let it rest until he dragged every part of Harry’s soul over the coals?

“I am,” Harry confirms, steels himself against the accusations to follow.

“You never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.” Malfoy looks at him intently, like he might flay Harry open with his gaze. It feels like he could.

“What purpose do these questions serve?” Harry snaps, uncomfortable under Malfoy’s grey eyes. This is a novel experience; he never knew how it felt to be vivisected.

“Merely to the illustration of your character.” Malfoy attempts a smile, as if to soften the blunt edges of his intrusion, smooth Harry’s bristling feathers. “I am trying to make it out.”

Harry doesn’t reply. What can one say to such a frank declaration? Harry stands tall, tries not to waver under Malfoy’s judgement.

“I do not get on at all.” Malfoy sighs, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Harry feels himself relax as well, quite involuntarily, the vice around his heart giving a tiny bit. This is closer to the Malfoy he knows: sharp and intelligent, but not cruel, not malicious. “I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

Harry is exhausted. It yawns wide and open in his chest, sudden and violent, torn open by the torrent of emotions whipped through him. Who would have thought dancing with Malfoy to be this taxing?

“I wish that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” Harry dreads to think of the results such attempts might produce today. He has no doubt that it would sketch him unfavourably.

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.” Malfoy is fully back to himself now, smirking in amusement, like others might laugh.

Relief assaults Harry so strongly, he wishes nothing more than to rest his head on Malfoy’s shoulder, surrender himself into his very capable hands and take refuge in his arms, let him glare at everyone who would dare to comment. Now that Harry experienced his sharp edges for himself, he wants with frightening despair to be on the other side of them. He is so tired—surely such longings can be forgiven.

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” Harry says and means it, but Malfoy frowns and Harry doesn’t know what he heard, but he doesn’t have the energy for clarifications. He needs to lie down, lest he forget himself and actually does throw himself at the poor man.

Harry bows, perfunctory and almost forgotten, and leaves Malfoy to whatever irritation he caused. The library should be empty.

The library was indeed empty.

For roughly an hour, Harry experienced the true meaning of heaven on earth, his chosen book laid open in his lap and forgotten; he never had intentions of reading. Perhaps if he had, if he had looked important and studious, Ginny might have granted him another half an hour in the blissful quiet. Instead, she dragged him back in after herself.

No sooner has Harry stepped out of the library than he wants to crawl back. He misses the book he failed to appreciate before, yearns for the comfort of the armchairs swallowing him, and tries to remember the quiet.

Ginny is perfect. She laughs and sparkles and waves at people, her arm tight around Harry’s.

Looking at her, no one would know that she, too, closed the door of his sanctum and sighed in relief. Unconcerned with her fancy dress, Ginny had sat on the floor, leaning against the door until the floor became more uncomfortable than saving grace. She pulled herself up, pulled Harry up, and declared she didn’t have time to force him into being social, but would appreciate it if he tried. Then she nearly rejoined the party in a rumpled dress.

Harry fixed it, of course.

He doesn’t regret retreating—he learnt long ago that disappearing is preferable over breaking down. Whatever context is tearing at him, it is never helped by growing increasinlcy tense and unpleasant. All it leads to is everyone, including Harry, wishing he would just sneak out to breathe.

Harry refuses to be shamed for retreating; it was the responsible thing to do. All the same, he was glad that Ginny called him back. Distantly. Rationally. Hosting a ball is exhausting work, something Harry knows better than anybody else, lacking the blinding feverish fondness that bedazzles his friends. Ginny shouldn’t have to face it alone.

This isn’t his house, not if you squint, but against the stubborn rumours circulating, Harry doesn’t try to be a twat. It’s all innate talent. But Harry treats this house like it’s his and considers himself to have the same legal rights to it that Ginny has, though it’s Ron who bought it. Harry treats it like it’s his house and so he can share the responsibilities, odious as they might be.

Also, Ginny timed her demands well. Harry is back not five minutes before the food.

Balls are nothing like dinners, but there is extensive precedent to prove that people are morons who will literally dance themselves into the ground when they don’t get sustenance. Mostly they are young and silly, dancing until they gasp and faint, but age is no guarantee for decorum. Lord Dumbledore, famously, didn’t join a single ball in the last three decades without making a complete fool of himself, dancing until he passed out from joy and excitement. The man is kooky, everyone agrees; some say it’s spinsterhood that drove him insane, other’s claim it’s the excessive fainting. Personally, Harry thinks the old man has always been crazy.

That’s why well organised balls provide food. It won’t stop the likes of Dumbledore, but the ones more reckless than lunatic will be saved by being socially expected to sit and eat. Harry appreciates that, even though the lack of proper dinner etiquette makes him twitch. People join and leave the tables as they please—in the middle of the course, if that is what they wish—but the dinner table is the most civilised place at any ball.

Harry plans on staying for as long as physically possible. It’s not as good as the library, conversation expected by those sitting around him, but the world is smaller. Plus, he may discuss topics other than dancing and his general refusal to do so. Or, more recently, his dance with Malfoy. People are very keen to comment.

The dinner table is his new sanctuary, which is why Harry is surprised when someone approaches him, hovering at the edge of his vision in the most annoying fashion.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge them. Maybe they’ll leave if Harry is obstinate for long enough? They seem to be a fickle sort of person, not sufficient spine to approach him directly—Harry can wait them out, can stare ahead until they understand they are being dismissed.

Then Harry catches sight of Malfoy, watching him with trepidation, and Miss Parkinson whispering into his ear. Interesting. Newly enticed Harry turns towards his flaky pursuer.

Mr Goyle smiles, pleased, because Harry looking at him is confirmation that he did the right thing in making himself bothersome.

“Mr Potter,” he declares, as if they had been introduced. Which they haven’t been—Harry distinctly remembers pressing several nonplussed people for the identity of Malfoy’s foreigner. He didn’t get further than the name and his obvious admiration for Malfoy before he realised he was too invested and decided it didn’t matter.

Now it seems Mr Goyle makes himself matter. Impertinent freedom, Harry wants to tell him; you don’t bother someone so clearly intent on not engaging with you; that’s just disrespectful.

Goyle bows to him, awkward and too late, but Harry nods in acknowledgement. Best to get this over with quickly.

Is Goyle here because Harry offended Malfoy by speaking plainly about Lockhart? Is he here to defend Malfoy’s honour? A quick glance reveals Malfoy to be flushed and whispering furiously, eyes wide—he doesn’t look likely to send incompetent little men to do his bidding.

“I have discovered the most amazing thing,” Goyle states, his voice carrying. “You, Mr Potter, are the nephew of Lady Petunia Dursley.”

Harry nods; he knew this.

Goyle’s grin widens, gratified.

“I have the very great honour and pleasure to inform you she was exceedingly well—” brief hesitation while the man counts his fingers, “—17 days ago.”

Another smarmy bow, a surreptitious lick to his lips.

Harry stares.

Malfoy looks like he yearns to faint.

Is this all?

Is this what Harry invited the attention of the entire room for?

Goyle, instead of discreetly disappearing, fidgets and squirms, making a spectacle of his discomfort.

“I would have informed you sooner, of course, should have paid my respects, but I trust you will forgive my lateness. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.” He bows again, nervous and extensively deferential.

Harry stands, now towering over the man. Yes, much better.

Initially, Harry wanted to talk and be corteous in as brief a conversation as possible. It seemed the expected thing. But what could be gained from that? Malfoy is still watching, holding his breath, and Harry doesn’t want to spend more time here, listening to the sweating man talk in raptures of tacky decorations.

Harry bows, just enough to be polite, and walks away. There is nothing worhtwile in this conversation, and Harry doesn’t want to be here anymore. So he leaves, and Malfoy watches him, gaping. 

Harry is ready to send people home. They have been here for hours—surely they are tired? That is the problem in offering food at a ball: when no one faints from exhaustion, how should anyone know they could be next and make a more graceful exit? Balls seldom thrive for long after the first fainting.

Could Harry coerce someone into fainting? He could offer to pay them, his money truer than his charms. Or Ginny could talk to someone—she is the kind of charming that has anyone join into all sorts of mischief. She would do that for Harry if he asked, wouldn’t she?

People are already requesting softer music to be played—Ginny would see the sense in using the lull in energy to close the doors.

“If I were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air.” Goyle is a clergyman, Harry has learnt since their last encounter, and he hears it now in the way Goyle’s voice fills the room. “I consider music as a very innocent diversion.”

Goyle stands next to the piano, looking wistful as he strokes his hands over the black finish. Harry feels nauseous at the sudden looming threat of singing. It will prolong the evening for several hours. Besides, clergy people don’t know decent songs.

Harry looks over to Ginny, panicked and ready to beg if necessary, only to find her in a similar state of floundering. (Harry isn’t outwardly floundering. That is important. Imperturbably grave, Ginny always says, all of him pushed down to avoid undignified displays of nerves.)

Ron is useless, much as he has been the entire evening. He might as well not have been here, all his attention is focused on pleasing Miss Granger.

Miss Granger, who smiles most politely. Harry doesn’t look forward to that conversation.

One crisis at a time; they have to save the entertainment first. Ginny doesn’t enjoy singing, but she is capable if need be. At this point, Harry would say need is. He would even accompany her—that’s how grave the threat is.

Before he can convince Ginny of this odious plan, Miss Parkinson has offered herself to accompany Goyle. Harry watches with increasing dread as she cuts through the people, her expression grim and determined. Malfoy, correspondingly, looks relieved.

Harry can’t decide if things are better or worse. Is there time to discreetly flee the room?

He hadn’t considered the thought with any seriousness until Malfoy’s eyes meet his and his smile falls. He frowns at Harry, his lips pressed together into a thin line, and Harry doesn’t know what offended him, but he doesn’t think leaving now would help. Besides, it’s infeasible to do so without drawing attention.

Miss Parkinson settles herself behind the piano, beautiful and regal. Harry sneaks another look at Malfoy to see that smug smile again. No matter how often Harry wondered how they could be friends, there is no doubt that they are.

Harry can almost distract himself with the mystery of Malfoy’s relations, but Goyle has a way of making himself acknowledged. He pets the piano like one would a horse, finally as nervous as everyone else. Still, no signs of backing down. They are about to listen to too many self-righteous songs, and Harry can do nothing.

Nothing but one last, desperate thing. But Ginny likes this room; she would be upset if it were to mysteriously catch fire.

So Harry sits still and prepares to be tortured, prepares to bear it stoically and with the veneer of appreciation.

Miss Parkinson sounds out the first note and Harry resigns himself to his fate. Goyle puffs up where he stands next to the piano, gulping deep breaths in preparation of joining, and then Miss Parkinson plays the next note and the next and Harry almost laughs out loud.

The music unravels around them, racing fast and jolly, light and clear and absolutely impossible to accomy in song. She dedicates herself to the notes, plays with grace and enthusiasm as the music swells and moves. Goyle stands abandoned, lost and confused as to his purpose now that he cannot sing. He nods, as if in time but missing by a mile.

It’s painful to watch, so Harry doesn’t.

Malfoy smiles widely, fiercely proud. Harry watches him, lets the music fill him up, and he knows this is a terrible development, he knows, but it’s late and the day was exhausting and surely enjoying the smile of a handsome man is not too reprehensible.

Chapter Text

Goyle has been with them for a week. Draco needs to remind himself of that occasionally, because he behaves like he has known Draco all his life. At the same time, it’s painfully obvious that Goyle doesn’t belong. His behaviour is off, doesn’t fit with the established rhythms and rituals. It’s grating, even when it’s not entirely too early.

“I trust I speak not out of turn, Mr Malfoy,” Goyle says during breakfast, very much out of turn, “when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with your son in the course of this morning.”

Draco near chokes on his tea. Not only are they still in the sacred hours of quiet, but he has a dreadful suspicion of what Goyle wants to solicit.

Lucius Malfoy blinks, slow in the mornings and cross at being spoken to, but he understands soon enough. He has been working towards this outcome the entire duration of Goyle’s stay—of course he understands. Lucius lights up immediately, tossing his rules and principles to the curb the moment it’s convenient for him.

Draco scowls. He doesn’t want to have a private audience, all the less so for being negotiated with Father instead of him.

“Certainly!” Father agrees, bright and instantaneous, voice hoarse from the unexpected use. He doesn’t let himself be stopped by such a minor detail. “Cissa, we had better move our breakfast to be had elsewhere.”

Father winks and shouts for Dobby and gives Draco meaningful looks and really—this is too much hubbub so early in the morning! Doesn’t Goyle at least possess the good grace of terrifying Draco when he is awake?

Draco turns pleading eyes to Mother, still sitting and sipping her tea like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. She smirks over her newspaper, the message more than clear: Draco will have to deal with this alone.

“Cissa!” Lucius snaps, wrapped in his morning robe and hair wild, daintily holding his tea cup while Dobby carries out tray after tray.

Mother stands, folds the newspaper smoothly and calmly, the only calm in the frantic room. Draco desperately wants her to stay. Surely she could sit in a corner and pretend to read her newspaper? She wouldn’t need to speak; Draco just needs her here, needs her calm and reassurance.

He reaches for her, tries to take hold of her hand, but she avoids him easily, neatly. She takes up her tea, presses the newspaper under her arm, and walks past Draco, perfectly put together.

Narcissa stops for a moment, hesitating behind Draco’s chair, everyone looking at her, waiting. She drops a hand to his shoulder; the blanket meant to cover and warm him long since slipped off during the morning and her hand warm on his skin. She squeezes him softly even as Draco clings to it. She leans down to press a kiss into his hair, as much support as he is to expect of her.

“Good luck,” she whispers into his ear, and then she is gone, her arm looped around her husbands and both of them walking out of the room, the door falling shut behind them.

Thus, Draco is callously abandoned. He looks at Goyle, briefly contemplating climbing through the window to escape this man. Would that be very dramatic?

It would, Draco decides when Goyle licks his lips, shoves shaking fingers through his hair. It would also be justified. The only question remaining is towards its effectiveness, which is crucial to Draco’s future and humiliation.

Goyle smiles and pushes himself to stand straighter. Thus, sadly, Draco had missed his window of escape.

“Believe me that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections.” Goyle gestures at Draco, as if to encompass these numerous perfections. Draco feels vaguely insulted. “You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected father’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken.”

Loath as he is to admit it, Draco has to agree. Instead, he stays silent. Besides, he might have to request Goyle’s notes on this spectacle—it’s too early to sort through nervous stammer. So Draco nods—he got the gist, anyway.

Goyle nods as well, confirming he said everything he wanted. Then he forges on to the next point, deep breaths and proper posture.

Briefly he falters and Draco almost groans. They will never get through this if Goyle can’t focus!

“But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying…” Goyle trails off, considering.

Draco suppresses a sigh. He doesn’t care for Goyle’s motivation, but saying so would be rude and break the rule of silence. He seems to be the only one to honour that rule, but Draco should like to keep it. Everyone else felt it was acceptable to force him into breaking this poor mans heart, so Draco had better follow his own judgement.

Then the words catch up with him and he has to inelegantly smother a snort. Goyle, in all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings? Draco doesn’t think that possible, to be frank.

Thankfully, Goyle doesn’t notice his amusement, too caught up in his head. His speech can’t be as well prepared as Draco assumed, if he is floundering so.

“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble Lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.” Goyle counted his reasons on his fingers, holding them up to Draco in visual demonstration.

It’s a nice enough gesture, Draco supposes, if only it didn’t lack one crucial force: Draco has always dreamt of marrying for love.

Goyle, undeterred by such trifle and excited by talking of his Lady, looks critically at Draco—slumped in his chair and clinging to his tea, bleary and sleep-ruffled, wrapped haphazardly in his favourite blanket—as if only now considering if Draco might be acceptable to his esteemed patroness.

“You will please her greatly, I should think,” he declares, and Draco can’t help but wonder at the awkwardness should Goyle have realised now that Draco has never pleased anyone so full of their own importance. “She gave me explicit instructions, you understand. Before I left, she said to me, ‘Mr Goyle, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentle person for my sake; and for your own, let them be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a person as soon as you can, bring them to Rosings, and I will visit them.’”

Goyle’s voice takes on the most ridiculous of affectations when mimicking his lady’s speech. For a moment, Draco considers allowing himself to laugh—it would prove Draco unsuited to impress Goyle’s beloved Lady Petunia. Surely that can only be the goal.

Draco doesn’t laugh, in the end; it would not be kind, and he gains nothing in cruelty. He will have to employ enough of that later, when Goyle finally gets around to asking his question.

“Those are my Lady’s wishes,” Goyle continues, his voice retaining an odd hitch. “Your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony.”

Draco should interrupt. He planned on waiting Goyle out and gently refuse when the time was right, but will they ever get there? This is horrible insight into Goyle’s brain—all of it tedious and wrapped around his position at Rosings. If Draco had sat down and written the most ridiculous and dramatic speech in Goyle’s mannerism, he could not have reached half this level of folly.

Thankfully, Goyle seems to catch on to his impatience—though Draco shudders to think what he perceives it as; giddy anticipation?—and nods again, moving closer to where Draco is trapped in his chair.

“Now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection.” Draco does laugh now, quietly, but anyone with sense would. It is all so very ridiculous, isn’t it? Besides, Goyle doesn’t mind, hardly stopping as he talks over Draco. “To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your mother, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with. I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”

That’s rude.

It’s true but rude.

Draco doesn’t appreciate it. Isn’t this the part where he should be flattered and begged?

It’s also incredibly presumptuous, speaking as if Draco already chained their lives together. When, the man said; Draco feels his stomach twist. He is increasingly dubious there will come a question to refuse—does Goyle plan to just talk about love and matrimony and consider them engaged thereafter? It would be poor form, but not surprising.

Draco must stop this, gentle politeness and silent mercy be damned.

“You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time.” Draco sets down his tea, pulls the blanket around his shoulder like an elegant gown. As close as he might get to propriety now. “Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.”

Draco is quite proud of himself, if he may say so.

Goyle, in response, frowns at him. Neither proud nor pleased, Draco gathers.

“I have heard,” he says, carefully, like wading into deep water, “that it is usual with young people to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour.”

Draco has never heard such a thing in his life. Most people are anxious to marry and well aware that a good partner is too precious to gamble on such games—why ever would anyone reject who they desperately want? Does Goyle understand nothing about love?

Draco doesn’t protest, too shocked to even contemplate how he might explain, and Goyle takes his silence as confirmation. Unfortunate, but Draco can see how he might assume so. We see what we wish to and Goyle’s smile is bright and pleased.

“I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said,” he declares, as if reassuring Draco that his rejection holds no consequence. “I shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”

This is a nightmare. Draco didn’t prepare for that—he didn’t think it was even possible! Goyle can’t marry him by choosing to ignore all Draco says, can he?

“Your hope is extraordinary in view of my declarations. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.” Draco has the urge to stomp his foot to make himself heard, but he restrains himself. Barely. “You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last person in the world who could make you so. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.”

There, another perfectly reasonable reason not to marry. Goyle listed his personal happiness among his reasons, did he not? Draco forgot, amongst this talk of patronesses and persistence.

Goyle just smiles, not in the least deterred.

“Your motivations honour you, but rest assured that your worry is unnecessary.” Goyle seems like he might reach out and pat Draco’s head. Wisely, he decides against it. “I have every faith that we shall be very happy together.”

Draco has no such faith. If anything, he has a deep certainty of their mutually assured misery, should they be forced to spend too much time together. The fact that Goyle cannot see this only further proves that they are ill-suited indeed.

Draco, again, has been silent for too long. As is quickly becoming a pattern, Goyle interprets his silence as assent.

“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me.” Goyle smiles to soften his stern tone, but Draco refuses to be patronised or charmed. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any of it and least of all to discuss it again. How often does he have to declare his devoted lack of interest before Goyle will believe him?

“If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”

“They are merely words,” Goyle explains, as if words aren’t the most powerful thing there are. “It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of Dursley, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour.”

Again, factually correct and yet missing Draco’s point by a mile. The man is infuriating, insistently optimistic, and Draco shall strangle him just to escape this engagement. This is what Pansy suggested when they first learnt of Goyle, is it not? Pansy should always be listened to.

“You should take it into further consideration,” Goyle says, rather cold now that he realises Draco might be steadfast in refusing him, “that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.”

Draco has never been more offended.

Had he even the slightest thought of wasting his life on this man, this would have set him straight. Draco has half a mind to abandon propriety—as he shan’t be considered a person unless he is rude and direct—when Goyle forges on, heedless of Draco’s protest.

“As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant persons.” Goyle sounds convinced of this interpretation, looking at Draco with wide, adoring eyes.

It’s making him quite sick, to be honest.

“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere.” Draco would rather be left alone, but Goyle would never do him that courtesy.

“I shall not marry you,” Draco says, slow and deliberate, so that nothing short of utter delusion could convince Goyle he was saying anything else. “My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer?”

Goyle doesn’t even blink.

Draco feels like breaking a thousand tiny cups of fine china.

“You are uniformly charming! I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.” Goyle’s smile is elated, as happy as if Draco promised to love him until the end of the world.

Draco leaves.

He just stands up and goes, past Goyle’s confusion and out of the door.

Let Goyle talk to his parents, let Mother deal with this mess. Draco is done; he tried all he could. 

Draco’s burst into freedom is short-lived.

The Manor is, as the name suggests, full of secrets. Lucius Malfoy, who has a passion for everything gothic and dramatic, has spent many a rainy day examining every inch, pulling out every book in the library, checking every door and painting. There is not a hidden passage he doesn’t know, no small room tucked away he hadn’t been in. Thus, it should not come as a surprise to Draco to find his father listening intensely, exploiting whatever quirk of sound distribution allowed him to do so without crouching by the door and pressing his ear against the keyhole.

Or maybe that is exactly what he did. Maybe he sprung into a more dignified posture when he realised Draco would be storming out of that very same door. Both options are equally likely.

It’s most inconvenient; Draco had hoped to be with Nimbus by the time Father learnt of his eschewed betrothed—he could be riding away while Father raged against his ungrateful son.

“Draco,” Father says, and it’s a question and scolding. It’s a warning. He is to go back inside and beg Goyle’s forgiveness, right this instant. Marry to save the Manor; the order is loud and clear.

“Father,” Draco replies, pointedly not returning to his proposal.

“Mr Malfoy.” Goyle appears behind him, looking over Draco’s shoulder towards his father, putting Draco between the two of them. It’s the absolute last place Draco wants to be.

“Mr Goyle.” Father’s voice has gone sweet and anxious, demand disappeared from it so throughly that one could doubt it was ever even there. “You needn’t worry yourself; I will have a word with my son and we’ll have this sorted in a tiny moment.”

Draco, the son in question and very much in the room with them, has had enough of being bartered. He will not marry Goyle—how much clearer need he be? Nothing will be sorted in a moment, unless Goyle gets his head on straight and apologises.

“I have said all I have to say.” Draco walks past Father before he can stop him, before he can be cornered into justifying himself to both of them. He doesn’t have much reason left, edging closer to hysteria with every time they ignore his words; not an ideal state for important discussions.

“Draco!” Father calls after him, but Draco holds his head high and walks on. Stables, he needs to get outside and to the stables. To Nimbus and his swift escape.

“Please excuse him,” Father says, to Goyle this time. “He is a very headstrong, foolish boy, and does not know his own interest but I will make him know it.”

Draco might scream, can feel it bubbling under his skin, seething and hissing. He walks faster, away from this mess.

Behind him, Goyle protests that he isn’t sure he should want to be married to someone foolish and headstrong, which is what Draco has been telling him. He smiles at these signs of doubt, grimly satisfied even as Father rushes to reassure Goyle that Draco isn’t usually like this. Patently false—Goyle has only known Draco for a few days, but he must realise that. Draco is always like this, proudly; if Goyle doesn’t recognise that by now, he is even more idiotic than Draco thought him.

Perhaps Father shall finally see that it’s not Draco who is foolish and headstrong.

Sure that Father will be busy appeasing Goyle and his dawning realisation, Draco squeaks in undignified surprise when Father appears behind him, his hand a vice around Draco’s arm as he is pulled into the library.

Narcissa Malfoy looks up at their violent entry, mildly interested. Her presence acts like a balm to Draco’s furiously hurt soul, soothing and grounding him. It will be alright now; Mother won’t let Draco doom his life to unhappiness.

“Cissa,” Father says, and Draco abruptly remembers that Mother does indeed love him, and would do many terrible things to make him happy. They are sappy like that.

Would she allow this, though? Surely not!

Above all, Mother is faultlessly reasonable. Thus, she never approved of Draco’s silly determination to marry for love instead of the more substantial things in life. She is also a good mother, however, and wants him to be happy. Even when she doesn’t understand, she trusts Draco to make his own reckless choices.

All the same, she is trusted to do the rational calculations. Looking at the machinations behind Goyle’s proposal, Draco was a fool to refuse. Goyle was correct in promoting his comfortable position in life, in mentioning the Manor he might be owed—he has every asset one could wish for. Looking at reason alone, Draco is a tempestuous toddler digging his heels in the ground.

“You must come and make Draco marry Goyle.” Father holds Draco by the arm like he is a criminal, holding him up for his wife to inspect and judge. “He is being most stubborn.”

Narcissa looks at them, imperturbably calm. Very deliberately, she closes the book in her lap.

“What is the problem, dear?”

“Draco declares he will not have Goyle, and Goyle begins to say that he will not have Draco.” Father lets go of Draco to pace, his hands going into his hair to fist the blond locks. Less messy now, Draco notes absently—it’s likely Mother kept him here as long as she could, brushing his hair and granting Draco privacy for the most trying morning of his life.

This is why they don’t talk in the mornings—nothing good happens before noon.

“Well,” Mother starts and Father stops dead in his tracks, turning his entire being towards her and her judgement. “It seems an hopeless business.”

Draco has seldom been so grateful to her. It is indeed hopeless business, and if she is the one saying it, maybe Father will understand.

Father does not. He rages like a banshee, frustrated and betrayed. Draco knows how he feels—that was him not two minutes ago.

Mother looks on placidly, perfectly poised and unconcerned.

“You must make him!” Father insists again, pointing at Draco. “He will ruin us. Do you hear, Cissa, ruin us!”

Draco very well might, but that price seems worth his happiness. Mother, however, nods. It calms Father, even if only marginally.

“Draco,” Mother commands and gestures him closer. Draco feels his heart plummet in his chest—he doesn’t appreciate being the centre of attention again. He should have preferred to watch Mother calmly explain the cruelty of forcing Draco to marry a ridiculous and self-important man. “Come here, would you, dear?”

Draco does. He has never not done what his mother asked of him. He fears he might just marry Goyle if Mother asked it.

Father watches, satisfied, thinking himself victorious already. But she wouldn’t, would she?

Draco swallows past the lump in his throat, forces himself to sit next to Mother, not to run away again. It evidently doesn’t work.

“I understand Mr Goyle has asked for you hand in marriage,” Mother says and it’s not a question, but Draco nods all the same. His hands are sweaty. “You then refused this offer?”

That is a question, but Father answers before Draco can.

“Indeed, he has! Do you see how utterly vexing he is?” Father glares at Draco, as if he is responsible.

Mother, very impressively, silences her husband with one look. He harrumphes and crosses his arms, but he doesn’t talk about Draco’s failure to save the family honour.

“I have refused him,” Draco confirms, and Father makes some grumbling, coughing noise. “I do not wish to marry him. It would make me deeply unhappy.”

Mother nods, unmoved by the distressing future awaiting him in matrimony.

“Lucius, you insist upon our son marrying that man, yes?” Mother doesn’t look at him as she asks, her eyes steady on Draco.

“I do,” Father says immediately, as if he kept his command chained behind his lips, eager to spring out and make Draco behave. “He shall marry, or I will never see him again.”

Mother nods. Again. Draco is going to die if she doesn’t announce his fate soon.

With a heavy sigh, she stands and smooths out the folds in her dress, steeling herself to pronounce her judgement.

“An unhappy alternative is before you, Draco,” she says, sombre and apologetic. Draco should have run while he still could.

“From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your father will never see you again if you do not marry Mr Goyle—” Father agrees, loudly, “—and I will never see you again if you do.”

Draco blinks. He doesn’t—did she… he won’t have to marry Goyle?

Father is already cursing by the time Draco races to hug his mother, grateful and giddy with relief. He knew Mother would be reasonable, knew she would not doom him to misery.

Draco holds her closer as she laughs, buries his head in her neck. It will be okay now.

“Thank you,” he whispers, so quiet that he wasn’t certain she would hear him over Father’s tirade.

She does hear him, though, squeezing him closer and carding her fingers through his hair.

“Of course, my love. I would never wish you unhappy.” She kisses his hair again, like she did before she abandoned him to Goyle’s proposal.

Grateful as Draco is for her rescue, she couldn’t have done so sooner? She could have denied Goyle’s right to ever raise the question and spared them all. But difficulties build character, as she is fond of claiming, and Draco knows better than to question her. Especially at such a joyous occasion.

“I suppose you are very pleased with yourself,” Father says, pacing again and angry, so terribly angry. Draco lets go of Mother to face him; he can’t hide forever. “If you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your mother is dead.”

Father points his finger at Draco, addressing his scolding and predictions of doom.

“I told you I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children.” Another turn, pacing in the other direction. “This was our one chance, Draco, our one chance! We could have kept the Manor, don’t you see? Your future would be secure!”

Secure, maybe, but it would not be happy. Draco doesn’t have the patience to argue this, not with Father being stubborn.

“Don’t fret, my love.” Mother, thankfully, has enough of watching her husband work himself into a panic. “It will be alright—I contacted our lawyers. We have plenty of options.”

Father doesn’t want to hear. He throws his hands in the air, cursing Draco like he didn’t hear a single word Mother said. Mother sighs; this will take time and a a lot of patience. Patience that she doesn’t have today, judging by the tension in her shoulders and the twist to her mouth. Draco knows from experience that soon there will be shouting and, later, bitter silences.

Best to avoid that.

“Shall I get Aunt Sprout?” he offers, before Mother can convince herself that, because she married Father, she needs to handle and soothe all his moods herself.

Mother hesitates, caught for a moment between duty and sense, before she nods. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Draco hurries out of the library; they all need space.

He nearly runs into Goyle.

“Careful!” the man shouts, stepping back just in time to avoid Draco. Then his smile turns sour when he realises who he just avoided.

“Mr Malfoy,” he says, stiffly. Abruptly, Draco remembers that the walls in their house are rather thin. “Please be informed that I will leave your house shortly. I do not know where I will go, but I shall not trespass on your hospitality any longer.”

Well, this is the second best news Draco heard this morning. He should drag Pansy with him to Aunt Sprouts; he has a lot to catch her up on.

Draco is about to, very politely, express his understanding and regret, and wish Goyle well on his journey, when Father bursts out from the library. Because—once more—the walls are too thin. Draco should have run Goyle over and never looked back.

“Mr Goyle!” Father declares, desperately aware they will lose him. “I beg you, stay! It’s folly leaving when you aren’t expected anywhere, and I can assure you, you are most welcome here. We shall beat sense into that boy yet, then it would only be proper if you stayed. Doesn’t it seem silly, don’t you agree, to carry all your things around over such a trifle thing?”

Such a trifle thing! Father considers Draco’s happiness and free will a trifle!

It’s most upsetting.

Draco suddenly doesn’t want to get Aunt Sprout for him at all.

A trifle!

“No indeed,” Goyle sniffs, and Draco stands up straighter. It’s his response to derision, learnt and adopted without conscious thought. “Lets not speak of it again and I shall leave at once; despite your generous offer. I do not think I shall be back.”

Not until he comes to take the house from them, at least, but either Goyle found some tact or he was genuine when he claimed no intentions towards their home. That would offend Father in different ways, but Draco would prefer it.

“Please, Mr Goyle, you should not listen to everything Draco says. He can be quite nonsensical, that boy, but he has plenty of other qualities. We shall soon make him see reason. He is dedicated to the courtship, you see, intent on being the talk of the town.” Father talks as if he never met Draco in his life—he is describing a stranger.

“Excuse me,” Draco interrupts, furious, only to be interrupted himself. By Goyle, no less, which never happened before.

“I have quite decided; I will not change my mind. Indeed, resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.”

Father stutters behind him, his efforts to convince Goyle running dry. They are both extremely offended now.

“Of course,” Father says, not an agreement at all but cold, civil in the most cutting way. “Then you had much better go. Immediately, I should think. We will send your things as soon as you can provide an address.”

Goyle’s dumbfounded face is almost worth the humiliation of this scene, being first discussed like common goods and then soundly rejected. But Goyle staring, mouth opening and closing several times like a fish with nothing to say—well, Draco had better get Aunt Sprout so she can hear the happy news. 

By the time he returns, Draco will learn that Pansy has taken Goyle in. He will be fiercely grateful to her, only slightly worried about how she offered to take care of his bothersome suitor, and in high spirits at having the house back to only family. Sprout will soothe Father from the disappointment and the anger, and they will plot several new marriage schemes for Draco. Later, Mother will invite Pomona into her office for a civilised glass of whatever it is they are drinking this month. Dobby might even bring out the chocolate. They will talk about anything, as long as it has nothing to do with Lucius or this town.

It will be good. Draco knows it will. 

Chapter Text

It is not good.

The only reason Hermione isn’t crying is that she is too stubborn to do so. Draco feels summarily useless; he doesn’t know how to comfort.

This room has seen a distressing amount of tears in recent days.

“May I see the letter?” he asks, because he can’t bear the silence and Hermione’s suppressed sniffles anymore.

The paper she hands over is barely recognisable as a letter, crumbled and dirty, as if thrown away multiple times. Draco smooths it out as best he can, but he fears it might be beyond saving. Not that it contains much worth saving.

“This wasn’t written by Weasley.” Draco blinks at the signature, Potter’s name sitting bold and proud.

Why is this letter to Hermione written by Potter? And so brazenly? If Potter were to cap his friend’s relations—and Draco doesn’t put it past the man—wouldn’t he at least pretend? Where is the subterfuge, the devious trickery? The condescension dripping of his every word would have betrayed him, but this paltry effort is offensive.

“Yes,” Hermione agrees, as if this shocking authorship doesn’t change everything. “I suppose Mr Weasley was too busy packing to write the letter himself. Such trivial matters are often relegated to friends, are they not?”

Draco doubts that. A) he doesn’t think Weasley packed his own things, ever. And B) this is Weasley they are talking about—his goodbye would be no simple missive, near forgotten in the haste of their leaving. Draco would bet anything: his first thoughts after the decision were with Hermione.

The decision, meanwhile, must be Potter’s. Odious man.

“My darling Hermione, you are forgetting something crucial.” Draco waits for Hermione to look at him, eyes puffy from definitely-not-crying, her lips bitten. “The man is completely and absolutely in love with you.”

Hermione snorts, inelegant and wet. Draco discreetly hands her another handkerchief.

“Then how do you explain him leaving? He said he should be gone the entire winter, Draco!” She takes the letter back, viciously shoving it into the pockets of her dress like she can erase it from existence if she only hides it well enough.

“He didn’t say anything, dear. This letter is from Potter. We know Potter can be trusted to serve only his own interest.” If circumstances were different, Draco might almost be glad for the departure. He certainly won’t miss Potter. If only he had left the Weasleys here with them.

“They are friends, Draco,” Hermione snaps, sharper than necessary. “I know you have this weird rivalry going on with Potter and I haven’t been the most attentive, but even I can see it’s getting ridiculous. He’s his best friend—I refuse to think he would lie. And such a obvious lie, too—he couldn’t conceal Mr Weasley’s presence here, no matter how many letters he wrote claiming him to be in London.”

Grief really does make stupid, doesn’t it? Draco, very much not grieving, knows better than to say it, but Hermione isn’t usually this painful to talk to.

“No, but he can lie about his intentions. He does, because Potter is a proud and self-important man. His nature won’t change, no matter who he calls friend.” Draco can’t believe they are having this argument—he thought everyone agreed Potter is a plague to be avoided.

“But why, Draco? Why would he do that?”

“Because he saw Weasley in love with you, realised that he planned to propose in the very near future, and thought his friend should marry richer.” Draco saw Potter’s revulsion when Aunt Sprout talked of engagement and pointed at Weasley and Hermione, happy and oblivious.

This is definitely Potter’s work.

“Proposal?” Hermione repeats, her voice reverent. “Do you really think so?”

Yes, Draco really does. Everyone does. It might be the only thing he and Potter agree on! Weasley is in love with Hermione, end of sentence. Whatever lies Potter told to get him to London, Draco cannot imagine they will keep Weasley long. What could he want there when Hermione is here? No, Weasley will be back, and he will love her all the more for their separation. Absence, as they say, makes the heart fonder.

“Hermione,” Draco starts gravely, takes her shaking hands into his. “That man loves you and wants to spend his life with you. If he isn’t back in two weeks, I shall be very much surprised.”

Hermione does cry, then. Happy tears, Draco thinks, tears of exhaustion and anxiety and pressure released. Draco hates them all the same, hates that they are necessary. He shushes her gently, strokes the hair out of her face and does the best to pin the errand curls behind her ear. It doesn’t stick, but it makes her laugh. Draco considers that a success.

“May I hug you?” he asks. He very much wants to, but Hermione can be particular about touch.

Draco needn’t have worried—she throws herself at him as soon as the words leave his mouth. They land awkward and slightly uncomfortable, Draco laid out on the settee with Hermione sprawled above him, holding on tightly and hiding her face against his shoulder. Draco shifts, does his best to find a position without elbows digging into him, but Hermione growls and tightens her hold, so he stills.

Comfort is overrated, he decides. Draco will lie here and stroke her back, play with her hair, until his limbs are numb and she feels better. It’s what friends do, isn’t it?

Gradually, Hermione relaxes. Draco can feel the tension in her back give way to warmth, can feel her grip loosen, can feel her settle more naturally against him. Maybe he is getting better at the comfort thing.

“I really like him,” Hermione whispers against him. It’s a confession, for her own benefit, more than Draco’s.

“I know, love.” Draco strokes her hair and hopes it enough.

She will get through this either way—Draco is certain of that—but he should very much like for his friend to be happy. As she will be: Weasley will come back, they will marry, and be obscenely joyful. A glorious future awaits his friend, though it serves only as shallow comfort. A cruel mockery, even, with Weasley freshly gone.

Hermione will get there, though. Draco will make sure of it.

He shall write to Ginny. Did Potter leave an address? Draco doesn’t remember. He was first worried and then furious when he read the letter, but Potter must have. Haughty as he might be, Potter does possess all the trimmings of good breeding—not leaving an address would be poor form. He also wouldn’t read letters addressed to Ginny, if out of a healthy fear of her wrath more than propriety. Draco doesn’t mind which, as long as it gets a discreet inquiry passed.

Weasley must be miserable, too. Likely he is already planning his return, no further prodding needed. Draco will write anyway—they will get Weasley back, posthaste! Whatever it takes, Draco will ensure Hermione’s happiness.

He’ll even put up with Potter. If absolutely necessary.

Lying almost content, they both startle badly when the door to their sitting room is thrown open and Father whirls in. He doesn’t stop for a moment as he busies himself with… something. Draco can’t see over Hermione, her hair soft and tickling him when he tries to look up.

“Father,” he says, holding on to Hermione as she scrambles to sit in a more respectable position. He doesn’t want her to leave, not yet.

“I have news,” Father announces, grave. It’s an unsettling tone coming from him. Draco won’t like this news, will he?

He almost doesn’t want to hear it. Looking at his son with pity, Lucius Malfoy presents them anyway.

“Pansy and Goyle are engaged.” 

Some things just aren’t done. Getting engaged without telling your best friend is one of these things. Despite knowing this, Pansy looks utterly unrepentant.

She accepts Hermione’s congratulations gracefully, answers all her questions—mostly concerning schedule, mostly inconsequential—and doesn’t look at Draco sitting stiffly, trying to be anything but angry and confused.

“I’m so happy for you,” Hermione says, and she might even mean it. She wants to mean it, Draco can tell, because he wants to be happy for Pansy, too.

Hermione excuses herself not long after, pleading a headache, and they let her go. There is a fight brewing, Draco knows there is—he can’t blame Hermione for wishing to avoid that.

Pansy watches Hermione go and abandons her tea the moment the door closes behind her. Finally, she turns to look at Draco, her eyes guarded and countenance cold.

Draco didn’t realise they were this far already.

“Say it,” she demands. “Whatever you have been dying to say but didn’t want Hermione to hear.”

Draco doesn’t even know. There is so much—where to start?

“You are engaged to Goyle,” Draco says, because there’s nothing wrong with starting at the basics. Also, he can’t wrap his head around it.

“I am.” Pansy nods, regal. There she sits, her dress green and deep like Draco’s favourite ink, her hands clasped in her lap, and her hair done up to perfection. She wants to look intimidating, wants to be armoured against any reproach Draco might hold for her.

Draco hates that she deemed it necessary. What has he said that tarnished her opinion of him so?

“You will marry him,” Draco repeats, because there can never be too much confirmation. Maybe she will hear how ludicrous this all is.

No such luck.

Pansy doesn’t answer this time, her mouth thinning. It’s an answer in itself.

This has always been her aim, Draco knows. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had never been a matter of consideration for her like it was for Draco. Pansy would marry and she would marry well.

Their definition of ‘well’, though, had never been even close to similar. To Draco, ‘well’ meant a good man, meant someone who will make him happy and make him laugh, someone he loves deeply. To Pansy, ‘well’ meant rich.

She explained it to him many times, called him naïve and claimed a marriage into money to be the only provision for well-educated young people of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, their pleasantest preservative from want. Money was the whole purpose of marriage, she claimed.

Draco most decidedly disagreed. They had this fight many times before. He doesn’t want to have it again.

“Goyle is ridiculous,” Draco says, mostly to see her reaction. “He is annoying and talks too much and he lacks all awareness.”

“Do not speak of my future husband this way.” Pansy sits unmoved, her hands clenched, her composure strained.

She knows, then. She is marrying the worst man in England, and she is fully aware of it.

Draco hardly recognises her.

“Pansy,” he starts, unsure where to go. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am certain,” she replies immediately, no hesitation. Draco cannot believe it. Can’t she see she will be unhappy? That she will have chained herself to the most unpleasant man?

“But he is—” Pansy interrupts him before Draco can point out more of Goyle’s flaws.

“Do you think it incredible that Goyle should be able to procure anyones good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?” Pansy’s tone is acid, hissing at him like a snake, vicious and coiled tightly to strike.

Draco straightens, pulls back his shoulders and squares his jaw.

“You raise a good point—just three days ago, he promised his undying love and devotion to me. Now you are going to marry him? How could you possibly think him serious when he makes such obviously false claims?” Draco hadn’t thought Goyle in love with him, of course, but to see him lie so blatantly is outrageous.

“I don’t care for his love.” Pansy has never cared for love, and she knows the words will hit Draco like a slap. “I care about his money, his status, and his connections.”

“So you will spend your life with a man you don’t love, who doesn’t love you, all for the money?”

It’s despicable.

“Yes, Draco, that is exactly what I will do. I will be very comfortable doing it, I should think.” She glares at him, as if he is the one dooming her life.

Draco cannot believe this.

“I wanted to be happy for you, Pansy, I really did. I thought, perhaps you could see something in him that I didn’t. Perhaps he had changed for being refused. I thought perhaps you could love him, in time, and I wanted to wish you all the best.” It was the only thing that had made sense to Draco—Goyle must have changed to have won Pansy’s affection, her heart. Now he isn’t sure she has one to be won. “You don’t have any intentions of loving him, do you?”

Pansy sighs, weary where Draco feels angry and betrayed.

“I am not romantic, you know? I never was.” She looks at him until Draco nods; he did know that. “I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”

Draco is convinced of no such thing. Quite the contrary: if Pansy fancies herself certain, she must have deceived herself. How can she be happy without love in her life? Or what if she does fall in love—for surely even the ice-cold Pansy Parkinson must fall to its spell eventually—and she will have already given herself to another? What then?

She will be miserable, that’s what’s then, and all the money in the world can’t mend a broken heart.

“I wish you would consider—” Draco doesn’t know what she should consider. How to explain the concept of love and its inevitability to someone determined to make life miserable?

It doesn’t matter; Pansy doesn’t let him speak.

“Trust me, Draco, I have considered everything. I considered what he has to offer and what kind of person he is and I decided that I can put up with his company for the advantages it shall bring me.” She glares Draco into silent submission before he can even think about commenting on that particular piece of cunning. “What took far more courage to resign myself to was your scorn.”

“My scorn?” Draco repeats, incredulous. “Darling Pansy, this is not scorn but concern. I worry for you and you don’t seem willing to even understand why. It’s not scorn you feared, it’s the truth: marrying for money is a cowardly, cold thing to do.”

Pansy smiles at him, far too sad in his rage.

“You will call me these things and still claim it’s not scorn?” she asks. Draco refuses to entertain this. “I knew you would react like this, that you wouldn’t understand, but I had hoped you would listen to me. I had hoped you would see that I am content with my choice, and at least approve of that.”

“The Pansy I know cannot be content with the life you have chosen.”

The Pansy Draco knows is independent and strong and would spit on anyone trying to chain her for a few coins. Whatever became of her?

“Then maybe you don’t know me at all.”

They stare at each other, both of them mute and hurt.

It’s about time Draco leaves. They have nothing left to say, and he has been here very long already.

Usually he wouldn’t care, would spend entire days in Pansy’s home as if he lived here, too, but he is acutely aware of the rules of civility now. Rules, they had always agreed, were forged to protect you from those you don’t want to spend time with but can’t rightly refuse, either. Rules, they always thought, they would never need.

Draco should leave, feels awkward and prickly, and he knows he’ll regret this fight—but if he leaves now, he won’t return. If he walks out of this door, their friendship will be lost.

“This isn’t what marriage is supposed to be, Pansy,” he says softly, almost unwillingly. “It’s not meant to be a sacrifice.”

Pansy slumps back into the settee, defeated by this repeat of the circle. They won’t ever agree, not like this, but Draco can’t let go. Can’t she see he is trying? Can’t she see he is trying to save her?

“I’m not sacrificing anything, Draco,” Pansy says, but she won’t look at him. Perhaps she is beginning to understand that it’s not true, that she is sacrificing Draco. “I’m securing a future—surely you can’t fault me for that?”

“Indeed, I cannot. Neither would I want to, if the means you had chosen were anything else. Matrimony, on the other hand,” Draco trails off. Here they are again, at this immutable point of contention between them. “Nothing but the deepest love shall convince me into matrimony.”

Pansy chuckles, a quiet and disconcerting thing. They have talked of this before, but only ever in the abstract. Never under this pressure, never with anything depending on the outcome of their discussion. They never agreed and it never mattered, because Hermione would snap at them to get over it and they would, would discuss it at a later date, would be friends even though the other was obviously wrong.

It was never this important, this all-defining.

“You best take care to fall in love with a rich man,” Pansy says, old words from an argument well-trodden, but then she adds: “or you shall make a liar of yourself.”

Draco stands, incensed. How dare she say that? She never said that before, that Draco would betray his heart for the comfort of his body.

Has she always thought so? How often did she hear him talk about love and think it an idle fantasy, something to be gladly welcomed should it come your way, but only if the wrapping was appealing?

Love is not to be questioned; how does she not understand that? It’s not a conditional thing, true love, not something to be bought with fancy clothes and good food. If Draco shall be lucky enough to know love, truly and completely, he shall never let it go. He shall fight for it, protect it at all cost. And if they are to share nothing between them but their love, Draco shall still consider himself the richest man in all of England.

“I believe you will find not all of us so terribly fickle that we bend to the first golden roof that offers shelter, no matter the company.” Pansy doesn’t answer, looking up at him from her prone position on the cushions. “I wish I could congratulate you, my old friend, but I’m afraid I cannot lie to you.”

“This is it, then?” Pansy doesn’t even bother protesting. They both know it’s time for him to leave, both too exhausted and raw to postpone the inevitable any longer. “You can’t even lie to me to wish me well? I deserve better than that, Draco.”

She does. She deserves so much better it hurts, and yet she is determined to refuse it, determined to make them both unhappy. Draco cannot understand it.

“I wish you every happiness,” he says instead, because it’s the only thing he can mean. Happiness, that’s all he ever wanted for her.

“And I shall have it,” Pansy declares, daring him to protest. “I had only wished you would be there to share it.”

The sentence is as ambiguous as it gets, but Draco doesn’t ask for clarification. It doesn’t matter if she was talking of the ceremony, if she wanted him there at her empty wedding, if she wanted him there when she first saw herself in her wedding gown or wanted him to smile, joke about how it’s not too late to run. It doesn’t matter if she wanted him to witness her vows, if she wanted to dance with him, if she wanted him to approve. It doesn’t matter because Draco can do none of these things and they both know it, knew it before he ever came here.

Draco doesn’t ask for clarification because the answer doesn’t matter. He won’t be sharing in anything now, not anymore, not now that it shall all be a farce.

Draco bows to her, the movement stiff and unnatural, and moves to leave. It’s an unsatisfying, hollow end to a fight, but there is no good ending. They are both too stubborn for that.

His hand already on the door, Draco stops, looks over his shoulder one last time.

“If you find that you are tired of the life you have chosen today,” he says, aware that every word is an insult but speaking them anyway. “If you ever want out, if you realise there is no happiness waiting for you, you shall always be welcome with me.”

Pansy blinks at him, his friend once more for barely a moment. Then her surprise makes way for anger.

“As long as I don’t bring my husband, you mean?”

“Yes,” Draco nods, “as long as you come as yourself, not whoever greed has turned you into.”

Pansy doesn’t argue that it isn’t greed that motivated her, so Draco can’t argue that love is the only viable reason to promise your life to someone. Pansy doesn’t protest so Draco can’t, either, and so he opens the door, leaves her to her loveless marriage and misery.

It’s goodbye, though neither of them says the words.

Draco is grateful for that much at least; he couldn’t bear it, his heart already breaking. 

Chapter Text

It’s a week of gloom and misery before Draco sees Lockhart again. Over this unpleasant business of Pansy and Weasley leaving, Draco almost forgot the dances he is owed. And now here Lockhart stands, in the middle of the streets, basking in the sun as if he was never gone, as if nothing bad ever happened.

Draco is immensely grateful to see him.

“You weren’t at the ball.” Starting conversation with an accusation is poor form, but Draco doesn’t care. He longs to have nothing more substantial than frivolities to talk of, and he knows Lockhart intimately enough to discard propriety. “I seem to distinctly remember you promising to dance with me.”

Lockhart turns, smiling when he looks at Draco. Smiling like he hasn’t been gone, like Draco didn’t fruitlessly wait an entire evening for him, hoping against hope to be saved from dancing with terribly dull men.

“Malfoy!” Lockhart greets him, joyful and excited, and Draco can almost forgive his absence. “I missed you, my dear.”

“I can believe that. I am, after all, uniquely entertaining,” Draco says and Lockhart laughs. Draco missed hearing it. “However, you could have found me easily. You knew very well where I would be, waiting for you in my best clothes.”

Lockhart has the good grace to look conflicted. Draco has already forgiven him, though; he’s an easy man to forgive.

“I wish I could have, but alas, business—” Draco interrupts him; he heard the business thing before and sees no reason to introduce lies to their relationship.

“Business forced your hand, yes. I had heard.” Draco waves the excuse away, impatient. Lockhart just blinks at him. “We both know that’s not true. It wasn’t business that kept you from claiming your dances.”

Lockhart looks at him in uncertainty for a moment, like he isn’t sure what Draco is referring to—which is patently ridiculous; the man is clever and the answer obvious—and then he chuckles, pushes his hand up into his hair for something to do.

“Of course you worked it out,” he says, like it was any great stretch. “You are right, I’ll confess. I found as the time drew near that I had better not meet with Potter again. Or, at the very least, not under such circumstances.”

“So you ran and left me to fend for myself?” Draco arches an eyebrow at him, forces himself to sound more cross than he is.

“I’m afraid I did do that.” Lockhart grins at him, charming and unrepentant. “I will beg your forgiveness in whatever manner you deem appropriate.”

A tempting offer; Draco could think of a great many things he would like in compensation. He was forced to dance with Potter in Lockhart's absence—surely such a fate deserves recompense!

“Walk with me, will you?” Draco offers Lockhart his arm, a pointless formality happily excepted. “I shall think of your amends somewhere more scenic.”

They fall into an idle walk, speaking of nothing as they pass acquaintances, nodding politely but taking great care not to be caught in conversation or obligation. Draco knows all too well how this kind of thing goes, and he missed Lockhart too much to share him just yet.

They don’t talk, not of anything substantial, until they left the city and its nosey inhabitants behind.

“You have missed a quite some scandals in your hiding away,” Draco informs Lockhart, almost removed from his own pain.

“Oh?” Lockhart asks. “Do tell; you know how I love gossip.”

Draco does know. It’s a trait he appreciates because he, too, loves few things more than a good scandal. Things are different, however, when his own heart is so tightly wound into the tale. He has to remind himself that Lockhart doesn’t know his close involvement, and that he didn’t mean to be callous in his claims.

“First, Goyle proposed to me.” Draco is proud that his voice doesn’t waver, that it sounds neutral and perhaps a bit cold but not hurt. Like he is talking about someone else entirely. He enforced the distance ruthlessly, but it finally seems to be serving him.

Lockhart stops dead in his tracks.

“He proposed?” he repeats, gobsmacked. “He… asked to marry you?”

“Yes,” Draco turns to face him, confirms as if he had agreed. This is more fun than he dared hope. “Is that such an absurd thing to believe? I will make a very good husband, don’t you think?”

Lockhart's face does something complicated, something twisting and distasteful, and Draco can’t hold his laughter anymore.

“I refused him,” he says, light, as if he hadn’t noticed the agony on Lockhart's face.

“You have?” Lockhart asks, hopeful.

“Of course I have. I very much intend to marry for love.” Draco smiles at Lockhart, heavy with meaning, and the man answers in kind, dazed and relieved.

“Good,” he says, the single most positive reaction Draco has ever received to declaring his intentions. (He bitterly doesn’t think about Pansy.) “You are too good for the likes of him.”

“I am, am I?” Draco asks as he takes Lockhart's arm again, leading them onward.

“Indeed you are,” Lockhart agrees, back to his usual charm and bravado. “You deserve someone better than him, someone to make you laugh and blush, not put you to sleep with his sermons.”

Draco, naturally, agrees. He did refuse Goyle, after all, though it was no easy feat. He will tell Lockhart of it later; he will no doubt think it entertaining and perhaps, with his newly gained distance, Draco could agree. For now, though, there are more interesting avenues of conversation to be explored.

“I would like such a man very much,” Draco says, flutters his eyes up at Lockhart. He hasn’t done this in a long time, charmed a man in such a way, but it’s easy with Lockhart, easy when Draco is so certain of being welcome. “Do you happen to know any?”

Lockhart stops them again, turning Draco so that they face each other, standing in the middle of the road and no one around for miles. His hands are gentle where they cradle Draco’s face, his eyes bright as he smiles down at him.

“I might know just the man,” he whispers, closer even than he was when he saved Draco from falling, holding him even more secure.

It would be easy to kiss him, to lean up and softly brush their lips together, confirm what went unspoken. It would be easy and for a wild moment, Draco wants it so much that he almost decides not to mind customs, that he never cared about rules and propriety and why should he start now?

But there is something romantic to waiting, to saving these experiences for his husband, to discovering such pleasures at his hands and his alone.

It might just be a title, nothing but a new name, but names rule the world like nothing else does. Draco shan’t kiss Lockhart, not until he is his husband.

So instead he smiles, nuzzles into the hands holding him, and says: “I think you should meet my parents.”

Lockhart laughs as he lets go of Draco’s face and takes his hand instead, giddy to just walk next to him.

“Anything you want, love,” he promises. 

“—the Emerald Wilds!” Father and Lockhart exclaim in unison.

Draco deeply regrets inviting Lockhart in. More accurately: he regrets picking a time when his parents were home to do so. He could have waited for the weekend, could have waited until they were out on a walk. Draco could have saved himself from the sight of Father and Lockhart getting on far too well.

“I knew there was something regal about that estate,” Lockhart declares, with all the grandiose sincerity reserved for spectacles of nature, for breath-taking sunrises and verdant hills. It should not be given to Lucius Malfoy to fuel his vendetta.

“You have a good eye, my friend.” Father pats Lockhart on the shoulder. Draco would prefer to be literally anywhere else.

Quite honestly, Draco isn’t sure he can look at Lockhart the same ever again. He witnessed an hour long discussion of hair and the best product to get it lush and glossy—Father swears by the plant tincture Aunt Sprout does for him, which Draco didn’t know, didn’t want to know, but could now recite in his sleep—and just how much smiling is appropriate when in the presence of idiots. They talked about the lawn and its importance as signifier of fortune—huge, unused spaces of land, meticulously maintained for no other purpose than to prove they can; they’ve all heard Father’s rants before and now they heard it one more time.

Draco would say they bring out the worst in each other, if only they didn’t look so indecently happy doing it.

Lockhart waves off Dobby's silent offer of more tea, too engrossed in their discussion on the proper length of women’s skirts. People really are full of surprises, aren’t they?

Mother is, thankfully, less impressed with Lockhart. Draco didn’t think he would appreciate Mother not liking him, but at least now they can both sit in a corner, astonished and disgruntled.

“He is very loud,” is all she says, glancing over the cover of her book as if it’s anything but a prop, as if she didn’t listen the entire time.

“He is,” Draco agrees, because some things cannot be denied. “I promise it’s nicer when you are part of the conversation.”

“Is that so?” Mother turns a page in her spell-binding book, purely for for appearances’ sake as her eyes are heavy on Draco.

Draco can feel himself flush, cheeks heating and going red in almost an instant. Why does she always insist on doing this to him?

Before he is forced to defend himself—which would have ended in disaster; Draco has nothing to say for himself—Father turns towards them with the most dramatic flip of his hair to date. It’s very strange, watching your father preen for the man you hope to court.

“Cissa,” Father calls, “quit being such a curmudgeon and come here; I need you to best my new friend at cards.” 

Father finally relinquishes Lockhart under many tearfully demanded promises of a swift return and fretful waving. You would think Lockhart was secretly the king, the way Father is carrying on. Draco suspects tomorrow he shall be glad for the fact, but today he is bitter that all the goodbye he got was a short wink and quick wave, and then Lockhart was gone, meandering down the road and whistling merrily.

Draco feels a bit dazed by the entire experience.

“A very fine young man,” Father says, seated once more and his tears tried, drinking tea forgotten over Lockhart’s charm. “I approve.”

“Indeed,” Mother agrees, though her own fondness for Lockhart, if existing, is much more restrained. “He is a jolly fellow, isn’t he?”

Draco never would have described him that way, but he supposes it fits well enough.

“Yes, he will suit very well.” Father nods feverishly, eyes going distant in that way that means he is plotting. Or thinking about dinner, it’s hard to tell sometimes.

“I dare say, he would jilt you creditably.” Mother doesn’t even blink as Father and Draco both splutter over their tea, her remark timed to perfection.

“Excuse me,” Draco coughs out, tea everywhere and his mother smirking at him.

“Come now, Draco,” she says, twirling her own tea idly. “We both know what this is. Next to being married, young people like to be crossed a little in love now and then. Pansy is engaged, Hermione is heartbroken—it only makes sense that you would seek to entertain your own heart as well.”

The first thing Draco wants to protest—namely that Pansy might be engaged but that there is no heart involved, none, that she might not have one at all, that she always insisted on that and really they should have known—is quickly swept aside for the second realisation: Hermione is heartbroken.

Draco expected Weasley would be back by now. He completely forgot about it in the wake of his own paramour’s return.

“How dare you, Cissa,” Father demands, but he sounds delighted and leans in closer, eyes bright. “Lockhart is a charming and pleasant young man—do you have any reason to doubt his motive?”

“What did you say about Hermione?” Draco asks before she can answer; he isn’t in the mood to see them flirt.

Mother blinks at him, cross at being torn away from her sticky affections. Then she looks contrite and Draco’s heart falls. There is no way he wants to hear what she has to say.

“You didn’t know?” she asks but thankfully doesn’t make Draco confirm that no, he very obviously didn’t know. “Our Hermione has received another letter. It seems Mr Weasley won’t be returning, not before the winter is out.” 

Chapter Text

Draco has no sooner spotted the carriage than he is attacked by a giant beast, jumping him in excitement and licking over his face.

It’s undignified, Draco squealing and trying to shove the menace of him, his hands catching in fur and ineffective.

“Prongs!” someone calls, and the dog stops immediately, looking up and around as he leaves off Draco. He bounds back to the caller, Draco covered in dust and saliva, laying prone and breathless in the dirt.

Sirius leans into his field of vision, black hair falling freely, his grin wide.

“What are you doing on the ground, man?” he asks, as if he didn’t see his brute of a dog topple Draco the moment he stepped out of the door to greet them. For an animal they insist is unsuited for the hunt, he does a fine job hunting Draco, demanding to be cuddled and adored. (He resembles his owner that way, but don’t tell Sirius that. He’s sensitive.)

Draco glares up at him, reminding himself that he is mutinous and not at all overjoyed to see them.

“I think you had better get up now, dear nephew.” Sirius’ grin gets impossibly wider as he offers his hand. “This is starting to look a bit disgusting; Cissa will get a heart-attack when she sees what we did to her precious boy.”

“Give the woman some credit, Padfoot,” Remus calls as Draco allows himself to be helped up. “Do you remember when you tried to teach Lucius that knife trick you had picked up? His blood got all over the settee and into the curtains, and when we returned with the biscuits, it was to find the both of you fainted. Narcissa, meanwhile, was placidly drinking tea.”

“Moony!” Sirius gasps, betrayed, clasping his hands over Draco’s ears to prevent him from hearing about this less-than-stellar moment in his life. As if Draco wasn’t there that very day, witnessing this folly first hand.

Draco has missed them, ridiculous and dramatic, his absolute favourite uncles.

“Draco,” Remus smiles at him, Prongs sitting well-behaved next to him, tongue hanging out and tail wagging in excitement. “Good to see you again; it’s been too long.”

It’s hard to remember, attacked by their slobbering monster and immediately laughed at, but Draco agrees: it’s been far too long. Long stretches of absence are expected with eccentric family who travel like other people breathe, but still. For their sake, Draco hopes they brought him gifts, or he will pout the entire first day. At least.

For now, however, he has revenge to consider.

“Much too long,” Draco agrees, nodding. Sirius is nodding too, next to him, and because he seemed so very fond of the amassed muck smeared all over Draco, Draco turns to give him a welcoming hug.

Sirius shrieks as he realises what Draco is doing, trying to push him off and keep the worst of it out of his hair, but Draco has known him too long not to expect this. He holds him tighter, makes sure to nuzzle his face everywhere he can while Sirius flails and calls to his unimpressed husband for help.

Draco isn’t too worried about that, if he is honest. Remus understands revenge. 

“How nice of you to visit.” Narcissa Malfoy smiles over her teacup, delicately taking a sip. “And so unexpected.”

After just a few short scoldings and a rather extensive bath, everyone is now once more presentable and adult, sitting politely and drinking tea under Mother’s watchful eyes. Draco feels like they are still being scolded, the three of them squeezed together onto a couch meant for two, opposite of Mother and Father sitting much more comfortably. Prongs, of course, is exempt from punishment, his head in Father’s lap to be petted, panting in bliss.

Remus elbows Sirius in the side, the motion jolting Draco on his other side as well. There is probably a Look, too, but Draco can’t see that without looking up and risk catching Mother’s eyes. The message is clear: your family, you deal with it. Which is the last thing they need, but anyone who thinks Remus is the calm and rational one and makes good choices doesn’t know them at all. Draco, who has known them all his life, resigns himself to the catastrophe imminent now.

“I brought gifts?” Sirius offers with his most winning smile. It’s been known to bring weaker women to their knees, or so Sirius insists.

Narcissa Malfoy is not a weak woman, though, and she is already sitting. Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, is a different matter. He looks up in excitement at the mention of presents, but his wives impassiveness quickly has him ducking down, scratching behind Prongs’ ears.

“I could offer to kidnap your son when we are leaving, give you some peace and quiet.” Sirius ignores Draco’s offended gasp, shushing him without looking away from the negotiations.

“We could take your husband, too,” Remus adds. He gets a delighted smile from Sirius. “But there is only so much space in the carriage, most of it taken up by Sirius and his mutt, and I rather suspect you wouldn’t mind terribly if we left him for you to deal with.”

“Brilliant,” Sirius exclaims, so overtly pleased and proud that, for a moment, Draco isn’t sure he wants to leave with them, longstanding tradition or not. They can be even more insufferably in love than his parents—does Draco want to subject himself to that? “We will take Draco here off your hands and leave you to be indecent and irresponsible wherever you please, no one to shame or interrupt you.”

“Deal,” Father agrees, a bit too eager.

“Come on, Cissa,” Sirius smirks at her, leans forward as if proximity will convince her. “Have we earned your forgiveness yet?”

They have, they all know they have because there is nothing to forgive. Creating a spectacle is only an issue where neighbours can witness and judge, thankfully not a problem they have often. Still, Mother nods and everyone cheers like there was real danger of being thrown out.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Sirius holds out his hands to shake, which is ridiculous, but Mother laughs and shakes and Draco thinks that means they can all go back to being normal, now.

Or, well, as normal as things get with Sirius and Remus around. 

“—so now he has run off to London, left everyone devastated and Hermione pretending that she doesn’t feel anything at all, buried under more work than even she could realistically do.”

Draco viciously eats another scone, frustrated.

(It’s good: there is sweet jam and the scones are still warm and Dobby is a miracle, really. Scones as food don’t sustain anger, but Draco is weak for them and he doesn’t like being angry.)

Sirius nods, his own scones ignored as he listens to Hermione’s plight. Draco wishes she had come out to tell the tale herself, allow for distraction and cheer, but Hermione is determined to work until she will never feel anything else ever again. Draco, sadly, cannot out-stubborn her. He did try, however, and he will keep trying. He will be there when she looks up from her books, and perhaps by then he will even have something helpful to say.

“I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often!” Sirius stares into his tea, shrugs the tragedy off by its inevitability. “A young man, such as you describe Mr Weasley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.”

Sirius gives a very pointed glance at Remus, deep in conversation with Draco’s parents. Draco knows the story, of course: a wild courtship—in all but name, neither of them bothered to announce the necessary formalities—and then Remus had to leave, unexpected and sudden. He wrote a letter that never reached Sirius and left him despondent, hurt, and confused. For a while there, Sirius was convinced he was the pretty girl once loved and now forgotten. He wore black every week Remus didn’t return, reports say, the most dramatic and aesthetically pleasing form of suffering he could find. Of course then Remus did return and was at once apologetic, amused, and immensely touched at the pitiful display his love made.

Draco is convinced there isn’t a month that goes by without Sirius dragging out the old story of his abandonment.

Remus looks up from his conversation, finds the both of them looking at him, and rolls his eyes.

“It was one time,” he says, blatantly affectionate. “Whatever he tells you, Draco, don’t believe a single word of it.”

Draco laughs as Sirius gasps, extremely offended.

“He was telling me how love is fleeting and life is misery,” Draco says, tone as even as possible over Sirius’ betrayal.

Remus doesn’t laugh but he does smile, lips twitching like he wants to laugh. Draco will accept it.

“In that case, take his every word as gospel.” Remus blows a kiss at Sirius and goes back to his conversation, completely ignoring his gesturing and demands for attention.

“Still think he is worth being disinherited over?” Draco asks, smirking at their antics.

Sirius turns severe immediately. There is not a spot of good-natured derision in him when he confirms that, yes, Remus is worth everything. His eyes pierce through Draco as if to make sure he understands that, as if there could ever be any doubt.

Then Sirius relaxes, tosses his hair over his shoulder, and grins, wicked and determined to lighten the mood.

“But you know, Moony isn’t who got me written out of the will. I did that all on my own.” He almost sounds proud, professing to his wild misbehaving like it’s a brand of honour.

If you listen to even one story of his gloriously misspent youth, you will know that it is. Sirius worked hard on that expulsion and he is always glad to tell tale of it. The stories invariably involve James, his best friend since he was old enough to flee the family home. Mischief varies from there, different friends and localities, a seemingly endless fundus of probably true stories that always, always are a shrine to James, who has been dead 20 years now. Sirius, who still loves him the same, takes great care not to tell sad stories, though personally Draco still thinks it’s depressing.

Draco doesn’t like how James’ story ends, and Sirius doesn’t like telling it, so they seldom acknowledge his death. This might verge on unhealthy denial, but Draco sees no point in dwelling on death and misery when they could instead remember him joyful. It’s preferable to everyone.

They named their dog, Prongs, after him. Draco always supposed it must be the most awful thing, to lose so a close friend. They were like brothers, everyone says so, and Draco cannot imagine the pain.

(He indulges his own unhealthy denial, these days.)

“We do not suffer by accident,” Draco says, determined to get back to Hermione. “I should forgive much easier, should I know our circumstances to be accidental. As things are, I am convinced they were consciously and meticulously manipulated. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.”

His uncle does few things seriously—Remus claims it’s the unfortunate resemblance to his name, and thus to be avoided at all costs, except when exploited for comedic reasons—but he is serious now, even if Draco wouldn’t dare say it out loud. He loves Hermione as if she were his niece, visited her the same he visited Draco and brought her books from obscure places, talking of outrageous matters not fit for a young lady. He cannot stand to know her hurt any more than Draco can.

“But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite—it could mean absolutely anything, Draco.” Sirius frowns at him, waves his words away as if Draco were the one known for being overly dramatic. And perhaps he is, since they are related, but there is nothing exaggerated in what Draco said. Sirius would know that, if he had seen them together. “Pray, how violent was Mr Weasley’s love?”

“Extremely.”

He cannot put it any different. Weasley loved her completely, of that Draco is sure. Hermione loves him still, loves him the same she did when he was here to prove himself worth of such devotion.

Sirius just looks at him, uncharacteristically patient. Draco sighs.

“This is what happens when you always travel, you realise? You miss important developments and then I am supposed to convince you that the love they felt was real, that it wasn’t something to be given up on convenience.” Draco pouts, an expression he learnt from Sirius.

It doesn’t help; Sirius only laughs.

“Fine, I will do my best to capture the miracle of love in a report for you.” Draco glares, waits a moment for Sirius to declare that actually, such acrobatics won’t be necessary and he trusts Draco’s judgement. None are forthcoming. “I believe he loved her the moment he saw her, and that there was no other for him. He would twist the entire world so he could be closer to her, talk to her longer, dance every dance with her. He turned towards her like flowers towards the sun, blind to the people slighted but so charming in his fervour that no one could honestly begrudge him. Nothing else existed to him when she was there—what more proof could you possibly need?”

“All I’m hearing is that he was quite rude,” Sirius answers, but he is pleased. He understands it now, Draco thinks.

“Is not general incivility the very essence of love?” Draco smiles as his question makes Sirius laugh, eyes flicking towards his husband as if on cue.

“I suppose,” Sirius allows, smug and unrepentant. “I have been reliably, repeatedly, informed that it makes people insufferable.”

Draco could confirm that. He has several examples he tried very hard to forget—Sirius knows exactly what Draco is thinking, sitting there smirking.

“We shall have to visit Hermione tomorrow, of course.” Sirius, mercifully, grows quickly tired of watching Draco squirm. “She might not appreciate having her paramour dragged back so that he may remember that she is indeed the best thing in this world. People are complicated that way—it’s always best to ask before you kidnap someone for them.” 

Almost as if Sirius and Remus brought the sunlight with them from their travels, the next days are astonishingly pleasant and warm. Perfect weather for an excursion into nature. Anything less would be a betrayal. Which is how everyone of importance and good sense finds themselves basking in the sun, protected from the dirty ground and equipped with delicious food in small portions.

Draco is ridiculously happy.

The only thing that could make the day better is, perhaps, if Pansy wouldn’t insist on ignoring him quite so harshly. Draco had no intentions of speaking to her, of course—things are strained, still, nothing left to say after their goodbyes—but to be treated with contempt…

“Who are we intently staring at?” Remus asks next to him, startling Draco out of his gloom. He blinks, completely blind to the world in grief, and prays to all that might listen that he didn’t accidentally linger on Pansy, now that they don’t know each other anymore.

He doesn’t want to explain that one, to Remus of all people. Luckily, Pansy has either moved or Draco possesses enough self-preservation to zone out on someone less dangerous.

“That would be Miss King,” he says to Remus, who doesn’t know about Pansy and now never will. It’s a relief. Draco didn’t want to know his thoughts on the matter. And he definitely doesn’t want advice. No, thank you. “She has come to live with her aunt not two weeks ago.”

It’s been the talk of the town. She isn’t much to look at, if Draco may say so, rather plain and unimaginative. Miss King doesn’t have opinions on books, doesn’t know any mean words, and all she does when she catches someone staring is smile and blush. It’s as if someone had forgotten to outfit her with a personality.

“Is that so,” Remus says, grinning like —

“No!” Draco almost shouts the word, so eager is he to reassure his uncle that he is mistaken, very much mistaken. “No, that is not so. I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in Miss King.”

Remus smirks. Draco is starting to suspect he might have preferred discussing Pansy.

“There is no need to be coy, Draco,” he says and Draco wishes the earth would swallow him. Better yet, he wishes the earth would swallow Remus. Sure, Sirius would be upset, but he would understand. Sirius is under no illusions concerning his husband’s insufferable smugness.

“I’m not being coy,” Draco bites out, flushing and very much not secreted away in the dirt, “I’m gay.”

“These things are flexible.” Remus shrugs, looks back at Miss King to assess her objective appeal. “She cannot lack in virtue—there are enough young and fluttering things clustered around the poor girl to make one think she must be goodness itself.”

Draco snorts, an ugly and bitter sound. Remus turns back to him with utmost interest, eyebrow raised in exactly the same way Mother does. Draco could never figure out if he learnt it from her or if they exchanged tips, but there exists not a single secret he could keep from that look, no matter how deep or humiliating.

“Miss King is as bland as one can be without constantly putting everyone to sleep,” Draco explains. Remus looks delighted and scandalised, delighted at the scandal of such a harsh comment. “What you witness is neither appreciation of her character nor her fine features. It’s avarice, plain and simple. Miss King, you see, inherited extremely fortunately.”

“That is a virtue, indeed,” Remus says, so dry Draco almost isn’t sure it was a joke.

Remus just looks at him as Draco works it out, smiles as he laughs.

“That was a horrible thing to say,” Draco gasps out, because sometimes he genuinely isn’t sure Remus knows where the lines are. Most of the times Draco thinks he does, that he is the only one keeping Sirius vaguely socially acceptable, but then Remus will say the most twisted things in the mildest of tones.

“Is it?” Remus asks, so innocent it must be feigned.

“This is why you are my favourite uncle,” Draco says, tone conspiratorially low. “Don’t tell Sirius though.”

Remus grins at him, pleased, though they both know Draco doesn’t have a favourite.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, watching poor rich Miss King be flattered and adored. How much longer until someone is charming and clever enough to convince her they aren’t just interested in her money? She doesn’t strike Draco as particularly clever—fortune hunters had better hurry.

Hermione joins them almost without Draco noticing, settling next to Remus and immediately diving into the book she brought, not a word of greeting or acknowledgement spoken.

“Hermione,” Draco says, trying to sound happy to see her without implying reproach for her silence. He doesn’t think he strikes the balance well.

“Draco,” Hermione answers, eyes unmoving on the open pages.

He shouldn’t push, should he? It’s a good sign that Hermione is here, out in the fresh air and sun and around people. The book is obviously a defence, but one Draco can’t begrudge her. People will be intolerable when they spot her, talking about Weasley and speaking out their pity, all the while trying to glimpse at her sorrow. A book to hide in is one of the more subtle strategies Hermione developed—she wouldn’t have come out if she wasn’t absolutely sure she could disappear the moment obligations became overwhelming.

“Hermione,” Remus greets, his warmth more natural than Draco’s panicked calculations for balance allowed him.

“Remus.” Hermione actually looks at him, which is unfair but still appreciated. Easy to explain and justify to Draco’s pride, too: she sees Remus far less often than she does Draco.

“What do you think of London, Hermione?” Remus asks, because tact is for other people.

Hermione blinks at him, confused, then she scowls.

“When you worry about people’s health, you usually send them to the seaside,” she points out, mutinous and clearly not fond of that idea. “You should have suggested Bath.”

“Would you prefer Bath?”

“That’s not what I said.” Hermione’s eyes flick back down into the book, her hands gripping it tighter.

“It’s not,” Remus agrees, still perfectly reasonable.

Silence stretches as Hermione doesn’t answer, eyes firmly on the book, as if she can’t feel Remus and Draco watching her. Draco wishes he could say something, take this weight off her. He doesn’t know how, though, so instead he watches her bite her lip and wonders if that means that yes, she would love to go to Bath. Personally, Draco never understood the appeal, but Remus is right in the principle of the thing: getting away for a while might do her a world of good. So why not Bath? Why not commit and exorcise all that ails you on a pilgrimage to the healing waters of Bath? Draco is sure they know someone she could stay with—everyone knows someone in Bath, for cases such as this.

“No,” Hermione says finally, “I don’t want to go to Bath.”

“Alright.” Remus nods, easy as anything. Like he didn’t hold his breath during Hermione’s silence, like his heart isn’t aching for her. “How about London?”

Weasley is in London, but Draco doesn’t think he should bring that up. There are plenty of other people, after all, and if Hermione is to ever recover from this, she better not get in any nasty habits of planning her life around where Weasley might be and what he might do.

Hermione squints up into Remus’ unassuming face, clinging to the book she brought as reminder that she didn’t want to talk to anyone, not about this.

“I’ll think about London,” she says, instead of completely dismissing the idea. Draco will take that as a victory, silently and discreet.

Remus opens his mouth to say something more, but whether it should be approval or further prodding, Draco will never find out, because Hermione talks over him before he gets out even just a single word.

“Draco,” Hermione commands, “tell Remus about Lockhart, would you?”

It’s a blatant diversion, heavy-handed and unconcerned with that fact. Remus accepts it, as Hermione must have known he would, and suddenly Draco is talking about Lockhart. A bit too enthusiastic, perhaps, but Hermione is grateful and Remus is entertained and really, what more could Draco want? The sun is out, they have tiny cakes, and Hermione is almost smiling, sometimes.

The day could only be better if Lockhart himself were to finally join them, but he’ll show up soon. Until then, Draco will simply have to talk of him a lot. 

Chapter Text

Sirius corners him late, when he is on the verge of leaving and the low sun casts the sky into a soft orange. He stands against the falling light, drink raised and hip cocked to create the most dramatic silhouette possible as he calls Draco over, crooking a finger like one of the wrinkly, child-eating witches that riddled the bedtime stories he told Draco.

Being mature and not at all scared of evil witches anymore, Draco has been informed that the inspiration for that particular monster stems from Sirius’ mother. Draco met the woman but a few times, when he was very young and didn’t yet understand the concept of sitting still. This circumstance can’t have helped their bond, but from what Draco remembered, Walburga Black was impossible to please and supremely disagreeable. He believes the allegations immediately.

Whatever the inspiration, Sirius looks like one of his witches, theatric and scandalous and his hair blowing in the breeze. Draco shoots Nimbus an apologetic look; there is a dramatic twat to be indulged.

“Draco,” Sirius purrs when Draco is close enough, and Draco’s hackles immediately raise. Draco won’t like this, will he? “I met your Mr Lockhart today.”

Draco sighs, relieved. He should have known this would be about Lockhart.

Despite his late arrival, introducing Lockhart to his insufferable uncles was nearly pleasant. Lockhart is good with people, charming beyond all measures and charismatic and Sirius is inclined to like everyone who shows even a tiny spark of wit. Remus is more discerning in bestowing his friendship, but Draco expects they might build a solid rapport over a few days getting to know each other.

At no point during his anxious watching of their conversations did Draco expect he would be later pulled aside and smirked at. The teasing, he thought, would be public and constant. This secrecy is disconcerting.

“I suspect your meeting was by design,” Draco prods, instead of commenting on the part where Sirius called him Draco’s Lockhart.

Sirius makes a humming sound as he considers him, takes a sip of his drink, stretches the silence. Draco recognises what he is doing, trying to compel secrets, but he can out-wait Sirius. Not by much, Draco isn’t a patient person, but Sirius is even less so.

Predictably, it’s Sirius who breaks first.

“You are too sensible a boy, Draco, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it. I am not afraid of speaking openly.” Sirius looks at him, his words heavy like a punch, and Draco can only gape in return. “Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything further. He just stands there, not taking his eyes off him as Draco crumbles.

“Excuse me?” he says, trying for indignation and self-righteousness but failing by several miles, stammering and flustered and heart-broken.

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” Sirius says, so flippant that Draco finds it hard to believe him, “it’s just that I see the way you look at each other, and I know his type of person. Trust me when I say: you don’t have the fortune to keep him.”

Whether intended or not, it is cruel.

“You can’t know that,” Draco says, because he can’t. Sirius doesn’t know Lockhart, has spent just one afternoon laughing with him about inconsequential things—he cannot possibly know what Lockhart values in a spouse.

“Oh, but I can.” Sirius chuckles, dark and unpleasant. “As I said, I know the type.”

Draco laughs. This must be a joke, yes? Sirius saw the looks and the affection and he decided to tease him for it, in the most unusual way known to mankind because God beware Sirius ever does something ordinary.

“I’m being serious, Draco.”

Draco stops laughing, thrown. They don’t use that word.

Sirius looks on with sympathy but he doesn’t take it back.

He doesn’t take any of it back.

“I’m truly sorry, and I’m doing this all wrong, but I thought you ought to know. I’m not saying that he doesn’t feel the same or that he doesn’t want to marry you, just that he won’t.” Sirius shrugs, uncomfortable with the news he took it upon himself to deliver.

“This is being serious indeed,” Draco says, because there aren’t many opportunities he can do so and get away with it. He says it almost absently, though, a mere reflex.

Draco feels trembling and hollow, not entirely sure what is happening. More accurately, what does this mean for tomorrow? The day after that?

“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise,” Sirius answers, pointedly solemn, but he is also smiling, just a bit.

Draco might be able to breathe again, now. He can deal with this.

“There is no cause for concern,” Draco says, lightly, as if speaking the words will make them come true. “I will take care of myself, and of Lockhart too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.”

There, problem solved. Draco will simply not love him anymore.

Sirius frowns, not believing him for a second.

“Come now, Draco; serious, we said.” Sirius crosses his arms in front of his chest, arches an eyebrow. ‘Try again’, it seems to say, challenging Draco to prove that he is indeed sensible and intelligent. That he isn’t some stumbling young thing that believes in True Love and eloping under the cover of night.

(Draco is, unfortunately, exactly that kind of fool. At least he knows it’s foolish, though, and flatters himself in thinking that he wouldn’t actually run away into poverty. Probably.)

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Padfoot.” Draco sighs, watches as Sirius relaxes somewhat at the nickname. “Where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other—how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist?”

(Yes, Draco is the worst kind of fool.)

Sirius exhales, arms coming down from their crossed position. Miraculously, he didn’t spill a single drop of his drink during his dramatic acrobatics.

“But you understand what I mean?” he asks, exhausted. Draco is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to feel bad for the man trying to steal his dreams. He does, though; he doesn’t like seeing Sirius so devoid of life.

“All I can promise is that I will try my best.” Draco isn’t sure what his best will be, or in which direction his best will carry him, but what else is there to say?

Sirius doesn’t like this. Fair enough; Draco doesn’t like it either.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and then Draco is being pulled into a hug, Sirius’ arms going around his shoulders and Draco’s head coming to rest on his chest, his own arms around Sirius’ waist. “Try not to be too badly broken up when you both remember money exists, would you?”

Draco can’t promise that so he just holds on tighter to Sirius, tries not to think about it.

Besides, maybe Sirius is wrong. Apart from this rather gloomy conversation, nothing has actually changed.

In as little as one month, they might all be laughing about this moment of doubt.

(It is, after all, Draco’s Lockhart.)

Pansy is leaving today.

Draco knows this not because she told him, but because literally everyone else did.

The wedding was yesterday and today they leave, Pansy and Goyle, driving off into domestic bliss only a few feet away from Rosings.

Draco doesn’t know how he feels about that. About her wedding, her being Pansy Goyle now, about her leaving and not telling him. About them not talking.

Of course, that is a lie. Draco knows exactly how he feels.

He doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like that Pansy married Goyle and that she will be moving away. He doesn’t like that they have been fighting and aren’t talking, likes it even less because he is beginning to suspect it’s his fault, that he might have been a bit irrational. Mother has been giving him meaningful looks for a few days now, the kind of look that means she thinks him a moron but doesn’t want to say it. She hopes he is clever enough to realise his stupidity on his own and responsible enough to fix whatever he broke.

It’s a good tactic, competent parenting. He appreciates her confidence in him.

Usually, though, Draco doesn’t break treasured friends.

“I’m frightfully busy, Draco,” Pansy says, not looking at him.

She is sorting through books, ostensibly, deciding which to take with her and which to leave. She hasn’t made any progress, she has no trunks to pack her chosen books, and she is too efficient by far to leave such a momentous task this late. Pansy is leaving in a scant few hours—whatever she hasn’t packed by now, she’s leaving behind.

Thus Pansy is, very unsubtly, avoiding him.

Draco should have been prepared for that—they have been doing so for weeks. Still, it hurts. All the more because Draco finally realised that he cannot let her go like this.

“I can leave if you prefer.”

The last thing Draco wants is to make matters worse—if Pansy doesn’t want to see him, he won’t force her. It would undermine any apology he can hope to produce. He stands awkwardly, waiting for her judgement, already half out the door because that would be easier, wouldn’t it?

Pansy looks up at him, startled, eyes wide. She looks up from where she is kneeling on the floor, books haphazardly piled around her, the book in her hands forgotten.

“I can spare five minutes,” she says, gentler than he deserves, “for old friends.”

Draco accepts the tacit offer, settling onto the floor next to her. Unsure where to go from here but less likely to run, at least.

“I love you,” he tells her for possibly the first time in his life. Stumbles out with it because there is nothing else.

He loves his friend and doesn’t want her to leave.

He always thought it didn’t need saying, that of course he loves her—but this is what they have been fighting about, isn’t it? Love? It’s a good place to start, he thinks, especially because Draco himself only recently realised that he does indeed love her quite desperately.

Not that he was completely ignorant (love isn’t a feeling easily missed) but he didn’t understand the scope of it. He thought to love someone, to truly love them, meant to marry them. To move in with them and spend your lives together, spend them as one. But that’s not all it is, is it? Because Pansy is leaving and Draco couldn’t stand to be married to her, but he loves her—the rest doesn’t matter.

“I love you,” he says again, because Pansy looks at him like she doesn’t believe it and because he didn’t say it enough before. “I love you and I’m sorry.”

Draco didn’t plan further.

This is all he has to say for himself.

He still thinks she is making a mistake, he still worries about her, and he is still hurt by what she said to him. But he doesn’t want to fight anymore.

“What are you sorry for?” Pansy asks, barely daring to hope. Draco feels the same, his heart beating in his throat, heavy and loud and in the way of his breathing.

“Doubting you. I am sorry for doubting you.”

Pansy flings herself at him, mindless of the books or the etiquette or the fact that just yesterday, she would have sooner died than looked at him. Pansy throws herself into Draco’s arms and he barely manages to catch her, falling backwards under the sudden attack and landing hard, holding on to her all the tighter for it.

There follows a long moment where they don’t say anything. What is there to say? What could possibly be better than this?

Draco holds his friend close, loves her and he might not have realised this sooner, but Pansy will never be doomed to a life without love, not as long as Draco is there. Hermione, too, he assumes, but he didn’t talk to her yet. Presumably she is smart enough to have figured it out without the drama of grand gestures. Not that Hermione is particularly emotionally literate, quite the opposite, but she had always had an easier time talking about this kind of thing with Pansy—Draco hopes Hermione caught on sooner than he did!

“You hurt me,” Pansy whispers against his neck, her face obscured and her heart once more safe in Draco’s hands. Draco holds her tighter, his fingers tangled in her hair and splayed against her back, curved against her ribs, clinging.

“I’m sorry.” It seems the only thing he is capable of saying, and he will do so until she is sick of it. “I never meant to.”

Suddenly, she sits up, straddling him tall and proud, knees to either side of his hips and her hands on his chest, peering at him with her hair wild and eyes narrowed. Draco’s own hands have slipped to her hips, unsure if they are still welcome. He likes them there, though, likes the reassurance that, in theory, he could hold her were she to run, likes touching her after so long of not even talking to her—Draco likes holding her, even he knows he is being judged now, Pansy looking down at him beautiful and untouchable, but she doesn’t seem to mind his hands, doesn’t demand he take them off.

“I’m a married woman now,” she says, and it’s not a reprimand for childish frolicking on the floor, but a test. This matters; his answer is what will decide over their future—Draco absolutely has to stop smiling up at her like a besotted fool and get his brain into an answer.

“I know,” he says, which is neither intelligent nor free of the dopey smile.

“I do not love him.”

The next challenge. Draco hates how much he hurt her, that he made her so scared of him.

“I would think less of you if you did,” Draco answers, which isn’t quite true but makes Pansy smile, her eyes flicking away as she bites down on it, reminds herself that there is more she needed. Draco is relieved to see it all the same, his heart so light it might soar out of his chest, were it not for Pansy’s hands resting firmly over it.

“You do not approve of marrying for fortune.”

An accusation, the core of their issue.

“I’m a self-involved idiot,” Draco offers, shrugging best he can.

Pansy laughs at him, the last of her fearful tension resolving in the shake of her shoulders. Draco wants to pull her back down, wants to feel that laugh in his own chest. They aren’t quite there yet, however.

“You ought to have told me that sooner, you know?” Draco squeezes his hands on her hips, because he feels he can now, allowed to do more than be impassively laid out under her, earning her mercy. “It would have saved both of us a world of heartache.”

“I tried.” Pansy doesn’t look at him, her hands digging into his chest and her eyes cast down, hair obscuring her face. She is retreating, walking away from this argument like they always have.

Draco won’t let her. He can’t, not when this is their best chance at finally speaking frankly. He would very much like to get this mess sorted.

“I’m going to sit up now,” he announces, because he doesn’t want to startle her.

She looks startled all the same, mouth opening in protest or question, but Draco is already up, their equilibrium shifted and Pansy clinging to his shoulders so she doesn’t fall onto the floor, their faces close and torsos pressed up against each other, fitting perfectly. He has to look up at her still, Pansy sitting higher than him like this, but Draco has never minded looking up to her.

Pansy looks at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, confused.

“Don’t run from me now, Pansy,” Draco pleads, tugs an errand strand of hair behind her ear.

“I should, you know?” Pansy says, and Draco’s heart would fall were it not for the wry twist to her mouth, the wicked amusement he missed. “Heavens beware what my husband would think were he to see us like this.”

Draco laughs, pulls her closer just because he can.

“Can you imagine the scandal?” he asks, delighted that they can have this, that they can be like this.

“Unparalleled,” Pansy agrees, nodding seriously.

There are a lot of things Draco wants to say. He wants to say that she is too good for Goyle, that she deserves someone better. He wants to ask her not to leave, wants to beg her stay. He wants to ask if Goyle ever made her laugh, if he ever made her feel anything but boredom and derision.

He can say none of these things. Perhaps, with time, he could, when things are less fragile. Right now, though, even with Pansy in his lap and looking to all the world like lovers inseparable, Draco is acutely aware that there is still work required to keep them both comfortable.

So, he doesn’t ask pointed questions about her new husband. Instead, he asks what he really wants to know.

“Will you be happy, do you think?”

Pansy doesn’t answer. She looks at him, looks away over his head, shifts on his lap, bites her lips. She does everything but answer, moving away as far as she can with her arms around his shoulders.

Scared, Draco realises abruptly. Pansy is scared that Draco will stand up at one wrong answer, that he will discard her onto the floor and repeat the cruel things he said before, that he will leave again. She is as scared of this conversation as Draco is, both of them avoiding the ending because they didn’t like it last time.

They make quite the pair, don’t they?

“Look at me, love.” Draco lets go of her waist to cup her face, cradling her jaw in his palms and stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones, her skin soft. He tilts her face down towards himself, makes her meet his eyes—he doesn’t want to say this into her hair, doesn’t want to talk to her clavicle.

“I’m trying not to judge,” he says and Pansy snorts, but she doesn’t look away. “I know I’m not very good at it, but I would like to try. For you, I want to try.”

Draco looks into her eyes, tries to convey how serious he is. He wants this, whatever she demands from him, whatever she needs to trust him again.

Pansy looks back at him, searching for something on his face, in his eyes, and Draco doesn’t know what she is hoping to find, what she is looking for, but he meets her eyes freely, steady, lets her look her fill.

Finally, Pansy nods. Draco holds his breath, anticipation stretching.

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well,” Pansy says, her fingers carding through his hairs. Draco nods, trying to assure her that he is listening without dislodging her. “The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

Draco doesn’t know where she is going with this, but it’s easy enough to follow. He knew this about Pansy, understood it. A good start, surely?

“When you walked away, I told myself that I should have known, that my choice was too blatant an attack on your own choices to be tolerated. I thought it was my own fault, part of the choice I was making.” Pansy is holding on tightly now, her fingers woven together behind his head and neck, holding him up and close and willing him to understand. Draco cannot look away from her, couldn’t even if he wanted. “It wasn’t me, Draco. I trusted you loved me enough to get over your initial misgivings, that you would prioritise my happiness over your pride. Then you walked away and I thought—”

Draco is never to learn what she thought. He doesn’t need her to spell it out, though, not anymore. He understands it now, understands it in a way that makes him resent his actions and resolve to do better, always. He knows what Pansy thought, all the better because she can’t say it, because she chokes up and looks away and digs her fingers into his neck, clawing at him to stay.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says with all the sincerity as he is capable of. “I will never walk away from you again. I regretted it the moment I closed that door.”

“I forgive you,” Pansy says, an absolution Draco didn’t dare hope for. “You aren’t allowed to do it again, but I forgive you.”

Draco wants to laugh. He wants to laugh and dance and twirl Pansy through the air—he has never felt so relieved. In lieu of bursting into inconvenient movement, Draco crushes Pansy against him and buries his grin against her shoulder, nuzzles her hair, ignores her muffled protest. It’s more fond than upset, anyway.

“Thank you,” he says, almost giddy with it. “I will make sure you are happy, I promise.”

“You had better write,” Pansy says, as stern as possible when she is audibly smiling. “I shall depend on hearing from you very often.”

“And so you will. You will be sick of me, that’s how often I’ll write.” Draco will be a better friend, whatever else they might do, Draco will make certain Pansy knows she is loved. 

Chapter Text

A letter.

Lockhart has packed his bags to travel after the poor dumb heiress and all Draco got was a letter.

Is he supposed to be grateful he got that much? Is he supposed to thank Lockhart that at least Draco has his own words to mark the betrayal?

Should Draco have known this would happen?

“Of course not, dear.” Mother smiles at him, as if a supportive smile could bring Lockhart back. As if Draco truly cares whose fault it is. “You couldn’t have known—he undertook every effort to make you trust he would never leave.”

Draco looks up at her, out of the hands he has buried his face in to try and evade the world. It didn’t help, burrowing in his favourite settee and praying that no one should find him, and both Mother and Father are in the room, Mother kneeling by his head and Father standing stiff and unsure by the door.

They don’t seem to know what to do with the situation any more than Draco does.

“He’s not a bad person,” Draco says, compelled. He knows what this looks like, Draco dejected and abandoned, and he doesn’t relish this either, but it feels important that they know that. Lockhart isn’t a bad person.

Draco could have loved him, he thinks. Maybe he had loved him. Maybe this is what heartbreak feels like.

Maybe Pansy is smart for staying far away from the whole love business.

“Handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain,” Draco says, though the words are stale in his mouth.

Sirius had warned him about this, not three days ago.

Sirius had known this would happen, had read it off Lockhart as easily as others read the newspaper. But three days is not sufficient warning. Draco would have needed longer to safely disengage their hearts, longer to reach a distance that doesn’t hurt so much.

Father snorts. It’s an inelegant sound and Mother glares at him, tries to sooth Draco with a hand warm and firm on his shoulder, but Draco, hurt, is already sitting up to glare at him.

“You are making excuses for him,” Father says, as if he himself is a man of unshakable principles. “What Lockhart did was cruel and cowardly and yet here you sit, making excuses for him. You defend him against the reproach rightfully his.”

“Lucius,” Mother warns, her hand tight on Draco’s shoulder, but he doesn’t hear.

“He never promised me anything,” Draco says defiantly. To defend Lockhart’s honour? To make Father see that Lockhart isn’t as dastardly as he looks this moment? To make sense of this violent shift in expectation? After all, just a few hours ago Draco was expecting to be spending the day with Lockhart—instead he got a hastily scrawled missive and several confusing hours of grief and anger.

Father scoffs again. Draco scowls.

“Maybe not in words,” Father says, waving the concession away as soon as he speaks it, “but in everything else he made his intention to marry you very clear.”

“Did he say that to you?” Draco asks, breath catching, heart doing a foolish jump in his chest. Even with that odious letter burned into his mind, perhaps he has misunderstood —

“No,” Father shakes his head, dashes Draco’s last hopes. “He was careful not to make any promises to me, either.”

Draco sinks back into the settee, his anger at Father’s callous attitude vanished, leaving him weak and sad. It’s pathetic. Draco never thought love would be like this. That it might be lonely.

“I don’t doubt that he had every intention of making you happy,” Mother says, voice low and conciliatory. Draco can’t tell if she means it. “It was his circumstances that informed his actions, not his heart.”

The words help surprisingly little.

“His only choice, had fortune permitted it.” Draco laughs, the sound brittle and ugly as it shoves its way out of his throat. Lockhart written something similar in his letter, pleading with Draco that please, can’t they remain friends?

What a cruel thing to ask.

“That should be a comfort, should it not?” Mother asks from his side, desperate to make Draco’s pain easier to bear. Sadly, this is not something she is very good at.

Draco shakes his head, not comforted by the knowledge that, apparently, Lockhart is as miserable in his absence as Draco is. What does it matter under which circumstances he would have stayed? He didn’t and that is all Draco can think about.

“I wish you hadn’t got so attached to him,” Father says, as if Draco chose to be fond of Lockhart. “Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.”

“Lucius!” Mother warns again, standing this time as if to ban him from the room. “If you cannot behave you will leave. Draco already feels bad—the last thing he needs are your accusations.”

“They are no accusations, they are facts.” Father moves closer towards Draco and Mother, defying her for the first time Draco can remember it happen. They don’t fight, usually, or if they do, they do so discreetly. “I will not leave until our son has got up from this ridiculous mourning.”

Draco makes a half-hearted effort to scowl at Father—he is neither mourning nor ridiculous, thank you very much—but they don’t look at him. They stand over his prone position on the settee, measuring each other and passing more than Draco cares to decipher.

Anyway, Draco doesn’t want Father to leave. It’s strange. He would have expected Father to be the last person he wants around in a crisis, but Pansy is on her way to domestic bliss and Hermione is caught up in her own grief. Mother is evidently not good with emotions—Father is at the very least diverting.

Something about this dire realisation must show on Draco’s face, because Father gestures at him to prove his victory. Mother looks at him, grey eyes searching and calculating, cold in a way that means she cares too much to devote any less than her full attention, and then she nods, her jaw clenched. Draco couldn’t have followed that exchange even if he wasn’t preoccupied.

“Fine,” Mother says, and it sounds anything but fine. “Shall I leave you to it, then?”

Draco is no expert, but he thinks she is hurt. Hurt that Draco is hurt and that she can’t do anything to help. Hurt that she has been told this probably very bluntly; Father is not known for his tact.

Father looks at Draco as well—he feels uncomfortably like a charge; very much their son, theirs to care for—and nods.

“Yes, I think that would be best,” Father agrees, and Mother carefully doesn’t react. “Why don’t you call on Hermione? I dare say she has more to contribute in terms of comfort than either of us could hope for.”

At the mention of his friend Draco winces, ignored by both his parents being soft and concerned. He didn’t want Hermione to know. She will feel obligated, he knows, will ignore her own sorrow and whatever work she has found solace in, will drop it all to come sit by Draco’s side while he tries to decide how he feels about being abandoned. It doesn’t seem fair, to demand Hermione come and comfort him when she herself has enough to worry about.

Besides, Hermione is as inept with emotion as Mother is—Draco cannot imagine this a remotely comfortable situation for her.

“Yes,” Mother agrees finally, and if Draco was ever going to protest, he has missed his chance. Hermione is to be commanded, whether he can reconcile himself with that or not. “Yes, I will inform Hermione.”

With a brush of her fingers against his forehead, Mother is gone, leaving the room quickly and quietly, gone to fetch more help for Draco’s fickle heart.

“I’m not an invalid,” he tells Father, because he is starting to feel like one.

“You might as well be.” Father shrugs, like it means nothing, and prods at Draco until he made enough space on the settee for both of them, Draco dramatically thrown and Father primly sitting.

Draco doesn’t respond. What is there to say?

“Do you love him?” Father asks, interrupting the silence and not looking at Draco. Whether that is because he is uncomfortable with the situation or to allow Draco privacy he cannot say, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Draco stares at the ceiling, bites back the first answer that springs to mind, the indignant declaration that of course he loves Lockhart! That is what everything was about, always—Draco loves him, and he doesn’t understand how he could have left.

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say that because Father sits still, not moving or talking or doing anything but sit there, waiting for Draco’s answer. It can’t be easy for him—the least Draco can do is pay it some consideration.

So, does Draco love Lockhart?

“I don’t know,” he says, and he feels horrible for it. He ought to know, shouldn’t he?

Father just nods, calmly accepting this failure.

“That’s alright,” he says, and Draco believes him. “Hearts are complicated things, for all that they seem to be such simple motors of desire.”

“I certainly should be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him,” Draco says, a poor attempt at lifting the mood.

“You are interesting enough on your own.” Father glares at him, only a slight curl to his lips giving him away.

Draco smiles up at him, as much as he is able with his heart heavy and his head confused. Lockhart is gone—Draco doesn’t think he fully understands it yet.

“You will get better,” Father says, solemn like vow.

“Will I?” Draco isn’t even certain what is going on—how is he supposed to get better?

“You will,” Father repeats. “I promise.”

And, well. That is that. Father keeps his promises, always.

Draco reaches out for his hand, just to hold on to something, just to feel the reassurance of his father’s promise warm and steady, holding him.

Draco will get better; Father said so. 

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you packed everything?” Father asks for the fifth time, fussing with the suitcases neatly piled. “Dobby, check Draco’s room again to make sure he left nothing behind.”

Dobby bows and does so, glad to escape his master’s nerves. Draco would have liked to check on his things himself, if only so he could attempt the same feat. Dobby, they all know, will not be back.

Looking at Lucius Malfoy now, whirling around the suitcases and carriage, occasionally tapping his brows with a starched handkerchief and complaining of the heat, it’s hard to reconcile him with the man that sat stalwart with Draco after his world stopped making sense. It was comforting then, Father quiet and solid, but Draco is relieved to see this more familiar side of him, to bear his admonishments about his clothes and answer that yes, he packed everything he could need to survive the wilderness outside of Hogwarts.

“If you don’t stop fretting, Lucius, we will have to leave Draco here.” Remus isn’t serious, of course, smirking where he sits atop his own suitcases, but Father stops to glare at him as if he were. This is a familiar exchange, the same every time Draco leaves with them.

“The poor horses have been waiting for hours, Lucius,” Sirius agrees pointing to the patiently standing animals. They haven’t been here five minutes, everyone well aware of Father’s required fuss before any journey, but this is protocol and so it needs to be said.

“I think that is more due to your continued senseless preoccupation with your own hair, Black.” Father gestures at the glossy waves, looking the kind of carelessly perfect that implies a great amount of care indeed. “You could have long since left if you didn’t waste so much time ogling mirrors.”

“No time I spent with mirrors is wasted,” Sirius claims, but thankfully doesn’t point out the hypocrisy in Father’s statement. “Besides, Remus likes my hair.”

Remus laughs but doesn’t deny it; Sirius preens. Father huffs, poised to say more regarding ridiculous grooming and scheduled departures, when Mother intervenes. Rightly so, or they would never have got away and Draco could have unpacked his trunks immediately back into his closet.

It happened only the one time, when their departure was delayed by a day because Lucius and Sirius could not stop bickering. The day ended with all of them back in the parlour, the men having gained an appreciation for the other’s hair, and Remus loudly wondering if he made a mistake marrying into their family.

Draco is determined not to repeat the occasion. He needs to get away from Hogwarts, needs fresh air and new sights, needs distance to Lockhart who was at first everywhere and suddenly nowhere. Draco yearns for salt-breezes and to stare meaningfully at the ocean, but with Remus’ staunch dislike for Bath and any town like it, travelling the country will have to do.

Hermione left yesterday, escaping the same way Draco does, also not to the seaside. She is going to London, in denial over the vague possibility of running into Weasley there. Officially, she is gone to stay with her uncle, and Weasley’s presence in the place has nothing to do with her sudden urge to renew familial bonds.

Draco wishes her all the best. He doesn’t know what that will look like, whether she is hoping to meet with Weasley or stay as far away from him as possible, but whatever she desires, he wants for her. As for himself, Draco wants nothing more but new problems to consider.

“Write to me, will you?” Mother asks, holding Draco’s face in her hands as if to remember him, as if he shall never return. She always does this, always inadvertently makes Draco feel guilty for putting himself at risk in the great big world. Only for a moment though, and then Sirius will laugh or the wind picks up and Draco remembers he is itching to get out of the house, that the safety of home becomes oppressive when one stays put for too long.

“Of course I’ll write,” he promises, vowing faithfully that this time he will. He seldom finds the time when travelling with Sirius and Remus, he is ashamed to admit. Yet he couldn’t possibly write as often as she would like, not if he wrote a letter every single day. But this time he will try. This time he will write.

Mother smiles and kisses his forehead and they both know he won’t write, but it’s alright. He will have all the more to tell when he gets back.

“Until you return I shan’t hear two words of sense spoken together” Mother smirks as Father gasps in offence, her wink secret and only for Draco as Father mutters about betrayal.

“I’m sure you will persevere,” Draco says in his most dubious tone. Mother laughs, which in turn makes Father glare harder.

“Yes, yes, hilarious,” he says, peevish and trying hard not to show his fondness. He is failing miserably, but only because Draco knows where to look. “Now get in the carriage and don’t come back until you have annoyed Black so much, all his hair has turned grey.”

“Draco wouldn’t!” Sirius shouts from inside the carriage, but he sounds vaguely panicked. Father smirks.

“Chop chop now, Draco,” he says, gesturing at the open carriage. “Everything is waiting for you.”

“I don’t want him if he is sent to endanger my hair!” Sirius protests, but he keeps the door open for Draco.

“Too late; you already promised you would show him the world.” And then Draco is pushed towards the carriage, the embrace quick and concealed like his affection, everyone politely pretending they don’t know perfectly well that Lucius Malfoy cares for his son.

Before he knows it, Draco is stuffed into the carriage, his best clothes in turn stuffed into his favourite suitcase, and he is waving his parents goodbye. It will be good to get away from Hogwarts for a while, even though leaving is never easy. So Draco waves and he smiles and, when his parents have disappeared behind the first curve, he prompts Sirius and Remus into a passionate argument over where they are going to go this time.

Pansy first, though. Draco promised, so they will visit Pansy, and then he can allow himself to be lost in some beautiful corner of the world. Remus has a knack for finding those. 

If Harry were honest, he might admit that he had hoped fleeing for London would make things easier. The decision seemed simple enough: Ron was on the verge of making a lifelong commitment on a moments folly, Ginny was quite forgetting why proper society should make as many demands as it should, and Harry… well.

Harry had longed to see Malfoy so often he near forgot why he refused to.

Leaving for the city sooner than Ron had planned, for longer than he had planned—it seemed the perfect solution. Distance, Harry thought, all they needed was a bit of distance and the reminder of how appropriate people behave. Thus, London.

Unfortunately, appropriate people are dull. Business is not as urgent as Harry made it out to be, they had nothing rightly to occupy them, and Ron was pushing to hurry back to his paramour in a week’s time.

Harry was still not thinking about Malfoy at that point.

“You are certain Mr Weasley will not be joining us?” Miss Granger asks, again. Harry imagines this kind of obstinance usually works for her. He, however, has no intentions of giving in to her nagging.

Don’t get him wrong: he likes the girl just fine; it’s the ruthless pursuit of Ron’s money that he doesn’t appreciate. She followed them to London! If Harry needed any more signs, this should be it. It’s not enough for her to string Ron along, to watch impassively as he falls head over heels in love with her, not enough to make him simper and preen and worry—she must even follow them on this last, desperate escape.

Ron, of course, does not realise this. He would be thrilled to learn of her presence, would drop everything for a chance to see her. This is why Harry didn’t inform him. He is glad for it every time Miss Granger asked if he is sure he sent the missive, if the boy is a fast runner, if there weren’t more efficient ways to get hold of a man. She sits there, on their settee, completely unmoved and patient as a stone, speaking words of ardent longing.

Harry cannot believe her.

He wishes he could, wishes his friend could have the love affair he thinks he’s having, but nothing about Miss Granger supports that notion. Harry wants Ron’s happiness, yes, but not badly enough to encourage it in delusions.

“Quite certain,” Harry says, though the question really doesn’t require an answer. They have been sitting here for 30 minutes, waiting each other out. They both know Ron isn’t coming.

“What brings you to London?” Harry asks, before she can start again on Ron. Ron is not hers to discuss anymore, and she best understand that quickly.

Miss Granger frowns at him. She is here for Ron, of course, to sit in this parlour until he comes through the door and she can drag him back to Hogwarts. Foolishly, she must not have thought Harry would have objections.

“Family,” is what she says, and Harry is almost disappointed. He should have liked to know what she called it, if she was honest enough to admit to her fortune hunting. Family, sadly, is as vague a term as you please—apology, justification, excuse.

Family can mean anything, but not Ron. Not to her.

“They are well, I trust.” Harry doesn’t care in the least, but it’s the polite thing to do. Small-talk. Perhaps Miss Granger dislikes it as intensely as Harry does and will take her leave to avoid such a fate. She has proven herself a woman of sense and good taste—recognising the harsh truth of her situation and electing Ron to be her saviour—and Harry hopes these principles will prevail.

Miss Granger smiles blandly. She won’t leave, then. Not until she saw Ron or Harry has her escorted out. Women can be so very stubborn.

“They are,” she confirms, almost daring Harry to be distressed at this news. Then, hallow to mark them a mere formality, she adds: “Thank you for asking.”

She doesn’t ask after Harry’s own family. On one hand, Harry is glad for that—it’s complicated and none of her concern—but on the other it’s rather rude. What are they to talk about now?

Miss Granger studies him where he sits, her posture perfect and her dress arranged to fall pleasingly onto the floor. Her hair is done up in intricate braids, a fashion he saw her wear only for special events. She looks beautiful, Harry has to admit. Ron would fall to her disastrously.

“What brings you to London?” she asks, her tone so biting that she must know exactly what brings him here. She knows, and she is not pleased. Harry has the absurd urge to grin.

“Family,” he replies, because they both know the answer is Ron. Harry can’t make it too clear that he takes his well-being very seriously.

Miss Granger, to her credit, barely reacts. She only nods, pleasant and understanding and as if she doesn’t care beyond the social obligation to ask. Harry can’t tell if it’s true, if she doesn’t care that Harry put himself between her and her very comfortable future. Surely she must! If you are that determined to marry rich, you would get upset to be apprehended on the last meters. And Miss Granger must know she was close, so very close to Ron binding his life and fortune to her. She is an intelligent woman, of course she knows.

Perhaps that is how she can just sit there, how she can look regal and dignified and cold. Perhaps she is already thinking of the next poor sod to beguile, only here to make certain Ron, the easiest route, is fully closed. Sick as the thought makes him, it would make sense—where better to find a rich spouse than London? It must be incredibly convenient for her, that they should have run here. Would she have followed them into another quaint little town? He thinks not; Miss Granger has a lifetime of experience with the derth of eligible riches to be found in the country.

“You did tell Mr Weasley that I am hoping to speak to him urgently?” Miss Granger demands, her posture stiff and unnatural as she tries to look stern. Harry has to hold back a sigh.

“I did, indeed.” Harry would confirm anything, as long as it gets her out of his parlour. “You must understand, Miss Granger, that Ron is a very busy man. He simply doesn’t have time for idle chat with old acquaintances.”

Miss Granger’s face twists into something interesting—hurt?—gone too quick for Harry to analyse. A shame; it’s the first stirrings of real emotion Harry saw in her.

“I assure you, I would not impose myself for idle chatter.” She says the words with so much vitriol that Harry almost flinches. Hit a nerve, did he? “I have a matter of importance to discuss, or I should not have called in such a… busy time.”

Under any other circumstances, Harry would be impressed by her skills and persistence. She hasn’t been rude or too forward, not once, and yet she left Harry in no doubt that she despises his very presence and that she should like to say quite different things to him. She made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t believe Harry for a second, without ever voicing so much as uncertainty. But Miss Granger isn’t stupid, and she knows full well that it’s no coincidence that Ron isn’t here.

She plays her cards, limited as they are, extremely well. Harry has nothing but respect for that.

Still, he tires of the spectacle.

“You may leave another note for him, if you wish. He will be in contact as soon as he has time to do so.” Harry smiles, tries to appear genial and sincere and end this siege.

There is something unsettlingly sharp about Miss Granger, something about her barely concealed displeasure, that has him on edge. He lost track of how long they have been here, glaring at each other politely and fighting over Ron, but Harry is developing a headache and would like to lie down. How much more does that woman need before she can be convinced to chase someone else?

Miss Granger produces a letter so quickly she must have been waiting for the offer. Harry blinks, eyes her dress suspiciously, but ultimately decides that he doesn’t care. What is it to him how Miss Granger carries her things?

“How kind of you,” she says, her tone making it clear that kind is the last thing she considers him. Rightfully so. “I have written before but my letters seem to have been lost.”

She doesn’t voice it, but there is accusation in her eyes. Harry meets her gaze without flinching—he is not ashamed of burning them all.

“I will personally make sure that this one receives the care it deserves,” he promises, and takes the letter off her hands. One last facade that tricks no one, and perhaps she will finally leave.

Miss Granger stands, sudden, as if compelled by Harry’s desire and not her own will.

“Thank you,” she says, smooths fretting hands over her skirts. She seems at a loss, now that she relinquished Ron. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, standing here alone and scorned.

Harry could almost feel bad for her. However shamefully she treated his friend, he cannot fault her the principle of seeking a good life for herself. He wishes her well, he truly does. Just not with Ron.

Then Miss Granger looks at him, still and self-possessed once more, and Harry remembers why she is dangerous, why it was paramount he get Ron away from her. She is scary when she wants to be, intense and imperious and beautiful.

“Please, tell me honestly,” she pleads, holding Harry’s eyes. “Does Mr Weasley still care for me?”

Harry’s heart breaks for her, just a bit. It’s so easy to believe, to see a young woman in love and pain. Harry can see how Ron grew to love her as quickly as he did. Harry almost wants to console her, wants to soothe her hurt, and assure her that Ron will always care, that he is loyal and gracious and that he loved her as soon as he saw her.

But she shouldn’t know that.

Perhaps she genuinely is heartbroken, but some pains have to be endured. She doesn’t care about Ron, doesn’t prioritise his happiness, and whatever else she might feel for him, it’s his money that drew her. Harry heard it mentioned often enough, heard the despicable Mr Malfoy brag and laugh, and he isn’t blind. Harry saw her reserved where Ron offered his whole heart, indifferent where Ron was consumed. Severing their bond was a momentous choice affecting all of Ron’s future life and happiness—Harry didn’t make it on a whim.

“I could not possibly speak for his feelings.”

It’s the best answer Harry can give, untrue even as it’s the most truthful he can be. He cannot tell her about Ron’s feelings, under no circumstances, but there is no point in making her pain worse, should it be real.

Miss Granger nods, his words understood for what they are: a tacit refusal to hurt, an implied confirmation.

“Thank you,” she says again, though there is almost no voice behind it. Her mind is already off, her business here concluded.

Harry watches her leave. He wishes her well, even as he hopes she won’t remain in London. 

Chapter Text

Pansy lives in a cottage. Draco never should have thought it possible, but here they are.

The house is small only when compared with the ridiculous houses of Hogwarts, only in contrast to Rosings rising in the distance. The garden is plentiful and in full bloom, lovingly cared for, and for a moment Draco has a vision of Pansy in trousers, stained at the knees from kneeling in the earth, hands buried as she plants flowers. Then he remembers that this is Pansy he is thinking of and resolves to never tell her. More likely they hired a gardener, like any normal person would. Either way, Father would be pleased with the quality of the lawn.

Standing in the door to welcome them, Pansy looks both like she doesn’t belong and like she was always meant for this place. She wears fashion as if to spite the assumptions, everything about her sleek and expensive, a shining apparition of taste against the backdrop of a modest country life. The way she leans against the doorframe, though, achingly familiar with this house—Draco can’t put his finger on it. It suits her well, whatever it is. Draco is happy for her.

Then Goyle explodes out from behind her, and Draco remembers why he swore he would never set foot into Pansy’s marital home.

“My dear friends!” Goyle announces, and Draco tries hard not to flinch. For Pansy’s sake. Everything for Pansy.

Sirius, because he’s a wicked, horrible man, throws himself into the excitement. He cocks his hips with dramatic flair, opens his arms to Goyle—who looks perplexed; Sirius has that affect on people—and triumphs his shouted greeting in volume and enthusiasm.

It’s embarrassing, but Pansy laughs.

(Draco missed her. It warms his heart to see her again, to see her happy and healthy and wink at her, to be on the same side again.)

(Draco missed her for longer than she has been gone. He was an appalling friend, wasn’t he?)

Sirius embraces Goyle like an old friend, as if his limited knowledge of the man doesn’t stem from 30 very frustrating minutes of Draco loudly dreading this visit. The whole ugly story paraded before them, from Goyle’s persistently flawed character to a fight that, looking back, was a long time coming. His uncles had listened, had nodded, and Prongs had looked at Draco with sad eyes, head laid on his lap and drooling on his trousers.

And now here they are, Sirius talking a mile a minute and Remus pretending to be busy with the bags, inconveniently indisposed and unable to corral his partner back into the realms of social protocol. Unfortunate.

Prongs, sitting by Draco’s side protectively and watching the new environment for signs of distress, abandons him like mouldy potatoes the moment he spots Pansy. Draco might be insulted, but he has the exact same urge. If Draco were an adorable dog with eyes made to plead innocence, he too would sprint past all this to fling himself at Pansy.

Instead, Draco watches her perfect entrance be compromised by a lumbering shadow and listens to her laugh, his courage run away with Prongs.

“Are you still covered in Prongs’ drool?” Remus asks from behind him, startling him.

Draco, as it happens, is not soiled with saliva. He wouldn’t be standing here if he were—that’s the kind of thing you hide by cowering in the carriage and feigning a headache. Draco doesn’t understand how he isn’t, only that Remus is some kind of magician, grumbling about slobbering beasts with the most exasperated fondness Draco ever heard applied outside his father, and then he handed Draco a handkerchief and scolded Prongs very seriously and very futilely. Not even Remus is immune to wide green eyes, it seems.

“No,” Draco says now, not acknowledging that he jumped half out of his skin at being addressed. He also doesn’t ask about the miracle cure for dog saliva. You don’t question marvels.

“Well, what are you standing around for, then?” Remus bumps against his shoulder, gently pushing him forward, and Draco can hear the smile in his voice.

He clearly doesn’t understand the daunting prospect that is Pansy’s new life. How could he? When you spend too much time with Sirius, everything seems trivial in comparison. Draco, sadly, doesn’t have that luxury; he is fully aware of the enormity of this moment.

How foolish, that he thought the difficult thing was to apologise. This is the difficult thing, the true test of their bond, of Draco’s strength.

Remus sighs next to him. Draco braces himself to the admonishment.

“Draco,” Pansy calls before Remus can say anything.

Somehow, that is worse. Draco isn’t ready to be put on the spot!

“Are you going to come here or not?” Pansy cradles Prongs’ head in her hands, crouched before him and stroking absent-minded as she looks at Draco in challenge, eyebrow raised in familiar taunt.

Well, Draco can hardly turn back now, can he? No, he has no other choice but to go, sneak past Goyle staring wide-eyed at Sirius (still talking) and greet his friend like any decent human being. They will embrace and Pansy will reprimand him for not coming sooner and it will be fine, and—Remus pushes him. Harder than before. With intent and his hand between Draco’s shoulder blades, shoving him forward these first bumbling steps.

Pansy laughs, Remus smirks and motions him onward, and Draco… Draco allows himself to be pushed. He is walking now, anyway, might as well keep his momentum going.

Goyle’s eyes light up as he sees Draco, like Draco might save him from Sirius (complaining of the roads? They weren’t that bad, but Sirius is affecting weary exhaustion and claiming all kinds of bruises—best not to get involved) but Draco walks past him with only an apologetic smile. Let this be a lesson to the man.

Then he is standing in front of Pansy, an excited Prongs lapping at her hand, and Draco has no idea how to act.

“Hello,” he says, like an idiot.

This shouldn’t be difficult! He has known Pansy all his life, loved her for at least that long—how is he this much of a disaster?

“Draco,” Pansy says, also like an idiot. She is smirking, though, not inept herself but rudely calling Draco’s floundering to notice.

Pansy kneels and she smirks and this is all so terribly awkward, isn’t it? Does she not feel that? Is this punishment for Draco’s ignorance? He thought they had closed with that, had moved on. No amounts of vigorously pleasant letters could have prepared him for seeing her again, however, for facing the reality of his friend married and shut away in a little cottage. Her own letters must have been meticulously arranged as well, for Draco could almost pretend none of this was happening while reading them.

There is no such refuge now.

“For heaven’s sake,” Pansy mutters, too low for Draco to really hear, and then he is pulled down before he can progress what she means.

Draco lands hard, his knees knocking into the ground and hands scrambling on Prongs for balance. His knees hurt and his trousers are irreparably ruined, but Pansy is closer now, her hand steadying against his side and she is leaning in, grinning. Draco forgets to be awkward. He forgets what he should do, forgets to search for the right response—the only right reaction is to laugh, to throw his arms around her and pull her closer, to never let her go.

So, Draco does.

Pansy laughs against him, clings to him as much as he clings to her, and it’s alright. It doesn’t matter that the cottage is hers, that her husband is insufferable and oblivious to it, that Draco behaved abominably. Draco has loved Pansy his entire life and he’ll be damned ere he lets something take her from him.

“You stubborn fool,” she says, voice choked and fingers clawing into his shoulder. “I thought you would stand there all day, staring at me.”

Draco holds her tighter, squeezes his eyes shut against her hair. She didn’t let him go either, did she? She called him here, broke whatever hesitation froze him. Pansy loves him just the same; Draco isn’t going to forget again.

“Thank you for not letting me.”

They are going to kneel here for a while longer, undignified and juvenile. There is not a place on earth where Draco would rather be. 

The cottage is bigger on the inside, Draco would swear to it. Goyle has been leading them around for an hour and they have barely seen two rooms.

“This will be your room, my dear friend. The view onto the street is excellent, so that you may know immediately when the most condescending Lady Petunia deigns to drive past.” Goyle gestures at the window, indeed overlooking the street. Draco should have preferred a view of the garden, but it’s not worth arguing. Especially because Goyle is talking again, recounting one memorable time he saw her carriage from this room when he was afraid of having missed them entirely.

Draco sighs. He didn’t miss Goyle’s astounding ability to monologue. How does Pansy stand it? Raising a questioning eyebrow at his friend, all he gets in response is a smirk. Well, this is illuminating.

Next to him, Sirius expresses his delight. He expressed his delight at everything, every tiny morsel of overestimated value and Draco swears, if he has to listen to one more simpering compliment —

“Observe this closet,” Goyle demands and Draco does. It’s a closet. Fitted into one corner of the room. Draco fails to understand the reverence. “Lady Petunia herself suggested the shelves to be added. She stood in this very room and said Mr Goyle, she said to me, what is missing in this little room is a closet and it should be there, containing exactly three shelves, at these heights, for that is the ideal amount of closet space.”

Draco stares.

“Shelves in the closet,” Remus repeats, tone dry. “What a marvellous idea.”

Sirius snorts, discreetly stepping on his husband’s foot to make him stop. Or encourage him? They are hard to parse even when Draco isn’t numb from nodding for too long and too politely.

“Quite the marvellous patroness, one might safely say.” Sirius nods solemnly, like he wasn’t giggling a moment ago. “I have to say, dear Pansy, that you made a formidable alliance in marrying this strapping young man.”

There follows an awkward pause. Remus coughs, too late.

Everyone looks at Draco, memories of the disastrous proposal heavy in the room.

“Quite,” Draco agrees, voice tight and smile forced.

Goyle smirks at him. Does he think Draco regrets denying him now? One shudders to imagine.

“Has Lady Petunia had much influence in the furniture of your lovely home?” Draco asks, just so that someone else may talk and they can move on before he says something harsh. He doesn’t regret refusing Goyle, but he sees no need to drag that, along with his numerous flaws, back out again. That would be unkind.

“Indeed, she has!” Goyle lights up, returning to awe as if he was never interrupted. Lady Petunia has a keen eye, he informs them, and taste beyond reproach.

Draco longs for the end of this tour. He shouldn’t have asked—they will never hear the end of it now.

“Husband,” Pansy interrupts Goyle in the middle of his praise. Draco freezes at the endearment—is it? Pansy spoke too softly for it to be a claim, too warm to be an order—but it wasn’t meant for him, not a reminder for Draco to mind his place. Pansy called Goyle her husband because that is what he is, and she appears to always call him that.

Goyle, for his part, smiles his dopiest smile, eyes adoring on Pansy and all thoughts of her Ladyship forgotten. What is Draco meant to do with that?

“Why don’t you show our visitors the garden? Prongs would be delighted, I should think.” Pansy looks at Prongs, well-behaved but anxious—he has been well-behaved the entire day, spending most of their journey consoling Draco instead of running ahead with the horses. He deserves a garden to frolic in.

So does Sirius, to be honest. He seems perfectly composed, obligingly eager to discover the rest of this house stuffed full with her Ladyship, but Draco knows better. Sirius is a few precarious moments away from breaking a plate and running in the ensuing chaos. Relocating this torture into the garden won’t make it more pleasant, but it should be more bearable. Besides, Sirius is creative—he has been mysteriously disappearing in gardens long before Goyle knew how to keep them.

“Brilliant idea, my sweet,” Goyle says, beaming, and Draco gapes as he leaves off detailing her Lady’s carriage or whatever, all abandoned in favour of leading his guests outside because Pansy suggested so.

“I will keep Draco for a while longer, if you don’t mind,” Pansy says, confident that she won’t be denied. Goyle assures her that he doesn’t mind in the least, that he wouldn’t dream of forcing them apart so quickly, that he will be in the garden should she require him for anything. Anything at all.

Pansy graciously bears the waterfall of agreement, merely laughs as Goyle lingers in the doorframe on his way out, gazing at her. Draco can’t quite believe what he is seeing. Have they been like this the entire time? Was Draco too distracted by Lady Petunia’s tacky decor to notice?

“He is besotted with you,” he says, almost an accusation.

Pansy laughs at him.

“Come along; there are much nicer rooms for this conversation.” Pansy takes his hand, just to be certain, as if Draco had any choice but to follow her.

They cross the back door on their way, hearing Goyle talk about petunias—the flower, Draco is pretty sure—before Pansy gently closes the door, shutting out her husband and Draco’s eccentric uncles. It brings ridiculous amounts of relief.

Pansy’s sitting room turns out to be rather more of a blessing than the closed door to the garden. For one because it doesn’t obstruct the view, the windows opening into a brimming patch of sunflowers and poppy. The colours are extraordinary, vibrant where they laugh and hug the window. This view, Draco knows without a doubt, is the reason Pansy set up her sanctuary here.

The room itself is lavishly furnished. Nothing like the rest of the cottage, stuffed and catered towards an old woman with more money than taste, taking pride in her condescension. No, this room is Pansy through and through: the settee is lush and daringly light in colour, the carpet soft and largely patterned, the table in the middle of the room impractically low for anything but collecting tea cups or writing on the floor. There is a proper table looking out at the sunflowers, however, well organised and close to the bookshelf, its books not yet settled into a permanent arrangement. There is an armchair and a light blanket folded over its side, candles half burned and forgotten everywhere, and Pansy watching Draco’s survey anxiously.

“It’s lovely,” Draco says, meaning much more than that but unable to express it. He is surprised Pansy was granted so much liberty in decorating, considering the rest of the cottage, though he shouldn’t be. Pansy doesn’t allow herself to be cowed. Soon, the rest of the cottage will be the same, regardless of Lady Petunia’s freely shared opinion. Draco can’t wait to see it.

Pansy smiles at him, pleased with the compliment and well aware of the things Draco means and can’t say. It’s a strange look on Pansy, demure in a way Draco hasn’t seen before. Then again, he has never seen her commanding her own household, so it stands to reason he should discover new sides to her. It suits her, anyway, and there is enough wicked spark in her eyes that Draco has no cause to fear for her spirit.

“Sit,” Pansy says, tapping the space next to her on the settee. Draco joins her gladly.

It almost feels like old times, sitting with his dear friend and watching the poppies gently sway. Almost, were it not for Goyle meandering through the picture, dragging Remus along and pointing out every flower with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. Sirius, as predicted, has disappeared.

“Are you happy, Pansy?”

That’s all Draco needs to know, what he came to ensure. He would sneak her into the carriage and drive them both away this very instant if she asked it, would run with her to the end of the world to escape the shame of an abandoned marriage, but he doesn’t think it shall be necessary. Sitting here, looking out into the garden and embraced by a room so clearly her own, Draco doesn’t question her contentment.

“I am,” Pansy confirms, and Draco doesn’t understand—doesn’t understand her choice of husband and the lack of passion between them—but he can accept this. If nothing else, Pansy shall be very comfortable.

“I’m glad for you, darling.” Draco takes her hands in his, meets her eyes as he tries to convey the depth of his feelings, that he loves her and that he is sorry, that he hopes to put this rupture to bed. “Truly, so happy.”

Pansy squeezes his hands, holding on tightly. They will be fine from here, just fine.

“Sappy,” she says, going for teasing but voice too raspy for that, eyes threatening to go teary.

Draco adores her.

“Your husband, though,” he says, tone carefully light, “let’s just say it’s a good thing I didn’t marry him—I would long be mysteriously widowed.”

Pansy laughs, relief making her giddy even as she rubs at her eyes, drying tears before they can fall. This is a happy occasion—they have no further need for tears.

“He’s not too bad,” Pansy insists, not actually disagreeing.

“You are legally obligated to defend him; I’m afraid your judgement is no longer objective.” Draco waves away her objections, smiling as it makes her laugh more.

“Remaining objective in a marriage—I seem to remember this being your worst nightmare.” Pansy looks pleased with herself, taking up old squabbles about love and commitment with surety and humour, as if it didn’t nearly tear them apart.

“I said it should be impossible, I believe.” In truth, Draco doesn’t recall; he said many things. “And now look at you, proving me right.”

Pansy gasps, offended as she realises. Here she is, their proponent of tactical marriage, and she might not love her husband, might not even like him, but Draco is certain she cares for him. He doesn’t understand how, doesn’t understand their dynamic, but whatever arrangement they settled into, it’s founded on care and good will on both sides. Affection even, where Goyle is concerned. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

“Goyle certainly is… attentive.” Smothering, Draco means, but doesn’t say.

Pansy snorts, hearing the judgement Draco tried so hard to bite back.

“He is,” she agrees, almost fond. “We don’t see each other much, so he concentrates his efforts on when we do.”

Somehow Draco suspects there might be more to it.

“Oh?” he prods, smirking as Pansy sniffs, caught out.

“He spends a lot of time in the garden, if you must know.” Pansy says it with a perfectly straight face, as if Goyle’s love for gardening was well known. Draco rather doubts the man picked up the habit on his own. “And, of course, being associated with Lady Petunia comes with certain duties. I try to encourage him wherever possible.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Good for his health, I imagine. The gardening.”

“Oh yes,” Pansy agrees. “So are the walks.”

“You prefer to stay here, I take it?” Draco hopes not; Pansy is too vibrant a creature to be shut away in just one room, however lovely it may be.

“I’m not a recluse, Draco!” She glares at him, but Draco refuses to be scolded. His worries were justified and he will have to visit more, no matter how much Pansy insists she isn’t lonely. “I like to go to town, as it happens. There is a weekly embroidery circle I am quite fond of.”

Embroidery. That means gossip, yes, but it’s also still embroidery. Draco remembers how Pansy refused to learn, hiding at his house for weeks and Draco denying all knowledge when her mother called looking for her, insisting it was only proper for a young lady. Needless to say, Pansy never learnt. Come to think of it, Draco would quite like to see her efforts.

Some of this must show on his face, because Pansy’s glare intensifies.

“Don’t even think about it, Malfoy. I’ll have you know I can use even the most useless needle as a weapon now—I could injure you greatly and make it seem like an accident.” The threat would be more effective if Draco could stop envisioning Pansy pricking herself, learning her gruesome new skill on her own skin.

“My apologies,” Draco says, not meaning it one bit.

Pansy narrows her eyes at him, already scheming her revenge.

It comes quicker than expected.

“Enough about my bliss and happiness,” she says, dangerously casual. “Tell me about your life, would you? How is dear Lockhart?”

Draco swallows, her teasing falling heavy in his stomach. He didn’t tell her about Miss King.

Mrs Lockhart, that is.

Whatever.

(Still hurts.)

“I imagine his wife makes him very happy.” The words are sour in his mouth, bitter and unreal after all this time. “Very rich, at least.”

Pansy gapes at him.

“Mr Lockhart?” she asks, disbelieving of his betrayal. “But he was besotted with you! It was embarrassing how much that man adored you, Draco! How could he just go off and marry someone else?”

Draco snorts; he can’t help it. Pansy ‘marrying for love is folly’ Parkinson, aggrieved over a financially motivated match? Her gobsmacked expression almost makes up for the pain.

“Miss King,” Draco explains, because he can’t quite laugh about it. Not yet. “Her grandfather died, and she inherited a veritable fortune. You can imagine the attention she received.”

“I know Miss King,” Pansy says, curt and cold. “Ten thousand pounds, if I remember right.”

Ten thousand? Draco didn’t even know. He doesn’t appreciate knowing, either. It feels cheap, equating money to his love.

“Disappointing,” Pansy says, disgust clear on her face. “I thought him better than this, a man of passion and principles, not… mercenary.”

Draco laughs again—this entire conversation is surreal.

“What is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin?” Draco doesn’t know, isn’t sure he wants to, but of course Pansy would. Alliances, she claims marriages to be—why shouldn’t Lockhart choose the most advantageous match?

“It’s a blurry line, though clearer in some cases than others.” Pansy doesn’t need to spell out what she thinks of this particular case, but she adds anyway: “When my friends are hurt in the process, however, the details cease to matter.”

“That simple, is it?” Draco wishes it were.

“Yes,” Pansy declares, “that simple.”

Personally, Draco is not convinced. Her confidence is nice, though. He appreciates what she is trying to do.

“You must agree, there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after this event.” Pansy sneers, more comfortable in her judgement than sympathy. “How long has her grandfather been dead? Is the man even buried yet?”

By now he certainly is, but that is hardly the point. Draco doesn’t appreciate her tone, not anymore. His feelings might be confusing, might be more hurt than anything else, but if anyone were to make disparaging remarks about Lockhart, shouldn’t it be Draco?

“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe.” Draco has repeated this reasoning to himself so often—it almost feels adequate, if he doesn’t dwell too long.

Pansy, contrary by nature, inspects it for every detail. In other words: dwelling too long.

She snorts, inelegant and charming.

“You are aware the fool doesn’t deserve your defence?” The question is softly benign, but her eyes are sharp, holding his intently.

Draco… he just doesn’t know anymore. Just a month ago, he was certain he would marry Lockhart, certain he would be happy that way. Now he doesn’t know anymore. Frankly, he is sick of talking about it, of facing people expecting him to cry and break down and curse Miss King’s very existence.

Pansy, shrewed woman, looks at him and nods.

“You are aware,” she decides, which is news to Draco but just as well. “A good sign, I should think. In time, you might even be properly angry with him.”

“Angry?” Sirius asks from the door, before Draco can explain that he doesn’t want to be angry, that he just wants to be certain and happy again. “What would our darling Draco have to be angry about?”

Draco doesn’t have time to even consider an answer before Pansy gives one for him, he now apparently completely excluded from talking about his love life.

“Foolish men who break his heart for no good reason at all,” she says, and Sirius nods like he knows the affliction all too well.

“I see,” Sirius says, eyes heavy on Draco, and for one moment Draco thinks that maybe, just maybe, he actually does.

It’s preposterous, of course. Sirius met the love of his life when they were both 11 and that was that, no disappointed hopes for either of them. Besides, no one could ever deny Sirius a single thing; he has no idea what Draco is going through.

Neither does Pansy, or Father, and yet they all insist on making him talk, on freeing him from some dreadful misery that, honestly, Draco isn’t certain he even suffers.

It makes him angry, very suddenly, angry with Lockhart who left and angry with everyone who stayed, looking at him with pity and treating him like fine china, worried he might break under a stern look.

“Foolish men indeed,” he snaps, further angered that Sirius merely raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe like nothing is the matter at all. “Foolish men, and I am sick of them all. I shall just marry one of them, shall I? I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him.”

That would shut them up, wouldn’t it? That would put an end to it.

Besides him, Pansy laughs. The sound is so unexpected, so light over Draco’s frantic breathing and his bitter scorn, that he stops it all to stare at her.

This is not what he expected from his outburst.

Sirius laughs as well, laughs and shakes his head and Draco wants to be angry again, wants to yell at them that he isn’t joking, that he is done with it all and that Pansy was right about love.

He doesn’t. He just sits here, being laughed at and feeling warmer for it.

“Careful,” Sirius warns, eyes bright, “that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

“No, he is right.” Pansy smirks at him, grave sincerity abandoned. “Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

Draco splutters in outrage—that is not what he said!—but Sirius agrees, nodding and explaining that it’s this exact reason for which they travel. Kidnapped Draco, he calls it, but apparently for his own best interest.

“Adieu to disappointment and spleen,” he declares in the most dramatic fashion possible; even Father would have been impressed. “What are young men to rocks and mountains?”

Ridiculous. Why is everyone Draco loves so utterly ridiculous?

(He doesn’t mean to smile, doesn’t mean to forgive them for dragging up Lockhart again, but Sirius talks of human insignificance when faced with natures divinity and Pansy lists a thousand reasons of why a good tree is better than some flighty man—how is Draco supposed to stay angry with them?) 

Chapter Text

The infamous Lady Petunia could have waited a few more days. They have barely arrived, it seems to Draco, and it’s very early, but Goyle has no compunctions about disturbing the morning and Sirius refuses to be quiet in anything he does—too much hassle for news Draco doesn’t care for.

“A dinner invitation,” Goyle crows, looking smug and demure and demanding everyone’s awe.

Sirius, damn that man, grabs the letter out of Goyle’s hands to read for himself. He is as eager as Goyle, Draco wagers, if for very different reasons.

“This arrived remarkably soon after our arrival,” Remus says, disapproval just barely hidden. It’s rude, is what he means, and Draco couldn’t agree more—shouldn’t travellers be granted a day or two to rest?

“Indeed!” Goyle nods, oblivious. “She is most generous.”

Draco doesn’t understand the fuss. Goyle depends on her goodwill for his very livelihood, so he can be excused, and Sirius loves nothing more than mocking the rich—maybe Draco does understand the fuss, if not the hour at which it needs to be comported.

He doesn’t appreciate the urgency, this zeal to bend the world to Her Ladyship’s expectations. Just yesterday, Draco was ripped from a perfectly palatable book to gawk at the window and admire the sickly and cross son. Engaged to Potter, Draco remembered when he saw him, sitting imperious and pale in his carriage, scowling and pouting like an overgrown toddler. He will do very well for Potter, Draco should think.

Still, with the sudden flurry that went through the little cottage, Draco had expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden! Instead, it was just Dursley, who they are going to see today, anyway. Apparently.

“I confess,” Goyle goes on, not yet exhausted on his favourite topic, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this?”

There seem to be no words for such condescension, Goyle completely smitten. Good, let him be awed in silence. There will be enough talk of grace and generosity over the rest of the day—and that is before they even get there! At least the morning should be respectful and quiet; Draco will need the fortitude. 

Goyle inspects him critically, searching for flaws in Draco’s outfit. He insisted on inspecting everyone, insisted on making sure they would please Her Ladyship.

He has been a right terror all day, praising Lady Petunia’s every move and reciting her favourable attributes so often that Draco could list them in his sleep. ‘I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Petunia will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved,’ he had said, and Draco was offended but unwilling to argue, so he closed the door in his face.

Not that it helped; Goyle appeared two or three times, urging him to be quicker so as not to keep Her Ladyship waiting.

If Draco had only had a horse, he would have run away on it. Sadly, the only horses to be found are those of the very Lady he seeks to escape, growing bored and lazy as they wait to pull her carriage. More aptly: one of several carriages, as Goyle is quick to repeat.

Is there truly no way out? Draco might claim a headache, perhaps, might feign a cold or sudden melancholy—anything, if it prevents him from having to witness what happens to Goyle when he gets too close to the object of his worship.

“It will do,” Goyle declares of his clothes, the same mixture of insulting and approving he bandied about all day. Draco is already tired of it. Where is Pansy? How does she bear this two times a week?

Next to him, Sirius snorts.

“Nephew,” he says in his most posh voice, dripping in old money, “you are looking wonderfully tolerable this evening.”

“How generous of you, good sir.” Draco bows to hide his smile. “Might I say that you yourself are looking outrageously handsome.”

He does, too. There is nothing simple about his clothes, their style dramatic and colours wild, quality high as a matter of course. It can’t be comfortable and it certainly isn’t what he would usually wear to a dinner—these clothes are made to cut devastating figures in gorgeous landscapes, Draco knows, and give his husband something to appreciate—but after Goyle stressed how much importance Lady Petunia puts on rank, well. They are all gentlemen, aren’t they? It matters that they dress like it.

“Thank you!” Sirius preens under the praise, running his hand through the smooth waves of his hair.

Goyle frowns at them, confused and displeased. Draco refuses to let him dim his spirits.

“Pansy, my sweet,” he calls, hoping for her support to wrangle her guests into proper respect. “The carriage awaits.”

So it does. Goyle has been anxious about that for five whole minutes now. Frankly, Draco thinks it ridiculous—they are more than capable of walking the short distance up to Rosings, and it would be more comfortable as well. One carriage isn’t built to carry five adults decked out for a pompous dinner.

But to refuse would be rude.

“Pansy,” Goyle calls again, panic creeping into his voice. Draco is starting to feel bad for the man; you don’t want to be caught between the parties today. “Please, I implore you, my heart.”

Pansy remains stubbornly preoccupied. This is getting embarrassing; Draco doesn’t quite know where to look anymore.

He wishes Prongs were here, sitting between them and demanding to be petted, running between their legs until their fancy clothes are covered in dog hair. Sadly, Prongs was deemed too much of a rascal—well behaved, Sirius insisted, but even so—to present to the Lady Petunia. Who, in an appalling lack of taste, doesn’t like dogs. They are animals made for the hunt, Goyle explained, and would not be welcome in her house. It’s a shame, because Prongs is soft and affable and by far the best suited to diffuse tension. But the very rich have to be allowed their delusions. Thus, Prongs is in the garden, digging up Goyle’s hard work and blissfully unaware of the stuffy affair he escaped.

It’s for the best. Still, Draco wishes him here, if only for someone to focus his attention on.

Goyle smiles at them, nervous, eyes darting between the carriage and the closed door to Pansy’s dressing room.

“She takes the greatest care with her appearance,” he explains, as if Draco didn’t spend hours at her side, preparing for balls or balancing the perfect level of scandal to prance through Hogwarts. Draco is well aware of Pansy’s dedication, and should she have allowed a disapproving old woman to take this from her, he should have been very disappointed.

“You had better not complain, husband,” Pansy says, striding through the door in such well-timed effect, she must have waited for a moment like this.

She looks fabulous. She always does; Draco didn’t expect anything less, but he did miss seeing her extravagance. Her dress is green, almost simple in silhouette but iridescent and shimmering even as she stands perfectly still, demanding to be admired. Silver stitches set accents and tie in the tasteful jewellery. She is wearing black gloves to finish the look, a deep richness for her dress to glitter against.

Draco cannot wait to see what Her Ladyship makes of this. There is a difference in rank, yes, there can be no denying that, but it’s not so big that they should be expected to dress in clothes plain enough to fit a servant. Pansy expresses this very clearly.

Goyle, gratifyingly, cannot take his eyes off her. He seems lost for words, everything forgotten as he marvels at Pansy. This is as it should be; Draco is pleased for her.

“You look stunning, darling,” Draco says, because she does and someone needs to say it. Besides, awed looks are all well and good, but Goyle had better learn to put his reverence into words. They are excruciatingly aware he is capable.

Pansy smiles, always just the slightest hint of bashfulness in these first moments when she presents herself.

“Thank you,” she replies, looking down as she smooths her hands over the fall of her dress. There are, of course, no kinks to smooth and no folds to banish, but Draco doesn’t mention it. He wants to take her hands, want to inspect her more closely and fuss with her hair because it will annoy her, but it’s not his place anymore. Pansy is a married woman now, and while her husband stands around dimly gawking, Draco can’t very well throw himself at her.

“The carriage is waiting,” Pansy reminds them, which means Her Ladyship is waiting, which makes Goyle spring into action faster than light.

“Of course,” he exclaims, embarrassed by how completely he had forgotten his esteemed patroness, and then they are ushered into a viciously tiny carriage. Propriety, which Draco was determined to uphold just a moment ago, dies a swift death. Forced rather closely together, Pansy sits half in Draco’s lap to accommodate Remus to her other side, Sirius and Goyle opposite them.

Draco doesn’t mind; they passed many a crowded journey in similar arrangements and Goyle, intent on making up for his temporary lapse in devotion, details their view and how it’s representative of taste and affluence. It’s tedious, but it also means that he doesn’t notice when Draco messes with Pansy’s hair, when Pansy retaliates by mocking his outfit. Sirius raises an eyebrow at them, but that’s because he’s Sirius, and then he is distracted anyway because Remus smiled at him.

It’s a pleasant journey, in the end, far too short despite the relief of stretching his legs once more.

Goyle rushes through his praise of the door, hardly acknowledges the parlour as he nods to servants and leads them on, insisting they are late, that they should never have let the carriage wait as long as they did. He is talking himself into quite the panic, crossing pompously decorated halls, no time to glance at the overwrought portraits or the hideous floors. It’s a bit much, for Draco’s tastes, exaggerated beyond reason. Not surprising, after everything he reluctantly learnt about Lady Petunia, but disappointing all the same.

Draco hangs back, whispering with Remus about tacky chandeliers, when Pansy catches up to Goyle. She doesn’t stop him, but he does slow to a more normal pace, listening to what she is saying and nodding along. Goyle’s entire body is tilted towards Pansy, slowing more and more as he regains possession of himself. Anxiety calmed slowly but surely. It’s miraculous, but before Draco can point it out to Remus, they stop before one of the imposing doors.

This, Draco guesses, is where their torture is to be held.

Goyle looks them up and down again, still nervous despite Pansy’s hand on his arm. He nods, not quite satisfied but it’s too late now to improve their appearance. Lady Petunia will appreciate it or she won’t, and there is nothing to be done about it. Worst-case scenario, Goyle will have to disavow them as his wife’s strange friends, related to him only by courtesy.

“Ready?” Pansy asks, ostensibly all of them but only looking at Goyle. It stands to reason, as he is by far the most nervous. Once more Draco wishes they could have brought Prongs—it’s physically impossible to be nervous when petting such a bright creature.

Then he realises he is concerned for Goyle and resolves to stop it.

“We are late,” Goyle replies, which doesn’t sound like an answer but shall count as one. We are late, he says, and it doesn’t mean ‘yes’ as much as that he has to be, that this necessity and its circumstances make him less ready still.

The servants nod, unmoved, and open the doors to announce them.

It’s interesting, the change that comes over both Pansy and Goyle. Goyle crouches in on himself, back hunched over to worship as Pansy straightens up, her shoulders pulled back and laying claim to her space. They couldn’t look more opposite, Pansy refusing to bow and Goyle dropping low enough for the both of them.

The door is opened to them, Goyle falls into a position of sycophancy, and then they are announced, a sharp voice calling for them.  

If only one thing this evening holds true, it’s this: Rosings is as grand as Goyle promised.

They are seated in the western parlour, Draco has been informed, so as to best enjoy the evening sun. It’s a hideous room, completely detestable in every single way. The tapestry is depressing, the settee is uncomfortable, the view into the grounds is quickly exhausted. It’s ostentatious and overwrought, details added and ornaments placed on top of each other until incomprehensible, one giant labyrinth of wasted art work.

Everything is arranged like a court, every single chair turned to face Lady Petunia, sitting confidently and imposing in her armchair, taking in the eyes as her due. There can be no quiet conversation without her seeing, no corner hidden from her. She presides over this room, everyone expected to perform to her entertainment.

It’s meant to cow, meant to remind Draco of his place and put him in awe and fear. Rather smugly, Draco finds himself quite equal to the scene and able to judge composedly.

Lady Petunia is a tall woman, still dressed in black despite the years that passed since her husband’s death. The colour suits her, however, and Draco won’t presume to judge her grief. Maybe she is still mourning. His only real experience with widows is Mrs Zabini, who doesn’t enjoy wearing black and never does it longer than a few days. Lady Petunia comports herself quite differently, comfortable in her widowed status and the control it affords her. She is thin in an almost haggard way, her neck long and face drawn with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her eyes are sharp and her lips pursed, inspecting and finding them wanting.

Her son, Mr Dudley Dursley—Potter’s fiance, lest Draco forget—looks nothing like her. He is twice her size, has no neck to speak of, and his eyes are beady but empty. Where the mother is clearly possessed of thought and judgement, the son appears empty and dull. The way he relaxes into his armchair is near indecent, splayed out as if there was none to observe him. He looks just as pale as he did yesterday, just as cross. His clothes are fine, befitting of his station, but that is where propriety ends. Dursley makes no effort to present himself favourably, accepts his mother’s adoration and praise with an impassive certainty, and calls on servants with a frequency that suggests he does it out of boredom.

Draco cannot stand him. Potter, he thinks gleefully, will be a miserable man.

On the whole Dursley is uninteresting. The bored aristocracy, coddled by his mother and fallen asleep in his plushy life. Draco shan’t spare him another thought, lest he himself get infected with ennui.

Instead, he turns his attention back to Lady Petunia, swinging between sudden interrogation and contemplative quiet. She is not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she says is spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance.

So far, she remarked on their tardiness and Pansy’s daring dress, on the way Sirius wears his hair, and Remus’ refusal to own anything that doesn’t look a tiny bit scruffy. She accredited it to their nomad life style (greatly exaggerated, though it delighted Sirius to no end) and made unsubtle comments on how they ought to settle and start raising children (Sirius took less kindly to that).

Draco, for his part, has mercifully been spared much attention. Sitting among this shimmering collection of offence and ideas, he supposes he appears harmless. It suits him fine; he has no desire to argue with this woman. Thus, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Petunia talk.

“Mrs Goyle,” she says, and the room narrows in on Pansy. “I trust you’ve had more success with the poultry since our last talk.”

Draco snorts, which gains him a smirk from Pansy and a scowl from Her Ladyship. It couldn’t be helped though—the idea of Pansy caring for chicken is ludicruous. The animals belong to the living, Goyle informed them when they arrived, mostly poultry, but if anyone thinks Pansy the one to care for them, they are delusional. Pansy has neither the skill nor wish to do so, and Draco would bet a good deal of money that, for the animals’ own interest, these tasks are bestowed on someone else.

Her Ladyship, it would seem, is delusional indeed.

Pansy winks at Draco, wicked and devious and not someone you want near your chickens, and then she nods to Lady Petunia, her entire face changed. She doesn’t bow, not exactly, doesn’t diminish herself to please, but she does indulge whatever strange vision the old woman has of life outside of her palace.

Lady Petunia, for her part, doesn’t consider that there might be more questions to ask. She talks about farming as if that is at all close to the living she graciously bestowed on Goyle. No one dares to correct the mistake, and she delivers her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgement controverted. Nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others.

It’s intensely amusing. Shame Draco could lose his head for laughing.

“And you, young man,” she addresses Draco, as if conscious of his suspicious silence. “How do you know Mrs Goyle?”

“Pansy?” Draco repeats, because he will never get used to that name. Her Ladyship raises an eyebrow at him. “We grew up together. She is my sister in all but blood.”

To call her a friend is insufficient, but under Lady Petunia’s withering gaze Draco almost wishes he had done so, just the once.

“Sisters,” her Ladyship sneers. “They are nothing but trouble, believe me. Why would you voluntarily subject yourself to this affliction?”

Draco gapes at her.

This is unspeakably rude. For one, Pansy is right here and can hear every word of how Draco should have been better off without her. Moreover, her opinion on sisterhood is obviously informed by personal pain—maybe conventions are different here, but Draco was taught not to push his own views onto others.

Draco waits for her to realise, waits for her behaviour to catch up with her and the awkward scrambling for a new topic as she pointedly doesn’t apologise, but nothing follows. Lady Petunia stares at him, gaze sharp and hungry, digging with neither mercy nor composure.

It’s a good thing Draco had no illusions of being liked by her. Pansy can’t defend herself, not if she is expected to dine twice a week for as long as this tyrant is alive, and not unless she wants to risk her very livelihood. Pansy is proud, and she stands up for herself, but there is only so much you can push someone like this. Pansy is too smart to not see where her hands are bound.

Draco, however, has no such troubles.

“Beg your pardon,” he says, not meaning it in the slightest, “but you couldn’t be more mistaken. In fact, I chose two sisters, both of whom I love dearly. I should be quite lost without them.”

Pansy smiles at him, the expression almost sweet if the word wasn’t such anathema.

The room is very silent. It’s for Her Ladyship to say something—scold Draco into next century, probably—but she just sits and stares, and Draco won’t apologise. So they all sit, Lady Petunia glaring and confused, her son detached since they sat down, Goyle looking at him with enough horror to balance Sirius’ and Remus’ combined approval.

Honestly, Draco is rather proud. The way things were going, the evening might pass more pleasantly if they remained silent. Pansy can disavow him later, when they are gone and their association might taint her further in Her Ladyships estimate.

“You give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person,” Lady Petunia says, disapproval heavy in her voice. “Pray, what is your age?”

Draco really doesn’t want her to know that. It’s strange, he sees no harm in telling, except that he doesn’t want to be dismissed for being too young. Or to be interrogated on what he is doing, irritating innocent Ladies when he should be out there finding a husband before he becomes a burden to his parents. He doesn’t want to get into schooling or how he should learn to lead the estate or how foolishly he plans to marry for love.

Lady Petunia is a bitter old woman, maybe dealt a harsh hand by life, but Draco refuses to let her pain poison his own heart.

“I fail to see how that is of relevance, ma’am,” Draco says, and seals his doom. He will never gain anything close to respectability, not in her eyes. This is why you ought to keep antagonism towards people with no more power than you yourself hold—she could ruin his life, if she wanted. Draco counts on her being too sedentary to bother coming after him.

Next to him, Remus snorts.

Is this what it felt like to be interrogated by Walburga Black? Draco knows only the bare bones of the story—no one likes to speak of Sirius’ parents—but he knows she disapproved of Sirius or his friends, less so with every piece of sanity she lost. Was she still alive when Remus and Sirius got married? Draco doesn’t know, but if she was, Remus would have asked for her blessing. Not because he cared, but because it’s the proper thing to do and to run away to marry will raise a lot of eyebrows. Also, Remus would have enjoyed her outrage. In the end, they ran away anyway, but maybe Remus knows how it feels to defend someone you love against scorn from above.

With every single one of them utterly useless in appeasing Her Ladyship, Goyle steps in. He starts rambling out of nowhere, nervous and speaking ten times as fast as usual, dismissing Draco as an uncultured child from the country. The odd thing is: Draco doesn’t mind. Let them tell Lady Petunia whatever they need, it’s no matter to him. He won’t let her disparage Pansy and he will be gone in a week—there couldn’t be a clearer path of action.

So it falls to Goyle, again, to take Her Ladyship’s praise into his own hands.

Chapter Text

However well Pansy might have arranged herself with her circumstances, they are tedious. Objectively speaking, there can’t be a more boring place in all of England.

Pansy laughed when Draco accused her thus, not yet attached enough to the land to be offended. Not that Draco objects to the land—sublime, verdant hills and endless flowers, ideal for leisurely strolls. The country is perfectly suited to admiration, perfectly tempting to the sketching hand.

It’s a country made for introspection, the very last thing Draco wishes.

As things are, his passion lies in people and their eccentricities. The one quality Her Ladyship lacks. Her scorn and puzzlement are entertaining for an evening, maybe two, but without anything deeper to be glimpsed, the same boredom Draco can witness anywhere else. Her court is too scared to be interesting and, sadly, the fact of the excessive invitations proves a lack of worthwhile acquaintances.

Perhaps Draco is being unkind. Didn’t Pansy mention embroidery? A thinly concealed excuse to eat tiny cakes and gossip. Maybe Draco should ask to join? Lately, his only company is the disappointing Lady, their other engagements few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general is beyond Goyle’s reach. Pansy, though, Pansy always understood how to find pastimes worthy of application.

Now that Sirius and Remus left, Draco sees no other way. It’s a miracle they stayed as long as they did, baleful as they are of old money. They stayed just long enough to mock Lady Petunia and all she stands for, just long enough to sneer at the excessive wealth displayed in every curl of the building and every wave of her hand. Draco should have gone with them when they declared themselves done, their curiosity sated. Instead, he pledged himself to another week or two, unwilling to be parted from Pansy quite so quickly. He’d follow them later, he said. He’d catch up to them.

He was an idiot.

Draco is close to begging for an introduction to Pansy’s new friends, close to promising he won’t tell embarrassing childhood stories and ruin her scary reputation, when the universe proves kind. Complaining does help, as is confirmed once more when Pansy breaks through his quiet misery, cheeks flushed from running and eyes sparking in excitement.

“Mr Potter has been spotted arriving at Rosings,” Pansy exclaims, thrilled beyond belief.

They also say to be careful what you wish for, Draco remembers as his stomach plummets.

Potter. The absolute last person he should have liked to see.

Can there be no peace?

Pansy laughs in his face. Draco wants the mind-numbing quiet back, please.

“This is going to be brilliant, isn’t it?” Pansy asks, settling on the couch next to Draco, still wearing her cloak and hat and everything, so very eager to destroy Draco’s tranquillity. “You have always been strange about him—you two glaring at each other will be the most fun I had since arriving here.”

“Glad to be of service,” Draco says, though it feels hollow.

Potter. He managed to forget the odious man, nothing but the vague satisfaction of his being settled with the most dull person this country has to offer. Potter didn’t seem real, away from Hogwarts and all who knew and disliked him, no risk of him riding by and disrupting Draco’s day.

“Come now, Draco.” Pansy shoves at his shoulder, grinning at him. “Look lively.”

Draco has never felt less lively. Is it too late to follow his uncles and leave? He could be gone before Potter arrives, surely! The timing might cause suspicion, but there is no one here whose opinion Draco cares about. None but Pansy, that is, and she knows him to be extreme. She should not be surprised, he thinks, in his quitting the place as quickly as possible.

Pansy narrows her eyes. She does indeed know him too well.

“Don’t even think about it, Malfoy.” Pansy’s hand shoots out to hold on to him, as if she could physically pin him to the couch. She probably could, if she set her mind to it and was prepared to sacrifice her dignity.

Draco pointedly doesn’t move. Pansy, also pointedly, doesn’t let go of him.

“I didn’t expect this news to upset you so,” she says, not quite a question. “You aren’t known to run from those you dislike.”

That’s true, Draco isn’t. Honestly, he doesn’t understand it himself. Potter is bad news, isn’t he? Things go wrong when he is around, the mood poisoned from his standoffish behaviour and everyone on edge from his sneers, all heart frozen out for reason and vanity. Potter appears just before every good thing in Draco’s life went rotten—can you blame him for wanting to avoid the man?

Pansy is right, however: Draco will not be intimidated by his name alone.

Besides, Potter might have information on Weasley and his plans of returning to Hogwarts.

“Who said anything about running, Pansy dear?” Draco forces himself to smile, to relax.

Pansy isn’t convinced, but she does let him go. She watches him warily, like he might leap up and out of the window now that he is free.

“He wasn’t expected for a few weeks yet,” she offers, almost an apology for not warning him. Ridiculous, as if Pansy should have known Potter’s impossible plans. Draco might have known, simply because the man is a menace and always appears where he is least wanted. “Everyone is quite perplexed by his arrival, though very pleased. Her Ladyship is positively giddy, I heard.”

It’s hard to imagine the old Lady giddy, but Draco also doesn’t try too hard. Some things you don’t want too intimate knowledge of.

One positive is guaranteed to come out of this: while there are visitors in the house, they could not be necessary for dinners. Invitations should be few, barely the minimum to remain polite. He shall not have to see Potter often, or interact with the man beyond their customary displeased looks.

Framed like that, Draco might almost rejoice in the prospect. There are few people you can dislike as openly as Potter.

“Excited for Potter?” Draco asks, because it’s time he takes part in their conversation. “Imagine that. Do you think they know who it is they are expecting?”

It’s a weak effort, but Pansy smiles all the same.

“I’m afraid they are exactly the people to consider him fondly,” she replies, frown exaggerated and voice teasing.

Draco is about to reply, something on the unfortunate engagement Potter has got himself into, when it knocks on the door. His thoughts jump to Potter, looming in the door like a mean crow, too tall to comfortably fit and too proud to try—but that is ridiculous.

Pansy, as lady of the house and the less ridiculous of the both of them, stands to greet whoever had the impudence of knocking when Draco was thinking of Potter.

She gets no further than opening the door into the hallway, however, before she quickly closes it again, eyes wide as she turns back towards Draco.

“It’s Potter.”

Draco forgets all about the pleasures of sneering at Potter, forgets that there is neither reason nor chance to avoid the man. He stands before he can think of where to go, determined that he shall not be here when Potter is.

“This piece of civility must be due to you,” Pansy says, smirking slightly, “Mr Potter would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”

“But he would come for me?” Draco asks, incredulous. Does Pansy not remember their committed animosity?

“Evidently so.” Pansy opens the door just a bit, Potter’s voice muffled but unmistakable.

Draco doesn’t deign to answer. He looks out into the hallway to ensure it’s empty, Potter still kept in the parlour and fussed over by Goyle. It’s a relief, though Draco has to be quick—men like Potter don’t tolerate men like Goyle for long.

“I forgot something urgent,” he tells Pansy, the lie as unnecessary as it is obvious. He drops a kiss on her forehead and slips out the door, down the hallway and out the back door.

Before Potter has progressed into the house, Draco has escaped through the garden. 

Rationally, Draco knew there could be no avoiding Potter. He didn’t plan on it, didn’t delude himself into thinking he could go without facing the man who destroyed his every happiness—in truth, he didn’t want to. He ought to have time to prepare, nothing more.

All the rationality, however, did not warn him he would be required to politely spit in the man’s face this very evening.

It’s completely unexpected, that they should be invited to Rosings the first evening of Potter’s presence. Draco should have thought his aunt to do all in her power to keep Potter to herself for as long as possible, the beloved nephew with new tales of peasantry beyond her influence. Surely they require at least a week to sneer in private before forcing their company on others?

On the other hand, Draco doesn’t know why he is surprised. Potter had already called on them, after all, the timing so suspiciously close that he might have stopped by them before he ever made it to his aunt. Draco didn’t understand his eagerness then, and he doesn’t understand it now, but he sees no other explanation: Potter, sadly, is not as committed to their mutual hatred as Draco is. He barely does anything to avoid Draco, going so far as seeking him out and saddling him with all the work.

It’s most infuriating, the entitlement in Potter’s every movement.

Goyle is nervous as ever on their walk up to the house, praising whatever feature he didn’t praise yet and repeating his favourite facts. The windows again, the exact number of which Draco forgets, but Rosings isn’t lacking in them. Several windows, several staircases, several carriages. Draco grows nervous himself, listening to Goyle ramble.

Pansy interrupts him finally, speaking to him in low tones as the house looms over them, unknown tortures awaiting them inside.

Draco is grateful. He would like to focus his attentions on fury towards Potter, but Goyle has always been a difficult man to ignore. Truly, Draco’s life would be easier if he could ignore stupid men.

Before Draco can share this epiphany with Pansy—who is wrapped up in Goyle and wouldn’t appreciate it—the door to hell opens and they are announced.

The change that comes over Goyle is instantaneous, his shoulders dropping and his concerns stopped, everything in him focused on Her Ladyship. He enters the sitting room with purpose, awe written on his face like he never saw the room before, praising its splendour not yet with words, not until Her Ladyship calls upon him to do so.

Draco barely notes this change; he saw both the performance and the room often enough to be bored by it. More importantly: Potter is there, standing up from his armchair as if expecting someone else. His eyes land on Draco without hesitation, looking at him so earnestly that, for a moment, Draco wonders if Pansy was right. If Potter truly came for him.

Then Pansy smirks and he remembers that this is ridiculous. That he wouldn’t appreciate it, even if Potter were to bestow the great honour of his attention.

Draco glares at him, just to make that clear. Potter might not be dedicated to their enmity, but Draco stoked that fury since he heard of Potter’s presence—at least this evening, Draco hates enough for the both of them.

Potter wisely sits back down.

Lady Petunia watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, lingering on Draco like trying to solve a puzzle. Or, more accurately, like she is worried Draco might seduce her nephew away from his promised happiness with her son. Preposterous—as if Draco even could, much less wanted to.

Tactless as only the very rich can afford, she immediately demands the intimate details of their strained acquaintance. Draco hasn’t even sat down yet!

“Harry, my dear,” she says, and Potter grimaces. Most undignified, if Draco might say so. “May I introduce you to Mr Malfoy, a close friend to our Mrs Goyle.”

Draco takes offence with everything Lady Petunia says—he suffered through enough dinners to know that—but this is a new low. Not only has she no right to stake such claim on Pansy, but she also doesn’t need to warn Potter that Draco is too low to associate with. Potter knows; he doesn’t need the reminder that Draco dares to be fond of people, doesn’t need the nudge to question the exact nature of their relationship.

Goyle, smiling happily, is oblivious to his wife’s virtue being questioned. Draco held no illusions about his loyalties, but he did hope better for Pansy.

“I am acquainted with Mr Malfoy,” Potter says, tone bland. Then he nods to Pansy. “Mrs Goyle.”

How could Draco have thought Potter might have wanted to see him? The only reason, he sees it now clearly, can have been for Potter to warn him off before Draco harasses his aunt any further.

“I don’t know Mr Malfoy,” a stranger says from next to Potter. Draco startles badly as he notices him.

“Of course, Mr Longbottom,” Lady Petunia says so utterly without expression that Draco cannot tell if she likes the man or tolerates him for Potter’s sake. For whoever he is, he must have come with Potter.

Potter makes no effort to introduce them. He sits stiffly, possibly bored, his presence a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. Whenever Draco thinks the man’s rudeness can’t shock him any more…

Thankfully, Mr Longbottom seems well familiar with that quirk in his friend’s behaviour, for he deftly picks up the slack. He stands up to greet them—the first to do so, Draco notes—and introduces himself to Goyle, then Pansy, and finally Draco. His happy manners are a surprise, given his company, but Draco gratefully accepts them. He smiles as he introduces himself and takes care to position himself close to the man, when he invites them to sit.

Draco was half-afraid they would be forced to stand all evening, hardly acknowledged as they watched. Potter clearly considers hostly duties beneath himself, Lady Petunia is too preoccupied shooting speculating glances between Potter and her son, and the son in question is deeply lost in some crude game. None of them would have realised the duties they were remiss in, so Draco had a lot of time to resent and plan where he would sit, were he brazen enough to claim a spot uninvited.

He might have, just to spite Potter. Instead, he sits next to Mr Longbottom, newly hopeful that the evening might have more to offer than abject misery. Mr Longbottom might not be handsome, but is in person and address most truly the gentleman. He involves Draco in conversation, his smile easy and charming as Potter looks on in contempt.

Yes, Draco shall spend the evening most comfortably. 

Chapter Text

Harry has never much liked his aunt’s house. It’s too big, too empty, and all his most irritating relatives live here.

Annoyingly, it becomes more palatable with Malfoy present. Isn’t that just perfect? Can there be no escaping the man? Harry had hoped to call on him in the cottage—dispense social niceties quickly—but Malfoy had been out and, after waiting for half an hour longer than the visit should take, Harry had resigned himself to his fate.

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe if he had waited he wouldn’t be enduring the man’s company the second evening in a row.

(Not that spending time with Malfoy is a hardship, but that is rather the problem. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to remember why Harry should have been happier in London.)

In any case, Neville likes Malfoy; they spent all of yesterday talking, voices hushed and too quiet for Harry to follow while dodging Petunia. Harry envied them their quick camaraderie, but Neville is much like Ron in that regard: he gets along with everyone. Harry supposes that is why they are friends—one of them must be sociable.

“What are you talking about?” Petunia demands, shrill and imperious, breaking the confidence between Neville and Malfoy. Shamefully, Harry is glad someone asked; he’s been wondering the same thing.

Malfoy, in a perfect display of why it’s utterly unacceptable for Harry to think about him, ever, looks away from Neville only to glare. Which is indecorous and disrespectful and Harry delights in it. He has never been half so well entertained in this room before.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Neville who answers, his manners far superior to Malfoys.

“We are speaking of music, madam,” he says, though it’s obvious he would have preferred to carry on their secret conversation. Of music, apparently. Harry wasn’t aware Malfoy held any particular interest. He remembers his playing, of course, back in the Burrow, but Malfoy didn’t strike Harry as an ardent player. Pleasing enough to listen to, but the subject must have been chosen by Neville.

“Music!” Aunt Petunia exclaims, far more pleased than anyone could truly be over any topic. “Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”

Harry would like the ground to swallow him, please. Or better yet—swallow her. Or, no, swallow Malfoy, who sneers at Petunia as if she isn’t better than him, as if he doesn’t owe her respect and admiration.

(Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t. Harry, of all people, should know that, should know that his aunt as a person deserves nothing. But there is still the principle of rank to observe. Perhaps his first thought was right and it really ought to be him to be swallowed and released.)

In a feat of great restraint, Malfoy doesn’t laugh at his aunt’s ridiculousness. He grimaces, which is an expression Harry fears he might grow fond of for how often he sees it.

“Draco plays quite well,” Mrs Goyle offers, just a bit too smug for the innocent cast to her face. Harry doesn’t know her well enough to discern who she meant to tease, his aunt for her lack or her friend, by making him play. Harry doesn’t mind either option.

Malfoy scowls, which answers the mystery of the comment’s direction. Harry could have guessed; he remembers their dynamic. (He remembers a great deal too much about Malfoy.)

“Please, Pansy,” Malfoy says, using her first name as easily as if she isn’t a married woman. “My playing is acceptable, and nothing beyond that.”

Harry agrees—Malfoy’s posture had been good, he seems to remember, but his hands unpractised and his expression lacking in all but the most rudimentary intonation. Acceptable, for he found the appropriate keys, but nothing to praise in such company.

Petunia nods, like they had already discussed this. Likely they have—there is only so much strangers who don’t like each other can talk about.

“As I told you many times, Mr Malfoy, you will never play really well unless you practise more.” Petunia declares, decisive like she does everything. Harry remembers when she tried to get him to learn the piano, the instrument bought for and discarded by Dudley. She would slap his fingers with a stick every time she fancied she heard a wrong key, and Harry soon refused any further lessons.

“I believe I offered you one of my Dudley’s pianos,” Petunia continues, patting Dudley’s knee as she speaks. What she doesn’t say, of course, is that they are all Dudley’s pianos, that the entire house is his should he look up and desire anything he sees. “We moved it into the old rooms of the Governess—you could play there all day and be in nobody's way!”

Harry changed his mind: if the ground were good enough to swallow anyone, it ought to be his hateful aunt.

Malfoy smiles at her, the same forced expression he gives Harry when he is brave enough to approach the man. (Harry doesn’t sound like his aunt, does he? Surely he’s not that horrible!)

“Very kind,” Malfoy says, though his tone implies less polite feelings. The great Lady Petunia just nods, basking in her generosity and oblivious to the acid it’s received with.

Then she sits up, her eyes focused and cold. Did she hear the insult? Harry didn’t think she could anymore, after all these years of sycophants and acolytes, praise for her so much louder than any criticism a lone fool might utter.

“Why don’t you play for us now, Mr Malfoy?” she asks, and it’s a demand. Not even Malfoy can wriggle his way out of this.

Suddenly once more aware of their difference in rank and still hopeful that he might spite it, Malfoy looks pleadingly at his friend, begging her to perform some miracle and save him from his obligations. Of course, there is nothing Mrs Goyle could do, her influence as limited as his own. Harry probably could, if he distracted his aunt with something else, but Harry isn’t asked.

“Splendid idea,” Neville agrees, sealing Malfoy’s fate. “I should enjoy hearing you play.”

For a moment, Malfoy looks almost pleased. Is that all it takes, then, for Malfoy to change his mind? An adoring audience? (Of course it is; what more could man need but admiration and flattery? Disappointingly plebeian, but it only confirms what Harry already knew about the man, vain as he is.)

“Very well.” Malfoy stands, smiling at Neville and glaring at Pansy, ignoring Petunia like it isn’t her house he stages his little scene in.

He moves graceful enough, reluctance forgotten as he settles behind the instrument. Neville watches with honest excitement, like maybe everyone was politely understating Malfoy’s skills, like they will hear a great piece of art. Harry knows better, but still he finds himself looking forward to Malfoy’s mediocre play. How strange.

Malfoy takes a deep breath, places his hands on the keys, and begins a simple, jolly tune. It’s not as fast as Harry thinks it ought to be and it takes all of Malfoy’s concentration, but it’s pleasing enough. A children's song, perhaps, but Harry can excuse that; it might be the only thing Malfoy knows to play from memory.

Neville hasn’t been disillusioned, watching Malfoy with a smile.

Neville has sadly low standards.

“Do you have any sheet music, madam?” Neville asks Petunia, voice hushed so as not to interrupt Malfoy’s playing. Harry cannot stress how very much the quality is not worth the effort, but there’s no point arguing. Besides, it would be rude to speak during the first piece played for them, regardless of quality.

“Of course,” Petunia answers, loud and affronted that Neville should have to ask such a thing. Of course they have sheet music! “It’s in these drawers, you see.”

Neville doesn’t, because the direction was useless, but he strides with confidence and finds them on only his second try. Malfoy’s playing grows steadily slower as he tries not too obviously watch what is happening around him.

“Sheet music?” he asks finally, abandoning all pretence. “Does my vast memory for songs not please you?”

“No,” Petunia answers, though the question was directed at Neville and posed without any seriousness. “But do not worry: if you only practice more, you will inevitably broaden your repertoire. Until so long, you may use the music I accumulated over the years.”

“How generous!” Goyle praises, ecstatic while Malfoy’s face goes pinched and sour. It’s greatly entertaining.

Petunia accepts Goyle’s effusive laudation with a condescending smile. Neville leafs through the sheets, searching for something plain for Malfoy to play. With a pleased sound, he announces his find, presenting the pages to Malfoy.

Malfoy looks sceptical. Honestly, Harry isn’t certain either, but Neville is already putting the sheets onto the piano, insisting and reassuring and generally not accepting Malfoy’s justified doubts.

He does play, in the end, allows himself to be flattered into trying.

He’s… well, he’s not good, fingers stumbling over unfamiliar notes and the rhythm not always consistent, but the tune is recognisable, at least. More than Harry expected, if he is honest.

It’s curiosity that propels Harry towards the piano, a convenient excuse to escape the couch and his aunt’s judgement, Goyle’s deaf enjoyment as he hums along. Curiosity, Harry tells himself as he joins a very pleased Neville.

Neville, who stands far too close, leaning into Malfoy under the pretence of turning the pages for him. The sight twists something in Harry’s gut, something heavy and ugly. He tries hard not to glare at Neville's hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.

Malfoy barely glances up as Harry joins them, barely falters as Harry fails and glares.

“You mean to frighten me, Mr Potter, by coming in all this state to hear me?” he asks, smiling around the words. Neville laughs. Harry grits his teeth. He should have stayed put and joined his aunt in her grimaces.

“I will not be alarmed,” Malfoy continues, eyes on the sheets. “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

Neville looks at him with awe. For himself, Harry can’t decide if he is amused or offended. Then again, he never can quite tell with Malfoy.

“I know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.” Harry scowls at the two of them, thick as thieves and so easy in their company, though they have barely known each other a few days.

Malfoy, as if to spite him, laughs.

“It’s very ungenerous,” he says to Neville, smirking up at Harry from their conspiracy, “for him to say such things, is it not?”

It is, of course. Harry should know better manners than this. Then again, Malfoy hardly behaves in a proper manner, so why should Harry do so?

“It is ungenerous,” Neville agrees, delighted with Harry’s agony. All his friends are terrible; who knew?

“Very impolitic too,” Malfoy says, pleased with Neville’s attention. Not that he needs the excuse to antagonise Harry. “It is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your friend to hear.”

Harry sincerely doubts that. Neville has known him through enough situations to know his character—should any of Malfoy’s words shock him at all, it should be how long Harry tolerated his company and judgement.

“I am not afraid of you,” Harry says to him, amused against his better knowledge. (Now he only has to hope it holds true.)

As expected, Malfoy understands it as a challenge. He raises his eyebrow, looks at him in consideration. It’s possible he needs to decide which of Harry’s great offences he should relay, or possible he doesn’t know what to do with such an open invitation to gossip. After all, the object of aspersion isn’t usually in the room, is it?

“There you have it; Harry doesn’t mind.” Neville smiles, as if Malfoy might need the encouragement of Harry’s blessing. “Please do tell all the embarrassing stories you have to tell.”

On second thought, maybe Harry should have done more to avoid this situation. Neville might not be shocked, but Harry will never stand a chance of moving past this time of ill-judged fondness, not if his friends know every detail. It’s too late now—Malfoy has that gleam in his eyes.

“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.” Malfoy, because he is that kind of theatric, chooses this moment to remind them of the piano he is technically playing. The tones he produces are heavy and foreboding, grossly exaggerating whatever fault he wants to lay at Harry’s feet.

Neville has never been so entertained in his life.

Harry is caught between looking at Malfoy’s graceful hands and his pleased smile.

“The first time I met him,” Malfoy starts, and Harry immediately knows where this is going. Of course this is what Malfoy would get offended over. “We held a ball to welcome him and the Weasleys into the neighbourhood. Exceedingly kind of us, wouldn’t you think? Mr Potter, however, danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young person was sitting down in want of a partner.”

Malfoy presses the keys to his doom, music loud and heavy, far more serious than Malfoy’s scandalised smirk.

“Mr. Potter, you cannot deny the fact,” he says, as if he wishes Harry to try and deny it anyway.

Harry doesn’t want to do that; they would eternally turn in circles, accusing the other of telling lies. Besides, Harry is a man of integrity; he stands by the things he did.

“I had not at that time the honour of knowing anyone in the assembly beyond my own party.” To this day, Harry knows almost no one that was present that evening. He undertook great efforts to keep social obligations to a minimum, and thus has the pleasure of saying he is barely tied to the place.

He wouldn’t be tied at all, were it not for Malfoy, who refuses be politely ignored.

“True,” Malfoy concedes, surprisingly, “and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room.”

Neville laughs, free and loud, no longer able to stifle his snickers. He laughs even harder at Harry’s scowl. Malfoy, meanwhile, nods seriously, entirely unaffected.

“I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” Harry shouldn’t have told Malfoy that. It’s the truth, but he still shouldn’t have told him. Maybe he shouldn’t have told him because it’s the truth.

Either way, Malfoy looks him up and down and Harry wishes he could just stop talking to the man entirely.

“Is that so,” Malfoy says in the most dubious tone Harry ever heard. He turns to Neville, now no longer laughing, and says: “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

Before Neville can answer, Malfoy looks up at Harry again, Neville dismissed. Harry is both glad and alarmed by this; glad, because he doesn’t want to know what Neville might answer and alarmed because now he has to figure out what he himself might answer. Really, it was an exceedingly impertinent question to pose, intimate far beyond propriety.

To make matters worse, Malfoy decided to be insolent on a topic Harry profoundly dislikes talking of. No one likes discussing their failures, do they?

But Malfoy is looking at him with scorn and expectation, his fingers stopped on the piano as he impatiently waits for Harry’s answer.

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” Harry says slowly, trying to make the words make sense, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Will that to be good enough for Malfoy? It is more of an explanation than Harry has given anyone—he isn’t good with people, and usually they respect that.

Neville, well aware of Harry’s agony, looks suitably uncomfortable. Malfoy, on the other hand, looks contemplative. His eyes are shrewd on Harry, piercing him for every last secret and unspoken piece of his soul.

Harry never wanted to hide from anyone quite as much as he wants to hide from Malfoy. He also never wanted to share his thoughts with anyone as badly as he does with Malfoy. They would have interesting conversations, Harry thinks, if only they could be comfortable together.

“I do not play this instrument as well as I should wish to,” Malfoy says, tone evenly measured so as not to spook Harry. “I have always supposed it to be my own fault, because I will not take the trouble of practising.”

Well, Harry can’t argue with that. It’s still outrageous for Malfoy to speak to him like this, of course, but he does it so gently, his eyes so kind, that Harry can’t bring himself to mind. Frankly, he didn’t think Malfoy capable of such softness.

“You have employed your time much better,” he says, because it’s true. Malfoy might be the closest humans can get to perfection, much as it pains Harry to admit. “No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting.”

Malfoy scoffs, which is rude, but he also blushes, which makes up for the scoff.

“We neither of us perform to strangers,” Harry says, because he can’t help it. Malfoy smiles at him, which is by far the best reaction he could have hoped for.

“What are you talking of?” Petunia demands from the other room, her voice shrill and unwelcome. Whatever annoyance Harry didn’t manage to keep from his face makes Malfoy laugh, which almost makes his aunt bearable.

Curious, that. 

Chapter Text

Malfoy looks at him far more accusingly than most people dare.

Harry still isn’t sure he likes it.

“I trust you had a pleasant morning,” Harry says, mostly to break the silence. What was he thinking, visiting Malfoy?

“Lovely,” Malfoy replies, curt and unsociable. He doesn’t want Harry here, and he is not impressed with his skills in conversation.

He also, pointedly, doesn’t ask after Harry’s own morning. Which had been much better before he set foot in Goyle’s house.

“Wonderful,” Harry agrees, because what else is there?

Why did he come here? What are they supposed to talk about? Harry looks at Malfoy and he has nothing to say.

Well, that’s not quite true. He has plenty to say to the man, none of it acceptable. So he just stares in silence, takes in his slight fidgeting and his elegant hands, the crumbs on his jacket, his soft hair—wait; there are crumbs on his coat?

Malfoy notices him looking—squinting, more like; Harry isn’t subtle—and immediately sits straighter, brushing off any imperfections and personal quirks. He doesn’t apologise for them, however, glaring at Harry and daring him to comment.

And Harry, weak to that look since the first time it was thrown his way, opens his mouth to do just that.

“Crumbs, Mr Malfoy?” he asks, which is uninspired and unspecific, but it gets Malfoy to flush, either in shame or indignation. Harry doesn’t much care which, as it tints his cheeks rosy red.

“Pansy keeps horses here,” he says, as if that explains anything.

Thinking back on how sweetly Malfoy had treated Hedwig, maybe it does. Malfoy might just be that sort of person, fond of animals beyond reason and practicality. Not that Harry knows any other people like that, but he’s sure they exist. Malfoy can’t be the only one; Harry refuses to accept that.

“I seem to remember you being very kind to my own horse, Hedwig.” In fact, Harry remembers Malfoy spoiling her nearly rotten.

Malfoy looks at him, rigid and cold.

“I wasn’t aware she’s yours,” he says, and for a moment Harry wonders if it would have made a difference. Would Malfoy have treated Hedwig differently had he known her to be Harry’s?

No, he wouldn’t, Harry decides. He might have taken greater care to remain hidden, would have done his best so Harry might never know, but he would not have snubbed a horse for who pays for her food.

“She’s just outside,” Harry offers, immediately questions why. (It’s obvious: he wants to see Malfoy pet his horse again, see him smile and know himself to be the cause.)

“She is?” Malfoy asks, propriety thrown over board for excitement. He strains from his seat on the couch, like he might find a window through which to catch a glimpse. He won’t, Harry bound her to the other side of the house, but it’s heartening to witness his delight.

Then Malfoy coughs, remembers his manners, and settles down. Harry hates to see it.

“Of course she is,” Malfoy chides himself. “How else would you have got here?”

Harry could have walked, for one. He would have, usually, because the distance to Rosings is far from insurmountable, but he came here straight from his attempt to escape his thoughts. He took Hedwig out for a ride not half an hour ago, intent on being gone most of the day. It was no use: his thoughts stayed firmly with Malfoy, and soon Harry found himself sitting opposite the man, nothing to say.

“Do you want to greet her?”

Harry shouldn’t have come. What a stupid thing to offer. Hedwig might be Harry’s pride and joy, and Malfoy might have seemed fond enough once upon a time, but Harry is kidding himself —

“I would love to,” Malfoy says, no trace of pretence in his tone. Nothing but genuine excitement.

Well, it’s better than more silence. Harry leads them out before he has time to question and change his mind, before Malfoy can change his mind.

Hedwig is where he left her, waiting patiently. She perks up as she sees Harry, thinking they are ready to go and take the day off after all. Harry isn’t sure that’s going to happen anymore, but he can break the news to her later. For now, he has a surprise.

He steps to the side to reveal Malfoy, who followed him eagerly after only a short stop in the kitchen for more apples. Only the best for Hedwig, he had said, and whether it’s Hedwig in particular or if Malfoy would go the extra mile for any horse doesn’t matter. Malfoy looks forward to taking exquisite care of his horse, that’s what matters, and Harry watches as he presents the apple to Hedwig, bowing deeper to her than he does to Petunia.

Which says plenty about his priorities, all of them things Harry shouldn’t approve of but does.

“Back again, my Lady,” he says as he holds out the apple for her to snack.

It’s ridiculous. Malfoy is ridiculous, and Harry smiles as he straightens, as he pets her muzzle and neck, voice too low for Harry to overhear. He sneaks her more treats, too, his pockets a seemingly never ending cornucopia of biscuits. Hedwig accepts them as her due.

“Would you like to come riding with us?” The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he fully understood that that is something he would like, that he still wants to run away from his aunt and cousin and this horrible house, but that he wants to take Malfoy with him.

(He decides not to question this. He knows the answer all too well, and it’s not good for him.)

Malfoy looks up in surprise, as surprised as Harry was when he made his request, his face frozen.

Asking this implies certain intentions, certain interests; Harry is well aware of that. It’s not proper, especially since he has no intention of following through with the implications laid here. Even folly can only carry you so far, after all. But if there is one constant to Malfoy it’s his disregard for propriety and his ability to make Harry want to do the same, his ability to make it seem he could, abandon the rules and run off with Hedwig and the handsome man so far beneath his station it’s insulting.

Malfoy makes him feel like it’s not only possible but very nearly a good idea.

He will be Harry’s doom, one of these days, much as Harry tried to keep him at arm's length.

At least Malfoy has Hedwig's approval, which might not count for anything to anyone else, but means a lot to Harry. She is a good judge of character, his Hedwig.

Malfoy still hasn’t answered his reckless proposal. That out of the two of them it should be Malfoy who is sensible —

“Yes,” Malfoy says, finally, as if the conjunction of himself with any sort of sense is distasteful to him. Nevermind that he can’t possibly have known what Harry was thinking. Because maybe he can; Malfoy is a man of miracles.

“Yes, I should like the exercise.” 

Malfoy is a graceful person. Harry learnt this in dancing with him, but there is a different grace to him now, sitting astride a horse and ever forging on, riding into freedom and nature. He laughs a lot more, unrestrained away from the rules of the dance.

Harry delights in observing him. He embodies what Harry himself feels when riding, embraces what Harry expresses in small smiles. It’s the same wild abundance Harry saw in him before, the same defiance that made him appear muddied in Ron’s parlour when Miss Granger was sick, the same sharp edge that commands his tongue.

While he gives himself completely, nothing held back or covered for politeness, he retains impeccable control over his horse. It’s especially commendable because it’s not his own horse, not the beloved Nimbus he told Harry about. Malfoy exerts himself easily, leading his horse (and Harry, by extension) through the hills and wherever his fancy takes him.

Harry could follow him for hours. He would happily watch all day, watch how easily Malfoy commands his horse, how naturally he moves, how sure he sits. He would listen to his every laugh, the big ones where he throws back his head and closes his eyes, reckless and dangerous and so thrillingly sure of himself. He would listen to the small, surprised ones, would watch the pleased smiles and the praising pats. He would watch how Malfoy’s hair catches the light and how bright his eyes are, his cheeks flushed attractively.

It’s obscene, Malfoy in the throes of joy, and Harry cannot look away. This was the best idea he ever had in his life. 

England stretches before them, green hills rolling and the warm scents of summer carried on a soft breeze. Malfoy appraises it with a pleased concentration, a furrow between his brow that should be at odds with his contentment. It isn’t; Malfoy is a man of contradictions.

Harry wants to ask what he is thinking of. He wants to ask if he likes their journey, if he enjoys getting away as much as Harry does, but one would have to be both blind and stupid not to know the answers to these questions. Harry likes to think he knows Malfoy better than having to ask how to interpret his laughter.

“It’s beautiful,” Malfoy says, awed and breathless. He leans against his horse, petting it absent-minded as he takes in the gravity of this land.

Honestly, this view might be the only reason Harry keeps visiting his aunt. It makes many things beautiful, even as it is responsible for offering them a stage to begin with.

“Such a shame the people should be so horrible,” Malfoy says, and it takes Harry a moment to realise it wasn’t him who spoke, so truly does it reflect his own feelings.

Malfoy looks mortified, looking up from his worship and at Harry as if asking how to take the words back, return himself to meek and amazed. There is no way, of course. However, there is also no need.

Harry smiles, hopes it is as reassuring as he means it.

“Scenic beauty is the foundation of countryside horror,” he says, and Malfoy gapes. He can’t have known how many bitter hours Harry spent on this very hill, cursing the beauty of his prison. Such a beautiful prison that he returns even now, when only the flimsiest of connections pull him back.

Malfoy gapes and Harry contemplates explaining himself, contemplates lying and pretending he never shared this bit of his soul, that he didn’t intend an offering, but then Malfoy smiles.

Malfoy smiles and Harry could never regret being the cause of that.

“Horror, is it?” he asks, and maybe Harry does regret sharing. Malfoy has that glint in his eyes, the same wicked pleasure Ginny takes in prodding and teasing him. He should have remembered how similar the two of them are, should have remembered that giving Malfoy anything would only lead to smirks and amusement.

(He doesn’t mind as much as he should. Perhaps Ginny wore him down. Or it’s the flush on Malfoy’s cheeks, the light in his eyes when he is entertained. Harry doesn’t mind half as much as he should, and he certainly doesn’t remind Malfoy of his place.)

“Do you not agree?” he asks instead, decides for dignity over petty scrabbling.

Malfoy cocks his head, considers him. He does that a lot; what could he possibly read in Harry’s frame that informs his replies to such a degree?

“I do agree,” he finally says, slow. “One might claim the same for Hogwarts: a veil of beauty drawn over the unspeakable.”

Harry doesn’t know Hogwarts enough to judge that assessment. He took great efforts to remain on the pleasant side of that veil, if there is indeed one. (In his experience, veils are everywhere.)

“I suppose so,” he says, in lieu of politely explaining that he didn’t care to look closer at Malfoy’s home.

Malfoy is dissatisfied with that answer. Fair enough—it’s poor, as far as conversation goes; he didn’t give the man anything to continue with.

“How is Weasley?” Malfoy asks, as Harry should have expected. “Does he plan on returning to Hogwarts for the winter?”

Thankfully, Ron has no such plans. Desires in abundance, yes, but no plans. Harry will make sure it remains that way.

“Not that I am aware of,” he says, colder than necessary. He can’t help it: he doesn’t appreciate the reminder that his friend is unhappy, that he himself is unhappy too, when he is far enough away from Malfoy’s dazzling smile to realise.

“He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing,” Harry offers, not exactly a lie.

Malfoy is even less satisfied with that.

“If he means to be but little at the Burrow, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely.” Malfoy says it like a challenge, like he hopes the blunt assessment will shock Harry into realising the truth of the situation. Little does he know, Harry is painfully aware of the situation already.

“I should not be surprised if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.” That’s a lie; Ron is a sentimental and hopeful sort of person—Harry should be very surprised if he were to do the practical thing and cut all ties. Ron is far more likely to hold on to the Burrow, to cradle his hurt close because he fools himself into perceiving some form of chance in it, too.

Malfoy, either sensing the lie or unwilling to further discuss Ron’s suffering, doesn’t answer. Harry is grateful for this, even as it strands them in awkward silence.

“Your friend Mrs Goyle,” he says, because he cannot bear the way Malfoy looks at him. “I trust she is satisfied in her new position.”

From what Harry witnessed, Malfoy’s friend is a viper, so he doesn’t dare speak of happiness. He doesn’t remember if he saw her genuinely smile even once, and he doesn’t want to doubt her ability to do so, but he knows better than to assume. It’s a marriage, at the end of the day, and those are seldom embarked upon for happiness. Satisfaction, however, she might be shrewd enough to secure for herself.

Malfoy considers him again, as if Harry were a completely new person to the last time he bore his seeking gaze. He wishes he knew what Malfoy is looking for when he searches him like this.

“Pansy is quite happy,” he says, temperate and simple. Nothing, in short, that Harry could make answer to.

Nothing except the persistent and inappropriate use of her first name. Harry has become so endeared, however, that he couldn’t bear to call it out. (He also understands; nothing in the world could obscure him from Ginny enough to throw them into politeness.)

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says instead, and he means it. A bit. No point in wishing people unhappiness and misfortune. “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”

Malfoy looks at him as if he hit his head and gone quite stupid. It’s not a flattering expression, but an effective one.

“An easy distance, do you call it?” he asks, incredulous. “It is nearly fifty miles.”

Harry almost laughs to see him so agitated. Malfoy is getting red again, irritation causing the same flush to his cheeks that exercise does, and his eyes are hard with challenge where they hold Harry’s.

“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” He didn’t expect Malfoy, who is young and fond of horses, even if he weren’t headstrong enough to board a carriage on his own, would consider this ‘very far’. Harry moved away further than a mere fifty miles.

Then again, it’s not Malfoy who moved, but his friend. Maybe that makes a difference.

“You are wrong, Mr Potter,” Malfoy declares, so aghast that he forgets all manners. “Pansy is not settled near her family—as family myself, I should be best qualified to judge that.”

Malfoy sniffs, folds his arms across over his chest as if to ward off Harry’s objectively right notions on distance. He also, fatally, looks back over the valley of green; it makes him soften considerably.

Harry doesn’t mention it. A man should be allowed to fall gracelessly in love without witnesses.

“You are greatly attached to Hogwarts,” he says instead, voice soft so as not to disturb him. “I dare say anything beyond the immediate neighbourhood of your own residence appears far.”

Did Malfoy say he travelled much? Harry doesn’t remember, doesn’t know for certain the topic came up at all, but judging by his childlike wonder, Harry would assume Malfoy to not have seen much of the world. It’s surprising—a man as determined and hungry as Malfoy should have grown up half in London! Distance should mean nothing to him.

Moreover, and this might just be Harry, but he met Malfoy’s father. Harry would have expected Malfoy to put distance between the two of them as soon as possible. Looking at him now, Malfoy seems to realise this, too.

“I do not mean to say that one may not be settled too near ones family,” he allows, clearly conflicted in his previous absolutes. “The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. I love Pansy dearly, you see, and thus she could never be near enough.”

Harry suspected as much. He understands, really. He wants to say something reassuring—how to manage the distance, perhaps—but in truth he has nothing to add. Harry has always revelled in space; the longer the distance to his family, the better—the only thing he needs is knowing he’s welcome back, and Ginny wrote him countless letters to that effect when they were small. These days her letters are sharper, calling him back when she deems his absence long enough, but they are no less loving and Harry seldom needs the reminder anymore.

Malfoy, he thought, might be the same. Then again, maybe Malfoy is bound closer to home.

“What about you, Malfoy,” he says, too intimate by far, but must know. “Do you share the same local attachment?”

Malfoy looks at him like he’s stupid. Which is rude but a relief.

“It’s not a local attachment,” he explains, as if Harry should have gathered that by now. “It’s the people I’m attached to, not the scenery. I should not care where we lived, as long as my friends were close.”

A bolt statement. Harry feels insidious hope rising in him, excited at all the wrong prospects.

“So you agree,” he asks, too eager by far. “You would not like to be settled too near Hogwarts?”

Malfoy gives him a strange look. Confused and not amused but also intrigued, Harry would think. It’s a dangerous look, a dangerous question building in that pretty head of his.

Harry shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have brought Malfoy at all.

“Come on then,” he says before Malfoy can make an answer. He briskly turns back towards Hedwig, patiently indulging in the view as Harry dies of mortification. “There is more yet I wanted to show you.” 

Potter is a persistent man.

Draco already knew this because Potter has been persistent in all he has done. Most prominently: sticking to Draco’s thoughts like toffee, clogging everything and making himself obnoxious. Which is how Draco notices the other things Potter does persistently, the sneering snobbery. He would look away and have no opinion whatsoever on the man, if only Potter would let him go.

Which is to say: Draco should like at least one walk in privacy. Is that too much to ask? Draco appreciates Potter showing him some of the landscape, he does, but he can discover the parks just fine on his own. He doesn’t require Potter to spring out of the hedges like a well-dressed bandit, rigidly mannered under the flush and leaves. He always greets, always inquires about Draco’s health, and always understands that Draco is in no mood to talk. He doesn’t understand that Draco is in no mood for company, either. Draco told him he is fond of these gardens, that he can be found here often—how Potter still intrudes on him so very often is beyond him.

There is no explanation, truly, except the obvious: scheming on Potter’s part.

It seems most plausible, yes, though to what end remains elusive. He never said a great deal, nor did Draco give himself the trouble of talking or of listening much. They aren’t walking together as much as coincidentally next to each other. Draco doesn’t need Potter’s company, certainly doesn’t want it, but the more polite refusals Draco offers, the closer Potter follows him. He keeps joining Draco, walking beside him and looking at him strangely.

Why does he do that? Does he expect Draco to invite him out again, another ride out? Frankly, Draco doubts they could fill another day with trivial conversation. Silence on walks is well and good, but it’s a different matter entirely on horseback.

Though he should like to see Hedwig again. The poor girl must be severely under-appreciated, with only Potter to pet and praise her.

Maybe Draco should suggest they ride out again. He considered hiding, should Potter make to join him again, but maybe he should head in the opposite direction, exorcise whatever demon is hounding Potter. If only so Draco may have peace in these gardens once more. Not to help Potter navigate whatever social conundrum he is fighting.

Draco has no sooner decided this than he hears footsteps approaching. Odd; Potter usually is more silent than this, giving Draco little time to duck and hide. And then, the moment Draco decides to give up the running, Potter—but it’s not Potter at all, is it? He’s not as tall, his skin pale, and, most obvious, he’s smiling.

Mr Longbottom walks towards Draco with easy confidence and a charming smile, not sneaking around as his friend is wont to. Though still an invasion of privacy, Draco finds he minds only half so much when confronted with Mr Longbottom instead of Potter.

Besides, he was never under any illusions that he would commence his walk alone.

“Mr Malfoy,” Mr Longbottom calls, exuberant at their meeting. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr Longbottom,” Draco greets, much more demure than usual, but someone ought to balance the candid joy. “I didn’t know you walked these parks.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr Longbottom nods as falls into step besides Draco, joining him more smoothly than Potter managed even after a week of practice. “I made it a habit to tour the park whenever I get the opportunity. They have a fascinating variety of plants and greenery I enjoy exploring. It’s one of my greatest passions, I have to admit.”

“There are far more strange things to admire, I should think.” Draco might not have fallen for the plants himself, but he did grow up surrounded by Auntie Sprout and her flowers—no one could remain indifferent under such influence.

Mr Longbottom looks at Draco like he handed him a great treasure, approving of his interest.

“I quite agree,” he says, smiling brightly once more. “Harry, of course, thinks it’s all a tremendous waste of time. Undignified too, to crouch through nature for the chance to see more of it.”

Mr Longbottom says it in good spirits, smiling, pleased by Potter’s indictment. Fond of his friend’s judgement. Draco cannot understand how anyone could tolerate this. He also finds himself little surprised that Potter has neither patience for growing things, nor appreciation of blooming things.

He says so, perhaps harsher than advisable when walking through the man’s own park.

Mr Longbottom only laughs.

“He’s not that bad,” he says, shrugging off Draco’s scowl like it’s nothing. “I know he seems it, but he’s really not. We are here, aren’t we? And it’s certainly not because he enjoys the presence of his family.”

Somehow, Draco doubts it’s because Mr Longbottom enjoys the park. Potter wouldn’t forbid his friend from engaging in embarrassingly manual hobbies, but he also wouldn’t go out of his way to encourage them, would he? Whatever generosity Mr Longbottom sees in Potter, Draco suspects the man is too kind himself not to see similar virtues in others.

Which begs the question of just what Potter is doing here. If he truly dislikes his family so much—which Draco would understand, possibly the only point they could agree on—then what is he doing visiting them?

“I’m sure Mr Potter is very gracious with his friends,” Draco says, not meaning it but not wanting to upset Mr Longbottom. It seems criminal, to deliberately twist such a natural smile into a frown.

“You might not believe it, Mr Malfoy,” Mr Longbottom says, looking straight through Draco but good-natured still, “but Harry looks after his own. You know Ronald, of course? I understand he bought a house in your neighbourhood.”

“I do know Weasley. Rather well, I should say.” How much does Mr Longbottom know of this particular affair? Learning the details might just bruise the favourable image he has of Potter. Draco isn’t certain yet he wants to do that to him. But he is also still bitter, so he says very dryly, “Mr Potter is uncommonly kind to Mr Weasley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

“You are making fun.” Mr Longbottom smiles as he shakes his head, still not offended. Probably not surprising; you need a thick skin to be friends with Potter. “From what I understand, he saved our Ron from a lifetime of unhappiness just a few weeks short.”

Draco stops.

He knows exactly what this is about.

“Is that so,” he says, harsher than he means but how could he not, knowing how much Hermione suffered?

Mr Longbottom, as yet oblivious to Draco’s sudden shift towards vitriol, only nods pleasantly.

“So it is,” he says, as if discussing the weather. “He congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage.”

Most imprudent—if Draco is ever to see Potter again, he will strangle the man with his bare hands. To have wrecked such catastrophe and be this proud, this smug when faced with the resulting pain.

“Your friends conduct does not suit my feelings,” Draco declares, finally causing Mr Longbottom to stop and realise the situation. “Why was he to be the judge?”

Mr Longbottom considers him carefully, looking Draco up and down and gathering his fury, his disbelief that Potter should have been so cruel—to his dearest friend at that! It’s obvious Draco knows more on the matter than Mr Longbottom does, they both realise this, but Mr Longbottom just nods, calm as he asks his questions.

“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?” He sounds like he might actually listen to Draco’s answer, like he hasn’t already decided that Potter—a gentleman of consequence and fortune, his friend—is correct. Draco likes that about him, he finds, his willingness to see the world as it is, be that small flowers hidden in shrubbery or the ugly face of a man he considers virtuous.

“I do not see what right Mr Potter had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.” Draco could say more, about hateful jealousy and the crippling fear of being alone, but there is no need for that. He made himself quite clear and he is right; unfounded discriminations might cost him his victory.

Not that there is much left to win, Hermione disappointed and Potter nestled into his friend’s ear.

“You presume to know many of the details,” Mr Longbottom says, infuriatingly calm. This is where he ought to recognise the injustice exposed by Draco’s words and hold Potter accountable for his cruelty.

“That may be so,” Draco admits, seething with the both of them but aware that he knows an inordinate amount. If Potter had condemned any other poor soul, Draco should be just as angry though less well-informed. “But I can assure you I am not wrong.”

Mr Longbottom laughs, terribly amused by Draco’s attempts to right the world, just a bit. To think that Draco hoped Mr Longbottom would listen!

“You should think so, of course,” Mr Longbottom agrees, in a tone so indulgent and patronising, Draco suddenly understands how he and Potter are friends. “But the truth is that, as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.”

“As it so happens, I know all of the particulars.” Draco has more than the necessary information, but it is of no use if he isn’t credited.

“So you claim, but look at the situation, I implore you! Harry is no wizard, Mr Malfoy; if he was able to break the connection, it is not to be supposed that there was much affection.” Mr Longbottom says this so simply, so matter-of-factly and cold, that Draco flinches. No affection. He would not speak so if he had seen Weasley and Hermione together for even just a moment—no one could deny their love.

“You are wrong, Mr Longbottom,” Draco says, reaching for the same unaffected tone everyone around him seems so perfectly able to discuss the greatest tragedies in. “You are grievously wrong, but I can see that I shall not change your mind.”

Mr Longbottom has the gall to look disappointed—did he think Draco would like to stand here and have his honour and judgement questioned until the sun settled behind the hills?

“Maybe you are right,” Mr Longbottom says, voice reconciliatory, “maybe there was affection involved. Indeed, one might hope there was, otherwise it would be a lessening of the honour of my friend’s triumph very sadly.”

Draco gapes at the man, striking yet another wound with unerring confidence.

“I don’t wish to discuss this further,” he says, with all the dignity he can muster. What is wrong with people today? And, more importantly, how quickly can Draco leave before he is forced into more horrible conversations? 

Chapter Text

I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.

That’s what Potter claimed when they were trapped at Rosings, when Mr Longbottom was smiling at Draco so fondly Potter must have worried for his friend’s prospects. Draco hadn’t understood it then, had scoffed at the indulgence of confusing bad manners for incompetence and hiding behind the genuine affliction of timidity.

Draco hadn’t understood it then, but he sees it now. Potter revealed himself when he said that, revealed all the little things he did or didn’t do, all the signs that might be covered up in a sneer when your audience is primed to think of you as such. Draco sees the way Potter cannot remain still, sees the way Potter cannot look at him for any consequence of time, sees the way Potter looks like he wants to flee.

Draco sees it all and, for the first time, he understands it’s his own skin Potter wants to shed, not the distasteful company of those lesser than him.

Although, let’s not declare the man a saint just yet. He could still genuinely not enjoy Draco’s company. Why, then, he insists on seeking him out remains a mystery, but Draco cannot be expected to understand the intricacies of Potter’s mind. He doesn’t wish to, even if he could, because finally he got confirmation that Potter is indeed scum, the lowest of the low; finally, Draco knows for certain that Potter poisoned Weasley’s mind and destroyed both his and Hermione’s happiness for ever.

Potter stands, pushed out of his restless seat by Draco’s unsubtle glare. Good; the man doesn’t deserve to rest, not after his shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict.

“How are you feeling, Mr Malfoy?” Potter asks, fondling a small clock on the mantelpiece and not looking at Draco.

Draco almost tells him the truth. It wouldn’t be so bad, surely, to tell Potter that he is seething with rage? What more could he lose by disabusing Potter of his fanciful notions? What else could Potter take?

“Quite well,” Draco says, and doesn’t ask Potter how he is doing in turn. He has no interest in conversing with Potter any further, ever again, and the sooner the man realises this and gets out of his house, the better.

Potter nods in acknowledgement, distracted and possibly as apathetic towards this conversation as Draco. He flits around the room, pacing like a caged animal, uncomfortable in his fancy clothes. He struggles in them, fusses with the cuffs and constricted by the waistcoat, more regal and dour than usual.

Draco doesn’t have the patience for this. Whatever it is that burdens Potter, he wants no part in it. The man is driving him insane, forcing the most uncomfortable creak into his neck with his pacing, and if Draco has to sit demurely and wait for one more minute, he will —

“In vain I have struggled,” Potter says, once more addressing the mantelpiece, just when Draco was about to get up. He sounds almost angry, glaring at the tiny room and furious with himself, this thing wriggling through his clothes and refusing to settle. “It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed.”

Draco wants to scoff, wants to laugh into Potter’s constipated face. He doesn’t, but only barely.

This entire situation is ludicrous.

Frankly, Draco didn’t know he had feelings to repress. Potter never let on he feels more than constant polite disgruntlement. That, and a deep love for his friends, which he always wore openly. If Potter suppressed anything, either his scorn or his affection, he did it masterfully, for Draco didn’t notice the slightest twitch of it. And Draco made it his utmost priority, for a while there, to understand what moves Potter.

Now Potter is choking on something, hating it and choking, and he came to Draco to relieve himself.

This must be mortifying for proud, imperious Potter.

Potter looks at him, sudden and decided, eyes piercing through Draco and pinning him in place. Reckless, like a man taking a plunge, Potter says: “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words hit Draco as a punch. Senseless and brutal, everything around them fallen quiet.

Potter does what?

Draco… he doesn’t know what to do with that. He can’t believe it, obviously, even as the fuzzy warmth of such compliments spreads through him. The proud and brazen Mr Potter, on his knees, confessing his love for Draco, who has neither name nor money to speak of.

It’s a heady thing, isn’t it?

Shame Potter is a hateful, cruel man who destroyed everything good in Draco’s life.

Surely he cannot mean it?

Draco stares, colours, doubts, and is silent.

Can’t Potter take it back?

How is Draco to answer?

Silence seems adequate, for this Potter considers sufficient encouragement. He goes on, eyes fixed on Draco as if taking courage in his shock.

“In declaring myself thus, I am fully aware that I will be going expressly against the wishes of my family, my friends, and I hardly need add, my own better judgement.” For a moment, Potter looks thoroughly disgusted with himself, exasperated sneer in full force.

Impressive, if it wasn’t so offensive.

Draco feels like he can’t quite breathe.

“The relative situations of our families is such that any alliance between us must be regarded as a highly reprehensible connection,” Potter explains, like Draco might have missed that tiny detail, like finally stating it aloud might save them both, screw Potter’s head back on right. Like they might be very stupid, the both of them. “Indeed, as a rational man, I cannot but regard it as such myself. But it cannot be helped.”

He is really going to do it, isn’t he? Draco isn’t hallucinating?

He’s not. He wishes he was, wishes he had hit his head somewhere, a fever dream, but Potter looks at him, green eyes steady and cold, keeping him prisoner to this confession.

Potter is breathing hard. It’s of no consequence, just one oddity more, to see such a proud and composed man ruffled.

Draco wishes he would stop, wishes he would leave.

Potter, ever contrarian, does not.

“Almost from the very earliest moments of our acquaintance, I have come to feel for you a passionate admiration and regard which despite all my struggles has overcome every rational objection, and I beg you most fervently to relieve my suffering and consent to be my husband.”

In a moment, Potter stands before him bared, open and vulnerable and feelings exposed that Draco didn’t think him capable of. His eyes are wide, shocked and breathless and full of hope, begging Draco that he might release them both.

Draco will.

Potter has said enough.

Draco will pull himself together, will get over the racing-heart panic of this moment and end this. Finally end this.

(He feels nauseous, feels like throwing up and feigning a polite head-ache, feels like crawling into the depths of this house to never again emerge.)

“In such cases as these, I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation,” Draco says, still somewhat faint, not conscious of the words coming from his mouth. He is meant to agree, to be grateful and happy and pleased. Potter expects this of him, for all his nerves and trembling bluster, he expects Draco to do his bidding. “But I cannot.”

Potter doesn’t falter, staring at Draco with all the self-assurance in the world, like Draco might just be ungracious in chaining himself to him. It should make him furious, how Potter treats him. (And it does, somewhere under the numb horror of this happening again, of the second proposal that makes him despair.)

Potter stares at him, unmoved as he robs Draco’s future—no one gets three proposals, not even for true love—and Draco cannot stand this man. He cannot stand how Potter thinks himself better, how he must always know all and the entire world evolves around him, how he is incapable of admitting fault even when it spits him in the face. He stands here, in his fine clothes that Draco knows, in the hidden fun sown into them, into him, and he tells Draco that he stole his love, that he can’t explain how it happened much less stop it, that he would if he could and that he doesn’t recognise himself, that he doesn’t like it but that he wants Draco for himself, tugged against his heart like the secret necklaces he wears.

Potter stares at him and expects Draco to rejoice in being desired beyond reason and control, when all Draco ever wanted was to be loved. For who he is, not in spite of it.

Would Potter ever even condescend to visiting his parents? He would not, Draco knows he would not. and he would make it sound the most logical thing on earth.

Words, suddenly, come quite easy to Draco.

“I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to cause pain to anyone, but it was most unconsciously done, and I hope will be of short duration.” Just one more thing Potter can hate him for—it shouldn’t take long to abandon this ridiculous idea.

(Maybe then Draco can return home. Maybe he can finally leave.)

Potter stares at him still, face unmoved but posture gone rigid. He understands what is happening, that Draco rejects him and his money, understands it with no less resentment than surprise.

It hits him hard, Draco can see that. He visibly struggles, face breaking around the void anticipation he carried before, twisting it into something unkind. Potter looks at him and he struggles as he understands what Draco is saying, that he refuses, wrangling with himself and his pride and his expectations, pulling it back into some form of composure.

He won’t open his lips before he can do so without exposing more emotions, Draco is sure of it.

(The wait wrecks his nerves, pulls them taunt and strains, uncomfortable and questioning, questioning everything. It makes him twitchy, makes him want to move, to get up and pace and shake Potter, perhaps, but Draco is frozen in his chair. Here he sat when Potter confessed his admiration and here he shall sit forever, never full recovered from the intensity of Potter’s plea.)

Finally, mercifully, Potter turns away, glaring at the mantelpiece like it alone is to blame.

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!” he tells the wood, voice straining over the growl of it. He clenches his hands tightly, barely in control as he turns back around to face Draco. “I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected.”

Oh, that is rich! Draco doesn’t feel bad at all, enlightening Potter about his flaws.

He almost laughs, hysterical in this most suppressed of fights.

“I might as well inquire why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character.” Truly, it was the most obnoxious declarations of feelings to ever pass in history. War begins kinder than this! “Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?”

Potter doesn’t make answer to this. He looks like he should like to bare his teeth, like he would like to hiss and curse, but Draco found his equilibrium now. He found his footing, knows what he has to say, and he will not stop over meaningless sensibilities. He made the chair his throne, and Potter made himself a supplicant at his feet.

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. Do you think any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved friend?” Speaking of Hermione hurts, even now that they should all have made their peace with the ugly affair. Potter doesn’t even seem to recognise the crime. “Can you deny that you have done it?”

The reminder seems to settle something in Potter, and he grows cold as he sneers at Draco.

“I have no wish to deny it. I did everything in my power to separate my friend from yours, and I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.” Potter looks at him as if daring Draco to protest, demanding he prove himself the low thing that ensnared his affections against any right or justice.

Well, in this one instance, Draco might happily oblige. He has been wanting to spit at Potter ever since they met; there is no reason for restraint, now that they are abandoning all veneer of politeness. Why hold any punches now?

“But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr Lockhart.” Draco watches with great satisfaction as Potter flinches, finally shamed into looking away. Merciless, Draco digs deeper. “On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

Potter turns around to face him, eyes blazing with unprecedented fury. This, then, is what will get him out of Draco’s house.

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” P otter says, anger loud in his tone.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?” Draco, for a moment there, knew his misfortunes—and fortunes, and dreams and jokes and compliments—intimately. Lockhart might have broken his heart, but he doesn’t deserve slander of this kind. Especially not by Potter.

“His misfortunes!” Potter repeats, sneering so hard it might break his face. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

Draco wants to scratch that sneer from his face, wants to never see it again.

“And of your infliction,” he says instead, which has a similar effect. Potter looks at him with shocked fury, the kind long past sneers and affectations of superiority. Potter is a creature made for wrath, Draco can see that now.

“You have reduced him to his present state of poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.” Draco could go on for another hour at least, list the odious things Potter has done and excused as the course of nature, as the only sensible consequence. Draco would go on, but Potter has gone suspiciously still, not listening to a single word more of what Draco is saying.

“And this is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!” Potter looks at him with wide eyes, shocked into accepting this truth, as if there was ever any other way Draco could feel. “My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!”

For a moment, Draco thinks Potter might retreat in dignity. He might realise who he is, now that Draco held up the mirror, might realise the comical request he made of Draco, might release them both—but of course Potter would never do the decent thing. Draco almost forgot, in this display of honest emotion, who he is dealing with.

“But perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything.” Potter has the arrogance to smirk at him, as if he exposed in Draco some hideous sin.

He couldn’t be more wrong, of course. Draco wants to tell him that, wants to tell Potter that he doesn’t know half as much about Draco as he fancies he does, but Potter doesn’t give him the chance to do more than breathe before he continues, cruel in his hurt.

“But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?” Draco stands, like he might defend himself, but Potter only comes closer, speaking with his wicked smirk right over everything Draco might have to say. “To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Potter stands close, close enough to breathe on Draco, leaning in to absorb all of Draco’s response, take in every bit of pain he might have caused.

Draco refuses to give him any. He refuses to cower under Potter’s gaze, refuses to be made small by the force of him. Draco stands tall, because he never let Potter tower over him and he doesn’t intend to start now.

“You are mistaken, Mr Potter, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” Draco holds Potter’s eyes, watches as they startle, like Draco physically slapped him. He presses on while Potter is still close, while he can still see the very movements of his soul. “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Potter steps back, rattled and uncertain, but Draco isn’t done. Draco follows him, pushes him up against the mantelpiece without ever touching him, every piece of menace he can summon in his posture and eyes. Potter will listen to him, and he will understand the kind of man he is, the kind of men they both are.

“From the very beginning, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others.” Potter looks like he might protest, for a moment, but Draco glares and he thinks better of it. “I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever marry.”

They stare at each other, suspended in this moment of shared comprehension, almost touching but not quite, never quite. (Potter’s eyes are indecently green; how did Draco never notice?)

(Why does everything he appreciates have to take the chance and bite him?)

Potter ducks out from under his eyes, moving around Draco quickly and efficiently, stumbling as if wounded but unstoppable all the same.

Not that Draco wants to stop him. Potter can run for the hills, if he wants to.

(It’s just that, for a moment there, their breath was in tandem. For a moment they looked at each other, breathing the same and hearts beating to the same rhythm, and Draco almost didn’t resent the warmth of his body, almost welcomed Potter’s presence, unwavering in the maelstrom he caused in Draco.)

“You have said quite enough,” Potter tells him in his stride, gathering himself as he runs, growing with every step he takes from Draco. Finally, in the doorframe, he stops, turning to look at Draco once more from a safe distance. “I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

And then Potter is gone, leaving Draco cold and alone and breathing hard, confused and satisfied and angry.

(And alone, above all alone.) 

Chapter Text

Be not alarmed, Sir, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were this evening so disgusting to you.

What a miserable opening.

Harry almost scoffs, almost rips apart the letter before it could even form, but there's nothing for it. Malfoy's words haunt him, his sneers and his shock when Harry revealed his heart. Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner, that's what he had said, and Harry is fuming over it still. Harry is many things—he is aware of his faults in excruciating detail—but his manners are the one thing he could always pride himself on.

Always, until Malfoy.

From the very beginning, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. The one thing he could always hold on to, and it was thrown in his face.

To hell with Malfoy, with his sparkling eyes and his frivolous ease and grace. May the devil take him; Harry shall not care.

I had not known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever marry. Harry had known Malfoy would be his doom, hadn't he? He should have done the sensible thing, should have done what he recommended Ron to do and stayed in London, safe from arrogant lovers and their sneers.

Agitated, Harry stands, the beginnings of his letter abandoned. Malfoy will not read it, will he? What good does it explaining himself, defending his manners and decisions to a man whose judgement was made the moment Harry refused to dance with him? Such a vain, fickle creature—Harry can say nothing to redeem himself Malfoy's eyes, and thus nothing shall bring him peace. He could tear out all his hair, could shatter this room with his fury and shame, and Malfoy would but laugh.

And he would be right to. Harry made a fool of himself today, expecting anything but scorn for his honesty. Malfoy has long since been taken in by malicious forces, has he not? Harry himself saw him ensnared by Lockhart, saw him smile and swoon. He had hoped, yes, thought Malfoy might be intelligent enough—he sees now that he was mistaken. In every deeper emotion he wanted to attribute to the man, in every moment of kindness Harry fancied to have witnessed, mistaken in every instance of true connection he imagined between the two of them. Malfoy is exactly as he seems on first appearance, shallow and vapid. Harry has judged him completely wrong, and it breaks his heart.

The abandoned letter taunts him, addressed to a man Harry now realises never existed. Harry had wanted him to, proposed to him, but there is nothing to the real Malfoy that Harry should like to cherish.

And yet, while Harry might have proposed to a stranger, Malfoy refused a man equally strange to him. The accusation levelled against him could be no further from the truth, at least where they pertain to Lockhart. At least against those, Harry might defend himself. They are not his sins to carry.

Righteous, Harry returns to his task.

I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. But I must be allowed to defend myself against the charges laid at my door. In particular, those relating to Mr Lockhart, which, if true, would, indeed, be grievous; but are wholly without foundation, and which I can only refute by laying before you his connection with my family.

Viciously, Harry marks the end of the sentence. Then he falters.

Why should he bare himself this completely for a man set on scorning him? Malfoy trampled on everything Harry trusted him with—refusing to learn from this past is just stupid. Still, he cannot let this stand, an accusation as vile as the one spoken today. Lockhart has been a liar and a cheat all his life, and Harry has tolerated it long enough; it's time to reveal to Malfoy the true nature of his precious friend. 

Mr Lockhart is the son of a very respectable man who had the management of our family estates, and my own uncle was fond of him, and held him in high esteem.

That doesn't mean much, but Harry refuses to divulge more about himself than absolutely necessary. Suffice to say that Lockhart was better loved at Rosings than Harry. 

After his father's early death, my uncle supported him at school, and afterwards, at Cambridge and hoped he would make the church his profession.

They had both gone to Cambridge, actually, though Harry dearly wishes now he hadn't given in to his uncle's pressure. He should have been much happier, he thinks, had he sought his education some place else. Maybe it would even have kept him away from Lockhart and his seedy business. (Unlikely; Harry is the executioner of his uncles will, after all, and Lockhart is the kind of leech to travel any distance for a few coins.)

He remembers that time well—Lockhart behaving as insupportable as ever, Harry ashamed of their association. It will bring Malfoy no pleasure to learn of it. 

But, by then, Gilderoy Lockhart's habits were as dissolute as his manners were engaging.

Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr Lockhart has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive.

It's almost funny, looking back. Harry did not count the times he found Lockhart in compromising positions, seducing all and everyone who didn't run fast enough. He took delight in making Harry uncomfortable, flaunting his social success in the most depraved manner possible. The vicious propensities, the want of principle none of it unknown to Harry, and yet he never considered it his duty to object, to take action against such atrocities.

Maybe he should have. Maybe he should have objected sooner, should have tried harder to expose Lockhart for what he was, what he still is. Maybe he never could have poisoned Malfoy, had Harry only done what he knew to be right. They might not have believed him, might have chosen to ignore Lockhart's indiscretions because they preferred him over Harry, but Harry should have rid himself of the ugly affair years back. 

My uncle died five years ago.

Harry contemplates elaborating, paying lip service to grief, but there is no point. If this letter is to be a confession, a cleansing of his soul from all the ways Malfoy spit on it, well, lies are the last thing it needs. Malfoy thinks him incapable of feeling already—it won't hurt to be honest. 

And his attachment to Mr Lockhart was, to the last, so steady that he desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it was vacant.

Here Harry falters again, unsure how to proceed. How much detail does Malfoy need to believe him? How much does Harry want to divulge, regardless of what Malfoy might require?

Must Malfoy know Dudley nearly threw a tantrum? That he professed a sudden interest in joining the church himself and an even stronger interest in the very land that was promised to Lockhart? That his aunt was torn between grief and trying to make her horribly spoilt son happy? That Harry resented being there and very much doubted either Dudley or Lockhart would truly do the living justice?

No, Malfoy doesn't need to know any of that. He must realise Lockhart is a cheat and a liar, good for nothing but his looks. He doesn't need to know how Harry felt during all of this. He doesn't need to know how ashamed Harry feels now, how much he wishes he could change the past. Harry knows the exact face Malfoy would make were he to write of regrets, were he to ask for understanding. Malfoy would sneer, no doubt about that, would question his every word and motive, would disregard common sense out of principle.

He would reject Harry all over again, all the harder for how little of himself is there to reject. This is the truth, as objective as Harry can report it, but Malfoy would find all the fault with Harry. He would point at the moments Harry is the most unsure of, would find them without any hesitation and watch Harry squirm under interrogation.

Harry wants to squirm even now, feels hot and shamed even just imagining how Malfoy would treat him. He feels constricted by his clothes, stifled and contained, agitated in the privacy of his own company. No one should have the power to make him feel this way, to make him yearn to write down his sins to be absolved, but Malfoy looms over Harry for months now. He is almost getting used to it.

Harry will not profess to any sins. He will explain himself, yes, will defend himself, but nothing more. He will rid himself of Malfoy, finally, and then he shall be free.

He also loosens his shirt sleeves, tugs his collar far away from the sweaty skin of his neck. Exorcising demons is hard work, and he shall be occupied with it for hours to come. 

Mr Lockhart declined any interest in the church as a career, but requested, and was granted, the sum of 3,000 pounds instead of the living.

There, clean, true, impersonal. Malfoy will find nothing to object to, little as he might like it. Harry nods to himself, satisfied, and continues on. 

He expressed an intention of studying the law. I wished, rather than believed, him to be sincere. All connection between us seemed, now, dissolved.

Harry was quite happy to see him go, truth be told. He only wished he could rid himself of the rest of his relatives as easily, sever all the ties blood imposes and live in the freedom of young gentlemen with money. He would finally be happy, he thought, now that his debts were paid.

Unfortunately, none of his relatives care about propriety unless it suits them. 

But Lockhart's studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. I would not have minded that, would have remained blissfully ignorant, had not Lockhart fallen on hard times again. He appealed to me not three years later, professing to doing very badly and asking to be granted the living he refused. He was interested in the church, he claimed, and I could not possibly have given it to someone else already. You will not blame me, I trust, for refusing those demands, and all repetitions of them.

Lockhart hadn't liked it, but Malfoy is altogether a less spoilt creature than Lockhart. He will see that Harry owed him nothing, at this point, and that Harry did just in refusing him. The only regret Harry holds in that regard is not taking Lockhart and his increasing letters of demand more seriously. 

His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

It's humiliating and infuriating, and Harry should have put a stop to it right then and there. Treachery of that sort is beyond the acceptable, even for quasi-family members you are honour bound to. Especially for quasi-family members you are honour bound to. 

I caught Lockhart trying to steal what I would not grant him. He has grown tired of begging, or maybe he has realised that I would not relent, and chose to forsake the last vestiges of honour remaining to him. I found him in my study, riffling through private correspondence to better imitate my handwriting. He admitted all of this to me, caught red-handed as he was, and affected a decent mask of shame and repentance. He claimed despair, claimed debts he knew not how to pay, claimed that he planned on paying me back before I would even notice. Just how he planned on doing that, he did not divulge.

It's ironic, isn't it? Lockhart is the one who committed the crime, but it's Harry who is ashamed. Ashamed at how easy it was for Lockhart to sneak into his study, ashamed at how little he had expected it. He knew Lockhart to be the unsavoury kind, the sort of man who would take anything above an honest day's work, but Harry didn't think it would affect him on such a personal level. He thought he had washed his hands off Lockhart, and that was all he needed to know.

And then he did the same mistake, in letting him go unreported and without consequence. 

You might not believe me when I say this, Mr Malfoy, but I'm not a cruel man. Neither am I a shrewd one, adept at discerning when I'm being lied to. I have got better at it since, bitter lesson that this was. I believed Lockhart when he swore on all he held dear that he would not sink so low again, that he merely needed starting capital to build himself an honest life.

In all honesty, I paid him more to disappear, than out of sincere belief in his aspirations. A gentleman's word is only as good as the gentleman in question, though, and had I cared to consider the issue, I would have realised it was unconscionable of me to let him go. Lockhart had devolved into a tricking devil, one I had no responsibility for but knowledge of. Knowledge I should have shared.

I do not know how many have suffered by my preserving his reputation.

This is what Harry didn't want to admit to himself, the fault he carries in Lockhart's life of crime. It is the only weapon he has against the devil, but to use it means to defame himself, for what sort of person would witness such corruption and say nothing? 

This, Sir, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with Mr Lockhart.

Chapter Text

Potter appears out of nowhere. Draco has been so rattled by their conversation, he has completely forgotten that he shan't be allowed a single walk without being hounded.

“Mr Malfoy,” Potter greets, and he has the audacity to sound angry at Draco’s presence.

He should like to walk straight past, not to spare Potter a glance, but whatever Potter might think of him and his status, Draco is a gentleman.

As has become habit, Potter decides against doing the polite thing. Instead, he blocks Draco’s path, standing ruffled and out of breath, stiff in a way he hasn’t been before when inserting himself into Draco’s walks. He doesn’t say more, just Draco’s name, staring like he doesn’t know what to do next.

“Mr Potter,” Draco finally relents, out of options and patience. He nods, moves like he might start walking and—if necessary—barrel right into Potter.

This startles Potter out of whatever trance took hold of him.

“Mr Malfoy,” he repeats, nodding as well, and—Draco has had quite enough of this! Here they stand, two grown men who cannot bear each other’s company, carrying on like this!

“I’ve been walking the grove some time in hope of meeting you,” Potter continues before Draco can bid him goodbye (forever, preferably). “I wished to give you this.”

Potter hands Draco a letter, thick and addressed to him in barely legible scratch. Draco takes it without thinking, accepts Potter’s hand heedless of the million reasons to reject the man.

“I had to defend my motivations, and I ask that you read it.” Potter looks at him expectantly, impatiently. Like Draco is supposed to read it right here, right now. Potter shifts, awkwardly, but he doesn’t look away as he adds: “If, in the explanation of my actions I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.”

Out of spite, Draco wants to tear the letter apart. He wants to throw it to the flames, wants nothing to do with Potter ever again.

Out of curiosity, Draco wants to read every last word of it.

In the end, gobsmacked, Draco does neither. He opens the letter instead, breaks the wax seal under Potter’s watchful gaze, and rifles through the pages like they hold answer. 

This, Sir, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with Mr Lockhart. And for its truth, I can appeal to the testimony of Mr Longbottom, who knows every particular of these transactions. I know not under what form of falsehood Mr Lockhart imposed himself on you, but I hope you will acquit me of cruelty towards him.

The words catch Draco’s attention, jumping out at him as he considers how much paper there is of Potter’s soul. They catch his attention and they infuriate him, tip the scale towards outrage and spite, but when Draco looks up again to confront Potter, the coward has disappeared.

There is no trace left of him, nothing but the letter and his claims to innocence. His request that Draco read it and that special brand of anger only Potter can rouse in him. His apology.

Defeated by all these things, Draco settles in to read Potter’s compilation. 

The other charge levelled at me is that, regardless of the sentiments of either party, I detached Mr Weasley from your friend. I have no wish to deny this, nor can I blame myself for any of my actions in this matter.

The words hit Draco like a punch.

He was so wrapped in Potter’s prose, in his anger scrawled plain to see, seductive in the story it tells. Draco didn’t want to trust his account on Lockhart, didn’t want to credit Potter with understanding someone so fundamentally different from him, but he had read the relevant passages multiple times and concluded that he would have to investigate Potter’s accusation. He had been halfway to believing the man, felt like he understood Potter’s tense relationship with his aunt, his love for the Weasley siblings—and then Potter went and gutted him.

Draco was so beguiled by Potter’s tale of theft, he completely forgot that Potter is no better than the man he makes Lockhart out to be. The crime is of different calibre, to be sure, but they are both devoid of moral and human compassion. 

I had not long been in Hogwarts before I saw that Ron admired your friend, but it was not until the dance at the Burrow that I suspected a serious attachment.

Draco remembers that dance, how rapidly Hermione had been utterly charmed again. She had fancied herself recovered after their first meeting, her reason regained and steeled against boyish grins. And then Weasley had bowed and kissed her hand, and Hermione was lost to him once more, following him into a dance. Pansy had said something waspish, Draco is certain of it, but he knew it to be true love.

He also remembers Potter stalking the premises like a scarecrow, glaring at everyone and sneering, never seen unless it was to disapprove. Is that when he decided to separate Weasley and Hermione? Did he see their happiness and felt it indecent, that they should be so gloriously in love when he himself was so utterly unlovable? Was it petty jealousy that ruined his friend? 

His partiality was clear, but, though she received his attentions with pleasure, I did not detect any symptoms of peculiar regard. The serenity of her countenance convinced me that her heart was not likely to be easily touched.

Insufferable presumption! A heart not easily touched—how dare Potter of all people say such an abominable thing! He doesn’t know Hermione, knew her even less that day he decided upon her fate—who does he fancy himself to be, demanding such intimate insight into her soul? Better yet—how else should Hermione have behaved to convince Potter of her regard? What could she have done to be deemed proper but provably in love?

Even had she done all this, displayed her emotions in exactly the right way, would Potter have done anything but accuse her of play acting? Odious man! 

You claimed a great affection on Miss Granger's part, which, though invisible to me, was plain to you. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your friend must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.

Not unreasonable! How gracious! 

Whatever may be the truth, Mr Malfoy, rest assured in one thing: I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it. I believed it on impartial conviction.

Draco stuffs the letter into his pocket. He can bear it no longer. He can almost see Potter’s sneer, his haughty face set into familiar disdain. How very impartial he was in his judgement! Potter’s opinion was decided before he so much as set foot in Hogwarts, Draco is certain of it.

Hateful, vile man! Draco cannot stand him.

The letter weighs heavy in his pocket, burning against his side. Even knowing that every word written there is disgusting and pompous, Draco cannot help but want to know, to consume and examine Potter’s self-satisfied mind. It’s like the flowers Sprout likes so much, devastatingly beautiful but smelling so repugnant it draws you back in again and again, just to confirm it was truly that bad. Because surely it could not be! (It is, it always is, and yet Draco opens Potters letter again.)

My love stricken friend was more certain of Miss Granger's feelings than I; he believed his own affection returned, with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Ron has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hogwarts, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much.

Truly, how could Potter blame himself for destroying Hermione's every hope of happiness! Draco scoffs, bitter and angry and hating Potter with a burning passion. He did not think it possible to hate this much, but Potter is an expert in the art; if anyone can evoke such things in Draco, it would be Potter. 

There is but one part of my conduct in the affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction.

Draco scoffs again. He is tired of Potter’s sanctimonious drivel, all pride and insolence. He should have burned the letter without reading it, should have forgotten it in some drawer and never have given Potter the satisfaction of indulging his justification of abhorrences.

So, what could Potter have possibly left that he does not reflect with satisfaction?

That is, that I concealed from him your friend’s being in town.

If Potter were here, Draco would punch him. Genuinely, he would, regardless of the consequences. He would shatter his smug face, would make him pay for the suffering he wrecked so coldly. What kind of arrogant, conceited, haughty — 

Perhaps this concealment was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject, I have nothing more to say, and no other apology to offer.

Draco slams the door on his way in. He has no words, no words to express his fury and pain. And Potter made him read this! Potter made him read this smarmy defence accusing those Draco holds dearest, laughing at their suffering and at Draco—hateful, hateful man!

“Draco,” Pansy greets him, appearing out of nowhere and frowning. “You missed your guests.”

Draco didn’t expect guests. He expected to go out and cool his head, to recover from Potter’s devastating revelation (the proposal seems so long ago now, almost normal amids the chaos of scorn and dissatisfaction Draco just read) but Potter could not even grant him that.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco tells her, shorter than she deserves. It’s not Pansy’s fault Potter is incapable of inspiring anything but anger, and yet it’s her who has to suffer for it. Another one of Potter’s specialities. Draco makes an effort to gentle his tone as he says: “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect anyone.”

Pansy doesn’t fully budge, but she does soften her glaring slightly.

“That’s no reason to snap,” she says, because she can’t just let it go. “Potter was here, but he did not stay. He wanted to let you know that he would be leaving. Reassure you, that’s what he said, that he wanted to reassure you he would be absent.”

Draco is so angry with the man, he can’t even rejoice in his departure. Maybe because his actual physical presence is so irrelevant; Draco has Potter in his head. The selfish snake has planted himself there like it’s his right, like Draco’s every thought should belong to him.

“I daresay we shall be able to bear the deprivation.” Draco doesn’t look back as he passes Pansy; he has to close some doors between him and the world.

And then he has to burn a letter. 

Lady Petunia takes the parting of Potter and Mr Longbottom badly. She sits despondent and bored, as slummed as rigid posture will allow. Oh—what is the sense of living when the dashing party has left?

“I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do,” Lady Petunia says, bringing her hand up to her forehead like that might alleviate anything.

Draco has a hard time not laughing outright. Pansy keeps shooting him warning glances, mouth pinched, for if Draco starts laughing, she will laugh, and Her Ladyship is sensitive on these matters. Goyle, meanwhile, looks like he might suggest taking a horse and fetching the wayward gentlemen, if only he could think of this perfect solution to his hero's suffering. (Draco might have to tell him himself; Goyle is not likely to be clever on his own, and Draco should dearly like to see the chaos.)

The prodigal son doesn’t notice any of this, too busy indulging in his own boredom.

“But I am particularly attached to these young men,” Lady Petunia goes on, still languishing, “and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. Dear Mr Longbottom rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Harry seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”

Draco really does laugh now. He can’t help it—the notion that Potter should feel any attachment to these people, as cold and dead as their marble and gold, is preposterous. Potter was more than glad to get away, Draco should think, and it’s only due in parts to their ugly fight.

Draco laughs, days of pent up frustration and confusion bursting out of him, and it’s only with Pansy’s foot sharply on his that he manages to disguise it as coughs. He shakes as everyone in the room stares at him, Pansy fawning to block their view—they are creating quite the scene, aren’t they?

Maybe Draco could be more mortified, properly mortified, if he wasn’t so confused about everything, why he was feeling these things and why he was expressing them now of all times.

“Mr Malfoy,” Lady Petunia says sharply, a command. Draco is to be either quiet or more entertaining in his suffering.

Draco decides that he would rather remain silent than polite, but it’s too late for such restraint.

“You will be leaving us soon as well, I imagine,” Lady Petunia declares. Draco is, very politely, being asked to pack his things and go. Luckily, he had no plans of staying any longer than necessary, now that Potter has gone. If he had his way, he would take his things, take Pansy, and they would never return.

Sadly, Draco doesn’t get his way a lot.

“Indeed I am,” he answers, as noncommittal as possible when you are being insulted and denied. “I shall leave the very next morning.”

Pansy makes a choked little sound next to him; she didn’t realise he would be leaving so soon. Maybe he can abduct her after all, return her home to her friends and family.

Lady Petunia nods, bored already.

“Where shall you change horses?” she asks and then, before Draco has the chance to answer her, continues, “Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.”

Draco bravely doesn’t point out that he would be attended to either way, that this is the nature of their business, and that he has no intention of acknowledging that he knows her at all. Some associations you just don’t want. Lady Petunia, ignorant of how little patience Draco has left for her, prattles on about her experiences travelling, about what a shame it is she can’t do it as much, her son’s health being imperious to her pleasures.

It’s a typical evening, extraordinary only in Potter’s absence and Draco’s determination to leave as soon as possible. Maybe it’s the latter that makes the company unbearable—Goyle's fawning exaggerated, Her Ladyships opinions grating, Pansy's trapped state painful. Draco never wanted to leave a place quite this badly, never wished quite so keenly for his loyal Nimbus to appear and take him away. That would give them something to talk about, the madman abandoning a perfectly polite tea atop a wild horse!

But Lady Petunia is talking, still, Goyle nodding and agreeing and applauding her every question, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention is necessary. Perhaps that is for the best: Draco has plenty that plagues his mind, questions and morals that he would return to otherwise, turn over again and again, like repeated inspection might change their facts. It does no good to dwell on these things, and yet not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which he might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.

Potter continues to haunt him, even when he is gone.

How Draco hates him. 

Chapter Text

Draco should have stolen away in the dark of night. What did he expect to gain from doing the socially acceptable thing and letting his host know when he would depart?

“The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you.”

Goyle won’t let go of his hand, clutching at Draco like he intends to physically retain him.

“We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Privet Drive extremely dull to a young gentleman like yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly.”

Draco has never known how to handle Goyle at his most exuberant.

He just nods, allows his hand to be held, assures him that of the many things he felt while under his roof, boredom was not one.

Where is Pansy?

“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Privet Drive visit cannot have been entirely irksome.” Goyle winks at him, still shaking his hand—Draco is going to leave without saying goodbye to Pansy, if necessary.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can bear this.

“Very kind,” he says, voice strained, not subtle in his discomfort anymore, but Goyle is talking about Lady Petunia again, about her condescension and good taste.

“You shall have only nice things to report,” Goyle declares proudly.

He is still holding Draco’s hand; Draco might have to resign himself to staying.

“I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear friend, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Pansy and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other. Indeed, it is most extraordinary, the way we fit—”

“Pansy!” Draco shouts, rude and undignified, but he panicked. Whatever Goyle has to say about their union, Draco does not wish to hear it. He pulls his hand back, fleeing from the besotted fool and his hazy grin, his rosy delusions.

“Pansy, I’m leaving,” Draco calls again, because he cannot remain a moment longer. He cannot bear this ridiculousness any more, these people who talk too much and think too little, who are so impressed with themselves and so terribly bored in it.

Goyle stares at him, flabbergasted. Astonished by Draco’s sudden haste, perhaps, the eagerness with which Draco resigns himself to leaving his beloved Lady Petunia. Or the volume Draco dares raise, the violence with which he moves after standing still and allowing his hand to be shaken for an hour. Frankly, Draco does not care what the man thinks of him, as long as Pansy would only finally —

“Draco,” Pansy says, calm through his frantic pacing. Draco doesn’t spare Goyle another glance as he rushes to hug her. She welcomes him with open arms, pulls him even closer against herself.

“I hear you are leaving me,” she says against him, not pulling away to speak. Hiding, so that she doesn’t have to school her face into whatever expression is expected of her.

“I would take you with me,” Draco promises, because he would love nothing more, “if I thought you would let me.”

Pansy squeezes him tightly, laughing against him.

“My hero,” she says, but it’s not as mocking as she wants it to be. She would love to come with him, as much as she has arranged herself here. If only they could turn back time, return to that murky phase between childhood and adulthood, when there were balls and laughter and nothing to be done but enjoy the world. Responsibilities are a most dreadful affair.

Draco extracts himself just enough so that he can cradle her face, make her look at him. She looks the same as she did before she married, when they were arguing over what shall become of them, when they would dance entire nights away and sleep curled around each other like children. She looks the same as she always has and it’s a cruel trick that she is not, that she needs to stay here.

“Are you happy, my dear?” Draco asked her before, saw it for himself these past weeks, but he is about to leave. She will be alone then, alone with Goyle and the stuffy personalities of Rosings. Draco needs her to reassure him again, needs her to promise that she will be alright. “Answer me honestly, now, no pleasant little half-truths to spare me.”

Goyle is squawking something behind him, a continuation of his monologue on how perfect a couple they make, but Draco doesn’t listen to him. He heard Goyle's opinion, saw how he adores Pansy—there is no doubt in Draco’s mind that Goyle is the happiest he has ever been. All the same, he would not hesitate a second to take her away if Pansy so much as hinted at wishing it so.

Pansy looks at him, holds his eyes steady as she considers her answer. It takes all Draco’s restraint not to interpret that negatively, not to throw her onto his horse and kidnap her. A few months and one wedding ago, he would have. He would have declared Pansy’s lack of burning passion and easy answers unacceptable and they would have fought bitterly, Draco oblivious to his arrogance.

He learnt better, so he waits her out.

“I shall be content,” Pansy answers at long last. It’s not the glorious future Draco had hoped for, but maybe constant happiness is too much to demand from even the most romantic of fairy tales.

Draco will have to have faith that ‘content’ is enough.

He will have to have faith in Pansy.

“Goodness me,” Goyle exclaims, interrupting their moment before Draco has the strength to let her go. “You didn’t give us a message for the Lady Petunia!”

Suddenly, leaving is remarkably easy.

Draco pulls Pansy close again, hugs her one last time, brief and firm, and drops a kiss goodbye on her forehead. It’s highly improper and Goyle protests in his stuffy manner, but Pansy looks greatly reassured. Draco will be back, and they shall only become tighter friends over their geographical distance.

“I’ll write to you daily,” he promises as he lets her go, and Pansy laughs at him.

“Don’t,” she says, though she wouldn’t terribly mind. “I do have other things in my life.”

“But none of them as charming.” Draco grins at her, grins even more as Goyle splutters.

For a moment, he contemplates threatening Goyle, reminding him to take good care of his dear friend. He decides against it, in the end, because it’s clearly not necessary. Goyle adores the ground Pansy walks on, and Pansy is more than capable of looking out for herself.

“Goyle,” he says instead, “thank you for your hospitality. Please give Lady Petunia whatever message you deem best.”

And then Draco climbs his horse, taps his hat, and leaves them.

It’s good he came, but it’s time he left.

Chapter Text

There is no peace to be found. Home is no reprieve, and the world does not relent.

“So,” Lucius Malfoy starts again, gaze far too intense on his tea, pointedly not looking at his son. “I hear dear Lockhart is not to marry after all.”

Draco heard much the same. In fact, he heard little else on his way back. You’d think gossip can’t reach you on horseback, flying through the world on hidden paths, but even Nimbus needs the occasional break, and people talk once you stand still long enough.

It’s honestly surprising how long Father could restrain himself. Draco half expected to be accosted atop Nimbus!

“So it would appear,” Draco replies, pretending to be deeply engaged with his book. In truth, he does not remember the title, could be holding it the wrong way up for all the attention he spares it.

Lockhart is not going to marry, and Draco doesn’t know how he should feel about this. He yearns to know what Hermione might think, what Pansy might say, but both his trusted friends are far from him. By the time their counsel can reach him, Draco will have had to face the man.

Should he embrace Lockhart like an old friend? He is a friend, a very dear one, and though Potter’s account forced a confusing aspect to his character, Draco’s heart flutters at the prospect of seeing him again. The very same heart Lockhart broke in callous fashion.

How can Draco face him? He will have to say something proper, something consoling about his failed engagement, something reassuring about Draco’s own emotional state. He shall have to be polite.

But how can they go back to the easy rapport they had before? How can Draco act ignorant of what Potter told him, impervious to the hurt Lockhart dealt?

Oh, where are his friends when he needs them most?

“Tell me, son.”

Draco does. He tells Father about the accusations Potter made, fantastical and without proof, and how they will not stop preying on Draco’s mind. He tells him about the doubt Potter planted in him, about his dread to face Lockhart now, his incredible helplessness at knowing nothing at all.

He tells Father about Potter’s brooding looks, but he doesn’t lose a single word about his confession. He speaks of Lady Petunia, but doesn’t mention how much Potter detested her, too. He introduces Mr Longbottom but doesn’t repeat what he told Draco, how proudly Potter destroyed Hermione's happiness.

Draco tells him everything and he tells him nothing, and his father listens patiently.

“Well,” he says, once Draco finally stills. “This is quite different from the stories you told when you left.”

“Exactly!” Draco nods vigorously, relieved to be understood at long last. “I don’t know what to credit anymore. Can I believe a single word Potter says? Is a man who doesn’t dance to be trusted?”

Father laughs, breaking the careful calm he maintained while Draco spilt himself.

“Indeed, I don’t see how he could be,” Father agrees. Draco should be pleased by this.

“But why would he lie?”

This, crucially, is what doesn’t let Draco rest. Potter might profess to all the love he fancies himself capable of, but what does he care about Draco’s opinion? Why bother lying to impress the poor and plebeian? He wrote with such earnest fervour, such conviction—Draco cannot imagine it should have been fiction.

Potter might be despicable as only the privileged can afford, but such foulness is beyond even him. How many more lives could Potter want to ruin?

Potter can’t have lied; it’s too cruel to contemplate.

Unfortunately, that leaves the brunt of the fault with Lockhart.

“A misunderstanding, perhaps,” Father offers, though he sounds far from certain.

Draco understands; he went through these selfsame thoughts. Still, it makes him smile, how Father tries. Draco didn’t expect such tact.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he says, dejected. “There is just enough merit between them to make one good sort of man.”

Draco is inclined to believe it’s Potter.

Draco thought himself so very clever, to have seen through Potter’s money and social standing to his rotten soul. That he should have been so grievously mistaken is shocking; embarrassing, even. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind—yes, Draco thought himself clever indeed.

And yet it appears he was wrong.

It appears one has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it. For how else could Potter have won the loyalty of such kind people? Of Longbottom and Weasley, who might both be quick to trust and offer hands in friendship, but neither of them struck Draco as foolish, as liable to suffer liars. Certainly not Ginny, who refuses to suffer anything at all.

Yes, it would seem Draco was mistaken in his judgement. Potter might, just might be a somewhat decent man.

Damn it all.

“Well,” Father says, awkward in Draco’s renewed heartbreak. He pats Draco’s knee, searches for something proper to say. “Well, I never liked him.”

It’s so unexpected, so blatantly false, it makes Draco laugh. A weak, trembling sound, but maybe his first real joy since reading Potter’s cursed confession.

“Never, huh?” he asks, and Father smiles at him.

“Never,” he confirms. “He was too charming by far.”

“You might have warned me, in that case.”

“I could have,” Father agrees, his hand still on Draco’s knee, holding him firmly. “But you would not have believed me. Such is the arrogance of youth—you think yourself beyond the lessons of your elders, the world so dramatically altered that our experiences could not be the same. You never believe me.”

Dramatic to a fault (and extra dramatic to cheer Draco up) Father drapes himself over the back of the couch like a wounded swan, dying from insulted pride. Normally, this would indicate a level of funk only Auntie Sprout could coax his father out of, patiently listening to all the wrongs the world committed against him since their last confession.

This one, Draco thinks, he can handle on his own.

“You are right, of course,” Draco agrees, mock serious. Father peeks up at him from behind his hand, faintly held to his forehead. “Your wisdom might have saved us much heartache. We should have appreciated that much sooner.”

“Indeed,” he says, almost vindicated enough to recover into proper posture. “It is not too late, however.”

“Oh?” Draco asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly where this is going. (He’s not altogether certain he wants to go there.)

“Well for you it is; you are beyond help.” Father winks at him, charmingly ignoring Draco’s protest. “But Hermione always had more sense than you, and her heart might be spared yet.”

Depressingly, Draco doesn’t think so. Hermione’s heart has been well and truly broken, his poor friend still waiting in London for Weasley to get his act together. A future Draco now knows to be virtually impossible—Potter has his claws too deep for Weasley to even see his manipulations for what they are.

In fact, Draco should bring her home. He never should have let her go alone in the first place. She is with her aunt and uncle, of course, but they are family in name only. They are no real comfort, and not adequate for any longer amount of time.

Father, unaware of the practical turn his thoughts have taken, prattles on about the fragility of young hearts.

“You see, Mr Weasley is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. He shall not come back to the Emerald Wilds Estate any time soon, everyone says so, and for my part I’m glad of it. Nobody wants him to come; though I shall always say that he used the girl extremely ill; and, if I was her, I would not have put up with it.”

Draco has nothing to say to that. He doesn’t think it’s terribly funny anymore, this charade of callous uncaring. It’s not funny, because Hermione isn’t here to put on a brave face for them, isn’t here to make affronted noises at being discussed like livestock. Hermione is in London, rejected and alone.

It’s unbearable to even think about, and no sooner has this occurred to Draco than he decided to rescue her. They have all put up with enough concerning Potter and his ilk. He will not let them hurt any of them more than they already have.

“Well, my comfort is, I am sure Hermione will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

“No one is going to die,” Draco interjects, too serious. He can’t help it—he is going to rescue his friend; his mind is made up.

He gets up, ill prepared for a journey to London but too driven to acknowledge that. He will sort it out once he got there, everything trivial that isn’t Hermione's comfort.

“Where are you going?” Father asks, startled by his sudden determination.

“London,” Draco answers, half out of the door already. “To get my friend.”

“But she’s not in London!” Father cries behind him, and Draco stops. Not in London? “She came back a few days ago, jilted and determined to act uncaring. She hasn’t left the library since.”

The library? That does sound like her, of course, but why would no one mention this to Draco? Why would Hermione not mention this? She should have written him the moment she decided to leave London—better yet, the moment she realised she would not be allowed to meet Weasley!

“The library?” he confirms, his father nodding, and then Draco is off, rushing to inquire after his friend. 

The library is very much Hermione's. Not officially, of course—officially, the library belongs to everyone—but in all the ways that matter. No one knows the content and itinerary their humble library has to offer better, and no one takes better care of its books. It’s due in no small part to Hermione's devoted patronage that the library reached the size it has today, many books specially ordered for her sake and whole new topics introduced on her fancy.

In short: the library belongs to Hermione. It is thus no surprise that she should retreat there, disappointed with the world outside her refuge. This is the risk in opening to other people, and the more vulnerable you make yourself, the deeper you have to run to hide.

Hermione, who was willing to marry Weasley after knowing him a bare few hours, so taken with his goodness and charm, has buried herself deep indeed.

“’Mione?” Draco calls, unsure as ever in the dimly lit bowels of the beast. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate books and learning, though not as studious as Hermione—and really, who is? It’s just that this is her space, where she comes to be alone and at peace and not be found.

It feels insensitive, to call upon her here.

“Are you there, Hermione?”

Draco would have brought food, something sweet and small to coax her out, but Hermione disapproves of food too close to her books. She tolerates water, barely, but that’s not much of a bribe. Draco will have to dig her out with determination and forced cheer, no pleasantries to distract from their misery.

It’s a shame, but Hermione cherishes her practicality.

“In here,” she calls, reluctant.

Draco forces a smile and takes a right, following Hermione's voice.

He finds her exactly as he pictured he would, hunched over some tome she pretends to be invested in, unkempt and barely presentable. It would not surprise him to learn she slept here, to learn she hasn't left the library for longer than it takes to sneak food from the kitchens. Or maybe she planned on staying, maybe she brought a basket and bent her rules and lived of picnic like meals between heavy piles. She has that look about her, a feral air.

“Hermione,” he greets her, smiling over his concern and spreading his arms to embrace her.

The hurt thing that used to be his friend allows this, though she doesn’t return she gesture. She sits limply and lets herself be held, like she is the one indulging Draco. (She might very well be. In many ways, Draco is a hurt thing, too.)

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asks, her voice rough with disuse. It’s not clear whether she means her library or Hogwarts. It’s also not clear whether she particularly cares about his motivations or wants him to leave.

This is what she has always been like, when she feels more than she knows how to control and wants to be alone with it. Usually Pansy would be here to ensure she gets her space, to keep Draco distracted and away until Hermione had more time to compose herself. Draco thought that silly and unnecessary—bad behaviour from a friend, even—but looking at Hermione scowling and almost hostile, he wonders if Pansy wasn’t right.

Yet another thing forever changed with her marriage. They will have to reconfigure all their relationships, stretch themselves to bridge the space Pansy used to fill.

“I came to look after you, silly.” Draco does his best to smile at her, to ignore the sudden chasm in his chest, the sudden worry that, by coming here, he did more harm than good.

Should he have left her alone? Should he have interpreted her silence as a request for space? Maybe, but he is here now, and Hermione didn’t ask him to leave.

“I heard about London.” That’s as much as Draco wants to say, as much delicacy as he is capable of.

It’s not enough. Hermione slumps in on herself even further, dismissing him.

Maybe Draco shouldn’t have come, but to leave now would be to make it worse.

“Listen,” he starts, unsure how much to divulge about Potter and his sick scheming, but Hermione interrupts him.

“It’s fine,” she claims, not looking at him. “I never expected him to rejoice at my presence, and though he was shockingly rude, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

Well, that’s debatable. And a flat out lie—Hermione did expect Weasley to rejoice, in some hopeful part of her heart. They all expected him to welcome her, because none of them could predict the scope of Potter’s meddling.

Draco decides not to bring that up. Hermione’s hands are clenched to fists and she’s clearly holding her tongue against more bitter thoughts—this is no time to fight over the details. Draco doesn’t have the necessary facts to make this a happy story. Maybe, if he had spoken to Weasley himself, if he had even seen the man—but this is madness. Potter made sure of that.

“He used you ill,” Draco settles on, because whatever else might be the truth, this is as well.

Weasley might love Hermione like she loves him, might be less fortunate in his friends and more cowardly, but none of that absolves him of guilt. He seemed a strong-fast character, a man who knew his own heart, and the impression he gave was one of honour. He led them to believe Hermione would be in good hands with him, in safe, tender hands, and then he dropped her at the slightest persuasion of a wily friend.

Draco cannot forgive him for that, no matter how reasonable Potter claims the action to be. Weasley made certain allusions and gestures towards promises, his behaviour as clear as it can be under propriety, and then he disappeared without a single word. He did plenty of things wrong.

But Hermione doesn’t want to hear that, not right now.

Hermione doesn’t want to hear anything, Draco realises. She wants to sit here, read her books, and pretend to be fine. Until she really is fine and can brave the world again. This, he suddenly sees, is what Pansy used to keep him away from. This is where Hermione picks up the pieces, unobserved and grieving, and then she would come back, the shattered pieces in her hands and composed enough to allow a select few to witness her pain.

Draco doesn’t know how to help with this part. He doesn’t know how to talk about pain, not in any real way.

But Hermione doesn’t need him to talk, does she? And Draco is already here.

“Come here,” he says, and pushes himself onto the chair next to her.

It’s a big chair, and sitting too close is the point.

Hermione, surprised but not unwilling, doesn’t move away. She allows Draco to embrace her again, to wind his arms around her shoulders and pull her close, rest her against his chest.

He doesn’t need to talk. He just needs his friend to know she isn’t alone. He just needs her to know that, even though Weasley might be a no-good coward, she is loved.

Pressed against him, Hermione shudders. She holds him back just as tightly, her arms around his waist and her face hidden against his neck.

“I shall be perfectly content,” she says against him, voice steely with resolve. “I shall not think of him again and when I see him next, I shall treat him like a mere acquaintance. I will be content.”

Draco has every faith in her. Hermione is much stronger than he, and she doesn’t need Weasley to be happy. She was so before and she will be again, Draco will make sure of it.

“I promise you, you will.” Draco presses a kiss to her hair and holds her tighter as she cries. 

“We shall have to content ourselves with Derbyshire.”

An outrageous thing to say. A slap to the face of any plans Draco made, any preparations he took.

Draco, whose business it was to be satisfied, would not be satisfied with that. His uncles had generously offered to take him on a tour around the Lakes, after abandoning him in Rosings. He had quite set his heart on going.

“I don’t see why that should be so,” Draco says, stubborn because something eventually has to go his way, hasn’t it? He hoped Sirius and Remus might oblige there, but now it doesn’t appear that way.

“Afraid that impresses our schedule very little,” Sirius says, grinning and not at all afraid where he is indecently splayed over the settee. He reaches up to accept the tea Father is carrying for him, winking at him. “Thank you, Lucius dear.”

“Dobby is ill,” Father says stiffly, as if it needs stating when usually he wouldn’t be serving tea for anyone. Well, Mother perhaps, but not Sirius.

Sirius accepts this with a gave nod.

Draco has no time for it all. He has a journey to defend!

“I don’t see why you can’t reschedule. You promised we would see the Lakes.” Draco was quite looking forward to that, and he doesn’t think three weeks so very little. They should manage it, if they focus their efforts and decide where they ought to stop.

“Unfortunately, Moony has to work,” Sirius says, pointing at his husband to take over the duty of appeasing Draco.

“I shall simply not go, then. We shall have to postpone.”

This, carefully chosen, is a gambit. Draco has every intention of going, and of going the tour he was promised.

Next to Sirius, Remus grins.

“Oh?”

Chapter Text

Draco’s life is a joke. A most amusing jest.

Who is meant to laugh at it he doesn’t know—Potter—but there is no other interpretation. No sin could be worthy of such punishment, no fate cruel enough to lead him back here.

So, a joke; that’s the only explanation Draco shall accept.

“I don’t understand why you are being so obstinate,” Sirius claims, favouring the beautiful view with nothing but a passing glance.

Draco walks faster, fruitlessly trying to escape. Remus is gone somewhere between the hills, playing with Prongs and avoiding yet another debate on just how unnecessary it would be to call upon Gryffindor.

Draco climbs the hill faster, determined not to have this conversation again.

“If it were merely a fine house richly furnished I should not care about it myself,” Sirius calls behind him. A blatant lie; Sirius loves all things plush and luxurious; nothing better to poke fun at than bad taste. Shameless, Sirius continues, “but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.”

That is unlikely to change Draco’s mind. He has all the woods he could want right here, and he wasn’t allowed to bring Nimbus. He shall be blind to the charms of nature, if that is what it takes to dissuade his foolish uncle from his notions.

Draco walks on. There is nothing else for him to do, determined as he is, not to acknowledge Sirius until he finds a less odious topic.

It’s not that Sirius doesn’t know Gryffindor to be Potter’s residence. Quite the opposite: he admits freely that Potter is among the chief reasons he wants to see the place so badly. Apparently he imagines it might be fun for Draco to see where one of his close acquaintances grew up. Such fun justifies force, until Draco can accept the prospect with the proper awe.

Draco, who never wants to see Potter again, or even hear his name uttered, has long given up trying to explain this. Remus is no help in that regard, long since resigned to his husband’s flights of fancy. He doesn’t see the point in arguing, and so Draco is on his own, his reasons wrapped up in the complicated mess that made him want to avoid the man in the first place.

“Careful where you step,” Sirius calls, the first words out of his mouth today not about Potter and his Castle. “How shall I face your father if you took a fall?”

Mutinously, Draco thinks it would serve him right. Then he doesn’t think at all, because he climbed the hill and the view is breathtaking.

Before him sprawl the rolling greens of Derbyshire, the wind in his hair and endless freedom. If only he had thought to bring Nimbus. He could have ridden away on her, away from his uncle’s constant nagging and Potter’s looming presence, away from his hurt feelings and treacherous heart. He could leave it all behind, urge her on faster and faster, until they would reach a new, better world, where everything is settled and nothing is complicated.

Behind Draco, Sirius finally caught up. He stands at his shoulder, warm and solid, looking out at the plains same as Draco.

Nowhere left to run, here at the top of the world.

“I won’t force you if you truly don’t wish to go,” Sirius murmurs, without looking at Draco. It’s an apology, as much as Sirius ever apologises for being annoying. “But Potter likely won’t be in attendance, and if you like this view, you will love the grounds.”

Draco is so tired of running. He is tired of letting Potter dictate how he shall behave, even if indirectly. How much longer should that odious, complicated man ruin Draco’s life?

Potter isn’t even going to be there.

Besides, Potter has been to Hogwarts. It’s only fair that Draco should see where Potter is from—it’s his turn to sneer.

Around them, the wind howls and coils, blows away all unpleasant thoughts and old aches. The wind tears and sooths until finally, Draco could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that he had not really any dislike to the scheme.

Sirius, never a gracious winner, laughs in triumph, wild and unrestrained as the wind carries it.

“You’ll love it,” he promises, excited. To Gryffindor, therefore, they are to go. If it thrills Sirius this much, far too gleeful for claiming he doesn’t much care about yet another fine house.

He cares too much, actually, even accounting for the joy he takes in gossiping about the tastelessly rich. Suspiciously much, but before Draco can inspect that with any depth, Sirius has picked him up by the waist and twirls him in outrageous joy.

It’s unexpected and undignified, but Sirius’ laughter is infectious and soon Draco is laughing with him, whirled through the air and almost as free as he might be on Nimbus. 

For all his talk of wondrous woods and lovely grounds, Sirius failed to mention their sheer magnitude.

“Shall we get there before the evening?” Draco asks, looking out at the endless trees. The road stretches to either end of their carriage, leading them along unchanging scenery for so long that even Draco’s desire for nature is well-sated.

Across from him, Remus smiles indulgently.

“Patience,” is all he says, speaking either to Draco or Sirius, who has been excitedly fretting since they set off this morning.

Draco is getting the feeling he shouldn’t have agreed. Just then the trees open into the sudden spectacle of an old house, stoutly sitting above a sparkling lake.

That, quite literally, takes Draco’s breath away.

Gryffindor is stately, the proud ancestral home of many generations. Yet it’s not heavy where it sits in the landscape, not imposing as much as casually nestled in, gracefully fitted into the swing of hills and water. Draco has never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.

“And of this place I might have been master,” he thinks somewhat wistfully. He’s careful not to say it, Sirius and Remus experiencing the same awe right next to him as they are, but he does think it. Some deceitful part of his heart is beating faster, imagining a future where Potter is less of an obstinate presence, less formal and proud in his manners.

“Didn’t I tell you, Draco?” Sirius asks, voice hushed but gleeful.

Draco is too busy fantasising to answer, but his answer is plenty clear on his face. Yes, Sirius did tell him and yes, Draco should have been sad to miss this sight.

He can almost imagine Potter here, at ease in his home, laughing freely and smiling when he wants to instead of when it seems appropriate. Would Potter fish the water? Draco can’t see it, but he’s sure the stables aren’t far, sure there are rooms permanently set up inside to welcome his friends. He remembers Ginny talking of his library, remembers Potter’s humility, and he wonders if he might see it, if he might get to judge for himself how seriously Potter takes his duty.

Does he have a billiard room? Or is he not fond of billiards, did he just play it because it offered the most solitude in his friend’s new house?

“One might put up with a lot to be master of such a home, don’t you think?” Remus asks, strangely teasing. How could he have known Draco’s thoughts lend itself that way?

Dignified, Draco doesn’t answer. Handsome as the place is, Draco should not marry Potter even for his riches and properties. He knows the man too well for that.

“Might we go inside?” he asks instead, no mention of Potter, and his uncles agree.

It’s a lucky happenstance indeed that Potter isn’t in residence. 

They haven’t applied to the housekeeper for a tour. This fact makes Draco quite anxious, even as it thrills his companions.

Draco is beginning to question their motivations.

“Quickly, Draco, down here,” Remus gestures to follow him, running through room after room with barely a moment to stop but never aimless. They know where they are going, his mischievous uncles, and Draco doesn’t like it one bit.

“You appear intimately familiar with this place,” Draco says, obediently following through another richly furnished room.

Potter might be fond of class and luxuries, but in regards to his home, Draco is relieved to see with admiration of his taste, that it is neither gaudy nor uselessly fine. Every room they passed was meticulously fitted with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

“Oh, we’ve been here before,” Sirius calls, not needing to look around as he leads them.

“Once or twice,” Remus adds, and winks at Draco.

They very clearly should not be here. Not only was no one informed of their presence, but his uncles are far too familiar with the house for it to be proper. They don’t know Potter, don’t know anyone who should rightfully grant them such close access, and so the only conclusion Draco sees is that they snuck in before. Is that how they usually travel, going where they please and without proper supervision? Surely not! They would have been caught!

On the other hand: they could have picked less deserving places to illegally meander through. Gryffindor holds up remarkably, everything inside as tasteful as the happy situating promised it could be. Every window that possibly could frames the lake, the lush lawn and calm waves. The rooms are perfectly sized, neither too crowded nor too widely stretched, moulded around their master so fittingly that Draco can easily picture him here, sitting at desks and reading books, resting at the fireplace.

He isn’t allowed much time to inspect, Sirius leading them ever onward, but visions of a future flutter past Draco with uncomfortable ease. ‘One would put up with a lot to be master of these rooms,’ Remus had said, and Draco can’t stop imagining it. With these rooms he might have now been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, he might have rejoiced in them as his own, and welcomed to them as visitors his uncles—but that is folly. His uncles would have been lost to him; he should not have been allowed to invite them. That is why they are sneaking past the servants, why they are hiding and rushing.

Potter never would have tolerated Draco’s family.

This is a lucky recollection—it saved him from something like regret.

“Finally,” Sirius exclaims before him, rescuing Draco from his maudlin thoughts. “Draco, look at this.”

Draco is all too happy to oblige.

The object of Sirius’ treasure hunt through the house is clearly intended for public viewing. A small vitrine, holding paintings of Gryffindor and several small portraits, people unknown to Draco but affiliated with the house. And—in place of pride, of course—a picture of Potter.

It’s a kind depiction, flattering on his unforgiving angles, on the sharp line of his nose, the displeased twist to his mouth. In the picture, Potter doesn’t appear affable, nothing as outrageous as that, but he seems at ease. He seems content, posing for someone trusted, almost patient in this silly duty. His face is free of the harsh lines that express his displeasure, softer and younger than Draco ever had the privilege of seeing him. Vulnerable how he looked at Draco only once, and only for a brief time.

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman?” Sirius asks fondly, leaning with Draco over the small picture.

It’s disorienting, the open fondness, but Draco is disoriented by the entire experience. He hasn’t known what to do with himself since Remus told him they wouldn’t need to alert the housekeep, that they would show Draco all he ought to see. Draco has been wrong-footed by every flash vision of Potter, content and comfortable, smiling at Draco like he was expected, even welcome.

And now this. This picture of him, young and kind, his eyes the same green that drew Draco in from the very first. They eclipse everything else, Potter’s eyes, just as they always do. But this time, they aren’t hard in judgement, aren’t closed to Draco for the crime of being poor.

“Yes, very handsome,” Draco agrees, but his voice sounds far-off, not quite his own.

“I am sure I know none so handsome,” Sirius continues, proud and proprietary in the most confusing manner. “But in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.”

And then Draco is led upstairs, strangely detached from his body. He doesn’t understand how he came to be here, wandering through Potter’s home and thinking of the man almost with fondness, considering what their lives might be like, had he accepted the proposal.

Draco only ever wanted to marry for love, true love, but lately love hasn’t been kind to him. It hurt his friends, hurt him, and people like Potter, who Draco thought incapable of such selfless emotion, wander around just fine. Thriving, even, in their refusal of love.

No, Draco doesn’t love Potter, still can’t quite believe that Potter should love him, but he sees how one might live here, happy and in love. He can see how one might make a life, share these rooms and make them the stage of so many of Draco’s childhood dreams.

It’s most unsettling, how closely Draco’s thoughts circle Potter. Not just his home, his taste and elegance, but the man himself. Unsettling, in what an amiable light this places him.

“Tada!” Sirius dramatically makes a full stop and Remus turns Draco toward the promised picture, impossible to miss now that he faces it.

Sirius brought them to a gallery of various paintings, differing in size and subject, but Draco only has eyes for Potter. It’s not the biggest, nothing so gaudy as that, but it is life-size. It portrays Potter with his horse, Hedwig standing patient and obliging while Potter looks at her with adoration, completely impassive towards the artist and their painting.

It’s a strange choice, nothing objectively flattering about Potter’s refusal to grant future onlookers his attention, but the honesty strikes a chord in Draco’s heart. It’s what he knows of the man, all his obstinacy and pride presented in the most favourable light. Potter does not care for superficial niceties, for the strangers that might see his likeness and think him cold. Those who know him, those whose judgement he cares about, can see his contentment in this moment, can see the ease in his posture and the fondness in his face. They know what it means for Potter to give his attention and that he thinks it better spent on a beloved horse than gawking strangers.

It’s inviting, pulling Draco into the picture to Potter’s side, marvelling at his trustworthy companion along with the man himself. Inviting, but only if you have the patience to wait a moment, to truly see the scene and Potter’s intentions.

Draco stands several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation and doesn’t notice his tricking uncles disappearing until they are long gone. Why they would abandon him when it was previously so very important to bring him here Draco couldn’t begin to guess, but he has long since resigned himself to never understanding what motivated this day.

He will simply have to wonder, forever, if today truly happened. It will fade into memory and become hazy, reality blurred around the edges. Before long, Draco will comfortably relegate this experience into the realm of dreams and fiction and never think of Potter or his lovely home ever again. (For once in their lives, his uncles will remember decorum and allow him this escape.)

So it doesn’t matter that Draco finds himself alone, that he has been left to his own devices in a strange house, mocking visions of possible futures waiting around every corner and too many pictures that seem to know a version of Potter Draco never quite trusted his stolen glimpses enough to believe real.

None of it matters, and so Draco leaves Potter in his gentle portrait, leaves him in his tasteful rooms and impressive view. It’s time Draco returns home and starts forgetting.

Singular as Gryffindor is in location and style, the structure thankfully resembles that of other manor houses. Draco finds his way easily, much more straightforward than the twisted and secretive paths Sirius led them on. Draco will return to the carriage, wait politely and properly out on the green, contemplate the lake. It will just be a stately house with beautiful landscape, and soon his uncles will reappear like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

And then they will leave.

Draco steps out into the sun, sad and relieved and too overwhelmed with emotion to make much sense of it, and walks directly into Potter.

So abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight.

It is possible, Draco thinks, muted and far off, that they will have to stay a bit longer.  

Chapter Text

Harry isn’t confident how things took such a downward curve. 

He was fencing, same as every day this week. Eventually, he trusts, he will overcome his irrational feelings with sheer force. Eventually, he will be in control once more. It hasn’t happened yet, so Harry returned home early, meaning to relish in the quite and recapitulate his numerous failures in regard to Malfoy and, possibly, the entirety of the human race. 

Thus far his plans for a miserable evening. Then Sirius pushed him into his own lake and now Malfoy is here, in Harry’s home, staring at him like Harry is not supposed to be here. 

It’s rather confusing, and any progress Harry fancies he made in controlling his mind and heart are shattered. 

“I believe you have met my dear, dear cousin,” Sirius says all silky smooth. He is far too pleased with himself, which at least explains how Malfoy came to stand in Harry’s garden. 

(He didn’t know they were related, can’t decide if that makes things more or less awkward for the both of them to be here, Malfoy shocked and displeased, and Harry—Harry soaking wet, repulsively informal, and rudely silent. As if he could sink any lower in Malfoy’s regard.) 

What should he to do here? As far as Harry knows, this sort of thing never happened to anyone before. There is no precedent, no etiquette to follow and rely on. Should he invite them in? Sirius and Remus are practically family, Malfoy apparently is their actual family—but Harry is in no state to be hosting guests, family or not. Though he can’t send them away; that would be worse. 

On the other hand, he didn’t invite them. They just showed up, presumptuous as always, and Harry would be well within in his rights to request they leave. Grant him time to prepare, to steel himself. Return tomorrow. 

They would, of course, never accept that. 

At length, every idea seems to fail him; and after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollects himself, standing straight and proud like he is not dripping lake water, overwhelmed and flummoxed.  

“Mr Malfoy,” he says, and tries to sound… friendly. Harry can do this, he can advance towards the party, and speak to Malfoy, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. “Such an unexpected pleasure.” 

Malfoy sneers at him, the previous openness gone from his expression. 

This, like nothing else, spurs Harry into motion. 

“We didn’t expect you to be home,” Malfoy claims, gaze repeatedly dropping onto Harry’s state of exposure, before he remembers himself. Determined, it seems, to be polite in the face of Harry’s humiliation. 

Yet he is mistaken if he thinks Sirius and Remus didn’t intend to find him here. Malfoy might not have been privy to their schemes, but Harry knows his Godfather too well to think this an unfortunate accident. 

Before Harry can comment something to that regard—if they are family, surely Malfoy knows they meddle?—Remus smoothly interjects. 

“A fortunate circumstance indeed,” he claims, bland while Sirius cackles. So pleased with himself is he, Harry might get away with returning the favour and reacquainting his favourite uncle with England's best lake. But no, Malfoy would see, and Harry shudders to think how such childish behaviour might tarnish his opinion further. 

Harry should have remained fencing for longer. Not only could this spectacle have been avoided, but he hasn’t conquered anything at all. 

He elects to ignore Sirius and Remus. They are a lost cause, content to watch Harry humiliate himself to flatter Malfoy. They do not require any further attention. Malfoy, however, looks like he’s on the verge of leaving, of simply gathering his things and walking away. Harry envies him, wishes he could follow his lead and they might leave together, but unfortunately this is his house and he is rather fond of it. 

“Mr Malfoy,” he says again, still lost for words he could conceivably address to the man. Finally, awkwardly, he settles on, “Welcome to my home.” 

Which makes Sirius laugh out loud and Malfoy doesn’t respond because it truly was a remarkably stupid thing to say. Harry needs to host guests more often; this is atrocious. 

Still, there is nothing to be done about it. Nothing but to weather it, proudly onward. 

“Please excuse me while I change—I seem to find myself in an unfit state.”

Behind him, Sirius makes a sort of muffled sound. Most likely some cheerful observation to help his memory, smothered at the last second by Remus. Remus can’t always be relied on to tame his husband, but Harry is glad that today he seems aware of the frailty of the situation. 

Malfoy blatantly stares at his shirt, clinging wet and unflattering. 

“Please excuse me,” Harry says again, and then he brushes past Malfoy in his haste to escape. 

With his back turned and the discomfort momentarily avoided, Harry isn’t sure he’ll have the strength to return. (He has plenty of food stocked—he could hide long enough for even Remus to grow bored and leave.) 

Behind him, Malfoy is furiously addressing his uncles. (The connection still shocks Harry—never did it occur to him that Malfoy might already know people so dear and close to him.) 

Harry hastens his step. He doesn’t trust things to remain calm and handled for very long. He doesn’t want to return only to find Malfoy truly gone.

Draco has almost appropriated the coach—or maybe just the horse, he hasn’t quite decided on the details; in either case, Sirius and Remus are sure to be well compensated by their… whatever Potter is to them. 

Draco has almost appropriated his way out of this devilish set up, Sirius trying to physically restrain him while Remus contents himself with reasonable objections he lost all credibility to utter. Clearly, they are both insane. It’s a shame, Draco will miss them dearly, but these things happen. (Especially on Mother’s side of the family.) 

It’s Potter, of course, who ultimately stops him. Odious, selfish man. 

Does he delight in Draco’s embarrassment? No, he seemed as uncomfortable with his presence as Draco himself. There is no possible world where he would want Draco here, not enough to emerge once more still dishevelled, hair roughly dried and clothes haphazard, not at all neat and coordinated like they usually are. (Regrettably, they are dry and appropriate, even if hurriedly chosen.) Potter did not welcome Draco here, and yet he rushed out to see him again, most unwilling to part in the first place. 

“Malfoy,” Potter calls, running out of his handsome house with his hair still halfway wet, pleasantly flushed from his hurry and convincing enough in his desire for Draco to stay. Draco imagines it’s to avoid being alone with the lunatic men trying to force them into polite small talk, a motivation he can’t fault.

No sooner has Draco determined this—that Potter is distracting and his attentions are pleasing though most likely selfish and thus to be discounted—than the man himself has arrived by his side, gently taking Draco’s hands off the coach he meant to climb. 

“Stay,” Potter commands—asks?—his eyes intent and heavy on Draco. He holds Draco’s hands almost tenderly (most inappropriate) and refuses to avert his gaze, beseeching Draco to… to what? 

“Stay,” Potter repeats, squeezing Draco’s captive hands slightly and smiling at him, small and hopeful. 

Draco is unprepared for this. Potter wasn’t supposed to even be here.

“I will show you the grounds, if you permit,” Potter continues, still so serious in his entreaty. “I imagine that is what drew you here.”

“Actually, it was Sirius,” Draco explains, which he hadn’t meant to do but causes Potter to laugh. Draco isn’t skilled enough at lying to himself to pretend he hates that outcome. 

“Of course it was,” Potter murmurs, still holding Draco’s hands and still smiling at him—Draco is going to swoon if they continue on like this. 

“Good thing, too!” Sirius cuts in, smirking at the two of them standing nearly embraced and staring stupidly at each other. 

Draco is never going to hear the end of this. It’s becoming ever clearer that he will have to cut all contact with his mad uncles as soon as he gets home. 

He doesn’t dignify Sirius with a reply—or Potter, for that matter—and firmly takes back his hands. He does, however, leave off the coach. They will return soon enough, and the grounds truly are beautiful. 

“Since we are here already,” Remus says, no longer pretending to be well-adjusted and reasonable, “why don’t you take a walk? Harry can show you the grounds, as suggested, and Sirius and I will stay here and think about what we did.” 

Congratulate themselves he means, everyone understands this. Still, Draco isn’t willing to argue the point—they will not agree, no matter how often Draco explains why both Potter and he have very good, very private reasons for avoiding each other. They think they did something very clever, forcing them together, and Draco would much rather take the offered reprieve than waste his breath trying to explain what they don’t want to hear. 

“Fine,” Draco allows, and Potter’s eyes light up.  

Potter knows his grounds well. Draco expected nothing less from him—he remembers Potter to be an ardent walker, a lover of nature’s beauty—but it’s gratifying to learn the land from someone who knows it. Draco could have discovered them on his own—they are not so ludicrously large that he would have been lost—but then Draco would never have seen Potter’s sentimentality for this land where he grew up.

Potter skirts the details, no more fond of his aunt now than when Draco saw them together, but it is clear Potter left Rosings, where he was raised by his aunt and uncle, as often as possible. He would come here instead. Unannounced and unpretentious, the future lord of the land rented rooms in surrounding villages because the house was closed with no one living there and his time too tied to Rosings to keep it open for himself. 

Potter doesn’t dwell on this, barely explains, but Draco fancies he learnt to understand the man by now. He hears what Potter doesn’t say, hears the pain and longing in Potter’s voice as he points out particular spots, tells Draco how he would spend entire afternoons insolently splayed under trees and avoiding the world. 

His parents died here. 

Potter doesn’t say this out loud, but it doesn’t take a genius to fit the pieces together.

“Sirius is my godfather; I doubt he took the trouble of explaining this before dragging you here. He was meant to raise me, he and Remus, but their lifestyle being what it is, they were judged unfit for the task. Of course, they would have settled down and taken me in, offered me a steady home, but you know them as well as I do. It would have made them violently unhappy to be tied to one place. They were more likely to steal me and take me on the road with them—often they did just that. But I spent enough of my youth at Rosings that my aunt feels I owe them a debt, though not quite enough that she feels secure in my affections. Thus, this ridiculous plan she made, to marry Dudley and me to solidify the bond.”

Draco doesn’t know how to respond to this Potter, who talks freely (too freely) of his life and ambitions. He talks like he has forgotten Draco exists, like he is having his usual thoughts out loud and Draco is privileged, for mysterious reasons, to hear it. 

Draco is not comfortable; that is impossible; but he is flattered and pleased. The entire situation is so thoroughly removed from anything that makes sense that he doesn’t try to understand the mixture. He allows Potter to talk of whatever pleases him, follows his lead through the grounds, and tries not to shave too much against the prolonged silences whenever Potter stops. 

Had Draco known he would see this much of the man after refusing his proposal, he might have taken care to be more polite. Perhaps that would make their current predicament less astonishing. Whenever Potter grows quiet, when he looks startled over at Draco like expecting him to be long gone, the heaviness of the situation comes down once more. 

At such a time much might have been said, and silence is very awkward. Draco wants to talk, but there seems an embargo on every subject. At last he recollects that he had been travelling, and they talk of Matlock and Dovedale with great perseverance. Yet time and his uncles move slowly—and his patience and his ideas were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over.

Chapter Text

Draco can’t say for certain whether they have been invited or whether, once more, his uncles took this task upon themselves, but they dine this evening in Gryffindor. As is proper, since Sirius and Remus are family. Apparently. 

Draco hasn’t processed this reality. It seems so strange, so out of place with everything he knows to be true. Potter showed such disdain for Draco’s relations, such reluctance to even suggest tying himself so lowly—that they should have shared uncles all along is ludicrous. Ludicrous enough that Draco were less surprised should it turn out a clever trick, a joke played on his foolish heart. Draco could sooner believe that proud Mr Potter accepted money to pretend to know—and love—Draco’s scandalous uncles than that they should be actually related.

Yet Potter—hateful, cool Potter—talks with ardent fervour about cherished childhood memories and old friends. He listens intently, glances at Draco every few minutes, and laughs freely.

It’s disconcerting. 

“Mr Malfoy,” Weasley addresses him and Draco turns most gratefully, content to ignore Potter and his mysteries for the moment. “I have to say I am most happy to see you again.” 

Draco didn’t know Weasley would be in attendance, though he is not surprised. Ginny is absent, but perhaps that is best—if it turned out she, too, knew Draco’s family, he could not vouch for what he would do. Strange enough seeing Weasley’s easy rapport with Remus, but seeing Ginny—who Draco knows much better than her brother, who spent all his time fussing over Hermione—take effortless part in the teasing and laughter… Draco might never recover.

This, more even than the Estate and its beckoning visions, makes Draco yearn for the future he might have had. Had he known it could be like this, warm and welcoming to the people he loves, Draco might have reconsidered his refusal. 

But there is nothing for it now. Draco refused and no matter how often Potter glances at him, smiling at one of Sirius’ outrageous claims, he missed his chance. 

Draco smiles at Weasley, determined not to fail his every social grace. Besides, it’s not Weasley’s fault this evening feels surreal. All Draco’s anger against him had been long done away; but had he still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which Weasley expressed himself on seeing him again. 

“How do you do, Mr Weasley,” Draco enquires, only a little forced. Weasley, genial as ever, does not take offence to this and answers with his usual affability, talking of his travels and London. Pleasingly, he talks of it neither too fondly nor too long. Very quickly, his conversation turns towards a topic much dearer to Draco. 

“I don’t think I can remember a happier time than those short months I spent in Hogwarts,” he says, smiling earnestly. “May I ask, your family, your friends…” 

“They are well, Mr Weasley,” Draco answers, satisfied that he should ask. Whatever manipulations Potter inflicted upon his friend, he has not forgotten Hermione. 

“All your friends?” Weasley presses, looking intently at Draco, as if to hear his thoughts. 

“All of them,” Draco confirms and wishes he could say more, wishes to mention Hermione and that she is still unmarried, that she might not take unkindly to Weasley visiting, even after his abominable behaviour. Draco wishes to make his dear friend this gift, and Weasley clearly wants to ask, but Potter frowns at the both of them.

Draco would not usually allow himself to be deterred by Potter’s displeasure, but nothing about today is usual. Draco hardly knows how to behave, hardly knows what’s proper anymore in the light of their connections, and he is dazed by the future he lost.

This will have to suffice as excuse. 

Potter, meanwhile, is on his best behaviour. Maybe it’s the presence of Sirius and Remus, being not far removed from parents for Potter. It would make sense that he should strive for pleasantry and politeness with them to witness, except that neither Sirius nor Remus value these things. If anything, Potter should behave less proper to make them proud.

And yet. 

Never, even in the company of his dear friends at the Burrow, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had Draco seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw down ridicule and censure. 

Draco loves them, truly, but no one befriends his uncles when they have any ambitions towards polite society. And Potter, by his own confession, made it a point to be as close to them as possible. Having seen how he treats his actual blood relatives, Draco feels comfortable judging he would not take such troubles solely for his parents’ sake. 

These are distressing thoughts indeed, all the more so for Potter’s easy smile as Draco formulates them. He should much prefer to do his brooding in private. 

Abruptly, Draco stands. He has a desire for fresh air, he announces, and leaves before anyone can stop him. An almost flawlessly executed manoeuvre, except for Remus, holding on to his wrist the very last second. He pulls Draco aside just outside the door, shielding them in shadows but not free of Potter, not yet. 

“Stop fretting,” Remus tells him, leaning close to speak directly in Draco’s ear, holding on to his arm persistently. “I’ll let you go in just a moment.” 

Not terribly reassuring, but Draco is aware he behaves like a child. 

He can see Potter even now, their eyes meeting just barely, and Draco can’t look away. In this moment, cowering behind the door and holding Potter’s gaze, the entire day makes sense. The world feels quietened in Potter’s wake, all his doubts and feelings without consequence. Standing here, looking at Potter and being looked at in return, Draco could remain forever. 

Remus speaks low, close, impossible for anyone but Draco to hear. He speaks with an earnest importance, an urgency that doesn’t often touch him.

Draco listens, but he doesn’t part from Potter.  

“When you started talking so badly of Harry, we could not believe it. Surely not our Harry, surely there must be a mistake. A ridiculous misunderstanding to occur, maybe, but we heard such differing reports—we couldn’t fit them together. So Padfoot thought to bring you here, to get you two in a room we could observe. And listen now, Draco, this is the important bit: we don’t presume what happened between you two, but that Harry is overflowing with admiration is evident enough. Do you realise this?” 

Startled, Draco looks up at his uncle. 

Does he know? Has Potter told him of his plans to propose, of Draco’s callous refusal? Surely not! Remus would have told Sirius, and Sirius can’t keep anything to himself. Draco would know if Remus knew. 

But that must mean that Potter still feels as he did then, and that he doesn’t bother hiding it. 

It’s an overwhelming thought, exactly the kind Draco had hoped to escape. But Remus is relentless, pulling him even closer.

“As I said, we don’t know what happened. Harry won’t talk to us, and whenever you think you speak, you just complain.” Remus shushes him when Draco makes to defend himself; he has yet more to say. “One of you, at least, knows what it is to love. Whatever you do, don’t forget that.” 

Draco devastated, Remus lets him go. He slips out of their dark corner as if he said nothing at all, rejoining his husband without looking back at Draco stumbling against the wall. 

Draco, for his part, runs as soon as he trusts his legs will carry him. 

He doesn’t look back at Potter. 

It’s not that Draco wasn’t aware Potter loved him. The man told him that much himself. 

He did it insulting everything Draco values and believes in, but he told him. He did it sneering and wishing he didn’t have to. He did it barely able to look at Draco. 

Remus said it like a fact, a simple fact. Potter loves him, still, and Draco would be a fool to disregard him. 

Because, what Potter never asked and what his uncle read on him effortlessly—Draco might love him, too. 

Here, looking at Potter’s tempting grounds shrouded in the cold night, sitting on the stairs before his castle, Draco can admit that. It has only been a few hours since the man himself led Draco through them, through his childhood memories and inner most personal thoughts. Draco knows this land now, knows the man, and under cover of dark he is free to reflect upon them. 

This is chaotic in every direction, isn’t it? Draco can’t think of a single sensible thing to do. Nothing short of stealing one of the horses and disappearing over these gentle hills; which seems extreme even to him. Besides, he can’t leave before ordering Weasley to see Hermione, to confess his feelings. That done, Draco might quite happily abandon everyone to their meddling and confessing, to their various demands.

Yes, if only it weren’t so cold, Draco would leave right now. 

“Are you well?” someone asks from behind Draco, startling him badly. 

Potter—Draco would recognise his voice anywhere, now—comes down from inside and easily sits down next to Draco. Maybe closer than appropriate, but he’s warm and it’s dark, so Draco doesn’t protest. Who here cares for protocol, anyway? 

“Thank you, yes,” he replies, quiet after the long silence. He finds he doesn’t mind Potter intruding on him. It was Potter he had to flee from, it’s true, but it was also Potter’s gaze that held him secure, and Potter around whom his thoughts circled. 

If anyone must come out to check on him, Draco prefers it to be Potter. 

Such a strange change—just a week ago, Draco would have sworn he’d rather meet a wild animal in the dark than Potter. 

“You’re shivering,” Potter murmurs next to him, speaking as low as Draco did. He moves closer as he says this, as if to warm Draco with his presence. 

“It’s cold,” Draco answers, suddenly breathless, frozen still at Potter’s daring. “Your land is awfully cold.” 

Next to him, close enough that Draco fancies he can feel it, Potter chuckles. 

“Do pardon,” he says, and Draco can hear the small smile in his voice. “Let me offer this apology.” 

Before Draco realises what he is doing, before he can insist on propriety or simply leave, go back inside and warm himself before the fire like any normal person would, Potter has caught Draco in his coat. 

No, not his coat. His jacket, which he has been wearing all evening and which smells of him so intimately. Because Potter followed him out here with the same lack of forethought that propelled Draco, stopping not even for appropriate clothing. 

The realisation that Potter could do such a common, foolish thing would be enough to overwhelm Draco even under the best, most regular of circumstances. But nothing out here is regular, even before Potter gave up his own clothes for Draco (again, he thinks with sudden giddiness) and everything smelled of him, the night kinder and stars brighter.

“Thank you,” Draco whispers, pulling Potter’s jacket close around him and ducking away into its safe cocoon, overcome with the man Potter revealed himself to be. 

Potter, possibly as lost in this day as Draco is, watches him, close and observant. He shivers in the cool breeze, but his eyes are full of warmth, concealing nothing where they behold Draco. 

“Consider it my hostly duty to see to your every comfort,” he says, looking like he might want to reach out, to adjust his jacket around Draco’s shoulders. He doesn’t, and Draco finds himself disappointed. 

If only Pansy could see him right now, she would not stop laughing for a year. How besotted Draco has become, how taken in by pretty eyes and meandering grounds. Draco supposes he was right when he called himself a romantic. Foolish, too, for he knows one thing with absolute certainty: were Potter to ask again, right now, there would be only one answer. As surely as he denied him then, Draco would rejoice now. 

But it’s not all whimsy, not all the magic of a perfect evening. They have known each other too long for that. Knowing Potter as he does, things shall forever be more complicated than mere romance between them. 

For how long has Draco hated the man? This man he would instantly marry now, if he were to ask? 

The respect created by the conviction of Potter’s valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to Draco’s feelings; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which this day had produced. 

Such a change in a man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed—oh, Draco is a fool, still. Nothing but a love-drunk fool, completely changed in the span of just a few hours. Ridiculous. 

He will ask Pansy. She will explain it to him, will help him separate his heart from his vanity, his fanciful delusions bend to the practicalities of life. Because Draco is lost in Potter’s eyes, disappeared in the feelings and the possibilities and general merriness. 

Pansy will tell him what is true, and she will only lightly tease him. 

Until then, Draco leans into Potter and his kind eyes. Ephemeral magic it might be, gone with the sun the next day, but that is far off still. Under the moonlight, Potter looks like a man who could love Draco, like a man who could profess so to all the world. 

He looks like a man freezing, and so Draco indulges the night and reaches for Potter’s hands, holds them safe and warm. 

Potter, horrible, tempting man, smiles at him. 

Chapter Text

“Do you think this complements my eyes?” 

“I think he already knows what your eyes look like, Harry.” 

Exasperated, Harry throws the coat onto his bed to join the others. That was it, his last hope of having something nice to wear. Ruined. 

Also on the bed, sitting between discarded clothes, Ron laughs at him. 

“I have never seen you like this,” he says, as if Harry begged his help for Ron to be entertained. “Since when do you care whether your coat complements your eyes?” 

Since Malfoy would be there to critically assess the matter, and even more so since he was willing to be impressed. Harry lost so many chances to endear himself to the man—he cannot squander any more. Not after yesterday. 

He doesn’t tell Ron—his awful, amused best friend—that he cares to impress a man who might hate him. Who in all probability and reason hates him but perhaps not, perhaps there was a change. Harry fancies there was a change. He would ask Ron what he thinks, but Ron wasn’t out in the dark with them, and also Ron considers Malfoy only as Miss Granger's friend and besides, he would laugh at Harry. Even more than he already is. 

So, petulantly, Harry doesn’t tell him. 

Sadly, because Ron is his best, dearest friend, he doesn’t have to. 

“Planning to see Malfoy, are you?” he asks, pronounced casual as he surveys the battlefield. “You only saw him yesterday.” 

“Is that a question?” 

Harry shouldn’t have asked Ron for help. Stupid idea, truly. 

“No.” Ron grins at him, far too pleased. “Things seem perfectly clear to me.” 

“Isn’t that nice?” 

Ron laughs again, throws his head back in a manner that would look affected in anyone else. 

“Yes, it’s all very funny,” Harry says, but he fails to sound convincingly annoyed. “Now come here and help me.” 

Ron does. He stands and picks a coat at random—at least it appears so; for his sanity, Harry hopes it’s not—and holds it open for Harry to slip into. He does so, determined not to think about it anymore. Malfoy never gave any indication that he particularly cared about Harry’s wardrobe, anyway. 

Ron stands before him, adjusting his clothes and straightening his collar. He doesn’t look at Harry, smiling to himself in somewhat unsettling fashion. 

“You know,” he starts, and he sounds exactly like Ginny before she says something designed to cause a stir. Harry is not sure he’s ready. “You used to be terrified of being alone in a room with the man. Now you are rushing for it to be so.” 

Harry is still terrified. That’s why he’s fussing so much, because it’s the one thing he can control. He’s still terrified, but he’ll go all the same. 

Then Ron does look up at him, smirking. 

“Although,” he says, a wicked spark in his eyes, “I seem to remember you always liked his eyes.”

Oh. 

Oh no. 

“Ginny told you that, did she?” 

Ron laughs at him, delighted with the spectacle that is Harry’s shame. 

“She told me almost immediately, yes.”

“Ah.” Harry had hoped she wouldn’t. He isn’t often charmed by strangers, and that he found Malfoy so attractive so quickly was highly irregular. He should have kept it to himself. 

“Come now,” Ron says, encouraging. He still has his hands on Harry’s shoulders, like he knows Harry might run if he lifts them. “There is no shame in it. You thought him pretty the very first time you saw him—a promising start, wouldn’t you say?” 

Harry wishes he could just nod and confirm this, curb the teasing and extract himself from the situation. But Ron might get the wrong impression, and Harry won’t stand for it. Even though he is all but guaranteed to write a gossipy letter to his sister as soon as Harry left. 

“That was only when I first knew him; for it is many months since I have considered him as one of the handsomest men of my acquaintance.”

It feels like a confession. Harry has long since admitted these feelings to himself, has even admitted them to Malfoy himself, but bearing them to his friend, his closest companion, they feel newly vulnerable. 

Ron gazes up at him, amazed that his cold friend finally learnt to give his heart away. (He would never say it, but Harry knows it’s true. Ron has long despaired of his lonely nature.) 

“Well, that explains it,” Ron says, smiling softly. Proud, even. 

For Harry, it explains nothing. He feels lost, clinging to his friend and uncertain of his clothes, dreading and longing at the same time to see Malfoy, still unsure if he will be brave enough to ask once more. 

“What am I doing, Ron?” 

Maybe Ron, who gives his heart so freely and easily, can explain it to him. Maybe when he does, it won’t be so daunting. 

Ron smiles at him, not in the slightest reassuring. 

“Something foolish for your heart,” he says, the exact same thing Harry frequently accuses him of. Very solemn all the sudden, he adds, “good luck, my friend.”

Overcome with affection for his ridiculous friend, Harry wants to stay. He understands it now, what Ron was talking about when talking of love. Harry sneered at it, demanded he be reasonable, but how could one be reasonable in such agony? How could one wish to be? Harry must have sounded heartless to Ron, calling him naive and shortsighted for wanting to marry so far below his station, for such fickle reasons. 

He wants to make up for it now. Maybe he was heartless, but Ron stood by him. Ron trusted him and Harry might have been wrong, but Ron trusts him still—Harry can remedy his mistakes. Clearly Harry was wrong—if what Ron feels for Miss Granger is anything like what Harry feels for Malfoy, it was cruel to hide her presence in London. Necessary, he thought at the time, but he was an idiot then. 

Harry should tell him. He should tell him right now, encourage Ron to do as he had wanted then and abandon reason to follow his heart. Encourage Ron as Ron encourages him, to pursue happiness. For once in this wretched life, do what makes him happy. 

But what makes Harry happy is Malfoy, and any explanation he could give before going to see him would be rushed and incomplete. He would forget to apologise, would give his friend only half the answers in his exasperation, in his hurry to see Malfoy—it would be a disaster. 

Harry leaves. He takes Ron’s hands in his, squeezes them in silent promise, and leaves for Malfoy. Ron waves him goodbye, sad but happy for Harry, happy that Harry is doing what he couldn’t and Harry promises them both, vows most earnestly, that he will make amends. If he is right about things, if it could truly be this easy—if Malfoy consents to marry him, they can do however they please. 

Harry will share this blessing with his friend, he swears it.

Malfoy is too pale. He appears to tremble, also, though he does his best to contain it. 

“Are you sure you’re well?” Harry asks again, more feeling than politeness, entirely unconvinced by Malfoy’s insistence on his well-being. 

Malfoy, pale and trembling and unwell, glares at him. 

“I am fine,” he repeats, his hands balled into fists. 

Sirius and Remus are out, a fact that initially made Harry glad but now worries him. 

“Can I get you anything?” Harry offers, already standing; he can’t sit here in serene oblivion while Malfoy suffers. It’s insupportable. “Tea, perhaps, or —” 

Malfoy cuts him off, standing now, too, to turn away from Harry. 

“You can leave, now that you offered,” he says, his voice cold and unkind like it hadn’t been since refusing Harry. 

Is that the reason? Does he guess what Harry came to ask? Is he offended that Harry would ask again, when he answered so clearly? 

Is he disgusted? 

Harry had thought their relationship changed, but maybe that was presumptuous. The exact kind of arrogance Malfoy pointed out to him, the kind that made him so undesirable. 

What was Harry thinking, prevailing on Malfoy like this a second time? While he is Harry’s guest, no less! How could he refuse, when it would make the situation so intolerably awkward? 

Harry suddenly feels very ill. 

“Apologies,” he says, a feeble offering that does nothing to soothe the harm he caused. “I will leave —” 

But Malfoy interrupts him, still not looking at Harry. 

“I got a letter this morning. I was expecting one; it had been entirely too long without word from home. You know my father, you know—” Malfoy makes a vague gesture Harry can’t fully see, positioned as they are, but he does indeed know the man so he makes a confirming noise, unsure what they are discussing. “Well, it wasn’t from my father. Because Father is too upset to write and Mother is too busy trying to save the situation. My Aunt Sprout—I believe you met—wrote to inform me I should return home posthaste. Apparently, I owe more money than we could ever dream to repay.” 

Harry, shocked, doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t say anything, watching Malfoy’s back quiver suspiciously, his breath coming faster. Harry stands in wretched suspense, can only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe him in compassionate silence.

Should he call for Remus and Sirius? Surely they don’t know—they would be here if they did!

“Gambling debts, can you believe?” Malfoy continues, his voice wet and unlike him. He finally turns to face Harry, wiping tears from his eyes, his face splotchy. “I don’t even play cards.” 

At this point, Harry stops thinking. He acts on instinct, crossing the distance between them in a few great strides and gathering Malfoy into his arms. He might not know what to say, cannot begin to guess how welcome he is in this moment of vulnerability, but there is no one else. Harry will have to do. 

Malfoy falls into his arms easily, like they have done this before. He fits against Harry, resting his head against Harry’s shoulder and clinging to him with a desperate strength. 

“This will ruin me,” Malfoy says against him, hiding his face and muffling his fears against Harry. “I can’t recover from such accusations, even if I could pay.” 

“I am grieved, indeed,” Harry offers, clumsy in his attempt to help, soothing his hands over Malfoy’s back. He doesn’t understand how they got here, how he got from wanting to leave to cradling the man against his chest. How does one act in such plight? What is there to say? “Grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?”

Malfoy nods against him, holding him tighter. A strange intimacy, brought by such pain. 

“Why is this happening to me?” Malfoy asks, so small Harry wasn’t meant to hear. But they stand so close, it would be impossible for Harry not to, and thus it is impossible not to answer. 

“Lockhart,” he says, the entire evil ploy suddenly apparent to him. “I told you of his weaknesses and of his willingness to lie and cheat to cover them. Lockhart has always been a gambling man, yet he was never good at it. He must have given your name as surety, to pay his debts should he not be able to. If he is anything now like he was then, he has amassed more debts than just what they are asking now.” 

Wretched, wretched mistake—why did Harry not publicly decry him when he had the chance? Why let him escape, go on lying and cheating? 

“Surely they can’t just accept his word—I never even spoke to these people!” Malfoy sounds better now, more steady with an explanation. Even if it’s a terrible one, an explanation Harry wishes he didn’t have to provide. 

“He would have faked your signature, I imagine.”

For some reason, it’s this detail that breaks him. Malfoy breaks from Harry with an offended gasp, pulling back and retreating into himself. 

“No,” he says, so convinced Harry almost believes it. “He wouldn’t do that. Not to me. It must be a mistake—I will write to him and he will explain and we will never speak of this again.” 

Malfoy nods, like that settles the matter. He doesn’t believe it, though. Harry can see that he doesn’t believe himself. Whatever he feels for Lockhart, whatever he wants to believe of the man’s character, he knows it won’t be this simple. Even hurt, he is too intelligent for that. 

All the same, Harry thinks he had better leave. The moment between them quite passed, Harry doesn’t know how to behave and he doesn’t wish to argue the unsavoury aspects of Lockhart's nature. Especially not since it’s through Harry’s pride that they have gone undetected. 

Yes, Harry should not be here, intruding upon Malfoy’s grief. He will send for Sirius and Remus, who will no doubt handle the situation better than Harry. Besides, they are family—Malfoy can be honest with them in ways he couldn’t be with Harry, little more than an acquaintance. 

They have been far too informal with each other already. 

“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence,” Harry starts, too aware of his posture, of the distance between them. He continues carefully, too polite, “nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.”

Malfoy stares at him, as unsure as Harry himself. 

He looks worse than he did when Harry arrived. 

Mentally cursing himself, Harry bows to retreat. He has wrought quite enough damage here. 

“Potter,” Malfoy calls out, before he can leave. “Please, conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long.”

He looks at Harry with pleading eyes, a strong contrast to Harry’s own blundering attempt at civility. 

“I will do whatever is in my power,” Harry promises. “Goodbye, Mr Malfoy.” 

Malfoy nods, dejected. 

“Goodbye.” 

It feels like farewell. 

Chapter Text

Draco yearned for home fiercely, yet now that he is home he cannot stand it. He is going out of his mind, running himself ragged and treading grooves in the carpets, deep trenches in the garden. He cannot sit idle but he cannot leave, placed under house arrest until he comes up with the funds to buy his freedom. Draco is exhausted and frustrated and helpless and, worst of all, amongst his childhood memories and friends and family, he doesn’t feel at home. 

(It’s Potter. Draco wishes Potter were here to hold him, and it’s inappropriate and infuriating and impossible. Awful, horrid man.) 

It doesn’t help that the house is half empty. Everyone has gone to London to find where Lockhart is hiding and deliver him into the hands of his creditors. They confirmed Potter’s suspicion, that it was Lockhart who got Draco into debt, and that it doesn’t concern his creditors that Draco doesn’t recognise the signature alleged to be his. They knew Lockhart and Draco were as good as engaged, so why question his willingness to stand as surety? Draco is free to contest them in court, but until then—and even then only if he wins—they are within their rights to hold him responsible. Unimpressed with Draco’s folly, they do. 

Lockhart being unlikely to come back on his own, Draco being strongly advised not to leave Hogwarts (and unsure if he wants to ever see Lockhart again), Mother had no choice but to go to London, the most likely hiding spot for the criminal and depraved. She took Sirius and Remus, because they know the city and because Father refused to let her go alone. 

It’s encouraging to see all that is being done to free him, but it leaves Draco with Father and Auntie Sprout, who is too busy tending to Father’s every worry to remain reasonable. Hermione drops by whenever she can and Pansy has written, but none of it is enough—Draco is trapped with the oppressive theatre of his father’s grief, his nerves and anxieties expressed in melodrama that makes Draco’s own pains worse. 

He almost wishes Father could have gone to London, too, but then Draco would have been alone. He would have sat in the parlour same as he does now, helpless and sick with it, dreading every knock on the door for fear it’s finally the call to prison, his time come. 

At the very least, Father is distracting. Thrown across the couch in as faint a position as possible, he laments his woes all day long. Draco wanders in and out, too restless to sit by him constantly and too fond to abandon him. Auntie Sprout has her favourite armchair pulled up to his side, though, and plies him with tea and pastries and soothing noises. Occasionally, she will try and distract him with gossip from town, but the best gossip is about Draco and not to be mentioned. 

Except by Father himself, of course. 

“I always said you should stay away from that crook, but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor, dear child! And now here’s ‘Cissa gone away, and I know she will fight Lockhart, wherever she meets him, and then she will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Goyles will turn us out, before she is cold in her grave; and if you are not kind to us, my friend, I do not know what we shall do.”

Miraculously, Auntie Sprout doesn’t point out how ridiculous this is. She just lets him go on, wailing and moaning and expressing enough grief for the entire household. Occasionally she will say comforting things like ‘oh yes, Lockhart simpered and smirked and made love to us all’, and then Father can protest that he always knew, that he never fell for the act, and Auntie Sprout will indulge him. 

It’s a relief—contrasted to that Draco can behave however he wants. There is no need to perform his innocence to visitors, because no visitors dare brave Father, not even for the gossip, and because there is no correct behaviour when living with a banshee. The entirety of Hogwarts might think him a fool and an idiot who had it coming, but Draco is none the wiser, because his father casts a shadow large enough to hide within. 

He doesn’t even blame Draco for ruining them.

Still, there is only so much nonsense Draco can take. 

“Goyle is not going to claim the house,” Draco interjects, far less patient than Auntie Sprout. “He has no legal standing.” 

And Pansy would never allow it. But thinking of Pansy hurts, because thinking of Pansy means to acknowledge that she isn’t here, that she is far away with her husband and her new, completely un-ruined life. Not here with Draco because she possibly hasn’t even heard, because Draco didn’t tell her because what would he say? How does one write that letter? 

“I do not think they would care one bit,” Father replies, furious enough to sit up and glare at Draco for his stupidity, his audacity to suggest reasonable behaviour. “The Manor is only safe because they know ‘Cissa would fight them should they try to take it, but I know nothing of these things. They will exploit my grief, Draco, mark my words, and as soon as your mother is dead we shall be homeless. Depended on the kindness of strangers!” 

Talking of Mother’s death upsets Draco, but Father seems to think nothing wrong with the subject. He talks almost gleefully, imagining how this could be their end. Will be their end, very soon. 

Draco stands, excuses himself. He had enough diversion of his own thoughts today. 

“Will you write a letter to your uncles?” Father asks, once more prone on the furniture, his hand limply thrown over his face. “I shan’t be able to do it, but someone ought to. And to your mother, too. Tell her we are languishing away in her absence, and to hurry home. And, above all things, keep her from fighting. Tell her what a dreadful state I am in—that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at my heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day.”

Draco will do no such thing. Yet he promises and Auntie Sprout takes Father’s hand, offers to have tea fetched or a doctor—Draco leaves them to it. 

He has worries of his own to tend to. 

Pansy’s arrival is unexpected. She didn’t write ahead but when she interrupts Draco’s anguished stroll around the garden, he clings to her with the despair of a drowning man. With the dramatics of his father, foul tongues might say, but Draco is in pain—what better opportunity? 

He is crying before he knows it. Clinging to Pansy and her familiar comfort, hiding his face in her neck, crying for his ruined future and lost innocence. And Pansy, who doesn’t cry and never loved, who knew from the beginning that feelings are bullshit and will ruin life, holds him steady. She doesn’t try to soothe him, doesn’t try to move him, doesn’t do anything but stoically allows herself to be cried on. 

Draco is breaking into pieces, finally breaking, and Pansy stands ready to collect him, hold him as he loses himself. 

At last Draco can breathe. 

Very kindly, Pansy didn’t make him return. Anyone else might have forced Draco inside where his father is wailing and Auntie Sprout is fretting, where Hermione might mingle and feel pressed to comfort—anyone else might have called Draco back into decorum and propriety, but Pansy ordered Dobby to serve their tea outside and pulled Draco down into the grass, half hidden between the flowers.

This, this wild kind of love, is why she is Draco’s favourite. 

“All Hogwarts seems striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light,” Pansy says, mocking as she sips her tea, watching Draco carefully. They sit opposite each other, leaning their heads close and mirroring each other, their legs crossed and little space between them, as little as possible. Barely enough to cradle their tea, Draco looking at his fidgeting hands and Pansy looking at him, looking for signs and shifts that comprise his soul. 

Looking to see if he might start crying again, if he still loves the thief. 

But Draco doesn’t. He is free, except for the very literal way in which he might never be free again. 

Draco doesn’t love him, does in fact look forward to hearing Pansy’s savage commentary on everyone’s idiocy, and so she goes on. 

(This, too, is why she is his favourite.) 

“Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody begins to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. As you will recall, so did we. Never really liked the man, did we?” Pansy smiles at him conspiratorially and Draco finds himself nodding, finds himself agreeing. 

“Personally,” he says, the first and maybe last thing he shall say on the topic, “I never trusted him. I knew from the very beginning that he was up to no good. That’s why I had to stay close, you understand.” 

Telling Pansy, hidden away in their garden with only faint voices audible from inside the house, Draco can almost believe it. He can almost joke about it, his unfortunate first love.  

“I never thought he would do something like this,” he says, hushed and honest. It feels like a confession, though it’s the most obvious thing to say. “I truly believed he loved me.” 

Maybe Pansy was right to marry for money. Draco would not be in such dire straits had he swallowed his pride and accepted Potter’s offer when he was careless enough to make it. With the wisdom of hindsight, Draco might even congratulate himself on accepting Potter—the man is unlikely to acknowledge Draco again, and Draco finally learnt to love him. If only Draco were not quite so foolish, he might have the fairy tale ending he always wanted. 

“No one thought him capable of such deceit,” Pansy calls him back, gentle but firm. “You are not to blame for his mistakes.” 

But didn’t Draco, too, make mistakes? Maybe he is not to blame for how things ended, but he is no innocent either. 

The thoughts must show, because Pansy abandons her tea to take his head in her hands, tilt up his face to make him look at her. 

“Listen to me, Draco,” she starts, but she doesn’t get a chance to talk. Behind them in the open window, Goyle’s voice grows loud, his fawning awkwardness as ever inconvenient. 

“You brought Goyle?” Draco asks, surprised. 

“Of course I brought him,” Pansy answers, scowling at him but not harshly, almost playful. “He is my husband.” 

Draco grimaces, opens his mouth to say something on that matter, but Pansy laughs and covers his mouth with her hand, quelling any opinions Draco might have expressed. 

“I feel myself called upon,” Goyle’s voice carries surprisingly clear, “by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs Goyle and myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove.”

Draco raises his eyebrow at Pansy, still muffled by her hands as he is.

“No arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The death of your son would have been a blessing in comparison of this.” 

Draco lets out an offended gasp under Pansy’s palm, echoed by Father’s own offended gasp. Pansy has the good grace to look mortified, meanwhile her husband blissfully carries on. Pansy makes as if to apologise, to talk over him, but Draco puts his hand over her mouth, in turn, so they both sit mute and furious, listening to the man prattling on. 

“I am inclined to think that his own disposition must be naturally bad,” Goyle continues, skilled as a clergyman in preaching and reproach, “or he could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs Goyle, but likewise by Lady Petunia and her son, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one person will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others: for who, as Lady Petunia herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family.”

Well, this is a true loss indeed. That Lady Petunia should think so ill of him now—it’s a good thing Pansy covers his mouth, or Draco would have burst out laughing and given away the game. 

“Let me just say,” Pansy whispers, breaking away from Draco’s hand, “that I emphatically don’t agree.” 

Draco, who still doesn’t connect ‘Mrs Goyle’ to mean Pansy, softens under her fierce gaze, her iron conviction. He has no doubt about Pansy’s loyalties—after all, she is here—but it’s sweet of her to say so. Pansy must be able to read these thoughts on him, for she rolls her eyes and presses down harder on his mouth, fitting her own face back against his hand to make them even once more. 

“And this consideration leads me, moreover, to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November,” here Goyle clears his throat awkwardly. Apparently even he realised his speech might be classed tasteless. Ever a committed man, however, this does not keep him from continuing: “for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you, then, my dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave him to reap the fruits of his own heinous offence.”

Finally, Pansy pulls Draco up, their tea abandoned among the flowers, and she leads him away from the window and Father’s faint answer, away from her ridiculous husband and his horrible, horrible entertainment. 

Draco is laughing by the time Pansy stops them, furious and lost for words, staring at Draco like he lost his mind. Perhaps he has—nothing makes sense anymore, not since he returned, and Draco feels wonderfully detached. 

“Are you sure you should even be here,” Draco asks between trying to breathe, still laughing uncontrollably, “now that we are properly disgraced?”

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” Pansy says, though she is smiling, too. More at Draco’s laughter than for her own amusement, he suspects, but it doesn’t matter to him. 

“Lady Petunia would be very cross if she knew you associated with me,” Draco says, and then laughs again at the image of that woman sneering, shocked at the mere idea that Pansy should not immediately abandon Draco.

“Oh, she knows,” Pansy says, her smile more real now. “Gregory had to tell her, naturally. Explain why we would be absent, make sure she doesn’t want for anything. You should have seen her face, Draco—I don’t know that we will be allowed back.” 

“No, of course,” Draco agrees, tries to get himself under control and his tone grave. “Please do tell her that I am very sorry to have troubled her. I shall never visit again, to spare her the stain of my acquaintance.” 

“A valiant sacrifice,” Pansy agrees, and then Draco is crying, because it’s not funny at all. Yes, Pansy’s husband is ridiculous and should never be allowed to talk and yes, Lady Petunia is so far removed from anything real it’s impossible not to laugh, but it’s not all artifice. 

And he is crying again, hysterical and useless. Crying over spilt milk. But Pansy holds him, and she doesn’t judge. Her ignorant husband is off entertaining Father, Hermione is likely to find them soon, and should Draco request it, should he so much as give a hint of desiring it, Pansy would sneak them a coach and drive him far away. 

Sometimes, that’s the best an afternoon can be. The promise of something else.

Draco lost track of time. 

Of course, it is impossible to truly lose track with vulturous visitors, just stopping by, talking of how sad it is. How they never would have guessed. How they are shocked. They leave disappointed, Draco indisposed and the entire household newly adept at refusing people. Dobby doesn’t let anyone in, blatantly lying when required. 

Yet as far as possible, Draco has lost track of time. Days blend together, nights stretch longer and longer, and there is no news. 

Does he still expect them? The happy news, his name cleared and Lockhart brought to justice, Mother soon to return home. 

Does he still expect it? No, maybe he never did. Draco was a naïve fool all his life, but never this desperately. He knew he was done for with that first letter, when Potter politely but firmly excused himself from Draco’s life. From that moment Draco knew there was no fixing it, and he has come to accept it. Slowly, with his father’s wailing and his mother’s searching, with Pansy’s staunch refusal to abandon him and Hermione’s determination that something will be done, that he will be saved yet. In one of her books, Hermione swears it, there is the solution they require. 

Actually, Hermione’s solution was the gentle suggestion of violence. Draco remembers it fondly. She was admonished for it, of course, immediately told to not, under any circumstances, take actions more impactful than borrowing books. But Draco knows his friend, and he knows that glint in her eyes—if it was a feasible plan, if no one knew yet, Hermione would have set ablaze the papers damning him.  

As things are, plans will need to be more intricate, Hermione is closely watched, and arson will have to wait. Draco suspects she and Pansy are still making plans, discussing details Draco doesn’t care to hear, formulating strategies that will never come to fruition. 

They haven’t understood it yet, that Draco is ruined. That there is nothing to be done because the betrayal was not made by some evil stranger, not some storybook villain they can hunt. This is real life, and in real life love abandons and cheats you. 

All told, Draco is grateful when Mother returns. She brings no news, brings no relief except for her presence and rational mind. Both dearly needed, with Draco turning into his father and his friends writing threatening letters to the debt collectors. 

Father, though he shows it differently, is also grateful. 

“I’m afraid Master hasn’t left his room all day,” Dobby says, and hurries out. Some errant to run, some task in the kitchen—anything, to duck Mother’s unpredictable reaction.

Draco, sitting alone on the settee and watching her carefully, is less worried. His mother is exhausted, back in despair and defeat, the house a sort of quiet she often loudly wishes for but rarely gets. Considering this, considering the tea Dobby served and the sweets to bribe her, Mother should be fine. Easier to bear, at any rate, than Father, who has withdrawn once more to the bedroom, his every whim carried on a golden bell. 

“This is a parade,” Mother cries, letting herself fall onto the settee beside Draco, “which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can!”

She smiles up at him, new lines on her face and trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. 

Still, Draco wants nothing more than for her to be right. She has no happy news or she would have shared them, so Draco doesn’t ask. Instead he smiles, offers her the sweets, joins her pretending. 

“I must admit I was tempted to join him,” Draco says, conspiratorially. “He makes it look so glamorous.” 

Mother laughs, almost like nothing happened. She raises her cup to Draco’s, to Pansy and Hermione surreptitiously watching from the doorway and for a moment, just one moment, things are almost okay. 

Chapter Text

It’s Dobby who informs Draco of the letter. A letter sent by express, for his mother. Regarding, Draco assumes, his fate. 

It’s been half an hour with no word from Mother, and had Dobby not asked after it, Draco wouldn’t have known there was news. 

This can’t bode well. Mother would not keep good tidings to herself, which must mean that Draco’s life is, finally, forfeit. The last defeat they have been waiting for. 

Why was the letter not delivered to him? Draco should have liked to spare Mother the brutality of formal language. The only kindness he can offer. 

“Mother?” he asks, softly because he doesn’t want to know, truly. Softly, so that she might not hear, deep in thought, her gaze lost among the flowers Auntie Sprout so diligently cares for. 

But Mother does hear, and she looks up almost immediately. 

“Draco,” she says, tone indecipherable. “My son.” 

Draco is doomed, isn’t he? 

“Mother,” he says again, because what else is there? “Dobby told me there was a letter.” 

The letter she is holding by her side, low and forgotten. That letter. 

What does it say? 

How much longer does Draco have? 

Mother looks at it, too, brings her hand up like it’s foreign to her. 

“Oh, yes.” She says, then holds it out to him. “Why don’t you read it yourself? It’s about you, after all.” 

Draco swallows, heart heavy as he accepts the letter. 

This, finally, is it. 

The news are written in Sirius’ neat cursive, which immediately makes Draco’s heart glad. He had feared official summons, and though Mother is ashen like a ghost, the worst news Sirius could impart is no news at all. Which is still better than what Draco feared just moments ago. 

Relieved, Draco begins reading. 

Dear Cousin, 

At last I am able to send you some tidings regarding my nephew, and such as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London Lockhart was. The particulars I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know he is discovered —  

Draco breaks off, overjoyed. 

“But this is good news, Mother! They have found Lockhart!” Saying his name causes clumps in Draco’s throat, a heaviness in his chest, but he brushes past that. Every objective was to find the man and make him confess, to free Draco by offering the guilty party—they should be celebrating! 

His mother, sorrow in her gentle smile, motions for him to read on. 

Giddy, Draco does. 

I will refrain from commenting on the man’s character. Again. Suffice to say that, should he have absconded without besmirching your good name, I should not have minded. His character being what it is, Lockhart submitted after long negotiations to acknowledging his debts and declaring that our Draco has nothing to do with his shame. 

As he himself does not have complete funds to pay his debts, he will want sponsoring. But the responsibility shall be his and you, dear Narcissa, no longer associated with the scandal. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. 

I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Lockhart's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect.

If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quietly at the Manor, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly… 

Draco trails off, taking it all in. 

This is good news, he should think. Lockhart found and talked into making amends, Draco as good as freed. And yet Mother looks worse than she did yesterday. 

“I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours, etc,” Draco concludes the letter, trying in vain to inject cheer into his voice. 

He feels hollow, small, faced with splendid news and completely blind as to why he isn’t dancing with it. 

“This is good, Mother,” he says, perhaps to convince them both. They ought to go in, ought to tell Father. Draco should be leaping to tell Pansy and Hermione, should be laughing with joy—but perhaps they are still too close. Perhaps they are still in the shadows, and joy is to come tomorrow. 

Mother nods, accepts the letter back. 

“Of course,” she agrees, speaking as if to reassure Draco. “And I shall answer soon that Sirius must do what he thinks right, that I have full faith in their judgement.”

“You have not answered it yet?” Draco asks, the pit in his stomach growing. 

“No,” Mother shakes her head, gazes at the flowers. “But I must, and soon.”

This melancholy feels so wrong, so completely misplaced. Draco doesn’t know how to shake it, how to be rid of it. 

“What is it, Mother?” he asks, because Draco cannot understand it. 

Mother steels herself, straightens from her morose contemplation even as she doesn’t look at Draco. 

“I am grateful, do not misunderstand me,” she says, and though Draco not for a moment thought her otherwise, it is good to know. “But there are two things that I want very much to know:—one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him.” 

Pansy finds Draco in the library, not reading as much as hiding. Trying to understand how his life, once more, has changed. 

“Your mother received a letter,” she announces, tactful as ever, and forces herself onto the armchair next to him. It’s tight, she shoves his book to the ground to fit, but Draco clings to her regardless. 

This is new, he thinks as she pets his hair. This desperation to hold his friends. Hermione bears it less graciously than Pansy, but neither of them seems to mind. Maybe they realise they are the last thing holding Draco together. The only thing never threatened in the last week. 

“Where is Hermione?” Draco would rather not explain twice. He’s not confident he can do it even the once. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Pansy tells him, which is the most worrisome thing she could have said. 

Draco forgets—did they finalise their blackmailing plans? 

“I said,” Pansy repeats firmly, “don’t worry about it. Tell me about the letter.” 

Draco does. Pansy will tell Hermione, and Draco is tired of not knowing what to think. He can feel Pansy’s heart beat in her chest, can feel her steady breath, her fingers soothing in his hair, and he tells her how he owes his freedom, his life to his uncles. How they found Lockhart and paid, how that is the kind of man Draco loved. 

How, in some pathetic corner of his heart, it still hurts. 

Pansy, because she is blunt and practical, says what Draco didn’t dare think. 

“They paid his debts?” Her tone is sharp, mind running and not liking where it’s getting. “How? They have no more money than your parents.” 

Yes, that’s true. There is only one explanation Draco can see, but Walburga Black hates her son. The feeling is quite mutual, and the only thing more unlikely than that Sirius should ask her for money is that she should grant it. 

And yet, Lockhart's debts were high. And now they are paid in full. 

Draco cannot wrap his head around it. He understands Mother’s despair now. How is he ever to repay them?

“Oh Draco,” Pansy sighs and hugs him closer. “Things will get better from here, you’ll see.” 

Draco wishes he could believe her. 

She is right, of course. In every rational way, Pansy is correct. But Draco stopped measuring the world by what’s rational, now that his romantic heart has found an explicit value for happiness. Draco, unfortunately, has stopped measuring by rational, and started measuring by ‘Potter’. 

Pansy has the audacity to laugh when he tells her this. 

“Potter, is it?” she says, like she wasn’t there in Rosings, like she doesn’t know Draco better than he knows himself. 

“I’m afraid so,” Draco confirms, and it feels good to say. A necessary confession. 

“Such a shame,” Pansy agrees lightly. “I do believe I warned against being too picky with marriage proposals.”

Draco scoffs against her, amused despite himself. 

“What a triumph for him,” Draco mutters against her, “could he know that the proposals which I proudly spurned only four months ago would now have been gladly and gratefully received!”

Pansy makes an odd noise, but Draco is unwilling to move from her side to see her face, so he can’t decipher it. Besides, he enjoys these uncharitable thoughts, enjoys being angry at someone else for a change. And he has such practice being angry with Potter. 

“I do think you are being unfair to the poor man,” Pansy points out, but she makes no motions to leave, so Draco is not wholly unacceptable to her. (Which is only right, since she is Draco’s friend, not Potter’s.) 

She is also, annoyingly, correct. Draco is being unfair; Potter is a man capable of generosity, Draco has no doubt about that. Formidable generosity, even, once you made it past the coldness of polite conversation. Draco spent so long not seeing it, not knowing Potter but for his worst traits, but now that he does know it’s impossible to forget. 

But even knowing Potter, he is not perfect, and, while mortal, there must be a triumph. To put it crudely: Potter must be congratulating himself on escaping Draco’s inferior connections. So decidedly beneath his own, after all. 

Draco sighs, exhausted by his own vitriol. 

“He is a good man,” Draco concedes, and tries not to remember how quickly Potter had run once he heard the news of Draco’s ruin. How he agreed to keep it quiet, for as long as feasible. How sad he looked, knowing that it could not be long. He is a good man, and therein lies the problem. “I cannot bear to think that he’s alive in the world thinking ill of me.”

But what is there to be done about that? Nothing, absolutely nothing. The best Draco can pray for is that Potter shall forget him, that Potter shan’t remember him too harshly. 

Pansy sighs, useless with love and hope as she always is, but at least she is here. The rest will settle. 

Chapter Text

Life returns to normal. 

Shockingly quick. Shockingly convincing. 

Remus and Sirius arrive, and they don’t bring Lockhart. They hug Draco tight but don’t mention it, and they follow Mother into her study but their voices remain hushed. They spent an hour, then two, discussing. Draco wants to over-hear and doesn’t, lingers by the door and is grateful it’s sturdy. Pansy comes to collect him, like she has this past week, and they disappear into something else, something fun and irresponsible. 

Hermione joins them. She doesn’t look angry anymore, which doesn’t mean she isn’t but Draco is so busy constructing lies and demeanour for himself, he can’t question hers. They are fine now, happy again. 

Pansy’s husband is still around somewhere, lecturing whatever poor sod runs into him, but Draco doesn’t see him. He doesn’t mind Goyle so much anymore, but he is glad for it all the same. Like this, he can pretend Pansy isn’t married, isn’t going to leave soon. He can pretend nothing happened, that Potter and Weasley never came to Hogwarts, nor the men following after them. 

It’s just them again, being young and carefree and thinking the world was theirs. 

Auntie Sprout brings flowers and Father fusses. Dobby looks at Draco with soft eyes, brings him sweets and bakes new recipes, but he doesn’t say anything. 

They don’t go into the city. Not yet. 

Just, not yet. 

Remus and Sirius are still there, longer than they have stayed in a while. They fill the house with sounds, with laughter and music and arguing. Fond, familiar arguing with Father over the colour a lawn ought to have and what things matter in life. Prongs helps, so full of life and joy and blissfully ignorant of a humans burden, he runs through the house freely. 

Nimbus, who went rather neglected during Draco’s days shut away in the house, forgives him quickly. She is easily bought with apples and sugar, a few scenic views and she is Draco’s again, allows herself to be petted and hugged and pampered. 

Life returns to normal, and Draco helps it along. 

He doesn’t think of what he might owe and how he shall repay it. 

He doesn’t think of Pansy’s home far away and Hermione’s uncertain state of heart. 

He doesn’t think of Potter. 

Life returns to normal, and Draco helps it along. 

Chapter Text

Remus is looking at him like Draco is the most disappointing person he met in his life. 

Pansy claims he is imagining it, that he fancies himself in their debt when they only did what good family does. That he should stop being paranoid. She kindly hasn’t asked him to stop being moody, yet, so Draco obliged and kept his head down. Even after she eft, regretfully and at the urging of her husband. 

But he doesn’t think he is imagining it. Remus is looking at him like he hardly recognises Draco anymore, like he has expectations Draco failed to meet, and it’s driving him up the wall. 

There is no one around. Auntie Sprout has returned home (fearful for her neglected plants), Father is out on a walk with Sirius, Hermione fled for an evening away from Draco’s melodrama (she did ask Draco to stop his moodiness, repeatedly and rudely) and Mother has locked herself up in her study. 

There is no one around, only Draco and Remus, who he has disappointed. 

He has had quite enough of this. 

“Say it,” he demands, closing his book and meeting Remus’ gaze defiantly. 

Remus, not even pretending to read, does not need further invitation. 

“I didn’t think you’d be this stupid,” is what he says, finally, after a full week of disappointed frowns. 

I didn’t think you’d be this stupid. 

Well. 

Draco shall just leave, yes? He thinks that reaction is appropriate. 

Draco gets up to do just that, quite offended, but Remus is still looking at him. 

“I am not stupid,” Draco insists and then, stupidly, sits down again. They will talk about this, and his uncle will make himself clear. Or he can get out of Draco’s house that he might very well own now; they graciously pretended no impossible sums of money were paid, so Draco doesn’t know anymore. “What are you talking about?” 

“I assume you are aware that Lockhart held considerable debts in your name,” Remus prompts, for they all know everything about the miserable affair. They all know everything, but no one talks about it, especially not now that it has been resolved so uncomfortably. 

Still, Remus prompts and so Draco nods. 

Is this where they talk about it? Is this where Remus tells him, finally, how Draco is to repay them? 

“I further assume you are aware that these debts have been paid, and that the man was settled with a handsome piece of land to pursue his passion for the priesthood.” 

Draco had not known about the priesthood. It soothes a nagging worry in his mind, but it also makes him feel ill—this, too, must have cost money. 

Stiffly, he nods. 

“Draco,” Remus says, and he looks at Draco once more like he is a beloved nephew, not the most obtuse person on the whole of England. “We do not have this kind of money.” 

“I know that,” Draco starts, because no one does. Remus, thankfully, does not let him continue. 

“Think about it,” he urges Draco. “There is no possible way we could have paid those debts. Even had we gone crawling and begging to Sirius’ family we would not have the money. Because the old bat would have refused, Draco. Do you understand it yet?” 

No, Draco understands nothing. In this moment, he truly feels stupid. 

And then, with Remus’ eyes boring into him and their interrupted holiday suddenly on the forefront of his mind, the answer comes to Draco. Clear as anything, so obvious they need to invent new meanings of the word ‘stupid’.

Suddenly, Draco understands the disappointed looks Remus levelled his way.  

“Potter,” he says, and he didn’t mean to say it out loud, but Remus hums, pleased. “It was Potter, wasn’t it?” 

“Due to promises I made, I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Remus says, smirking, which means yes. “Let’s just say that he has the necessary funds.”

But why would he? The matter hardly concerned Potter, and he was in such haste to depart once he learnt of Draco’s plight —  

“However,” Remus continues, still smirking, still pleased, “I am terrible at keeping secrets.” 

What? That’s not true—Remus is an excellent and smug secret keeper. Speculating on all Remus might know and wait to deploy at just the right moment horrifies Draco, so he generally tries not to. 

“If prevailed upon,” Remus says pointedly, “I would surely recount the entire affair.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

On such encouragement to ask, Draco is forced to put it out of his power, by running away.

Really, this time, accompanied by Remus’ laughter. 

Ron looks at him, patient and amused. 

They have been sitting here for five minutes. 

Harry doesn’t know how to start the conversation. 

Should he just get out with the truth? 

‘Hello, my dearest friend. I think it’s time that you learnt all your suffering was in vain and completely unnecessary. You see, I was blind and arrogant and decided, in my unending wisdom, that the woman you have been yearning for could not possibly be sincere in her own feeling. Yes, she was here to prove it and yes, I withheld that information from you. Yes, it has been shamefully long and no, I do not require you forgive this blunder. Truly, my bad. Better luck with the next one!’

Harry can’t do that. He might not possess the best of manners, and they might have been friends since Harry was stubborn enough to walk over to their house, but he still cannot say that. Maybe because they are friends he cannot say that. 

Because surely now it’s too late. Too late, like it’s too late for him and Malfoy. Harry waited too long on both accounts, and time wedged itself cruel and cantankerous between them and the people they should have liked to love. 

The room around them is ostentatious, overwrought, the enormity of a palace condensed into a much smaller flat in London. It’s ridiculous, but this is what happens when you let Ginny choose accommodations—she thinks it’s funny to torture them. 

At least the armchairs are comfortable, big enough to swallow Harry whole. 

What could Ron gain by knowing that he was not mistaken, that the lovely Miss Granger was indeed lovely and sincere? That his feelings, once upon a time, were returned? 

Nothing, just like Harry didn’t get a second chance at his proposal. That’s life, and claims to the contrary are foolish and delusional. 

Ron looks at him, kind, and Harry has nothing to say to him. 

He can’t turn back now, can’t back out and pretend there was nothing to share, can’t make up a lie or play this as a joke. 

But wouldn’t the truth be crueller? 

“Miss Granger came to see you and I concealed it from you,” he rushes out, words garbled and incomprehensible. But Ron, who has known Harry all his life, who knows what Harry is thinking better than he himself does, who knows his failures and short comings and is still here, still his friend—Ron understands him perfectly. 

Ron, his generous and affable friend, freezes.

“I apologise,” Harry continues, stiffly, trying to recover control over the situation. “It was wrong of me. I sought only to spare you the pain of what I believed to be insincere attentions.”

Ron says nothing. 

He stares at Harry, not comprehending. 

That’s quite fair. At times, Harry doesn’t understand himself. At times, Harry wonders just what it is that has happened, what steered them so wrong. He can’t make it out, for the life of him he cannot, and he was there for all of it. 

He was even there for Malfoy to read him his faults and point out his failures and the blame he deserves, and still Harry feels like he cannot understand the magnitude of mistakes and rotten luck that got them here, anxious and separated. 

He meant to save his friend, this he knows. He meant to save his friend the bitter disappointment of loving more than is returned. 

“A reprehensible connection,” Ron says, flatly, and Harry flinches. 

Yes, that too. 

“When was this?” 

Long ago, too long. 

Ron shakes his head before Harry can say anything to that effect, jumping out of his chair with such excited glee it’s almost violent in its expression. Shocking in its suddenness. In its bubbly happiness, such a contrast to Harry’s own martyred agony. 

“We have to go!” he announces, unconcerned with Harry’s moral crisis. “We have to go right now!” 

This is not what Harry wanted. This, he is certain, is what will finally break his friend. This, exactly this, is what he sought to prevent. 

This, he realises, is the foolish bravery he himself undertook in seeking to ask Malfoy a second time. 

This, sadly, is outside his control. 

“Harry!” Ron pulls him up, pulls him up by his hands and his shoulders, grabbing at Harry like a man possessed and grinning wildly, alive like Harry hasn’t seen him since they left Hogwarts. 

This, finally, is just what foolish, brave hearts do. 

And Harry is helpless to follow. 

“We are going to Hogwarts,” Ron declares, utterly giddy in this doom. “Because she loves me still.”  

As far as spying goes, this must be one of the most undignified ways to do it. Crouching beneath the open window, kneeling in dirt like giggling children and staring at each other with their breath held. Prongs is with them, breathing loud enough for all of them and adding an extra layer of play. Patiently guarding and silently wise. 

Draco has found himself in this position a lot, recently. There is something to it, to discarding the aches and pains of adulthood to hunker down close to your friends, hold their hand as news are revealed not to you but someone else. News pertaining to you so very directly you could not stand to hear them addressed as such. News of such force it’s much safer to filter them through several messengers, dull the impact of reality. 

It was Pansy who dragged Draco back into the sheltering arch of opened windows, and so now it’s Draco who is dragging Hermione. This news is not for him. 

“So it’s true?” Father is saying inside, not bothering to keep his voice down or excitement concealed. His affection for Weasley, after all, is well known. “He is to come back?” 

Draco hopes so. It hadn’t seemed likely, with his sudden departure (on Potter’s urging, lest we forget), but when Draco met the man in Gryffindor, he fancies he saw a longing to him. A longing to return. A longing to see certain heart-broken friends. 

But, and this is crucial, he had better mean it. Weasley may not come back only to flutter and laugh and make nice and leave again. If he comes here, if he invites himself once more, he had better be true about his intentions. Weasley is an honourable man, a man who knows his heart and knows how easy it is to read—if he comes back, it must be to propose. There can be no other reason. 

“It is quite certain,” Mother confirms, and Hermione crushes Draco’s hands. Unintentionally, for she pretends not to listen. She pretends to be accidentally seated here, conveniently overhearing a private conversation she had no desire to be part of. She pretends she doesn’t care for Weasley’s return and Draco aches to see it. How are things to take a happy turn if Hermione is so determined not to let them? 

And yet, for all her cold demeanour and insistence on ambivalence, Draco knows her mind opened again to the agitation of hope. Why, otherwise, would she punish him so harshly for trying to acknowledge it? 

“Well, so much the better,” Father declares, unaware of Hermione's fingernails digging into Draco’s skin, of the defiant light in her eyes, the cruel flutterings of love not yet extinguished. Father is making his own plans, no doubt, but Hermione’s actual feelings matter little in his idea of how things shall go. “Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to the Emerald Wilds Estate, if he likes it. And who knows what may happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, dear, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, it is quite certain he is coming?”

“Quite certain,” Mother repeats, and Hermione leaps up, the light in her eyes suddenly blazing in fury. Prongs follows her, excited by this new game.

Draco hurries after them. It won’t do to leave her now, to give her too much time to convince herself that this is unimportant, that she shall not care about Weasley’s imminent presence. There was speculation before, of course, that shook her and questioned her peace, but this confirmation will have broken it. 

If Draco wants any chance of convincing his friend this is what she prayed for, it would be now. 

Hermione, because she knows him well, doesn’t storm very far before waiting. She throws a stick for Prongs, throws it far and wide in her anger, and the dog sprints after it with joy. 

“Say it, then,” Hermione demands as she turns towards him. Her jaw is clenched against the onslaught of possibilities and feelings she convinced them well she didn’t feel, her balled fists trembling. “Tell me to rejoice and pick my prettiest dress.” 

Draco fears he did her a disservice, losing his heart and head when she needed him. How much time did he spent cursing Potter when he could have comforted his friend? 

“I don’t think you need employ such efforts to charm Mr Weasley,” Draco says, instead of apologising. Hermione, unlike him, does not relish picking at old wounds. 

It also has the added benefit of not being what she expects him to say. She expected Draco to talk about love, to preach, to advise the ways in which she should set herself up as perfect and lovely and irresistible. He would have told her this is a rare second chance, that Weasley realised his foolishness and returned to ask for her hand, returned for her.

It would all be true. And Draco does want to tell her this, to cherish the moment and rest easy in the confidence of their love. 

But he won’t. Because Hermione is not interested in telling a fairy tale, and she is not confident in Weasley’s love. How could she be? She doesn’t know it was Potter who manipulated him, Potter who lied, Potter who drove the wedge. 

She certainly doesn’t know Potter changed. 

She also doesn’t know Draco changed, because she looks at him queerly and considers her next words very carefully, the way you do when in the middle of the dance you think too much of your feet and their steps.

“I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain,” she claims, a blatantly lie. She wishes it to be true, no doubt, but Draco has the marks to prove that she very much cares. In the illicit shelter of childhood and eavesdropping, when she doesn’t have to be mature and reasonable, Hermione cares. Trembling she continues, “I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of myself, but I dread other people’s remarks.” 

Draco nods, pretends to believe and be satisfied. 

He is not, though, and neither is Hermione. She chafes under this mask she fashioned herself, the placid politeness that would gladly welcome the source of such pain. But to acknowledge the pain would be too much, so politeness it is. 

Politeness, fine, but that doesn’t mean they have to be dull. 

“Truly,” Draco agrees, and he speaks in such an exaggerated snobbish manner that it startles Hermione into immediate laughter, the hold on her composure cracking easily. “that this poor man cannot come to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation. We shall not bother him, ‘Mione, and he will return the favour.” 

Hermione snorts, disgraceful and impolite, but Draco much prefers it. It’s honest. 

Draco has no intention of ignoring Weasley, and he sincerely doubts Weasley will call on anyone before he has seen Hermione, but this is beside the point. And a long, long way off. They need to accustom Hermione slowly, make her realise this situation is ridiculous; heart-wrenching and painful and ripe with potential, yes—but also utterly ridiculous. A fairy tale romance, casting Potter as the dragon that sought to keep the lovers apart. Hermione might not appreciate it, but Draco cannot resist a good narrative. 

Hermione, wary and hurt, needs slow coaxing. Gentle hands. The promise, the utmost faith, that the feelings they all pretend she doesn’t have are more than just inconvenient and all-consuming. They can be nice, too, like they were before. She doesn’t need to suppress them to be happy again. 

Prongs returns before Draco can make a fool out of himself and tell her this. He watches her jump at the chance of distraction instead, watches her lavish Prongs in praise, and he feels reassured like he didn’t by his own plans of gentle guidance. She is remarkable, his friend, so full of light even while hurt. She doesn’t need his hovering, she is not fragile. She wrestles the slobbering beast and she laughs and it’s maybe a touch hysteric, maybe a touch forceful, but it’s genuine. 

Hermione knows her mind. She is lying about it, currently, but isn’t that her right? Weasley left; he has no right to expect his place in her heart kept for him. Draco has no right to expect it. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says as Hermione throws the stick again. “I won’t make you see him.” 

He suspects they will, anyway. Because Hogwarts is small and Hermione still in love, but it’s not for Draco to make it happen. 

Hermione, startled, looks away from Prongs running and at Draco. He doesn’t know what she sees in him, hardly knows what he sees himself these days, but something softens in her, the mask put down a bit. 

“It would be nothing,” she claims, and Draco decides against calling it out. Though they both recognise the lie, the denial of her heart. “I could see him with perfect indifference; but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of.”

“Then we shall not speak of him,” Draco declares, confident and already scheming what outrageous gossip will appease the masses instead. He will have to consult Pansy. “We shall see him, completely indifferent, and everyone will see that it’s dreadfully dull and not worth talking about.”

Hermione will see how utterly smitten Weasley still is with her, and she will be glorious in his adoration. She will forgive him his running, Draco is sure of it. Eventually, she will forgive him and they will be indecently happy. 

Chapter Text

They got back to Hogwarts faster than should be humanly possible. Faster than Ginny was willing to urge the horses, so she travelled behind with most of their luggage. A position Harry envied her for the calm and quiet, and one she enjoyed for the freedom to stop wherever she pleased, independent from her love-mad brother. 

Harry, sadly, decided it would be wrong to abandon Ron to race the country alone. Joining him, it seemed at the time, was the honours thing to do. 

It was stupid. Spending the entire day on a horse is exhausting and uncomfortable, and Ron would not stop being happy. This, by almost every measurement, must be the worst journey of his life. 

“You want to call on them now.” Harry doesn’t even have the energy to make this a question. He doesn’t have the energy to be surprised. 

He isn’t surprised, because of course. Of course Ron wants to call on them this very instant, wants to see her immediately. They are disgusting and smell of horse, they can barely walk straight, but Ron wants to see her. 

Harry doubts the beloved Miss Granger will be much impressed. 

“I must see her,” Ron insists, and Harry follows. Tired and blind and loyal and what does it matter? She either loves him or she doesn’t. After all this time, if she would ever accept Ron’s proposal, she would do it even on these terms. On these, or not at all. 

Ron doesn’t stop to consider this. Ron needs to see her, so he will. 

They call upon Malfoy Manor, a decision that completely bypassed Harry. By the time he realises, exhausted and hungry and more pessimistic than suitable to such a quest, it is too late to raise concerns. 

Especially when they are selfish concerns, less to do with Miss Granger and more her friend. Who will be there, not expecting to see Harry. Probably not wanting to see Harry. 

Harry should have taken the coach. 

The house is in a flutter. Their arrival surprises them as much as Harry, and as they draw closer, they can watch the house assemble itself, people spilling out and lining up to greet them. 

There is discussion about greeting them, even while Harry is dismounting. Their horses are received and led to the stables, and still there is no formation, people clustered like they never welcomed guests. 

It’s most displeasing, considering etiquette. Expectations are unclear, there is no proper way to ascertain welcome behaviour, and Malfoy looks as flustered as Harry feels. 

Actually, that part is new. Malfoy never looked flustered by the headache his family caused Harry; Harry finds he quite likes having someone to commiserate with. 

“Well, any friend of Mr Weasley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure,” Lucius Malfoy says loudly. Too loudly, Harry thinks, as to reasonably assume they might not hear. “But else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.” 

Everyone winces at this. 

The man is as Harry remembers, excitable and rude in it, convinced the whole world revolves around him. It makes his son blush and look like he would like the ground to swallow him. 

Ron, also not deaf, smiles too brightly to make up for it. Pretends neither of them heard or minds. He approaches the gaggle of Malfoys confidently and charming, eyes wild until they land, finally, on Miss Granger. That is when his smile turns true. 

Lucius Malfoy, ignorant but pleased with himself, fusses over him interminably. Watching Ron be smothered and complimented, attacked with eagerness and no grace, Harry finds he doesn’t mind being unwelcome. It suits him well, as long as it affords him his personal space. Malfoy’s harsh criticism of his manners forced him to examine and judge them in detail, but this, Harry thinks wryly, he did not err on. 

Ron, too malleable and kind, is intercepted before he can so much as greet the lovely Miss Granger, taken by the elbow by Lucius Malfoy and accosted with questions and demands and compliments, led inside the house without acknowledgement of anyone else. 

This leaves Harry outside, tired and exhilarated and with nothing to say to Malfoy, his mother, and Miss Granger. Remus and Sirius are not present, which might either be a blessing or a curse; either would have made this moment much easier. 

“Mr Potter,” Mrs Malfoy greets him, gracious like her husband didn’t snub him. Harry has never seen much of Narcissa Malfoy, but considering what he saw of her husband, this might speak favourably of her. Besides, someone must have raised their son—Harry decides to be… kind. And not just because aforementioned son is close by and watching him with narrowed eyes. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” Harry replies and inclines his head, then greets Malfoy and Miss Granger as well. “I hope you are well.” 

The sitting room is of a good size, fitting everyone neatly, if closer than Harry might prefer. It places him on a settee with Ron, who braces questions of London and his stay in Hogwarts, and takes the expectation off Harry. 

Lucius Malfoy has claimed an armchair but reaches for his wife constantly, to make sure she heard the fantastic news that Ron plans on staying. To indicate that they, his wife and him, have been wondering about this. To get her attention, to check with her that yes, they could host them for dinner if they required. 

It’s endearing in a hapless way. An expression far more sincere than Harry believed the man capable of. An expression fondly reciprocated and indulged. 

Miss Granger, also sitting in an armchair and opposite the settee shared by Malfoy and his mother, is sipping her tea and pretending to be elsewhere. She does not partake in the conversation and does not look at any of them and certainly not Ron. (Ron, in contrast, hardly looks at anyone else.) 

Malfoy is as silent as his friend, though he follows the conversation avidly and glances at Harry often. He looks good, his clothes simple but not plain, though he clearly didn’t expect guests. This is intimate, a jacket rushed and no waistcoat, a white shirt and snug trousers, dirty like he was kneeling on the ground. Working in the garden, perhaps? His hair is loose, too, and it falls around his face, curls most charmingly until Malfoy pushes his hand through it, smooths it back against his head. 

He blushes and closes his eyes in despair when, proudly, his father exclaims ‘When you have killed all your own birds, Mr Weasley, I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please. I am sure we will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the coveys for you.’

He smiles at Harry, too. When their eyes meet, when he catches Harry looking at him. 

He smiles and he blushes and he looks away. It drives Harry mad. 

“Mr Potter,” he finally says, leaning close so as not to draw attention from his father, berating Ron for the state of his lawn. “I’m sorry to say you missed my uncles by just half an hour. They have gone out, you see.” 

He does not look sorry, looks quite comfortable luring Harry closer and closer. 

Harry does not mind being lured. Malfoy’s eyes sparkle in the light, knowing and amused. Mocking, but not Harry. Mocking this pretence, this arrangement. Mocking the boundaries of polite society, the lines Harry is all too eager to cross. 

“It’s no trouble,” Harry replies, breathless, leaning in himself. “It’s not them I came to see.” 

Malfoy smiles at him, sweet like Harry was never fortunate enough to have directed his way. It makes his heart beat faster, makes him want to be bold and foolish. 

It reminds him of what he meant to ask, that day it all fell apart. 

For a moment, Harry thinks he might. Regardless of Malfoy’s family, regardless of how stupid and inappropriate and how unlikely to succeed. Malfoy smiles at him and Harry almost sinks to his knees. 

Ron breaks before he does. 

“Miss Granger,” Ron says, and Malfoy looks up, looks away from Harry. 

The entire room seems to hold its breath. 

“Miss Granger,” Ron repeats, nervous, his leg jittery where it’s pressed against Harry’s. 

“Excuse me,” Miss Granger says, still not meeting his eyes. She places her tea down, hands shaking, and then she stands, quick and efficient. 

She is out the door before anyone can think to stop her. 

Malfoy throws him a pained look, almost wistful, and then he follows his friend out. 

Just like that, the room feels too big. 

Ron stares after them, hand reaching out as if to stop her, frozen in the air from when she stood to leave. 

Harry has no words himself, no idea how to pretend that wasn’t awful. 

Even Mrs Malfoy looks shocked, though she can’t have known what Ron wanted to ask. What he wanted to imply. She can’t know how gutting this feels, and yet she seems to sympathise too much to smooth things over. 

“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr Weasley,” Lucius Malfoy says, out of nowhere, into the silence. Completely ignorant. “For when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.”

They leave that day frustrated and disappointed. 

Harry isn’t certain what he expected, exactly, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t his friend, downcast and unsure, wasn’t a quiet evening in. 

This much for the foolish and the brave. 

Weasley being back in the neighbourhood doesn’t change as much as you’d think. After his first frantic call to the house and Hermione's subsequent shock, he has politely avoided them. 

It’s most irritating. Hermione, dedicated to her hurt, refuses to seek the man out herself and Weasley, being a gentleman, doesn’t need more indication of intent than that. 

Draco is perilously close to asking Potter for help. He restrains himself, mostly because Potter is as absent as his friend. Besides, too much has passed between them; Draco could not ask for such a favour, beneficial as it might be to both of them, without addressing at least a fraction of what has gone unacknowledged. 

Sirius, of course, delights in it. Gleefully he details the glimpses of Weasley he caught visiting Potter, asks if he should carry messages or courting gifts. Hermione gracefully ignores this. 

He does not answer any of Draco’s questions, which pertain to Potter and his expectations of Draco. (None, if Sirius’ vague smiles are to be believed. Which they are not.) 

This, all together, makes for an uncomfortable stalemate. 

Draco starts and burns several letters demanding Potter explain himself, his presence and his absence. He considers Remus, who smirks knowingly and thereby prevents further questions. He drags Hermione on walks to discuss feelings she is still working through, unwilling to share before she reached a conclusion. Occasionally they steer dangerously close to the Burrow and Hermione gives him such scathing looks, you’d think Draco planned to drag her inside. She abandons him then, unreasonable but unwilling to be convinced otherwise. 

Hermione is angry and hurt and scared of being hurt again and Draco lets her go, because he doesn’t know what else he can do for her. 

The only thing Draco does do, completely and exhaustively, is write to Pansy. 

Pansy, sadly married and absent as she is, needs to be informed of everything. Sirius, who is the only one to actually engage with Weasley and Potter (and Ginny, who Draco has heard reports of but hasn’t spotted yet), tells them of something small and frivolous and vexing. Something that suggests more than it tells, and they are collectively too proud to ask. Draco then, weak in the early hours, reports to Pansy, who is to make sense of it for him. Pansy knows the details of Weasley’s decor and wardrobe, she knows of Potter’s secret kindness, of Ginny’s presence strangely unconfirmed, and of Hermione's continued distance. 

Pansy knows of Draco’s dreams, of his restlessness, of his questions. Of his strange urge to find Potter, to seek him out and not ask any of his questions because surely they don’t matter when confronted with the man. Couldn’t possibly. She knows that’s why he never gets very far in his visiting intentions and she knows that Potter never visits himself, that he might not have any interest in seeing Draco but that Draco cannot explain why that would be the case, when he put so much effort and money into saving him. But why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent, did he come at all?

Pansy knows everything, learns his pleas from daily letters, and she answers not a single one of them. 

Because, above all, they are pathetic. And Pansy has no time for the pathetic. She is a respectable, married woman. She has serious matters to attent to. 

Draco, who is neither married nor respectable, has all the time in the world to be pathetic. 

He rather suspects, given Potter’s presence here, that he feels similarly. 

(For if he fears Draco, why come hither? If he no longer cares for Draco, why silent? Teasing, teasing man! Draco will think no more about him.)

(It’s just that it doesn’t make sense. It’s all very vexing and Draco only wishes to understand. Nothing more.) 

Chapter Text

When he finally meets Potter, it is quite by accident. 

It has become an unfortunate habit, a despicable weakness, to ride too close to the Burrow on his (newly) daily trips with Nimbus. Draco would take her out around the same time every day, and they would pass dangerously close to the house. Within sight. They would linger, and Draco would indulge his fantasies of Potter coming out to join them. Of Potter expecting them. Of Potter seeing them and smiling in surprise, waving. 

Then Draco would realise he was being foolish, or Nimbus would get impatient, and they would ride on. He then forgets all about Potter and what might or might not happen should he ever spot them. 

So it really was quite unexpected when he did, sitting across Hedwig and waiting proudly. Too awkward for one of Draco’s illicit dreams, too resplendent for dull reality. Draco approaches him with a flutter of spirits, in which it is difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bears the greatest share.

“Mr Malfoy,” Potter greets him warmly, coming alive under Draco’s eyes. “Such a coincidence! I was just out for a ride myself.” 

Potter, who has been obviously waiting, gestures back to the house as if to illustrate to Draco that he just made his way from there, mere seconds ago. It is a kind lie badly delivered, and while it upends yet again all Draco thought he knew about the man, it does settle fantasy and reality into one coherent picture. 

“I would not presume upon your company,” Draco responds, pleased despite himself that Potter engineered this. That, finally, Potter ventures out of his isolation. For Draco. 

“You wouldn’t presume,” Potter tells him, low and intimate now that they are closer. “It would be my honour to have you accompany me.” 

He looks good today, dressed sensibly for a long day out and not as finely as he prefers. He brought a bag, even, mysterious in its contents but evidence of planning. 

“Perhaps I intended toward the house,” Draco says, overwhelmed by this offering, by such blatant care. “Perhaps I did not intend a trip at all.” 

Potter, awful man, laughs at him. He throws his head back and laughs, wild and free, and Draco almost doesn’t mind being its cause, such a beautiful sight he makes. 

“Apologies,” Potter says when he can speak again, amusement still bright in his eyes, hardly contained in his smirk. “I did not mean to prevent you. Proceed, if that was indeed your intention.” 

It was not. Potter knows it was not, smirking at Draco flushing and stammering. 

“I may be prevailed upon,” he admits, not meeting Potter’s eyes. 

“You would?” Potter asks, plainly hopeful. “Let me ask you then, clearly, to please join me. It would be my greatest pleasure.” 

Potter smiles at him, small but sincere, and offers his hand. Which is strange, because they are both still sitting on incredibly patient horses, but also utterly charming. 

Potter is charming and it strikes Draco all at once, violently, that this might be foolish. That whatever Potter had done, whatever Remus had implied—Draco’s heart whispers that he had done it for him. Not out of duty or honour, not for himself, but for Draco. Because he had meant it, when he talked of admiration and love. And possibly, hopefully, he might still mean it. 

They ought to have a chaperone. They ought to sit down awkwardly for tea and carry polite conversation under watchful eyes. Flaunt it, make their courtship public and official. Make it real.

But Draco would sooner die than overshadow Hermione, and he knows not a single reasonable person who would be willing to chaperone—unorthodox, that is what it shall be. As all the best love stories are. 

And so he takes Potter’s hand, as he had intended to should he be fortunate to receive the offer, and Potter smiles at Draco like he gave him a great gift. 

They are both of them fools, Draco thinks, giddy with Potter smiling at him so awestruck. Right now, it seems like the best thing they could be. 

Harry didn't know what to make of the invitation. Normal enough on its surface, almost dull. A summons for tea, the most common thing in the world. No sneaking away and no horses for distraction, no chance at racing or of favourably comparing Malfoy to the beauties of nature. Instead: tea and finery and chaperoning friends. 

Harry almosts declines, so unappealing the prospect, except that it is Malfoy. Harry would go anywhere Malfoy asked him to. Also, Malfoy made it clear his family would not be in residence. Miss Granger, but everyone else out on some journey. 

Harry was to bring Ron. 

The scheme thus displayed (and being in his friend’s debt as he is) what was Harry to do but follow Malfoy's wishes? 

Ron is not best pleased when he realises their machinations. He hesitates in the doorway, his coat and hat already handed off to the staff so that there can be no retreat (not least of all because Harry stands unyielding at his back) and no way forward, because forward sits the pretty Miss Granger. 

The room is smaller than the parlour they have met in previously, not a room for guests. The walls are deep green, gentle sun falls from the windows facing the garden, and the single small table is covered to excess in tea and sweets. Furniture, though plush and inviting, is sparse and, from what Harry can see over Ron's shoulder, offers not too many opportunities for a gentleman to sit and conserve propriety. 

Harry, who somewhere along his rides with Malfoy learnt to disregard propriety entirely, does not mind this. Ron, who for some daft reason doubts Miss Granger loves him, very much does mind. 

But Miss Granger happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her. Relieved, Harry follows his friend into the room. He doesn't take the invitingly empty place next to Malfoy but rather the lone armchair—not for reasons of propriety, but because he has a tendency to make a fool of himself when too close to Malfoy. 

Malfoy, far from being disappointed, smirks at him like he has insight into this private (and embarrassing) reasoning. 

"Thank you both for joining us," he says, when it becomes apaprent that no one else will speak. Ron and Miss Granger busy staring at each other, Harry busy containing his most uselessly fawning thoughts. "Please, enjoy the tea." 

From there, Malfoy skillfully directs the conversation, avoiding such topics as London and anything else that might cause distress. He affords both their friends the opportunities to show off to the fullest regard and occasionally smiles at Harry like they are partners in this, like Harry had any part besides the initial. Harry finds himself smiling back, wishing very much that it was so.

It is a pleasant afternoon, Ron and Miss Granger quickly coaxed back into their easy rapport, quickly reminded how to talk and laugh with each other. They seem almost as happy as on their first meeting, and this time, Harry warms on seeing it. He cannot speak for Miss Granger, but Ron, at least, deserves this happiness and more. 

And so, when Malfoy offers to show him something in the library, Harry gets up to follow. 

They do not make it that far. Just far enough that they are not obviously listening in but close enough to receive the happy news immediately when it is announced. 

They stand close together in the hallway, not speaking in their anticipation, but while Malfoy strains to listen for any outbursts, Harry can't take his eyes off him. The giddy way he can't seem to stand still, the proud smile, the blush on his face, the way he glances up at Harry and away, back to the closed door but always, quickly, back to Harry again. Lingering when he does, longer and longer. 

It is the most exquisite torture, standing here with Malfoy united in happy scheming but unable to start a conversation. Unable to not start a conversation, either, because Harry always wants to talk to him. 

"Do you think it will work?" he whispers, careful not to break the spell. 

"Why, Mr Potter," Malfoy's gaze snaps back to him, his eyebrow arched, "do you doubt me?" 

Harry wouldn't dare. He says as much, leans closer because he can and because Malfoy's laugh has that effect on him, pulls him in closer every time. 

"It will work," Malfoy replies, "I'm sure of it." 

He doesn't glance at the door anymore, his eyes firmly on Harry. They are too close for coherent thought, for anything charming or intelligent Harry might have said. He can only stand here, as close as Malfoy will allow him, wishing he could touch him, hold his hand maybe, cup his face. There are many more things Harry would like to do from there, inappropriate things inspired by Malfoy's flush and his breathlessness, but Harry should be content to embrace him, should not know what to do with himself even with just that. 

He thinks he might ask for it, thinks he might be brave and foolish and trust Malfoy's bright eyes, the intimacy of the moment, when the door opens loudly, breaking it. Ron hurries out, eyes determined on the floor and walking quick and unhappy. He doesn't look around, doesn't see them lurking in the hallway, is out of their sight before Harry can even understand what happened. 

It is clear, however, that things did not go as planned. 

With a regretful glance at Malfoy and the endless possibilities of just one moment prior, Harry rushes out after his friend. 

Hermione hasn't spoken to him since he arranged for her to be proposed to over tea and sweets. Draco understands her fury, truly—he did promise not to meddle. Unfortunately, he is his father’s son. 

He doesn't know what happened between them while Draco himself was busy being stared at by Potter, and he didn't have the gall to ask. After Weasley and Potter left—so very shortly before something momentous could happen, Draco is certain of it—Hermione was too angry to confide in him. She was pleased enough to talk to Weasley again, to meet him away from prying eyes and expectations, but she did not appreciate being left alone, expectations rudely reintroduced to what was always a space free of them. 

Looking back, Draco agrees. He pushed too much, something he didn't need Pansy's letter to affirm. Of course, this was one of the few of his letters she answered, solely to declare him an idiot. (Draco misses her dearly.) 

So Hermione, rightfully distrustful, has not spoken to him since. Draco has tried to respect that, occupying himself in writing to Pansy, meeting but never quite talking to Potter, mysteriously smiling at his prying family. A most convincing performance, if he says so himself, thus it comes as something of a shock to find Hermione in their library one perfectly normal afternoon. 

"Hermione," Draco says, surprised, almost apologises for intruding in his own home. "I did not expect you here." 

"No," she agrees, tone carefully even. She has not forgiven him, then. Leaning against a table she gestures at the corrosponding chair. "Sit down; I wish to speak to you." 

Dreading this exchange, Draco does as she asked. 

"I saw Weasley today," she starts, her tone giving nothing away. "Barely an hour ago, in fact." 

"I'm so sorry," Draco says. "That can't have been easy." 

As far as Draco knows, they haven't seen each other since Weasley aprubtly left their tea. Even Potter has no further insight, Weasley strangely reticent with him. Whatever has been happening between Weasley and Hermione, if anything at all, is a closely guarded secret. 

Hermione looks at him with pity. 

"You cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now," she says, not pleased with the prospect. 

Draco, who no longer knows what to think or how to support his friend, decides on flattery in his time of need. 

"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever." Thankfully Hermione is an amazing person so it also happens to be the truth. 

Hermione, swayed by this, smiles at him. 

"Oh, Draco," she says, and then she laughs. Almost too happy to explain: "We are going to marry." 

Draco, who waited his entire life for this moment, does not know how to react. 

Hermione  is clever enough for both of them and, bursting with happiness, she pulls him up into a hug without waiting for a response. As she holds on to him, giddy, Draco comes to his senses and hugs her back. 

"My darling Hermione," he says, muffled into her hair, "I'm so happy for you. Did he finally ask you?" 

Hermione makes an affronted noise against his shoulder but doesn't let go. 

"I asked him, thank you very much." 

Of course. Draco can almost picture it, picture Hermione, braver than all of them. Good for her. Draco squeezes her tighter. 

"How shall I bear so much happiness?" Hermione asks him and Draco doesn't know, he has rarely seen her like this. How do people usually bear it? This is where the fantasies end, in happy endings and weddings, and then people either become politely estranged or they stay insufferably in love and happy like his parents, who never learnt to bear their love in a decent manner. 

This is what he wants for her, he decides. That she shall be deliriously happy always. 

Hermione steps away, holding on to his hands but looking at him seriously now, even as she is still smiling widely. 

Still, Draco must ask. 

"Are you happy? Is this what you want?" A stupider question has never been asked, and Hermione doesn't deign to answer.

Draco is so proud of her. 

He tells her as much, making her squirm and glance away. 

"If I could but see you as happy," she says, because Hermione is both too good for him and a devious sort of person. "If there were but such another man for you!"

As far as subtle teasing goes, it's not her best work. Under these extenuating circumstances, however, Draco will forgive her. He will not acknowledge what she is hinting at, though. 

"If you were to give me forty such men I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness." It strikes him that this might be true, that whatever flirtations he indulges in with unnamed men, it seems unlikely to go anywhere. This, he realises in envy, is more tangible than any of his dreams and follies. But it is Hermione's moment, and so he refuses to wallow in it. "No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr Goyle in time.”

Hermione, blinded by love and happiness and a terrible array of soppy feelings, waves away his imminent spinsterhood. 

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, but her heart is not in it, and Draco doesn't begrudge her her priorities. She is thinking of happier things, as she should be. Still, she adds, smirking: "Just look pretty and smile and you will be alright." 

Draco has a reply to that, he swears he does, but he's laughing and surprised and then Hermione is saying goodbye, hugs him again and still so brightly happy. 

"I have to write to Pansy," she says, vaguely apologetic. "Can you imagine if she finds out from anyone else?" 

Draco cannot, and so he lets her go, makes her promise to come by tomorrow so they can celebrate properly. She does promise, distracted and smiling and thinking of Pansy or Weasley or who knows what, and then she is off, waving him as she rushes to share the happy news. 

Draco watches her go and tries not to feel too bereft. 

He had better write to Pansy, too. She will want to know everything. 

Chapter Text

Without quite meaning to, Draco slips into avoiding Hermione. It is an easy thing to do—she is in high demand all the sudden, and of course her new husband-to-be wants to see her every second of every day. Draco heard, more than witnessed (and what shame for him, what comment on the quality of his friendship) that Weasley has become a daily visitor; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought himself obliged to accept.

Draco heard this from Hermione and from his father, from Auntie Sprout and Sirius, who is growing restless at having to stay so very long in just one small and boring place, but who seems determined to antagonise Draco into matrimonial bliss. He has given up all subtly and scheming and resorted to openly praising Potter whenever he fears Draco might think of anyone else. 

Not that Draco needs the encouragement. He doesn't need the extolling of Potter's virtues, well aware as he is of them. He writes of nothing else to Pansy, letters he doesn't send because even in the depths of his agony Draco is aware they reveal an excruciating level of infatuation and naivety. It is like Hermione's engagement, her real tangible happiness, has put into stark relief the state of Draco's own affairs. And they are not nearly as happy and promising as he fooled himself into thinking. 

Draco, who fancied himself a romantic and an expert, must reckon with the fact that his heart is not reliable. After all, it was easily taken in by Lockhart, who smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. And that was all Draco's traitorous heart needed, all he was willing to see. 

And now Potter! It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. And Draco the only one who knew! Because Potter, in his insufferable goodness, insisted on complete anonymity. He did not even want Draco to know, the horrible man, and now that Draco knows he cannot speak of it. It makes him question, finally, if Potter really didn’t do it for his sake. If Potter stepped in for the reasons he claimed, because preventing Lockhart was right and just and he could no longer bear his participation in the tricking of innocents. 

It is, all things considered, far more reasonable. If less flattering to Draco personally. Which would not be a concern at all, were it not for Sirius and Remus smirking and insinuating, whenever in the least possible, that, for Potter at least, flattering Draco might be more important than reason. 

A ridiculous fantasy to indulge, and were Draco not so helplessly in love with the man, he should not have done it. 

Indulge he did, however, and only now, in seeing Hermione and Weasley so happy together and comparing it to his own adventures with Potter, Draco realises they come up short. That he has seen nothing but what he wanted to see, that Potter's willingness to tolerate him by no means implies an interest. It is nothing more than sensible, really, that they should find a way to exist together if their friends are to be married. It is likely they will see a lot of each other, Potter and Draco, and it stands to reason that Potter would rather their interactions not be strained and awkward. And with the way Draco denied him, how could he possibly know that his friendly attentions are cruel to his hope? 

No, much as Draco likes to blame everything on Potter, he has none but himself to blame for his situation. A man who has once been refused! How could Draco ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same person? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings.

And so, with Potter hopelessly out of reach and Draco himself responsible for it, he writes to Pansy. He writes in exacting detail of what they do and how Potter looks at him, and how often, and of his smile and how Draco's fluttering heart counts them all, finds Potter smiles at him far more often than anyone else and wishes it to mean something, wishes it to be enough. But Draco has seen the truth now, has understood that Potter merely indulges him but doesn't seek him out, that Potter might smile but it is out of politeness, to keep the peace. 

Whatever warm feelings Potter held for him, Draco shattered them thoroughly. 

And still, when Potter smiles at him and Draco smiles back, when Sirius tells him that Potter came looking for him and was sad to miss him, that Potter asked about him—whenever Potter does anything, in short, Draco takes it as irrefutable proof of his love. 

But it is foolish, madness, and Draco writes viciously of every detail that they don't share, of all the times they could not touch and that he did not see Potter, all the things he does not know about the man and all the questions interested suitors would ask but Potter doesn't. He writes to Pansy about why they cannot possibly be in love and he burns the letters, makes himself watch as his hopes and dreams go up in flames. 

One of these days, he will have understood it. 

Chapter Text

Unannounced guests tend to appear without appreciation for the complications they cause. This is due to their very nature, being presumptive and arrogant. They do not expect that they should have to follow any rules but their own, and they do not take kindly to having this misapprehension pointed out. 

Which is to say, Draco hears Lady Petunia long before he sees her. They all saw the coach driving up, too early in the morning to verbally remark on it (too early in the morning for Draco to properly care, to be honest) and they were of course all intending to be surprised: but their astonishment was beyond their expectation—the Lady Petunia, deigning to darken their doorstep! 

It's a great day for Lucius Malfoy, an important day, and, while he would have appreciated a bit of a warning, he is by no means ungrateful for this opportunity. He might not understand how it came to pass, what moved her Ladyship to call upon them so unexpectedly (and rudely) but he is not blind to the opportunities this visit affords him. So, while his staff is busy trying to explain to her Ladyship the importance of keeping her voice down, Lucius is getting dressed in haste and without help. The result is unlikely to inspire confidence, but at least he shall be somewhat presentable, unlike the rest of his family who either fled at the first sign of visitors (his wife) or who are so caught up in their agonised despair that no one could move them to decency (his son). No, this family’s honour rests on the shoulders of Lucius Malfoy now, and he will make them proud. 

By the time he returns to the parlour, trying to appear like he didn't hurry, Draco is already staring at Lady Petunia, silent and unforthcoming like an imbecile.

From the doorway, Lucius sighs. 

Her Ladyship is too grand for the simple room. Her mere presence fills it, and that is not even accounting for the opulent dress and the clearly expressed expectations. She stands in the very middle, the whole world centred on her, and she surveys the land from her position, expecting to be waited on. But Dobby is flinching from the task, holding back his people until his Master has forgiven them for failing to enforce his rules. 

Draco, meanwhile, is not entirely sure what is happening. This was supposed to be a quiet day, his uncles away for a few days, making arrangements for the wedding and granting Draco respite from their constant teasing. They offered to take him with them, of course, continue the list of Potter's virtues, but Draco managed to talk himself free. This day was supposed to be reserved for melancholy, now he is being sneered at by an overdressed and furious stranger. 

Seconds before Draco can say something stupid, his father strides back into the room. He looks ill put together, like he has only a vague understanding of fashion and hygiene, but since Draco is almost entirely wrapped in a blanket, he refrains from remarking on it. 

Lucius Malfoy, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, receives her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she says, very stiffly, to Draco, — “I hope you are well, Mr Malfoy. That Gentleman, I suppose, is your father?”

Father makes as if to answer something, either unbearably solicitous or offended, and Draco finally finds it in himself to speak. 

"Indeed," he confirms; no great feat but enough for Lady Petunia to nod and continue on with her conversation, regal and out of place where she sits on their furniture. 

“This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in summer: the windows are full west,” she says and father hastens to assure her that they hardly ever use it, really, only in the mornings and this is by far their prettiest room, if her Ladyship would like a tour? 

Draco, horrified, stares mutely. 

Lady Petunia would not like a tour and says so most pronounced, most dignified, imposing in the following silence.

Draco now expects that she would produce a letter for him from Pansy, as it seems the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appearers, and he is completely puzzled. Not that he would expect Pansy to trust that woman with anything, let alone private correspondence, or that he expects Lady Petunia would condescend to such tasks. But what else is there? 

"There seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn," she says when no other conversation is made, addressing solely Draco. "I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company."

Draco should be glad to see her go, so he agrees. They leave his father perplexed and with the vague feeling he was insulted, but before he can verify this Draco ushers them out of the door. As much as you can usher a Lady, at least. 

He has no illusions that the garden, while indeed lovely and Auntie Sprouts pride and joy, is what Lady Petunia came to discuss. But he is determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable, so they stroll it silently for a few minutes. 

Finally, irritated, Lady Petunia begins her objective. 

"You can be at no loss, Mr Malfoy, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come."

Draco confesses that it doesn't, that he thinks her journey quite unnecessary. He could add more but, in the interest of terminating this conversation as soon as possible, does not. 

It is cool out here in the mornings, and Draco wishes he had brought the blanket. He is only perfunctorily dressed, his hair not treated at all, his clothes fit for none but family. He feels almost naked, unprotected under her piercing gaze. 

He does not care for it. He wants to go back inside and suffer in peace. 

“Mr Malfoy,” replies her Ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness; and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your close friend was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you—that Mr Draco Malfoy would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew—my own nephew, Mr Potter. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”

For a long time, Draco says nothing. 

He does not understand what she should have heard, and from whom, that could possibly lead her to this conclusion. And to take it so very seriously as to come all the way here, to consider Draco such a horrible threat when he has not even spoken to Potter—but of course she would not know that, whoever her source cannot know how tragically imagined their love was. 

So someone saw them, mistook efforts at friendship for interest beyond that, just like Draco did, and Lady Petunia forgets everything else to ensure this happy development be squashed.

Little does she know, Draco took care of that himself. 

"If you believed it impossible to be true,” says Draco, colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your Ladyship propose by it?”

It can be nothing but mockery, a cruelty more elaborate than Draco thought her interested in. 

Lady Petunia answers quickly, righteous and eager to twist the knife she says: “At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.”

At this, Draco barely contains his laughter. He suppresses it with his mounting anger, with the indignity of this situation forced on him. 

“Your coming here, to see me and my family,” says Draco coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it—if, indeed, such a report is in existence.”

"Do you deny it?" she demands. "Do you claim it was not yourself who spread the report?" 

"I never heard of any report," Draco answers, resolved to answer only in the bare minimum and offer her nothing. 

This does not please her Ladyship, a sour twist to her lips. 

“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?” This, truly, is what she wants to know. 

Draco, freezing and affronted, does not think it concerns her at all.

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your Ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”

Lady Petunia, not accustomed to be spoken to like this, appears to be seething. 

“This is not to be borne," she hisses, threateningly close suddenly. "Mr Malfoy, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”

“Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”

“It ought to be so;" she agrees, eyes narrowed as she glares down on him. "It must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in.”

Draco really does want to laugh now. Or possibly cry. It's a rather confusing experience. 

“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”

Her Ladyship, it seems, is growing tired of him. 

“Mr Malfoy, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”

Draco sincerely doubts that. He might not know Potter as closely as he thought he did, but he knows him better than that.

“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit.”

Disgusted and outmanoeuvred, her Ladyship backs away. She is tense in her fury, her mouth pressed tightly together and her fists clenched as if she should like to shake the answers out of Draco. 

“Let me be rightly understood," she says, trying to appear calm and reasonable. "This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr Potter is engaged to my son. Now, what have you to say?”

This, Draco thinks, is her trump card. Held desperately in a pitiable display. 

“Only this,—that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.”

This should end the ordeal nicely. After all, how could anyone question the authority and decisions made my the Great Lady Petunia? 

But she can question them fine well herself, it seems, and Draco is still not free. 

“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind," she explains, sardonic, resenting having to explain at all. And to the likes of Draco, too. "From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of their mothers. While in their cradles we planned the union; and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished, is their marriage to be prevented by a young man of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family? Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends—to his tacit engagement with Mr Dursley? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”

The nerve! All these insults, and Draco not even engaged to Potter! 

But to admit this now would taste of defeat, and Draco shall not lose his honour as well. Besides, it is poorly argued. Draco will not stand for it. 

“Yes; and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Mr Dursley. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr Potter is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”

This, it would seem, is a baffling question. Though not one Lady Petunia has to think long to answer. 

Because honour, decorum, prudence—nay, interest—forbid it. Yes, Mr Malfoy, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”

And what a shame that would be. 

“These are heavy misfortunes,” replies Draco. “But the husband of Mr Potter must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to his situation, that he could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.”

And friends outside his husband’s family, but Draco sees no reason to mention this. Lady Petunia looks ready to burst as is. 

“Obstinate, headstrong boy!" she screeches. "I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? You are to understand, Mr Malfoy, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”

“That will make your Ladyship’s situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on me.”

Lady Petunia does not accept this with grace.

“I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My son and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?—the upstart pretensions of a young man without family, connections, or fortune! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.”

Despicable, hateful woman. She's making them dance in circles, going over the same points again and again but refusing to listen to a single thing Draco says. 

It's tiring and pathetic and infuriating. 

She is also plainly wrong. 

“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman; so far we are equal.”

This she waves away, not even bothering to affect offence. 

"True," she acknowledges. "Your mother's line is acceptable. But what was your father? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.”

Wrong again. Wrong and offensive and she must know — 

“Whatever my connections may be,” says Draco, “if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.” 

He will not argue the value of people with this horrible woman. 

“Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?”

They are back to the start now, both more exhausted and angry than before. And though Draco would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Petunia, have answered this question, he could not but say, after a moment’s deliberation,—

“I am not.”

It's a devastating truth. Painful to finally say aloud. 

Although Draco of course had no illusions of being engaged, although he knew full well when he stepped out to argue with this woman, he did argue his right to marry Potter rather convincingly. So convincingly, maybe, that he forgot just how irrelevant the argument. Because regardless of who considers him noble and worthy, Potter will never again consider him at all. 

Lady Petunia seems pleased.

Draco is too tired to say something snide about it. 

“And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?” she demands, triumphant. 

But Draco will not. Not this, too. 

“I will make no promise of the kind.”

“Mr Malfoy, I am shocked and astonished." How she can still be shocked and astonished Draco does not know, but he wishes to return now. He has nothing further to say and a future to mourn. "I expected to find a more reasonable young man. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance I require.”

For a second, Draco fantasizes about simply walking away. Returning home, returning to bed, and leaving her honourable Ladyship to be a very ill-tempered scarecrow. 

Unfortunately, that would taint the garden forever. Draco is too fond of it for that. 

So, one last time, he shall try to make his position clear. 

"I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your Ladyship wants Mr Potter to marry your son; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Petunia, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no further on the subject.”

With this Draco turns, determined to exit the situation immediately.

“Not so hasty, if you please," Lady Petunia calls, and Draco unfortunately stops. "I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your monetary troubles, nor am I ignorant to the mysterious ways they have been hushed up. These things cannot be buried, Mr Malfoy, and I have suspicions on what kind of benefactor would remain anonymous. And this legacy you want to bring to my unwitting nephew? Are the shades of Gryffindor to be thus polluted?”

Not turning around, Draco tries once more to extract himself. 

“You can now have nothing further to say,” he resentfully answers. “You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house.” 

Lady Petunia ignores him completely. 

“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish boy! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”

It was Potter himself who informed Draco of this, much more impressively than Lady Petunia’s constant repetition of its fact. 

“Lady Petunia, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”

“You are then resolved to have him?”

At this Draco does turn, astonished. Did she not just spend the better part of the morning impressing onto Draco how impossible it would be for him to have Potter? 

“I have said no such thing," he replies, perhaps too honest in his surprise. "I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

Lady Petunia nods like he affirmed her worst fears. Like he has not already confessed that Potter has no interest in him any longer. That she is misinformed. 

“It is well," she says, completely serious when absolutely nothing is well. "You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”

Draco would say almost anything to get rid of her at this point. However, he is a romantic. He is unfortunately, disastrously in love with Potter, and ruining him is the very last thing he wants to do. And though they will never marry, though it will be of no consequence whatsoever, Draco will not bear these accusations. 

“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” he replies, “has any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr Potter. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”

“And this is your real opinion!" Lady Petunia exclaims. Still, somehow, surprised. "This is your final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Mr Malfoy, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point.”

She goes on insulting him, insulting his family and heart and home, but she is also moving towards her carriage, out of Draco's life. So he lets her talk, tolerates her hate for only a few minutes more. 

After an eternity, finally, at the door of the carriage she hastily turns around to add: "I take no leave of you, Mr Malfoy. I send no compliments to your father. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”

Draco watches her leave, furious with her and himself, furious with Potter—horrible, horrible man. He stands hurt and humiliated and lonely, having borne this abuse for no reason and no reward. 

How did she even know? What source could know enough to tell her of Potter's intentions but not enough to also tell her of Draco's folly? Who would know that there once was cause for concern but not, more pressingly, that there is no longer?

Watching the carriage retreat, Lady Petunia’s mockery ringing in his head, Draco forms a plan. Self-righteous and ill-conceived, perhaps, born of wounded pride, but there is no way he can simply return to his wallowing. 

Not when Potter goes around telling people they intend to marry. 

Chapter Text

By the time Draco finally gets there, he's not angry anymore. It burned out on his steep walk, on his thinking on what exactly he was going to tell Potter. He should have taken Nimbus, maybe, kept up the ire, but he didn't want to spook her, and it would have still led him here, standing before the large doors of the Burrow with nothing to say. Because what is there to say? 

It is either luck or someones foul idea of a joke that Potter chooses this exact time to go on a walk. 

"Malfoy," Potter greets him, not in the slightest surprised at his presence. "I saw you from one of the windows and came to join you." 

Of course.

Of course, this is Draco's own fault. How else could it be? But then Potter offers his arm and he smiles so genially-Draco accepts his offer. He can yell at Potter just as well wherever they are going. 

It turns and jumbles in Draco's mind, Lady Petunia and her insistence, her rudeness and hatred, how she humiliated him. But then there is Potter's smile, how he holds Draco's hand, how he carries most of the conversation because Draco is too deep in his head to make a pleasant partner. 

And all this, Draco is supposed to believe, is not love? 

Just because they don't speak of it, was Draco wrong in his judgement? He was so sure of it before, so certain—if nothing else, doesn't Lady Petunia's visit prove him right? 

Draco can no longer bear it. This uncertainty is making him churlish and unpleasant and sad—he must know. 

"What is this?" he asks, blunt and yet the least specific he could have been. It should be a miracle if Potter understands his meaning. 

Potter, rightfully, looks like English fails him. 

"Excuse me?" he asks, interrupted in his telling of whatever. 

"This," Draco repeats, gesturing between them, at his arm Potter is still holding, at his face because how dare he be this open and feeling with Draco. How dare he be approachable and funny and sincere when he no longer wishes to marry Draco. 

Potter, gobsmacked, replies nothing. They have come to a stop abruptly (a bad metaphor) and Draco feels the importance of the moment, that it will change everything. 

He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes to Potter's concerned gaze, and considers what he wants to say. 

"Potter, I am a very selfish creature," he starts, a preemptive apology, "and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness towards myself. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it."

Potter, not a stupid man, immediately knows what Draco is referring to. The money, though not discussed by anyone since it cleared Draco's name, comes all too easily to mind again. It sits between them now, a secret the size of a small fortune, and Potter looks uncomfortable. 

“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replies Potter, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think your uncles were so little to be trusted.”

This, despite how heavy Draco feels, makes him laugh. 

"And miss a chance to meddle?" he asks, and Potter agrees, smiling though still pained. 

"I did not wish to imply expectations," he continues, earnest, still holding on to Draco by his arm. "I thought it better you shouldn't know, so that you might not feel obligated." 

Obligated to what he does not expand, but Draco can imagine well enough. He appreciates it, but he can't help thinking of how things might have gone had Remus not nudged him along. 

"When you left that day," he starts slowly, trying to order his thoughts and speak with honesty on a topic so shameful to him. "I thought that would be the last I saw of you. You left with such determination and the news was so shocking—I thought I would be lucky if you not told anyone else. I never dreamed you would talk to me again, let alone help me." 

Potter, not a cold man at all, looks at Draco like he just broke his heart all over again. 

"Malfoy," he starts, but Draco interrupts him. He needs to do this properly, and he does not imagine that he shall want to discuss his debt ever again. 

"Please," he says, taking both of Potter's hands in his and meeting his gaze, "let me say this."

Potter, eyes wide and adoring, nods. 

"I could not believe what you wrote in your letter. I thought you unfeeling and spiteful; I thought you jealous. I thought many things, most of them silly, and I would have been content to go on thinking them. But Remus and Sirius love nothing better than a good scheme, as you know, and with their setting us up, I had to rethink most, if not all, of what I thought of you. Because it did not fit, you understand, what I thought of you and what they showed me."

Potter winces, but he doesn't stop Draco, doesn't demand he defend his dislike. Draco is grateful for it even as he doubts he could be as gracious were their positions reversed. 

"Just when I made my peace with possibly having to concede some points to you, with wanting to concede, I learnt of his betrayal. I'm sure you remember the day—you were the first person I told. Not because I wanted to, you understand, but you were suddenly there and these horrible things you said about me, about Lockhart—well they proved to be rather true, in the end. I thought you might wish to gloat, thought it might clear my own feelings if you could be cruel and I could hate you. But you were not cruel; you were kind, and it did not clear my feelings, but it helped in ways I did not think I could be helped anymore."

Draco can't look at Potter, too embarrassed by what he is revealing, but he can feel his eyes on him and he forces himself to not let go of his hands, to look up and meet his gaze at least for the next part, the most important part. 

"Thank you," he says, and Potter looks startled, looks overwhelmed, and Draco glances away again. "You left quickly, too quickly, and I thought you would not return. Like I said, I thought myself doomed. And I would have been, I really would have been. Everyone did their best, of course: Mother trying to track Lockhart and drag him back, Father trying to lift my spirits—it would have led nowhere, I am sure you are aware. I don't know the extend of your involvement, but I know enough. Remus hinted at a few circumstances, a few impossibilities that could only have been remedied by your presence—he hinted enough for me to understand the obvious truth. And yet you did not want me to know. I did not understand it, not until you explained it now, but I thought you must have done it for me. Selfishly, full of hope, I could imagine no other explanation." 

Potter squeezes his hands—involuntary, Draco thinks—and makes a noise as if to speak, but not quite yet. Draco is not done, the mortifying ordeal of being known not fully satisfied. 

"I thought we would never have to speak of it, as you so clearly desired, but I can no longer honour this. I don't know how much my parents understand of your involvement, or my friends, but none of them will thank you. Though you deserve it for you saved us all, whatever your motivation. So let me thank you now, sincerely, for all you have done for us." 

Draco looks up at Potter, skittish and uncertain, half convinced Potter will leave. 

Potter, possibly to both their surprise, does not leave. He looks uncomfortable and overwhelmed, but he considers all Draco has to say to him. 

“If you will thank me,” he replies, “let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.”

It is exactly what Draco did not dare hope for, and he has absolutely no reply to make. Potter looks at him warmly, fondly, and Draco's traitorous heart beats almost out of his chest, so thrilled is he. 

"You are too generous to trifle with me" Potter continues even as he pulls Draco closer, eyes relentlessly on Draco and impossibly green, impossibly joyful. "If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

Somehow, Draco cannot account for how, he finds himself in Potter's arms, beseeched and admired and held. For a man claiming to be uncertain of his welcome, Potter is certainly presumptuous, but Draco has no desire to make him suffer for it. Immediately, though not very fluently, he expresses to Potter how little cause for concern there is. 

It is a stuttering, blushing confession, and Potter expresses himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do—which is to say, he closes the last remaining distance between them and kisses Draco. 

Neither of them has much experience on the field, so it's a quick, awkward thing, but it leaves Draco tingling and dazed, lips buzzing where they brushed Potter's. He wants to kiss him again immediately, slower, but he doesn't know that he could bear it and Potter looks much the same, like he can't believe they are standing here, that they made it here, and so Draco resolves to arrange for them to be alone somewhere more comfortable, with nothing else to do but perfect that first kiss. 

They walk on without knowing in what direction. There is too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. But Potter has not let go of Draco's hand, and Draco leans perhaps more closely into him than necessary. 

"I'm so glad you said yes, this time," Potter says, his thoughts similar to Draco's on their unlikely journey. "I don't think I could have borne a second rejection." 

It's a delicate topic Draco had no plans of broaching, but Potter seems in good humour, smiling at Draco still dazed, his tone teasing. This is the man Draco learnt to understand and love, reserved only if you didn't know him, and wickedly clever. 

"Well," Draco says, careful to match his tone, "you were much ruder then." 

Potter laughs, delighted, and Draco feels like he could float, so large is his happiness. He feared they might never talk about their past, about how unkind they had been to each other. And here Potter is, laughing. They will be able to talk honestly; Draco is sure of it. 

They will be very happy. 

"If I remember right, you weren't especially polite, either." 

No, Draco was not, and though he feels justified in it even now, it does make him wince to remember. 

“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” he says. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

Potter, delightful man, grins at Draco like he would like to demonstrate his improved civility, perhaps by abandoning the walk and setting to practising their kissing right this instant. 

Draco does not object to the idea; it is tempting, but he has never been able to resist poking at Potter, so he pretends not to understand the heated gaze and continues them on their walk. 

And because they are really quite perfectly matched and Potter allows himself to be poked at, he knows just what to say. He leans closer into Draco, pretends it is necessary for their conversation and not seduction. 

"The turn of your countenance I shall never forget," he murmurs directly into Draco's ear, making him shiver with how close he is, "as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”

Wicked, horrible man. Draco can't believe he is going to marry him. 

"Oh, do not repeat what I then said."

Next to him, Potter laughs, so close Draco can feel it in his own body. It is a glorious sound—Draco wants to hear it every day. 

"We shall not speak of it again," Potter promises, but they both know it is false. They both said far too stupid things not to dramatically bring up in minor arguments for the rest of their blissfully married life.

They are going to be insufferable, Draco thinks smugly. 

"You know," he says, suddenly remembering, "there was no need to send your screeching aunt after me. I am, as established, a very civil person and amenable to rational talk."

"Excuse me?" Potter looks at him with such horror Draco finds it hard to recall the conviction with which he set off. 

"Lady Petunia?" he tries, like this is the root of the confusion. "She came by earlier to warn me off you. Apparently, everyone else knew we were engaged before we did—she was not pleased." 

Potter, the poor man, looks like he is going to faint. 

"Oh no," he says, eyes distant as he imagines the damage his family might have done. 

Draco is almost sorry to have brought it up, for there really is no need for Potter to look so worried. But Draco is not a kind man, so he does not assuage his fears quite yet. After all, it ought to be said that, for all of Potter's raving against Draco's family, it was his that sought to destroy them. (This, too, Draco will mention in every single argument.) 

"She said appalling things to me," he says, like he still cares what small insults that woman hurled at him. "It felt quite unfair, seeing as how we weren't even engaged at that point." 

Potter, stoic to the last, looks quietly constipated. 

"Apparently, I ruined your every chance at happiness with my wily allure." 

Finally, Potter gets wise to the game Draco is playing. 

"You are not upset?" he asks cautiously. 

"Well, I was rather upset," Draco allows, gently steering them down another path, one further corner away from civilisation. "I came to confront you, actually. I was quite angry with you." 

Potter, always arrogant, laughs at him. 

"Oh?" he asks, all fear forgotten. "Are you still angry?" 

Draco is not, and he has no desire to pretend to be. For now, he has had enough of seeing Potter squirm. 

"Why would I be angry?" he replies, smiling at Potter. "I won." 

He did, too. He will have to make sure Lady Petunia learns of how instrumental she was to their happiness. 

He goes on to detail the whole conversation to Potter, who is outraged on Draco's behalf. It is quite charming to see, quite gratifying, and Potter is a fantastic audience. Fully engaged, fully prepared to laugh at the ridiculous situation, fully willing to forsake his family should Draco wish it. Every petty insult is worth it for the way Potter denies them, for the protective fury building in him that promises a scathing letter in his future. 

Draco will insist on reading that, but right now he doesn't want to think about it. Right now, he simply enjoys how natural their rapport feels, how easily Potter gives him the exact reactions Draco hoped for. Right up until Potter kisses him, unwilling to hear him any more besmirched and silencing him the only way he can think. 

Their second kiss is much better than their first. 

Chapter Text

Draco is still in bed, dreaming warm and comfortable, when he is woken. Dobby knocking politely but insistently, ignoring every instruction about sacred mornings and their peace. It's unlike him, worryingly so, and for one hysterical moment Draco worries Lady Petunia is back. 

He calls out to Dobby to let him know he is awake and resigns himself to another day started prematurely. 

When he gets down, he is relieved to find nothing else changed. His father is quietly reading the paper while his mother is already up and nowhere to be seen. The reason for his urgency, Dobby motions him, waits in the green sitting room. Which disqualifies Lady Petunia because Dobby would never show her there, not without Draco's explicit consent and maybe even then. That room is Draco's sanctum—he almost runs the last few steps to get there quicker. 

Inside, Pansy whirls around to meet him. She looks flushed and dishevelled, entirely unexpected. 

"Draco!" she calls, as if she is surprised to see him. "I came to warn you." 

Well, this is ominous. 

Before Draco can protest such earnestness this early, before he can offer her tea or ask her what she is doing here—not that he isn't happy to see her, of course, even this early in the morning—before Draco can do any of the civilised things people do, Pansy has taken his hands and dragged him on the settee with her. 

Behind him, Dobby discreetly closes the door. 

"Good morning," Draco gets out, but Pansy waves him off. She looks like she has travelled all night, his poor friend, and she must have for how else could she be here? 

"I came to warn you," she repeats, the meaning of it still not registering with Draco. "My idiot husband told Lady Petunia that you and Potter were engaged." 

For a moment, Draco doesn't understand. How could Goyle even know? They told no one yet! 

Then, slowly, Draco begins to surmise what happened. 

Pansy explains it anyway, frantic. 

"He was mourning the future prospects of her son, now so decidedly impacted by Potter's audacity to marry someone else. I don't know how Goyle got that impression, honestly, but he said it because it's difficult, finding ever new things to entertain her with, and of course Her Ladyship wanted to know everything." Pansy cringes as she tells him this, can't quite meet Draco's eyes. "I'm afraid she is not too pleased and determined to talk you out of it." 

This, amazingly, makes a lot of sense. Of course it would be Goyle, who always fancied himself an expert of the heart and always missed it. And of course this his failing would not keep him from pronouncing his findings with the utmost certainty. 

"So you came to warn me?" Draco asks, because if so, Pansy is a whole day late. 

"As soon as I could," she agrees. 

"Well," Draco says, careful of his tone now. "Thank you, but Lady Petunia was here yesterday." 

Pansy looks up at him, shocked. 

"Oh no," she says, eyes wide in horror. "I should have written a letter, or left sooner, but I hoped she would not be able to come here so quickly — " 

Draco cuts her off; he has no interest in hearing his friend blame herself. It’s disconcerting.

"It's alright, Pansy; please don't worry." 

Pansy, allowing herself to be shushed only most unwillingly, considers him with new attention. 

Something must show on his face, or maybe Pansy knows him too well to think the meeting went as pleasantly as Her Ladyship hoped, for she grins at him, leans closer in excitement. 

"What did she say to you?" she asks, sensing a good story. 

"Oh, dreadful things," Draco says vaguely, unwilling to linger on them. He will tell Pansy any detail she desires, but first he has important news. "She accused me of seducing her nephew and making him madly in love with me." 

Pansy, knowing Draco too well, already fears where this is going. 

"Tell me you didn't, Draco," she pleads, but Draco did and so he only grins at her. 

"I had to verify the claim, Pansy." 

"So, like a normal person," Pansy says pointedly, delighted, "you went to ask Potter directly."

Not quite how it happened, but Draco affirms this. Pansy, long-suffering, sighs in exasperation. It might be more convincing if Draco didn't know her just as well as she knows him. 

"He does love me," Draco says, casually, "and we are to be married." 

Pansy—cold, 'I am not romantic' Pansy—squeals as she hugs him, so tight it almost hurts. 

"I'm so happy for you," she says, brimming with it, and Draco hugs her back, giddy. 

"Thank you," he says, muffled into her hair, and he means all of it. Thank you for not questioning me, thank you for being here, thank you for celebrating with me. Thank you for being my friend. 

Being who he is, though, and Pansy being who she is, he does not say this out loud. 

Pansy understands him well enough, anyway, squeezing him tighter before letting go just enough to look at him. 

"When did this happen?" she asks, and then immediately adds, "Who have you told? Does your father know? Can I be there when you tell him?" 

Draco, who has not told anyone, who has not previously understood the reality of being engaged—to Potter, who he will marry—does not know how to answer any of her questions. 

"Yesterday," he says, and tells her the whole thing. Lady Petunia, his anger, going to confront Potter, confessing his love. She doesn't need much explanation, thankfully, having read his letters even when she didn't answer, so she is maybe better informed about Draco's emotional state at any point than he was himself. But she is a good audience, patient and expressive, and in telling her Draco feels it become real. His indecent happiness, his glorious future. 

Pansy grins at him, congratulates him again when he tells her of their engagement, of how Potter asked him again. 

She does not ask him if he is sure, if he is absolutely certain. If this is his One True Love he has been waiting for. Draco appreciates that. 

Instead, she says, smugly: "A rich man, just as I recommended." 

Draco laughs, too happy even to litigate old arguments. 

"You are very wise," he agrees and Pansy, in her eternal wisdom, leaves him briefly, reluctantly, to call them tea and breakfast. And Hermione, someone will need to invite Hermione. 

They will be here a long time, scheming and laughing and imaging how everyone will react, what Lucius might say about his beloved son marrying such a disagreeable man. They will discuss the options of an elopement and Draco will not even try to contain his sappy feelings, his dreams of a big wedding with all his friends and family to witness. Nearly as good as the adventure and scandal of escaping to London, he will say, and Pansy will pretend to argue but secretly she will agree. 

Hermione will join them in the course of the morning, surprised to see Pansy and even more surprised to hear the news. It will be her who suggests a joint wedding (for practicality, of course) and Draco will agree immediately (not thinking one bit of practicality). 

Potter will call upon the house later, citing propriety but honestly just missing his fiancé. He will ask Lucius for his son's hand in marriage all the same, before Draco had a chance to tell his father himself, and they will all listen at the door for his reaction. 

The day will pass in a daze, delirious and happy, everyone in the Manor and everyone eager to recount their part in the happy ending. They will all stay late, friends and family alike, eating at the Manor and planning the weddings, planning how far and long the happy couples should travel after, planning entire lifetimes of love and joy. 

They will not leave until far into the night, returning home or retiring to guest rooms, and Draco will sink into bed exhausted but bright with joy, certain he shall not sleep so happy is he. 

He will dream, as he always has, of frivolous things, sweeping romance and dramatic declarations. 

It will pale next to reality.