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Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
VII

Justifying the Means

We draw our strength from the very despair

in which we have been forced to live.

—Cesar Chavez

: : : : :

'Did you hear about that Katie girl?'

'Who?'

'Bell, I think's her name—'

'The Gryffindor Chaser?'

'Nearly killed…'

'S'what I heard—'

'—I heard she's dead—'

'—no, taking her to St. Mungo's, I think—'

'—any idea—'

'Nobody knows—'

'—teachers being real tight-lipped—'

'Harry Potter says he saw it happen—'

Draco chipped his plate, he was pressing down so hard on it with his knife. He had no idea how he'd managed so much force, considering the way his hands were shaking.

'Draco?' Pansy was sat beside him, looking concerned. 'Darling, you're sweating—and your hands—are you sure you're all right?'

Draco could still hear the frantic, hushed whispers of rumours behind him at the Ravenclaw table. He took a slow, steady breath and put his knife down carefully. Blaise was watching him from just down the table, but said nothing as Draco got to his feet, swinging his bag over his shoulder. 'I'm having an early night,' he announced.

Vince and Greg, sitting directly across from him, looked at one another. Vince shrugged and Greg, looking up, said, 'All right. You want us to—'

'No,' Draco said shortly, turning away.

'Okay,' he heard Greg say. Then, almost offhandedly, 'Take it easy, Draco.'

Draco closed his eyes briefly as he walked out of the Hall. He could practically feelPotter's eyes boring into his back, watching, studying, looking for clues. Draco gave him nothing—he kept his gait and posture casual, his face impassive. Potter knew he was up to something, but he did not know what—and more importantly, he had no way of proving it.

Draco waited until he had cleared the Great Hall and, with a careful look around to make sure he was alone in the corridor, broke into a run.

Two flights of stairs, three turns, a jog down a corridor, and Draco flung himself into the least-frequented bathroom he'd managed to find in the whole castle. It was one of the few places he could find privacy at school, something that was all too important these days. It was too risky to go there without a guard, in case he was discovered; the Prefects' bathroom was too frequently used by Prefects and friends they'd given the password to; his own dormitory wasn't even safe any more, and Draco was sorely regretting the decision to give up being a Prefect this year—because while it meant that he had more free time, he lost the private room, which he sorely could have used now.

Sinking to the floor with his back against the door, Draco finally gave into the tension, dropping his head on his knees as his arms curled around them, pulling them close to his chest. The bathroom's floor was horribly cold and damp and smelled disgustingly of piss, but he didn't care. He was shaking so badly, the door was rattling on its hinges.

He'd almost killed a girl.

Killed.

It wasn't the concept of murder that frightened him—or, at least, that's what he'd led himself to believe. He knew that was coming. But the person he was supposed to kill could be viewed as a symbol, an emblem—not a human being. Katie Bell, on the other hand... he knew who she was, but he'd never had a reason to insult her directly, even playing on opposite Quidditch teams. In fact, when he thought about it, and recalled her face, anything he had heard or noticed about her in his six years there were all good things. Sort of shy, sweet, blushed a lot, was good with charms. Nice girl. Pure-blood. His age. Talented Chaser. She was even quite pretty, as far as girls went.

And he'd almost killed her.

The sickness began welling in his throat, and he forced it down with a heavy swallow. No, he thought stubbornly, shaking his head. She was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Why the hell did she open it? Aunt Bella had said it would be safe, as long as no one opened it. But then, Aunt Bella could have easily made it so that only the recipient could open it. Which went to show that Aunt Bella really didn't care if someone else besides the recipient might accidentally befall its horrible fate.

What if he'd accidentally opened it?

He bit back a sob, emitting an odd, choking noise. There was no point in trying to withhold the tears any more; it hurt too much to try and restrain them, and ended up making him look worse in the end. Merlin, if he could just fix the fucking cabinet already—once they were here, he'd be able to do it properly. No tricks, no roundabouts, no clever plots—and most importantly, no mistakes. Just the pointing of his wand, the utterance of the incantation, and the deed would be done; his father, forgiven, his mother, safe, his life, spared.

With two simple words he could right it all.

The noise of footfalls in the corridor alerted him to the end of dinner. Standing up quickly, Draco attempted to clean his face with the sleeve of his robes. He'd barely dried his eyes before his body gave another involuntary convulsion, and he caught himself on the edge of the sink before his knees gave out. He swore quietly as tears painted new trails down his cheeks, pooling along the line of his chin and jaw before running down his neck and slipping inside of his collar. Crying, cursing again, he forced himself to look up in the mirror above the sink.

A thin, pallid boy looked back at him, looking far older and more worn than should have been physically possible for a sixteen-year-old; once bright, sparkling, silver eyes had turned a dull grey, clouded with tears, deeply shadowed and red-rimmed; high cheekbones looked sharper than ever, more pronounced since he'd stopped eating; teeth gritted, jaw set, but lips trembling anyway as his face was left sticky and salty by the sobbing.

Draco felt deeply disgusted with himself; when, and how, had he been reduced to this? If his father saw him like this... if He saw him like this... No, his pride thought bitterly, trying and failing to diminish the sickness once again welling in his throat. He was stronger than this. He had to be.

Then why can't I stop shaking?

'Oh, don't cry,' someone said behind him, and Draco whirled around so fast he nearly fell over.

At the opposite end of his wand floated a ghost, bespectacled and spotty, frowning, with a worried expression fixed on her round face; he recognised her as the ghost girls tended to complain about in their bathroom on this floor, but could not recall her name. Draco stared for a moment, then noticed the tip of his wand was shaking like the rest of him, and slowly lowered it. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm his heart, which was beating thunderously against his chest. Merlin help him, if it had been Peeves...

'What's wrong?' the ghost asked him, still looking concerned.

He gave a short laugh and managed to lift his lips into a meagre sneer. 'None of your bloody business.'

The ghost frowned at him. 'That's not very nice,' she said with a hiccough, looking crestfallen. 'I just want to help.'

'Piss off,' he said, turning back to the mirror. He could see her bobbing insistently in the background as he attempted to clean up his appearance; it'd be easier if he could stop bloody crying...

'I won't tell anyone,' the ghost said from behind him, picking at a spot on her chin. 'I'm not like those other ghosts. You can trust me,' she continued, ignoring his rolling eyes, 'I've never given up a secret. But people lie to me all the time...'

Draco snorted softly. 'Wonder why,' he muttered, turning on the tap and splashing his face with cold water. Looking up, he saw his eyes were still swollen and red, and he frowned.

The ghost's head appeared over his shoulder, sniffing solemnly. 'You need to let it out,' she advised him. 'No point in crying just a little, it only makes it worse—'

'Didn't I tell you to piss off?' he snapped, glaring at her.

'Just trying to help,' the ghost sniffed.

'Sorry if I won't take the advice of a dead girl,' he spat.

Her mouth opened as if to give an angry retort, but at that moment, Draco heard the door open. Cursing quietly—for he still looked like he'd spent the last half an hour sobbing—he dashed into one of the stalls towards the end, locking himself inside of it and standing back by the toilet. He held his breath and listened to the voices.

'—yeah, but she totally doesn't dig you, mate. You're wasting your time.'

'We'll see,' the second voice said. Heavy Irish accent. Draco leaned forward and pressed his ear to the door.

'At least she knows I exist,' the first voice said. 'You never even speak around her, it's a wonder she doesn't walk right through you.'

'Just because I don't open my mouth like a bloody—oi, who's bag is that?'

Draco's heart skipped a beat. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

'Dunno, Shay,' said voice number one. 'What d'you reckon? Leave it, or take it to McGonagall?'

Shay? ...Seamus? Finnigan? Draco could have smacked his forehead into the door. Of course it would be Gryffindors.

'Hm,' said Seamus. 'McGonagall, prolly. If Peeves finds it here...'

'Yeah, good point—bloody hell, Myrtle, this is a boys' loo!'

'So?' said the high-pitched voice Draco recognised as the ghost's. His heart began to beat rapidly. If she told them... 'The girls always chase me out of theirs.'

'Can you blame them?' Seamus sneered, and Draco was briefly impressed with how well he managed it. 'Nobodywants you around, Myrtle. All you do is bloody sob and screech.'

'Seamus!' Dean hissed, but it was too late; the damage was done.

A wail like a banshee's erupted from the ghost, and Draco winced and quickly covered his ears with his hands, and was pretty sure that both Gryffindors were doing the same.

'No respect!' she screamed at them. 'When you die, you'll see! Nobody'll want you around either, they'll all make fun of you, and hurt your feelings, and when nobody cares maybe you'll see what it's like! "This is a boys' loo!" That's all you care about, is you! Boys are so selfish! Get out!'

'But—' Seamus began to protest.

'Let us get the—' said the first.

'OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT! GO USE THE GIRLS' LOO, FOR ALL I CARE!'

'Leave it, Dean!' Seamus shouted over the wailing, which had grown impossibly louder. 'Filch'll be here any minute!'

The moment the door slammed shut, the wailing abruptly ceased. Draco, leaning with his back against the door and breathing hard, looked up into the floating face of a very smug ghost.

'I told you,' she said squeakily, 'I just want to help. I won't tell anybody.'

Draco stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes. After a moment of silence—and hoping she'd gone away—he said, very quietly, 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' she sniffed at him. He looked back up and saw her smile faintly. 'You can always trust me,' she assured him, lifting her chin. 'Myrtle always keeps her word.'

It was bad enough to be sobbing, Draco thought. But to be sobbing to a ghost?

If Voldemort didn't kill him, his father definitely would.

'I'm leaving,' he announced, exiting the stall and going to retrieve his bag.

Myrtle floated along behind him, saying, 'Oh, don't go, I'm here—you can talk to me—'

Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it, biting back a nasty retort. If he upset her, she was more likely to go blabbing about what she'd seen—and if the staff heard of Draco Malfoy weeping in the loos, nasty questions might be asked. And if Snape heard... 'I have a paper to finish,' he said instead. 'Sorry.'

Myrtle stopped following him as he reached the door, and sniffed again. 'Okay,' she said mournfully. 'But if you ever need to talk, Myrtle's here...'

'Yeah,' Draco said offhandedly, rolling his eyes at the door. 'I'll come back.' As he closed the door, he grimaced at the realisation that if things kept going so badly, he almost certainly would.

Predictably enough, the rest of term didn't go as badly; things got horribly, impossibly worse.

Draco had decided he hated being a teenager. It was so unfair that, amongst other things—his father in prison, Mother home alone, his task, his impending premature death—he had all the stupid things to worry about, as well. He'd managed to shirk Quidditch easily enough, but homework and classes were bad enough without the fact that nothing could be done about the fact that he was trapped in the body of a very insistently horny sixteen-year-old boy. A sixteen-year-old boy surrounded by girls in schoolgirl skirts and blokes he had to share showers and a bedroom with—many of whom had made it more than abundantly clear that they would absolutely love the opportunity to relieve his frustration.

Brushing Daphne off for the fourth time in a row—mumbling something about not wanting a bird with a boyfriend, much less a bird with a boyfriend and who also happened to be his girlfriend's best friend—Draco watched her long legs sashay away with a tired but hungry look in his eye. The fact that Pansy was absolutely obstinate about being hands-off did nothing to deter his desire, considering that he was armed with the knowledge that Daphne had and would, without a doubt, be willing to put a lot more than her hands to work below the belt. Only the strong, unrelenting image of his mother, weeping at the news that her husband was in prison—and the fact that her son would be working for the Dark Lord in his stead—quelled the impulse, and he dutifully turned back to his work.

It was so fucking unfair.

He had quickly learned, several weeks later, that hormones were a vicious, unforgiving force that was not to be meddled with. Or, rather, not to be not meddled with. Ignoring hormones did not bode well. They, unlike Pansy, did not go away when you refused to acknowledge them. They, unlike Daphne, did not bugger off when you told them you were not interested. They did not, unlike Snape, get angry and frustrated and finally give up and leave you in peace.

They got even.

This particular night, they sought revenge on Draco, weary and frustrated from an entire Sunday morning, afternoon and early evening spent locked away with his cabinet, the moment he walked into the Prefects' bathroom. He still had the password from the previous year, and was intent on having a private, very long, very hot bath... only to find himself facing a very naked, very wet and very soapy Blaise Zabini climbing out of the pool-sized tub.

Let it be known that Blaise Zabini, for all his personality flaws, made up for it all with the fact that there was nothing faulty whatsoever with the rest of him.

Draco, unable to stop his eyes from raking over the naked torso, stared silently. He had come to terms with the idea that he found Blaise attractive sometime last year, so this did not come as a surprise. Though as far as he knew, Blaise was a bit of a tart, having left more than his fair share of girls crying in loos all over the castle; now, Draco could fully appreciate why said girls were so forlorn to see him skip off with another bird. Not only was he blessed with broad shoulders, exercised into a well-defined shape, but the bastard was hung like a fucking Hippogriff. It was all Draco could do not to gape.

The slick, gleaming skin and lather did nothing to help the smirk now adorning the bastard's lips. Draco felt himself swallow, and blamed his hormones for his complete shamelessness and lack of concern with the fact that he could not be bothered to raise his eyes back to Blaise's face.

'Malfoy,' Blaise said by way of greeting, reaching for the towel on the floor. 'You're not a Prefect any more.'

Draco was not staring at his hips. He was not staring at the water dribbling down his abdomen. He was not staring at the bubbles gathering just above his groin. He was not admiring the way the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders worked as he lifted the towel, light reflecting off the slickness of his skin. Normally, Draco would have had a snappy, sarcastic, instant-fire remark for him; but normally, Draco's brain wouldn't have imploded inside of his skull. He settled for a much simpler response: 'So?'

Blaise might have shrugged; Draco's eyes had moved on from his shoulders. 'So nothing,' he said easily. Draco did not take conscious notice of the fact that Blaise had decided to dry his hair before covering any of his indecency. 'I'll be finished in a minute, then I'm all yours.'

All this stress was beginning to affect his hearing, Draco thought, now he was having auditory hallucinations.

'Sorry,' Draco managed, finally meeting those dark eyes. 'What?'

'I'll be finished in a minute,' Blaise repeated, smirking. 'Then it's all yours.' There was a pause as Draco continued to stare, and Blaise adopted a knowing smirk. 'Unless,' he continued, moving the towel from his hair down the side of his neck, Draco following it down his chest and stomach, swallowing thickly, 'you'd like some company.'

Draco had felt his knees give a slight, involuntary spasm. He'd dropped his bag. Blaise had dropped his towel.

When they'd finished—which, in Draco's sorely neglected state, did not take long—Blaise had panted a few words into his neck: Sunday. Eight o'clock.

Draco had panted one word back: Yes.

: : : : :

Harry woke the next morning with the distinct impression that he'd sustained a very large barrage of Bludgers.

For this reason he did not attempt to sit up immediately. He just opened his eyes, blinked several times into the harsh light, and then shut them again, throwing his good forearm over his face to block out the brightness. He could smell the bitter scent of tea wafting in from the general direction of the kitchen, and then heard a muffled rustle of fabric from the settee just beside him.

Somewhere above his head, much too loudly and in a very good imitation of Tonks, a disembodied voice said, 'Wotcher, Harry.'

Harry clenched his eyes closed and waved the voice away with his good arm, turning to bury his head in the futon cushion, groaning.

The imitation of Tonks' happy tone was replaced with a lazy drawl. 'Are you awake?'

'No,' Harry grunted.

The voice snickered and Harry felt a soft pillow thump the back of his head. To his skull in its current state, it felt like a bag of bricks. 'Ooh, Potter's a grouch in the morning.'

'Go 'way,' Harry warned.

'Or what?' the voice drawled. 'You're more hungover than an Irish hooker. You wouldn't make it two feet off that couch.'

'I hate you,' Harry admonished into the cushion. 'Time's it?'

'Half past seven.'

Harry groaned, curling his head in tighter. 'Go 'way.'

'As much fun as it is to torment you in your sotted state,' Draco informed him, 'we're meeting Granger at the Manor in half an hour, so you'd best get up and sober now.'

'I hate you,' Harry said with finality, rolling over with much effort and blinking at the bright and blurry outline that made up Draco sitting on the edge of his coffee table. 'Why am I on the couch?'

Draco might have blinked at him; Harry couldn't be sure without his glasses, but either way, there was a short pause. 'You don't remember?' Draco asked, caution lining his voice.

'Remember what?' Harry asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

There was another pause, and then Draco stood up. 'We had a bit of a row,' he admitted after a moment. 'Dobby's cleaned up the mess in the kitchen already but this room's still a disaster. Anyway, I don't think you bothered to find your way back to your room afterwards.'

Harry jumped as something small and light was tossed onto his stomach; his fingers curled around his glasses. He crammed them on and took a quick look around the living room—several things lay in disarray, the television was cracked, the bookcase was knocked over, and the coffee table was boasting a nasty dent. The white walls bore scorch marks, as if someone had held very large candles to the paint long enough to burn, and all of the lights looked as if they'd exploded.

'A bit of a row?' he said dubiously. Blinking up at Draco, who now came into focus.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry dimly noted he had a split lip again, and what looked like a long, nasty bruise just under his jaw and along one of his cheekbones. 'You want cream with your tea?' he asked.

Harry nearly said 'Yes' automatically but stopped himself short. Furrowing his brow, he said, 'Er. No. Black, if you don't mind.'

Draco suddenly looked extremely pleased with himself. 'Hell, you're knackered,' he remarked. He smirked and turned away, adding, 'As if I'd make you any.'

Then he walked off into the kitchen, sniggering and shaking his head. Harry frowned. 'Dick.'

Getting up took a lot more effort than it should have, and the left side of his body was extremely stiff and screamed in silent agony as he forced himself into a sitting position, pausing to rub his eyes behind his glasses with his left hand. His right forearm, still tucked in its sling, was throbbing dully as he made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

Stripping one-handed was hard enough. Stripping one-handed when half of his body was stiff and his stomach was trying to jump ship out of his throat took a lot longer. When the last of his clothes had been shed (his shirt) and the shower water was deemed hot enough by a tentative hand-motion, Harry stripped off the sling, taking care to keep his injured arm relatively still as he stepped inside the box.

It wasn't until he reached up with his uninjured arm to start washing his hair that he noticed the long, heavy bruise adorning the left side of his body.

'Jesus bloody fuck,' he muttered, staring. Admittedly, it looked a lot worse than it felt; his left side felt stiff and sore, but not nearly as sore as the cloud-like mass of purplish-yellow painting his ribs and lower back appeared. It looked, oddly enough, very much like he had sustained a barrage of Bludgers.

When he finished washing, he only bothered to tug on his pants and the same pair of jeans he'd worn the night before, then re-affixed the sling, and made his way purposefully to the kitchen—sopping hair and lack of shirt be damned. Draco, halfway through a sip of what looked like tea and browsing through that day's Daily Prophet, looked up at him from the table and promptly choked, spluttering tea all over the mug and the table.

'My sentiments exactly,' Harry growled, angling so Draco—still spluttering—could get a good look at his left side. 'Is this your idea of "a bit of a row"?'

Draco stared at him, unblinking, wiping the tea off his chin with the back of his hand. 'Uh,' he offered as way of explanation.

'What the hell happened?' Harry demanded, ignoring the oddly less-than-eloquent Malfoy. He made to fold his arms, then realised he couldn't do that with one arm in a sling. Disgruntled, he hooked his left thumb in the rim of his jeans instead. Draco was staring at that hand, not answering, until Harry cleared his throat. 'Well?'

Draco started, looking up at his face once more. 'Uh,' he said again. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, squinting up at Harry. 'You don't remember anything?'

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. 'I remember a little. I don't remember getting side-swiped by a truck, however.'

Draco's brow furrowed and he looked away, swallowing. He mumbled something.

'Sorry?'

'I sort-of chucked a chair at you,' Draco mumbled a little louder. Looking up in the silence that followed, he narrowed his eyes. 'What? You bloody attacked me! What did you expect me to do?'

'I did not attack you—'

Draco spluttered again, indignantly, effectively interrupting him. 'What the bloody hell would you call it?' he demanded.

'Well, you shouldn't have been mouthing off about Sirius!'

Draco stiffened and gave Harry a very hard look. 'What do you remember?'

Harry furrowed his own brow and racked his mind a little. 'Not much,' he admitted. 'Flashes, really. Mostly you talking and being an arrogant prat. And I remember hitting you.' He paused, shaking his head. 'But why did you have to chuck a chair at me?'

'You're a bit of a brute when you're angry,' Draco said, shrugging and handing his cup to Dobby, who whisked off to refill it. 'I didn't have a wand, so—'

'So you resorted to hitting me with furniture as opposed to your fists,' Harry finished dully.

'Better than a hex,' Draco pointed out.

'It still fucking hurts.'

'It's not like it'll be hard to fix. And you say all I do is complain.'

'So the fact that it's easy to fix justifies your hitting me with a chair?'

'Does the fact that I bad-mouthed your godfather justify your giving me a bloody lip?' Draco snapped in return. 'It was a fight. We were drunk, Potter. It was bound to happen, and frankly, I'm surprised it took as long as it did.' Draco eyed him quickly before looking away, wrinkling his nose. He shifted uncomfortably. 'Quit dripping all over the bloody floor, will you?'

'It's my floor, I'll drip on it if I like,' Harry snapped. Draco rolled his eyes and hid himself back behind the Prophet. 'When do we have to be at the Manor?'

'Ten minutes,' came the curt reply from behind the paper.

Harry swore quietly, angry at both his aching side and the fact that he couldn't justify blaming it on Draco without blaming himself for hitting him in the first place. Frustrated that Draco was apparently at ease ignoring him, Harry resigned himself to sitting down and drinking the tea Dobby offered him.

'We should fix these,' Harry said offhandedly after a few minutes of silence, gesturing at said injuries.

Draco grunted, not taking his eyes from the paper.

'Hermione'll do her nut if we turn up like this.'

Draco grunted again.

'Will you at least look at me?' Harry snapped, annoyed.

Draco lowered the paper and gave him a pointed look. This close, Harry could see that the split lip was ripe and swollen, and make out the severe bruising around his collar, as if someone had attempted to strangle him. Harry didn't ask if he'd choked him like that. Instead, after a moment, he said, 'You're still dripping, Potter.'

Harry made a face. 'Does it bother you?'

'Obviously.'

'Why?'

'The same reason just being around you bothers me,' Draco retorted, wrinkling his nose again and turning his eyes back to the paper. 'Because it's annoying.'

'You're one to talk,' Harry said, snorting. Even though his gaze was fixed on the article in front of him, Draco's eyes weren't moving. Or blinking, for that matter, even when he automatically reached for his tea and took another sip.

Harry frowned. 'Is there something I don't remember that I should?' he asked.

For the second time that morning, Draco choked on his tea, this time spitting half of it up on the paper. Slamming the Prophet down along with his mug, his eyes snapped to Harry again. 'Must you interrogate me so bloody early in the morning?'

Harry, taken aback, said, 'I was just—'

'I don't give a damn what you were "just",' Draco snapped. 'It's not even bloody eight in the morning, and I don't think I'm asking too much for five consecutive uninterrupted minutes to have a cuppa without your badgering. You're worse than my bloody mum—at least she has the decency to be properly dressed before grilling me about inanities. You are not the only one with a hangover, Potter, and I swear to Merlin, if you make this headache any worse than it already is, this time I'll upgrade the chair to the table and you can see how that feels.'

Still muttering under his breath while Harry recovered from this onslaught, Draco cleaned himself up while Dobby quietly supplied him with a third cup of tea. Giving him a long look, Harry decided he was too tired to try and figure out the details, as Draco was clearly not much of a morning person.

'Right,' Harry said finally, ignoring the pained face Draco made into his mug and glancing up at the clock. 'It's five to, we should get moving.' He stood up, and waited a moment until Draco, with a very heavy sigh, followed suit. 'Here, let me,' he said, pulling his wand out of his jeans' pocket, moving to tilt Draco's head to the side with the back of his hand so he could get a good look at the bruising.

Draco flinched before he could touch him, back-pedalling away from Harry like he had burned him, wide-eyed and tensing. 'Leave it,' he snapped.

Harry stared at him. 'I'm not going to hit you again,' he said, somewhat indignantly. 'You can't go out looking like that.'

'Give me my wand,' Draco said, 'and I'll fix it myself.'

'I'm not giving you your wand,' Harry said firmly.

'And you're not touching me, either,' Draco said, just as firmly.

'What the hell is your problem?' he demanded.

'You are not coming near me,' Draco repeated slowly, eyes and tone even. 'Now you can either let me do it and then have my wand back, or you can explain to Granger.'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'Don't even try playing the victim here, Malfoy.'

'Then stop trying to play the arbiter,' Draco replied coolly. 'Just because I'm under your bloody supervision doesn't mean I'm here to tote around and molest as you fancy; last night was your initiative, and if I recall, I wanted nothing to do with it, so as far as I'm concerned, you are culpable for anything that transpired.'

'Will you at least tell me what happened?'

Draco's expression didn't alter. 'We had a row, I already told you.'

'Just a row,' Harry repeated dully.

'It's eight o'clock,' Draco said abruptly, changing the subject. 'We're already late.'

There was several moments' pause while Harry's mind tried, and failed, to figure out what the hell had possessed Draco this morning. It was obvious that something significant had occurred but he could not remember what, and frankly, thinking about it was worsening his hangover-induced headache. He would probably remember it later, after her had some caffeine in his system, but right now they didn't have the time. Draco caught his wand as Harry tossed it to him, Seeker reflexes apparently still intact. 'Two minutes,' Harry said.

Draco sneered and, after carefully sidestepping around the far side of the table, disappeared down the hall into the bathroom. As the bathroom door clicked shut, Harry took a step forward towards the bench, only to discover he'd left a sizeable puddle on the floor; his hair, still sodden, was sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck in a very uncomfortable way.

Then he realised his towel was still in the bathroom with Draco.

Swearing under his breath, Harry briefly wondered if it'd be considered dissolute to start a bottle this early in the morning. Deciding it probably would, he instead pulled out his own wand again and quietly went to work healing his own wounds; the bruise on his side was by far the worst, but he also had a nasty cut along his collar, a gash just under his eye, and a generous amount of bruising adorning his face, neck and shoulders—apparently, Draco had used his fists in addition to the chair.

Healed and waiting for Draco to come out of the bathroom, Harry sat down heavily in his vacated seat. He did not know why it was bothering him so much that he could not remember exactly what had transpired; something about the wild, frightened look in Draco's eyes as he'd leapt away from Harry as if he were a leper had jarred him to an extremely uncomfortable level. His rather juvenile, spiteful inner-self reasoned that whatever it was, Draco had probably deserved it. His slightly maturer, objective inner-self reasoned that he had been an idiot to hit Draco in the first place, no matter what he'd said.

After all, they'd been drunk. People said stupid things when they were drunk. People tended to say stupid things in general, really.

Draco had been saying stupid things all of his life, the spiteful side of him offered.

Draco had also apologised, the objective side returned.

Harry frowned. His head was throbbing worse than his injured arm, now.

By the time Draco finally emerged from the bathroom with all evidence of injury removed, he had taken twice the time Harry had allotted him, but Harry didn't comment on it. Instead, he stood up purposefully. Draco eyed him warily as he entered the kitchen, gripping his wand more tightly than was necessary.

'Listen, Malfoy,' he said. 'I don't remember exactly what happened, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

Draco blinked at him. His gaze was still extremely wary but the death-grip he had on his wand loosened slightly. He tilted his head to the side, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. 'You're sorry,' he repeated slowly; there was a curious, but cautious edge to his voice.

'Yes,' Harry replied stiffly, shrugging. 'For hitting you,' he added quickly, 'and—well, I don't remember. Whatever. I'm sorry for whatever,' he said again. 'All right?'

Draco continued to look at him for another moment, then startled Harry with a smile that singularly transformed him from looking grey and taut to relaxed and oddly pleased.

'Yeah, all right,' Draco said easily and tossed his wand back to Harry, who caught it, looking bewildered. 'Sorry for chucking a chair at you.'

Harry nodded, eyes cast at the floor, feeling a bit awkward but considerably less guilty.

'You're still dripping, Potter,' Draco pointed out helpfully after a moment. Harry looked at up him, saw the smirk, and scowled. 'In fact,' Draco continued, eyes travelling down Harry's body to the floor, 'you're on your way to turning your kitchen into a pool. Towels,' he went on, smirk increasing at Harry's indignant glare, 'handy things, those. Very absorbent.'

'Shut up, Malfoy.'

Returning from getting dried and dressed, Harry had found Draco bent over a small cauldron on the stove, looking determined. He had said, 'Uh, Malfoy—' and then Draco had tossed him a corked vial and said, 'Drink.'

Harry decided that if Draco had wanted to kill him, he would have done it while he was passed out in the living room, or even during that night out in the woods at the Manor, where he'd had both their wands and nobody had had any idea where they were. He wouldn't have bothered with poisoning the potion; Harry drank it gratefully.

Oddly enough, Harry's apology seemed to have righted whatever wrong had occurred the night before, because after that, Draco had stopped flinching whenever Harry got too close. They were walking up the long gravel road between the estate gates and the mansion, and Draco had been talking animatedly—not that he ever talked inanimately—since they'd left his flat some five minutes ago and Apparated to the gate. His topics were changing as quickly and abruptly as television commercials and with about the same level of enthusiasm.

Harry was seriously beginning to reconsider cancelling his subscription to cable.

'Muggle cinema is the best thing ever invented,' Draco decided, nodding to himself. He was flourishing and gesticulating as he spoke. 'When I grow up, I want to be in a Muggle movie. I would be an instant success. I would be fantastic. I would be King on the mountain of Sex. Like whatshisname, that Marlo Brandi fellow.'

'Malfoy, I don't think "growing up" is a physical possibility for you.' As an afterthought, Harry added, 'And I think you mean Marlon Brando.'

Draco waved a hand dismissively. 'Don't trifle me with details, Potter. It's all so dynamic even when I have no idea what they're on about half the time,' he went on, looking wistful, 'but I could learn. I would be spectacular! I could make millions.'

Harry looked at him incredulously. 'Aren't you already a millionaire?'

'There you go with the petty details again,' Draco said irritably, shaking his head. 'And besides, it's Muggle money. It'd be like building my own empire instead of just inheriting one. I mean, think about it—I could become vastly affluent in the Muggle world based solely on my charm and allure! What could possibly be more fulfilling?'

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding it would be pointless to argue. After all, he thought, if for some bizarre reason Draco actually did go in for an audition somewhere—well, he was certainly dramatic enough to be an actor, but even that aside, he'd probably be hired immediately for his looks alone.

'I hope it rains today,' Draco said, abruptly switching topics again, and Harry felt it might have annoyed him if he weren't already so used to Luna doing it. Draco was looking up at the sky with a longing expression on his face; it was overcast, but warm, and the wind was carrying the clouds away at a steady rate. It probably wouldn't rain.

Draco looked over at Harry very suddenly. 'You surprise me, Potter.'

Harry blinked at him, caught off-guard. 'What? Why?'

Draco shrugged, looking back up at the Manor as they plodded steadily towards it. 'I figured that, after your haste to get straight down to business during the interrogation, you'd have asked about the information you really want to know by now.'

He did not have to go into detail; Harry immediately knew what he was talking about. 'Yeah, well,' he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. 'I figure we'll get to it once this Yaxley business is over with. It's been a long few days.'

'Nearly a week,' Draco noted. 'And what do you know, we're both alive and still have all our limbs. Colour me surprised.'

Harry looked sideways at him. 'What did you expect?'

'Shackles. Beatings. Threats on my life at least thrice a day,' Draco said, grinning. 'Well, okay, at least a lot more wand-point-constantly-jabbing-my-back than hanging out at pubs and strolling side-by-side through my estate.'

'I did hit you,' Harry pointed out.

'Ah,' said Draco, 'but I hit you back for once. Rather well, might I add.'

'You hit me with a chair, Malfoy.'

'What did I tell you about details?' Draco said, dismissing this evidence with another wave of his hand. 'And by the way,' he added, 'just so you're aware, the next time you get sloshed and decide to box me, you'll be treated to seeing what a severely pissed-off stallion can do to a tiny flat when provoked.'

Harry had the vivid mental image of a white horse unceremoniously rampaging through his flat. That was bound to draw some unwanted attention from the Muggle authorities. 'Right,' he said. 'No more drunken brawls.'

'Agreed,' Draco said, nodding. 'I really don't fancy destroying your telly. I quite like the lesbian action.'

'You really need to stop watching porn,' Harry said, grimacing.

'Why?' Draco asked, completely shameless. 'It's educational.'

: : :

No one will ever win the battle of the sexes;

there's too much fraternizing with the enemy.

- Henry A. Kissinger

: : :

'Bloody buggering Bludgers,' Draco muttered haphazardly. 'Is it a collective Gryffindor handicap, having two left feet? Or just a really amazing coincidence?'

'Suck on an egg, Malfoy.'

It was only half-past nine, and Hermione was already feeling very frizzled. More frizzled than usual, and with her hair, that was saying something.

It had been bad enough to have Ron stumbling through her door in the middle of the night, breaking her sleep to quite literally pounce on her, only to shortly thereafter collapse in a comatose heap on her couch, leaving her fit to be tied. But to find him still there in the morning, sprawled face-down on her settee and drooling in quite a disgusting manner on her favourite throw pillow, had been the final stir that melted the cauldron; Hermione had doused him quite thoroughly with a Water-Summoning Spell and chased him out of her house, not even pausing to offer him a Sober-Up Potion.

'You know, that insult doesn't make any discernible sense,' Draco replied easily, twirling her again. She was supposed to end up on his right, with some insane pose involving one leg over his hip and her other leg stretched out behind her.

She missed.

'Bloody hell, Granger, I would like to have children someday. Mind your knees, for they are like Bludgers.'

'I would be doing the world a favour.'

Harry had, after sniggering far too much at her expense to be fair, buggered off to score some leftover breakfast. Draco had insisted Hermione fast with him, because she was 'going to need every millimetre' off her waist she could manage in order to get into the type of dress one wore for this sort of thing. 'Merlin's balls, Granger, what is it that you're attempting to do?'

'According to you,' Hermione snarled through gritted teeth, 'I am attempting to tango.'

'And failing. Miserably. Abdominally. Not even close to admirably. What the hell are those on your feet? You're not even wearing heels!' Draco all but dropped her in genuine shock mid-spin, and she had to cling to his shoulders to avoid having an abrupt meeting with the floor. 'Bugger, you are hopeless,' he said, sighing and staring at her rather neglected, flat-soled loafers. 'What kind of bird—even Mugglebusinesswomen wear heels, you complete pleb of a ninny.'

Hermione goggled at him. 'What did you just call me?'

'Pleb of a ninny,' he repeated effortlessly, standing up straight. She let go of his shoulders, and he dropped his hand from her hip. It went to his chin, instead, holding it poised in a thoughtful manner while he gave her several once-overs. 'Do you even own a dress?'

'Of course I own a dress,' she snapped. 'Several, in fact.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'And heels...?'

'No heels,' she said flatly. 'I have no insecurities about my height, certainly not enough to torture myself with three-inch pegs supporting my ankles.'

'Granger, you utterly philistine excuse for a woman, heels are not only for increasing your height,' Draco said with a very melodramatic amount of exasperation. 'That is, in fact, perhaps the least important motif. Heels were engineered to compliment your Venus-esque figure,' he explained as he appeared behind her in a flourish and, keeping a generous distance between his hands and her body, outlined the areas as he listed them off, 'your hips, your thighs, your ankles in particular; to accentuate the way you walk, to make that racy sashay come naturally; in short, to transform a pleb of a ninny into an ornate, regal lady that we must somehow convince a party full of aristocrats is actually a pure-blood daughter of a noble.'

'So what you're saying, is,' Hermione said icily, turning about to face him, 'you need me in heels in order to transform myself into an obsequious monolith that you can chisel into your ideal consort?'

Must to her disgust, he smiled brilliantly at her. 'Precisely. But let's at least get the steps down without you trying to bludgeon my bits, and then give the chisel a go, shall we?'

He held up a hand and, after a moment to remind herself why she was doing this, she slipped her palm into his.

Even all these years later, Hermione could still recall the look of collective horror on Harry and Ron's faces back in fourth year, when they had found out the Yule Ball required dancing; Harry, especially, when he learned he had to dance first in front of everyone. Even with the Patil sisters leading, they both had proven to the school at large how utterly craptastic they were at any sort of dancing, ballroom or otherwise. Hermione had seen several glimpses of Draco at the Ball, Pansy on his arm, but had been too preoccupied with Viktor (and later, Ron's jealousy fit) to pay any attention to whether the bastard Slytherin could do a decent waltz or not.

She had found that Draco was, to his credit, a fantastic dancer. Shouldn't be surprised, she reminded herself. But she was, honestly, rather taken off guard by the way he effortlessly preformed the steps for her, time and time again. The Malfoy she remembered, while elegant and pompous by default through breeding and upbringing, had lacked the certain grace this older version of him possessed; perhaps it was a trait gained with age, or a very impressive amount of practice. Probably a little of both.

'Snap like you mean it, darling. This isn't a country club we're performing for.'

If only that grace extended to his mouth, she thought bitterly.

'The only snapping I mean to do involves your neck, Malfoy,' she huffed, trying again.

'At least you've my cognomen back in order,' Draco pointed out with mild satisfaction.

'Oh, sorry, Draco,' she drawled. 'Are you as ashamed of your given name as we're amused by it?'

'You are the last person alive with the brass to take a crock at my name, Hermione,' Draco drawled as way of riposte; her first name sounded alien rolling off his tongue, and she realised, with some abruptness, that it was the first time she had ever heard him use it; 'and drawling really does not become you. Stick with sniping and those cute little huffs you do—yes, just like that,' he said, pleased, as she huffed rather indignantly, 'only try to get your nose a little higher in the air—there you are. Perfect. Spitting image of a nasty piece of pure-blood work already, and we haven't even broken out the chisel yet.'

Hermione glared at him. 'You are the most detestable, pompous little git I ever had the misfortune of meeting.'

'Your lucid attempts to get into my trousers notwithstanding,' he continued to drawl, 'mind you bring your knee over my hip, not just to it. Good girl.'

Fates be bloody well damned six ways to Sunday, Harry, halfway through an apple, wandered back into the ballroom just as she attempted this rather arduous undertaking. He stopped in the doorway and raised both his eyebrows suggestively, and she gave him a look that conveyed, quite clearly, Don't You Even Dare Comment, Harry Potter, Or I Will Hex Your Bits Off. Knowing full well the consequences of disobeying one of her looks, Harry just grinned that snarky, sideways grin that he got when he was pretending not to be, but was in all ways fulfilling the role of, an insufferable bastard, and took a seat on a nearby piano bench.

'Oi, Granger, eyes on the prize. That would be me, hello.' Draco smirked as she instinctively obeyed and looked at him before she realised what she was doing. 'Three steps, not three and a half, and swing with your hips, not your shoulders. Assuming you have hips under those atrocious things you claim to be robes.'

One insufferable bastard, Hermione could handle. Two was pushing it.

Draco lowered her into another dip; the movement was slow, and Draco's arms may as well have been steel supports guiding her down, but the glossy surface of the floor and the well-worn sole of her shoe had a disagreement, and she slipped. She would have hit the floor if Draco hadn't caught her, something he seemed to think better of after he'd done so, if the heavy sigh she heard was any indication, but he pulled her to her feet nonetheless. Then, to her complete and utter horror, he took her by the waist and pulled her sideways up against his side.

'You see this?' he demanded, pointing unnecessarily at the connection of their hips and thighs. 'This is your centre of gravity when you're anything less than vertical. Unless you feel like crashing to the floor every dip, I suggest you get used to it. And this—' Hermione gaped as he seized the leg that was up against his by the inside of her knee, pulled it up and hooked it around the outside of his thigh, '—is how you merge with it.'

And before she could protest, or Harry could interject a comment he was obviously struggling to contain, Draco dipped her once again; truth be told, the movement did feel more natural and much more secure this way, using her knee as a literal hook around his thigh to hold the lower half of her body up. If it had been anyone else holding her, she would have been pleased.

As her neck tipped back and her forehead came in view of the floor, she heard him say over her, 'You know, with your hair, we could practically sweep the floor with you this way.'

Hermione waited until he'd pulled her back upright before snarling, 'This is all just a big joke to you, isn't it?'

'If only,' he drawled, sounding exasperated and releasing her. 'Look, Granger, if we're going to do this, we have to do it right. You cannot just pretend to be pure-blood to fool these people. They spend their entire lives singling out other people's flaws. You have to step, eat, dance, speak, breathe, strut, sneer and in all other ways be pure-blood, or they will know. You are coming at my side as my prospective—' ('Your what?' Hermione practically shrieked, and Harry choked on a mouthful of apple.) '—which will indubitably mean that every eligible nymphet will be out for your blood,' he continued firmly without pause, 'looking for any stain or blemish they can find to discredit you.'

'I think your ego is due in for a serious deflation,' Hermione told him firmly. 'You can't possibly be that popular.'

'Oh, can't I?' Draco raised an eyebrow at her. 'You did see the books, didn't you?'

'I...' Hermione blinked, and then scowled as that trademark Malfoy smirk appeared on his face. 'Well, that's just—completely, utterly—'

'Shallow?' he supplied. 'Yes, Granger. "Débutante" may as well be code for "gold digger". Anyway,' he continued, morphing his smirk into a provocative smile, and tipping her chin up with two delicate fingers, 'one can hardly deny that the assets that come with the dinero are worth coveting.'

She wrenched her chin away from him, snarling. 'Watch me.'

Draco folded his arms, sighing. 'I swear, you're as bloody cantankerous as my mother sometimes.'

'I would certainly hope Miss Granger receives that as a compliment,' said a coy voice from the doorway. Draco gave a start and Hermione whirled around to see that Narcissa had entered the room, dressed in a long, lavender dress made of several layers of a semi-translucent, silky material. She strode up to them, and Draco unfolded his arms, taking her hand as she offered it to him. 'Your biggest mistake,' she told Hermione, as Draco put his other hand on his mother's waist, 'is that you do not trust your partner. It is a foundation of all dances to do so. Observe.'

Hermione backed up to give them room. She suddenly realised whyDraco was a fantastic dancer; if he was fantastic, Narcissa was incredible—she almost made Draco look mediocre, and it was obvious he had trouble keeping up with her as she moved. The dip—the part Hermione had been struggling with the most—was performed perfectly, hips and legs locked just as Draco had shown her. It was also slightly perturbing to watch; the tango was a very erotic dance—but the pair performed seamlessly, at ease through what looked like a lot of practise together.

After a third go, Narcissa released her son, and motioned for Hermione to join him. 'You have only today to become comfortable dancing with my son,' she said lightly, 'so I suggest you both cut the banter and get to work.'

Draco held out a hand and, reminding herself once again whyshe was doing this, Hermione slipped her palm into his.

: : :

Hermione already knew how to waltz. She knew the basics of a handful of other slow dances in addition, having learned as much as one possibly could about ballroom dancing in the library in her fourth year. After all, she did not want to show up on the arm of a national league Quidditch player/Triwizard Champion/Durmstrang representative and stumble over her feet. She had spent the weeks preceding the Yule Ball locked in the girls' dormitory with Lavender and Parvati, taking turns learning to slow-dance with each other. A girl had to be prepared, after all.

She'd been glad then that she'd practised; Viktor had been very impressed with her dancing. She was glad now, too, because like the waltz, the tango had all the same basic principles that most ballroom dances shared. Once she got the basic steps down and succeeded in the much more difficult task of allowing Malfoy to touch her, she'd picked it up rather fast. By one o'clock in the afternoon, Draco stopped complaining about left-footedness and sped things up, having her practise the steps full-speed with him to music over and over again until she could do it with her eyes closed and without being led.

By mid-afternoon her stomach had grown so loud that Draco had relented long enough for her to wolf a very meagre meal before going at it again. She wasn't just learning to dance, but how to be properly presented for a début; how to float down the stairs, how to hold Draco's arm in hers, how to speak, how to walk, how to look, what to say, and, more importantly, what not to. With Narcissa wandering in and out periodically, and Harry surrounded by a growing collection of books—delivered from the library via house-elf—to keep him occupied, Draco kept Hermione at it well into nightfall. It was all extremely tiring, and Hermione had been positively thrilled to hear Narcissa announce, 'Enough, she needs a decent night's sleep to look the part', and shuffle her out of the room.

Hermione had retreated back to the room she'd used the last night she'd stayed at the Manor—a small, plain, but nonetheless elegant guest room on the first floor—and intended to pass out immediately. Her feet were incredibly sore from dancing all morning, even in flat soles, and she had a terrible headache and stiff back from attempting to learn how to be a proper lady all afternoon. Narcissa made looking 'proper' far, far too easy; how she managed to look immaculate, sit straight-backed, stand poised and float along like she was walking on clouds all day, every day, was a mystery to Hermione, who was quite used to running about in a frenzy, books and quills given more concern than her hair, dress and complexion put together.

She was a little more than surprised to find a house-elf waiting patiently outside the room she'd used the other night. It wasn't Nivens, who seemed to have taken over Dobby's old job as the chief house-elf; most of the others kept out of sight and out of the way. This was one of them—a female, from the looks of it, with huge, bulging blue eyes, dressed in a lilac pillowcase with a matching bow (made of what appeared to be a bit of tissue paper) on her hairless head. She had a small nose and unusually wide ears, and looked a bit like an upright, very skinny, very tiny baby elephant.

'Erm,' Hermione said. 'Hello.'

'Master wishes Miss to come with Bitsy,' said the house-elf, bowing so low her ears touched the floor. 'Bitsy is to take Miss upstairs to her new room.'

Hermione blinked. 'New room?'

'Master insists,' Bitsy said. 'Bitsy spent all day making it fit for Miss!'

'Oh,' Hermione said, smiling uncertainly. 'Erm. Well, thank you—you didn't have to—'

'Master insisted!' Bitsy told her again, but she looked pleased. 'Bitsy was very happy to make Miss' room!'

'Did he?' Hermione muttered under her breath, but she smiled down at the house-elf. 'Well, since you've already done it... I might as well.'

Bitsy beamed at her. She led Hermione upstairs and in the opposite direction of Draco's room, down the east wing. At the very end, she held open a door that led into a suite that looked nearly as big as Draco's room had been, but this one was in order, and much more—well, there was no other word for it—feminine. Soft pastel purples and blues were the predominant colours, warmed by the several oil lamps arranged around the room. Off to the right there was a door, half-ajar and casting a warm strip of light across the floor, leading into what looked like a private bathroom. The bed was enormous, lacking posts but laden with enough pillows to serve as a nest for a Hippogriff.

'This is Miss Cassandra's old room,' Bitsy informed Hermione as she led her inside. 'Bitsy has brought up Miss' things,' she continued, pointing to the small pile of belongings in the corner.

'Oh, wow—wait—' Hermione stopped and looked down at her. 'Miss Cassandra? Lucius' sister?'

It was as if the words had flipped a switch; Bitsy squeaked and shuddered, shaking her head furiously. 'Miss shouldn't ask questions about her, Miss—Bitsy can't say—Bitsy has promised—'

Bitsy made to run her head into the wardrobe, but Hermione quickly grabbed the back of her pillowcase and held firm. 'I'm sorry! Bitsy, please—' She squatted down to look the house-elf in the eyes, which were watering. 'It's all right—you don't need to—I didn't know.' Bitsy gave a huge sniff and blew her nose in the pillowcase; Hermione quickly dropped it, but tried to smile reassuringly. 'Thank you, Bitsy, for preparing the room. It's beautiful.'

Bitsy gave her a wide, teary-eyed gaze. 'Miss is too kind to Bitsy! Bitsy is just doing Master's bidding! Miss should thank Master, not Bitsy!'

'Oh, nonsense,' Hermione said, making a mental note to later have a word with Malfoy about his treatment of house-elves while he was under her supervision. 'Thank you, Bitsy,' she said again.

Bitsy sniffed again but smiled at her. 'Miss should come this way,' she said, leading Hermione into the—as she'd suspected—private bathroom.

Hermione's jaw dropped.

The room itself was nearly as large as the bedroom, looking much like an ornate cave that had been carved in a single block of highly-polished, creamy-coloured marble. The tub at the back was the size of a jacuzzi, overflowing with enormous yellow and peach bubbles, and smelt strongly of citrus. Arranged around the edge of the tub were an assortment of bottles and jars—which all looked exorbitantly pricey and featured labels written in French—and about a dozen candles floating in a half-circle above it, casting a yellow glow on everything.

And on the small table by the tap was a fine silver tray, boasting a crystal wine glass and an entire bottle of chilled Clos du Mesnil.

Hermione continued to gape. That bastard.

'Miss?' Bitsy prompted nervously.

Hermione snapped out of her brief reverie (she had been imagining seizing the bottle of Krug, storming down the hall to Draco's room and proceeding to shove it somewhere very uncomfortable) and blinked down at the house-elf. 'You did... all of this? By yourself?'

Bitsy positively beamed. 'Miss likes it?'

'It's... ' Hermione's propriety, absolutely refusing to accept anything that wasn't strictly necessary from 'Master Malfoy', was waging a fierce battle against her Inner Woman, which was determined to be spoiled. She looked longingly at the champagne, the bath, and the cosmetics in turn. Her Inner Woman was putting up one hell of a fight. '...it's wonderful, Bitsy. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble, really.'

'No trouble, Miss!' Bitsy said happily, cracking open the bottle with a snap of her tiny fingers and pouring Hermione a glass before bouncing off to fetch a fluffy bathrobe, calling, 'Master insisted!'

Hermione sighed, resigned to her fate, and began to shrug off her robes, muttering, 'Your "Master" is a beguiling little bastard...'

...and he's playing me like a bloody fiddle.

: : :

'Feeling better?' Luna asked as Harry walked into the kitchen that morning.

She was wearing a hideously orange Cannons t-shirt that Ron had given her last Christmas and skin-tight, lime-green trousers. Little yellow birds hung from her earrings, twittering madly whenever she moved her head. Harry smiled at her. 'Yeah. It's stopped throbbing, anyway.'

'That's good,' Luna said mildly, sipping at a glass of something green and very thick. 'Are you going to see Draco today?'

'Yeah, the ball's tonight,' Harry said, offhandedly.

'Ooh, good,' Luna said, brightening. 'I'll come with you then.'

'Come with me where?' he asked, looking up at her. 'To the Manor?'

'Yes,' she said, looking at him. 'Why? Is that all right?'

'Oh,' he said, shrugging. 'Yeah, that's fine. I thought you meant the ball.'

'You're going to the ball?'

'That's the plan.'

'I thought you were off-duty?'

Harry grinned into the refrigerator, looking for the cream. 'Doesn't mean I won't be going.' Having a second thought, he left the cream and started the kettle.

'So Daddy was going over the report,' Luna said in the background as he dug around for something to eat; Dobby must have been keeping Winky company while Hermione was at the Manor. 'He has a few inquiries before we print this month's edition.'

'Oh?' Harry said, not really listening.

'He's curious as to whether or not you and Draco are going to have a prenuptial agreement,' she went on, 'seeing as he's very independently wealthy and all.'

'I—what?' Harry said, then cursed as he spilt hot water on the bench. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

It was a question he often wanted to ask Luna, but he rarely bothered to do so; here and now, however, it seemed appropriate. She turned her gaze from the window to him, blinking once, very slowly. 'The engagement, of course.'

'What engagement?'

'The one you two told the Prophet reporters about,' she said simply.

'I—what?' Harry demanded again. 'Oh, I am going to kill him.'

'There's no need to be embarrassed about it,' Luna said, shrugging and looking back out the window. 'I think it's kind of sweet, actually.'

'Luna,' he said, trying to be patient, 'this is very important. I need you to listen to me. Are you listening? We're not engaged. We're not—hell—we're not anything.'

'Are you sleeping with him?'

'What? No!'

'Ah,' she said, still gazing out the window dreamily. 'Waiting until after the marriage? That's very romantic. Not enough people are romantic these days, you know.'

'It's not romantic! It's not anything!'

'I already know, Harry,' she said patiently. 'Please stop shouting. I don't blame you. Draco's very good-looking.'

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. 'Luna, look,' he tried to reason desperately—not that reason was ever anything other than desperate around Luna—'we're not involved. Malfoy was joking. I don't even—'

'What about your affair at Hogwarts?'

'We didn't have an affair at Hogwarts!'

'Didn't you?' she asked. 'Sixth year? You were following him around left and right, everybody noticed...' If Luna had been looking at him, she'd have seen his jaw drop. 'I mean, I figured that's why you asked me to the Christmas party,' she went on; 'since you couldn't ask him, you know. But he snuck in on his own afterwards, and then the two of you disappeared after that,' she continued dreamily. 'And then you got into that fight towards the end of term; Pansy Parkinson said you'd gone and tried to kill him.'

She looked at him. 'Did he cheat on you? Was that it? I did think I'd seen him with that Zabini bloke a few times... I told everyone you two had probably broken up, and then you started going out with Ginny, and that was it before the whole Incident.'

'We weren't—' Harry began, then stopped himself, horrified that, by her account, the implications were very obvious, no matter how untrue. 'I was following him because I knew he was up to something—you can't publish that!'

Actually, pointed out an annoying little voice in his head, considering half the things published in The Quibbler were rubbish, the notion that he and Malfoy were an item would fit right in.

He told that voice to shut the fuck up.

'Luna, please. I don't even like Malfoy.'

'Don't you?' she asked, looking back at him. When he shook his head fervently, she raised her eyebrows, making her eyes look even bigger. 'Then why did you help him?'

'I... felt sorry for him,' Harry admitted, pinching his eyebrows together. 'But we're not—Malfoy was joking, we're not—anything. Really.'

Luna smiled the indulgent smile she gave people whenever she thought that theywere insane and was trying to placate, and Harry suddenly realised that she'd already made up her mind.

She shrugged and looked back out the window. 'Whatever you say, Harry.'

: : :

Hermione was experiencing a very odd dream in which she was wearing a frilly tutu and Pansy Parkinson was trying to convince her that pink was just not her colour. Narcissa kept twirling her and then letting her fall, only to land in the arms of Draco, who was wearing a Muggle tux.

She was jarred out of the dream by a nearby voice that snapped, 'I do not capitulate to my mother's mandate, you pretentious little tart.'

Hermione's eyes flew open and she sat up, and then quickly yanked the covers up to her chin. Draco was lying beside her on his stomach, head and neck propped up on his palms down at the other end of the bed, with his legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed in the air. He had spread the contents of her bag at the foot of the bed, and was rifling through her journal as if he had every right to be doing so.

She gaped at him. 'Malfoy! Just what in Merlin's glory do you think you're doing?'

'And I most certainly do not,' he continued, throwing her a sharp look back over his shoulder, 'have low self-esteem. I have spectacular self-esteem. Have you seen me? Honestly.'

Hermione wondered if her jaw was beginning to come unhinged; she was finding herself gaping more and more often these days. 'I beg to differ,' she told him shortly. 'You've read the notes, haven't you?'

'Oh, yes,' he sneered, but it was half-hearted. '"Head down, little eye-contact, reserved, inordinately prudent".' He gave her another sharp look. 'Which I find extremely hypocritical coming from you, of all people.'

Hermione narrowed her eyes. 'I beg your pardon?'

'How many months in advance did you prepare for exams?' Hermione stopped short of answering automatically; Draco, looking smug, continued on rapid-fire. 'Did you read every text back-to-front before term even began? Did you have the timetable memorised before your Head of House even passed them out?' He smirked at the slightly agape, stunned expression she knew she must be wearing. 'And you call me prudent. Anyway,' he went on, 'my self-esteem is quite all right, thanks very much.'

'Is that so?' she said sceptically, raising an eyebrow. 'How do you define "quite all right", then?'

'By informing you that I don't give a Flobberworm's arse what any of you proletarians think of me.'

'So you just lower your expectations to the point they're already met,' she muttered to herself, as he turned back to her journal. 'Don't you have anything better to be doing than rummaging through my things?' she asked him.

'No, not really,' he remarked absently. Then, 'Enjoy the bath?'

She had been just about to order him out of the room when this question quelled the urge. 'Erm,' she said instead, remembering. 'Yes. I. Well—' she cleared her throat. 'It was nice. Thank you.'

'Welcome,' came the short reply. He was flipping backward a few pages, reading another passage; he pulled his head back a little, as if surprised. He looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. 'By the way, what's this "accident" you keep referring to?'

With a constrained shriek, Hermione abandoned the safety of the covers, and attacked him with her pillow. She tried to snatch her journal as he recoiled, holding up the book as a shield. 'You nosey, arrogant, insufferable little—argh!'

'Bloody hell!' Draco did not leap off the bed as she'd hoped, but instead seized the pillow and threw that off, well out of her reach. 'Good to see you've got so much energy this morning, you're going to need it if you expect to be fit for tonight.' She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, he'd thrown something light and soft over her head. 'Be a good girl and put that on. And hurry, will you? It's already after ten, you sleep like a ruddy log.'

Hermione pulled the fabric off her head and saw that it was actually a dress, made of some shimmering, clearly premium material; and with a shock so staggering it rendered her momentarily speechless, she realised that it was the exactsame periwinkle-blue colour of the robes she'd worn to the Yule Ball.

She looked up at Draco, who was smirking at her. 'Malfoy—how did you—it's been ages—you remember?'

'Rather hard to forget the first time I realised you were, in fact, of the female variety,' he said with a shrug. 'Especially considering Pansy was so enraged that she would not shut up about it for the rest of the holidays.'

'Really?' Oh, ye gods, was she blushing? She cleared her throat again, trying to disguise her surprised and slightly embarrassed expression within her hair. This, she thought, is why Draco was so bloody insufferable; he managed to make everyone around him feel inadequate while, at the same time, flattering them enough that they couldn't feel indignant about it.

'The colour suits you,' Draco said simply. He had lain back down on his stomach and resumed digging through her effects. 'Chop chop, Granger. Party's at six and judging by the volume of your hair, we'll need most of between then and now to tame it.'

She blinked at him. 'You can't expect me to with you—' she stopped mid-sentence as Draco, eyes still on her journal, pointed across the room at an oriental screen in the corner. She huffed. 'I don't suppose telling you to leave would do any good?'

'No, but feel free to try if it makes you feel better,' he informed her cheerfully, peering back at her. 'Don't worry, I've no desire to see you in your skivvies. But I came in here three hours ago and tried to wake you, and you threw your bag at me and told me to "scram"—and judging by the look on your face, you were still very unconscious at the time—' he smirked and turned back to reading, '—so I decided to let you sleep in. But now Mother says if you're not up and dressed in twenty minutes, she'll be up here to do it for you, and trust me when I say that the woman is not very gentle.'

Grabbing a robe off the bed stool, Hermione wrapped herself in it quickly, even though Draco was apparently more interested in reading through her journal than paying her any attention. She took the dress to the screen in the corner, which was generously wide but not very tall—her forehead was even with the top—and disrobed, pulled off her nightdress, and then saw that behind the screen with her there was a small chair and a vanity dresser. There were also several other articles piled on the chair, arranged as if someone had set them out specifically for her.

As if reading her mind, she heard Draco's voice: 'And make sure you put those on, Granger. Mother guessed your size but says she'll adjust them later if they're off.'

Hermione felt her cheeks burn; there was a white, silk corset and a matching pair of pants, accompanied by a small slip to go over them, and a dainty pair of strappy heels that matched the fabric of the dress. The fact that Draco had obviously seen all of this and intended for her to wear them in spite of this ruffled her more than the fact that he'd arranged for the pampering the night before, or even that he'd come in that morning and rifled through all of her things. Just who in the hell did he think he—

'Oh, and when I said twenty minutes,' came Draco's drawl from beyond the screen, 'that was twenty minutes fifteen minutes ago, just so you know. Hop-to.'

Hopping-to in this case, she discovered, was easier said than done. After two minutes of fumbling, Hermione grumbled in exasperation, picked up her wand, and tapped the stitches going up the back of the corset. She felt the cords tighten themselves comfortably around her torso and then pulled on the slip; the fabric was so sheer and soft, it was like lying inside a cocoon of thick rabbit fur, but thin enough that it may as well have been made of tissue paper.

'Well?'

Hermione jumped; Draco's voice was directly on the other side of the screen. 'Bugger,' she muttered, quickly picking up the blue dress and tossing it over her head. Several seconds of vigorous wiggling and gentle tugging got it down around her waist. She looked down and made a face. 'This slit can not be considered proper.'

'Are you decent?' Draco's head tilted around the edge of the screen, glancing at her. 'Good enough. And yes, of course it's proper. It only comes up to your thigh.'

'The top of my thigh,' she corrected him. 'Almost to my hip.'

'Yes, well,' Draco conceded, giving her a quick once-over. 'You'll need the legroom to get your knee up here—' he tapped his own hip, '—and what do you know, you do have hips. And breasts. Not bad, Granger—ow! Fucking hell, learn to take a compliment!'

Hermione, now beyond the edge of her patience, seized another brush off the dresser and waved it threateningly, shrieking 'Out!', and effectively chased him from the room.

When she finally came downstairs, barefoot and carrying the heels, Narcissa was waiting for her in the dining room. She treated Hermione to a very quick, light lunch while Draco went to get himself ready, before herding her back upstairs to the master bedroom. Hermione gazed around the room, wondering if it had been this plain compared to the rest of the house while Lucius had been sharing it.

She was abruptly torn from her pondering as Narcissa stopped in front of a wide, full-length mirror, turned around and in a commanding voice said, 'Strip.'

Hermione goggled at her. 'Excuse me?'

'Go on.' Narcissa folded her arms impatiently. 'I had him bring that up to make sure it fit, but you're kidding yourself if you think getting ready for your début is as easy as a bubble bath and a fancy pair of shoes.' She tapped her foot. 'Now strip.'

It was hard enough, Hermione thought, for any woman to stand fully clothed in the same room as Narcissa Malfoy and not feel inadequate. She quickly discovered it was quite impossible to do so in one's knickers.

Narcissa was looking her over with a critical eye, arms folded, wand tapping her chin idly as she circled Hermione like a hungry hyena. After about two minutes of this and with the urge to cover herself with her hands growing unbearable, Hermione cleared her throat.

'Hush,' Narcissa ordered curtly. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but before she could think of something to say, Narcissa looked up at her, hands on her hips. 'Well, I suppose it could be worse; Muggle stock or not, you're not completely unfortunate-looking.'

Ah, Hermione thought. So this was where Draco got his talent at under-handed compliments.

'All right,' Narcissa ordered, ushering her towards the bathroom. 'Let's see what I can do with you.'

: : :

'About bloody time!'

Draco accosted Harry before he could get in the front door. Luna, drifting idly behind him, waved vaguely at Draco; he looked extremely irate, but this wasn't really anything new.

'It's only four-thirty,' Harry said in his own defence.

'Look, Potter,' Draco snapped, 'there are slightly more important things than trying to cover up your little affair with the lunatic. Like, for instance, my hair. Do you realise how long it takes to get ready for a ball? Oh, wait, no, you don't. Because you are a plebeian tit.'

'We weren't—' Harry began, then stopped as Luna smiled indulgently at him and mouthed, where Draco couldn't see her, what looked suspiciously like 'He's jealous! That's so cute!'. Harry wished he'd have a coronary. He decided not to pursue that subject. 'You said the party's not till six—'

'It's not, Potter,' Draco said irritably. 'But I need time to get ready for it, and if you remember, you have my wand, so—' he held out his hand, '—if you don't mind.'

'Why didn't you use your mum's?'

'Believe me, I tried; she's been in her room with Granger since noon,' Draco said crossly. 'It's bad enough when they shriek at you on their own. They're like bloody harpies when they go at it together. And it's actually about five, now, so—' he snapped the fingers of the hand still extended to Harry, '—wand, Potter.'

Harry made a face, pulling out the milky-coloured wand, and, after a moment's hesitation, handed it over. 'Would it kill you to say "please" once in a while?'

'I don't intend to find out,' Draco told him, quickly snatching the wand from him, doing an abrupt about-face and stalking away.

'I'm going to go see how Hermione's doing,' Luna announced, winking in a very suggestive manner. 'Give you two some alone time.'

Harry had terrible, terrible friends.

Glaring, Harry turned and followed Draco into the house. He was walking very quickly, and though Harry was determined not to jog to keep up, his fast pace barely kept him close enough on Draco's tail to follow him through a maze of rooms upstairs before coming to a stop in a small, brightly lit study. There was a huge dresser with what looked like hundreds of bottles and boxes and jars piled on top of it at one end, next to that was a built-in closet, and the opposite wall was composed of one gigantic mirror.

By the time Harry caught up, Draco was already at the dresser, wand waving idly, moving jars and bottles to and fro. Harry wandered over, eyes taking in the room, before stopping just behind him.

Harry stared at the reflection he could see in the mirror.

'What are you—' He stopped when he saw Draco's eyes look up in the mirror, focusing on Harry's reflection, before giving a dramatic roll. It wasn't that it was overdone, or anything, but Harry had spent enough time with Draco in the last several days to notice the difference the cosmetics had made; there was an even, dark outline around his eyelids, and something about his skin was warmer, more toned.

'Don't you have Aurory things to be doing?' Draco inquired. He was studying his reflection with such concentration that Harry was sure he'd give himself a headache. 'Death Eaters to bag, Dark Magic to defeat, Dark Lords to smite, etcetera?'

Harry indicated his arm in the mirror. 'Gawain won't let us work injured. Not even to smite Dark Lords.' He stood behind Draco in the mirror, leaning on the dresser with his good hand. 'What are you doing?'

Draco glanced sideways at his reflection, trying to look irritated, but the small twist to his lips betrayed his amusement. 'And people wonder why you're single,' he remarked absently, twirling his wand idly. Harry watched with his head tilted to the side as Draco's hair began to sort itself out of its own accord. 'Skirts tend to notice when you make the effort. Pass that, would you?'

Harry handed him the blue bottle he'd indicated, and Draco tapped it with his wand; it emitted a shimmering mist of something that smelled sharp and sweet, like if you'd sniffed the top of newly poured and still bubbling champagne. The mist floated up into the air and disappeared into his hair, adding an empyreal, golden hue to it. Draco made a face and ran his hands through his hair, gossamer strands tangling in his fingers as he brushed it this way and that, until, with a muttered 'bugger', he flicked his wand again. His hair instantly fell back into place, minus the gold undertone.

'I didn't think you'd want birds to notice,' Harry said casually, amused by the disgruntled look on Draco's face as he attacked his hair again, this time with a green bottle.

Draco paused in his ministrations and met Harry's eyes in their reflections. He had a curious expression, one Harry couldn't quite classify, but he seemed to be weighing something carefully before responding. 'Why do you say that?'

'I thought you were worried your mum was trying to buy you a wife,' Harry answered, raising his eyebrows. 'What did you think I meant?'

Draco shrugged. 'Just seems odd to ask a bloke who's spent the last four years with only his hand for company why he'd want a skirt to notice him.' Harry made a disgusted face in the mirror. Draco smirked. 'Well, you asked.'

'And I'm sorry I did.' Harry rolled his eyes as, once again, Draco muttered 'bugger' and tossed the green bottle aside, then dug around until he'd found a white one. 'I don't know why you're bothering. You look fine.'

'Coming from someone who wore clothes eight sizes too large, sorry if I don't take your word for it.'

'Those were my cousin's, it's not like I had a choice.'

'Potter.' Draco put the bottle and his wand down, and actually turned around to look Harry in the eye. 'You did have your own money. My father had tags on the contents of half the Gringotts vaults. I knowhow much gold your parents left you. You could have bought your own bloody clothes.'

Harry shrugged. 'Why waste the gold? I didn't know anything about clothes or shopping for them. And I really don't give a damn what I'm wearing.'

'It shows,' Draco replied, turning back to face the mirror. 'Anyway, what else do you have to waste gold on? I swear, one of these days I'm going to Stun your arse and dress you in something respectable. It's bloody painful, looking at you sometimes. Pass that—no, the red one—cheers.'

The red bottle seemed to do the trick; Harry couldn't specifically identify the difference, but whatever it was gave his white-blonde tresses an achromatic glow, much like the first blue bottle but less intense, and when he ran his hand through his hair, the way it moved and fell into place was like he was running his hands through silk strands. Combined with the added definition to his eyes and skin, he looked...stunning.

Draco observed him staring and smirked at Harry's reflection.

'See?' he said smugly. 'Even you notice.'

Harry rolled his eyes again, ignoring the sudden hot collar he was suffering from. 'You look the same as you always do,' he said. 'Like a git.'

Draco, ignoring his last comment, turned around to face him, leaning back on the dresser top with both hands. 'Either you're trying to compliment me—' ('Hardly.') '—or you're appallingly besotted and in denial. Or you're blind, which, considering the specs, is probably the case.'

'Sod off.'

'Ooh, you're blushing, Potter.' Draco smirked at him, looking amused. 'And people say glamour charms are a waste of gold.'

A knock at the door saved Harry from having to reply. The door opened a crack and Luna's head emerged through it. 'I thought I heard you in here,' she said to Harry. Then she looked at Draco, and blinked—which was worth noting, because Luna rarely blinked on purpose. 'Hullo, Draco. You look very nice.'

Draco smiled brilliantly at Harry. 'The woman has taste! I like her more already.'

'Your mum says she'll be ready for you in about ten minutes,' Luna continued, opening the door wider and drifting inside. She was staring at the ceiling while she spoke. 'She also said to tell you to use the red bottle, not any of the others, because you always think you know better but you don't, and if you waste all of her charms again she's going to forbid you from ever using them in the future.'

Harry gave Draco a look. His smirk faltered and he cleared his throat. 'Of course I used the red one. Wouldn't dream of wasting her charms. I used the red one, right, Potter?'

'That depends,' Harry said, smirking. 'Do you mean before or after you went through the lot?'

Draco glared at him. 'Pillock.'

'Git,' Harry replied automatically.

'Arse.'

'Fop.'

Draco snorted. 'You wish.'

'Hermione looks very nice, too,' Luna continued dreamily, oblivious to their banter.

The frown increased. 'Better than me?' Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Luna looked down from the ceiling and fixed her unblinking gaze on him. 'Yes, I would say so.'

Draco's frown downgraded to a scoff. 'I recant: you have no taste. I withdraw favour of your person. Begone, insipid wench.'

She blinked at him again, and Harry raised his eyebrows; only Draco Malfoy could draw two blinks from Luna Lovegood in the span of sixty seconds.

Draco looked indignant that his orders were not being followed. 'Be gone, woman! No, really, I mean it. I need to change, and I fear my divine beauty may blind you.'

Luna looked suddenly startled, as if she believed him. 'What about Harry?'

'Harry's already blind, love,' Draco assured her, herding her towards the door. 'And extremely thick anyhow, and thus immune to my wit and charms. Now shoo.'

Watching Luna leave, Harry felt slightly insulted, then realised what Draco had just said.

'You just called me Harry,' Harry told him.

Draco waved a dismissive hand, as if to ward off a fly. 'You're being delusional again, Potter. Now be a chap and turn around.' There was a thoughtful pause and Draco looked at him, smirking. 'Unless, of course, I was right and you do like to watch. In which case, feel free.'

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned around and faced the wall that wasn't mirrored.

He heard a rustle of fabric, and then Draco's voice again. 'So what's your deal with Loony?'

'Don't call her that,' Harry replied automatically, narrowing his eyes at the wall. 'And what do you mean, what's my deal with her?'

'I mean, if you're not dating her, then why is she popping in and out of your place at odd hours?'

Harry heard the sound of a zip. 'We're just friends.'

Another pause. 'With benefits?'

'What? No! Jesus, Malfoy.'

'Don't get your wand in a knot, Potter. I mean, if you ignore the fact that she's a—completely insane, b—physically incapable of blinking and c—colour blind to a frightening degree, she's not a bad-looking bird.'

'I think four years of isolation has lowered your standards.'

'Probably. Granger, then?'

'Hah. No.'

A pause. 'Weasley?'

Harry smirked at the wall. 'Which one?'

'Oh, God.' Draco was making horrible gagging noises somewhere behind him. 'I did not need that mental image.'

Harry decided he'd been cruel enough. 'No, no Weasleys.'

'Chang?'

Harry hesitated. 'Well, that depends. Before or after Hogwarts?'

He heard Draco chuckle, a soft, low sound deep in his throat. 'You sly dog.'

'There was nothing "sly" about it, trust me.'

'Coming from you? Colour me surprised. Chang's a babe, though. Or was, anyway. All right, I'm done.'

Harry turned around and saw Draco standing with his back to him, looking at himself in the mirror-wall. He was wearing his dress robes now; they were similar to those he'd worn fourth year for the Yule Ball, black with the high collar, making him look remarkably like a vicar. Only upon closer inspection, Harry could see these were not velvet, but of some matte, crisp material.

Overall, they suited him incredibly well. Harry, at least, had never managed to look that good wearing anything in the least formal. He was more of a jeans and Quidditch-robes type of bloke.

'She still is,' Harry confirmed for him.

'Duly noted,' Draco replied, cocking his head to the side and looking himself over in the mirror-wall. His eyes briefly flickered to Harry's in the mirror. 'Any good?'

Harry gave a non-committal shrug. 'No complaints.'

Draco turned around and looked at him then. 'So then what was the problem?'

'Beg pardon?'

'Well, you're very obviously single.'

'Ah. Er…' Harry paused, frowning. He didn't want to explain, so kept it vague. 'Suffice to say I thought she'd be over the whole ordeal after three years, and I was very wrong.'

Draco stared at him. 'She brought up Diggory with you,' he said flatly.

Harry shrugged again. 'We... didn't last long.'

'Define "long".'

Harry frowned again. 'Er. A week.'

Draco laughed again. 'Define long, I say. A week, he replies.'

'I've dated people for longer than a week,' Harry said defensively.

'How many?'

'Ginny.'

Draco raised both eyebrows. 'How many since you left school?'

Harry winced. 'Er... One. Sort of.'

'So you've dated a person for longer than a week. And sort of,' Draco corrected for him, shaking his head. 'Good lord, Potter. Has your entire sex life been one-night stands?'

'My entire sex life is none of your business,' Harry pointed out. 'And we should probably go see how Hermione's doing. It's been more than ten minutes.'

Draco was still snickering about Harry's assumed numerous illicit trysts when they entered the master bedroom. It was easily twice the size of Draco's room, though much more sparsely decorated. It really didn't even look lived in, aside from the cosmetics cluttering the sideboard in the corner. Hushed, rapid voices were audible from behind the closed bathroom door.

'Don't knock,' Draco warned in an undertone. 'Harpies. Shrieking. Ear-piercing.'

It was only another minute or so before the voices stopped and the bathroom door opened. When Hermione first stepped into the bedroom, Harry gaped at her.

'Well,' Draco said, sounding impressed. A grin snaked its way onto his face. 'Mum's a bloody miracle worker.'

Harry would have agreed, had his jaw and vocal chords been in working order.

It was hard to pick a part of her to focus on; he gathered rather quickly that her tan had been removed, leaving her skin pale and glowing, and that she was wearing a strapless dress that was approximately the colour of the sky on a cloudless summer afternoon. She was sparkling—the dress itself, the thick necklace of diamonds and aquamarine strung around her neck, the highlights in her hair... and her hair, which had gone from dark and bushy to mousy-brown and done up in an elaborate chignon, wisps hanging down and curling around her ears and cheekbones, framing her face.

What really threw him off, though, was her face. He'd been expecting an extensive amount of make-up and countless glamour charms, but at first glance it looked as if she had taken a butterfly the same colour as her dress and stuck the wings over her eyes. The pattern was painted on in a delicate, masquerade-esque fashion, with matching lipstick and a small 'V' on the centre of her forehead. Despite this, it looked anything but strange—simply put, it looked fantastic on her.

A single, long slit ran up her left leg right to her hip, exposing it from ankle to thigh, and the dress material hugged her form so tightly, it left very little to the imagination. Ron would have suffered an aneurysm. Harry himself was having no luck in closing his mouth, much less in forming a coherent train of thought.

'You know, I make a lot of uncomplimentary remarks about shoddy Muggle stock, but,' Draco said, sounding as if it pained him to admit it, 'God damn.'

Harry felt this to be a rather gross understatement, but still lacked the necessary facilities to tell him so.

'When you're both quite finished,' Hermione said. She sounded annoyed, but Harry knew better; it was the tone she used to avoid sounding embarrassed or flattered—in this case, probably both. Harry dragged his eyes back up to her face and she blushed; Harry idly wondered how much Ron would pay for the memory. She looked quickly at Draco, who was smirking and looking entirely unperturbed by her allure. 'Your mother wants you in the bathroom.'

Draco made a face. 'Oh, I bet she does. Here—' he handed her a rolled-up parchment, '—your details. Read, memorise, etcetera—you're good at that, aren't you?'

Hermione took the parchment and Draco, looking incredibly smug, vanished into the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind him.

She took one look at the parchment before her eyes widened, and she let out a shriek. 'That bastard!'

Harry, finally snapping out of his stupor, snapped to attention. 'What is it?'

Hermione ignored him, whirling so quickly that her skirt flew up around her knees.

'Barbie?' she demanded furiously at the bathroom door. 'You've named me Barbie?'

: :

'Oh, it's a lovely name,' Draco insisted, still wearing that incredibly smug smirk. 'And it fits you so well.'

'I cannot believe you,' Hermione told him. 'Actually, I can. But it doesn't make it any less painful. God, you're a bastard.'

'I know some nice girls named Barbie,' Draco offered.

Hermione glowered. 'Do they all happen to work in a brothel?'

'Well,' Draco said, considering. 'They're more like geisha than proper – Jesus!' he exclaimed, recoiling from her advance. 'Mind that hem, Granger. That dress cost more than you want to know.'

Harry, sitting on the chaise behind him, snickered and then immediately tried to hide it at the look on her face. Hermione sorely missed the days when, to Harry, anything Draco said was automatically considered nasty and uncouth and under no circumstances amusing. This whole arrangement had them spending far too much time together; Draco was being a very bad influence, as far as Hermione was concerned.

Hermione glowered at Harry before turning her glare back to Draco. She raised a threatening finger. 'Bastard.'

'Easy, darling,' Draco warned. 'You muss up the cosmetics, Mother's likely to maim.'

Hermione had been slightly surprised when Narcissa began applying the cosmetic equivalent of a masquerade mask to her face. Of course, she had understood that wizarding débutante balls were quite different from the Muggle versions, but she hadn't been quite prepared for how different. Apparently, the masquerade-look was a bit of a theme all debut pairs had to adhere to. She'd been sceptical at first, but it turned out Narcissa was about as talented with cosmetics as Molly Weasley was with cuisine. Hermione did not need to see Harry's look of open-mouthed astonishment to know she looked utterly fantastic.

Draco's do-up was radically different from her own. He'd been herded out of the bathroom by his mother with a similar mask-effect around his eyes, but the edges of the design were sharper than her own; the tips were not rounded like hers, but rather pointed and curled, reminiscent of flames but artistically represented rather than tacky. The colours were also bright, deep reds and oranges instead of Hermione's icy blue. It was a good choice; the colour both suited his complexion and brought out his eyes magnificently.

'Bastard,' she muttered again, withholding the urge to smack that smirk right off his face.

Draco flashed her a brilliant smile, and Hermione felt herself flush; she was saved from embarrassment, however, when Narcissa came up behind him and began fussing with his collar. Draco grimaced and attempted to recoil.

'I can do my own sodding tie,' he snapped, looking irate but resigned as she snagged the tie around his neck like a lasso and yanked him back into range.

'Sure you can, darling,' Narcissa replied, unperturbed, tipping his chin up with the back of her hand as she buttoned up the few open buttons at the top of his collar, which she then folded up so she could smooth the tie out against his neck and shoulders. 'Stop pulling, Draco.'

Hermione had to physically restrain a smirk as Narcissa pushed his head this way and that, tying the knot, untying it, re-smoothing the satin, tying it again, folding the collar down, deciding the knot was uneven and starting over again. It would have been an easy fix with magic, Hermione thought, but Narcissa seemed to almost enjoy the disgruntled state her son was in as she fussed over his appearance.

Standing back to scrutinise her work, Narcissa pulled out her wand and a very small, black box. Draco eyed it warily.

'No,' he said firmly.

'Oh, yes,' she said, flipping the box open and seizing him by his tie before he could retreat. She brushed some of his hair behind his ear, exposing it. 'Hold still, or it'll sting.'

'It'll sting anyway!' he snapped, trying and failing to pull away; she just went with him, and with a wave of her wand, two tiny, glinting objects soared out of the box and towards the tip of her wand.

'Hold still,' she warned again. Draco glowered at her but obeyed, looking away. Hermione raised her eyebrows as Narcissa directed the tiny objects to his left ear. He winced as they impaled themselves into place. Narcissa tapped his ear with her wand again, and the redness that had been blooming there melted away. She gave him an appraising look. 'See? That wasn't so bad.'

'I don't know why you always insist on this,' he spat out bitterly.

'It's a good look on you,' she reprimanded, tilting his head to the side and back again. 'I don't know why you're so averse to it. I do wish you'd leave them in...'

'Sorry if I don't like poking holes in my body,' he retorted sourly, absently reaching up to rub at his eyebrow; Narcissa slapped his hand away.

'Don't rub it,' she admonished. 'I'm not doing it all over again.'

'It itches,' he complained.

'You'll get used to it.'

'I don't want to get used to it.'

'I didn't want to get used to wearing a corset, either,' she said loftily, folding her arms and fixing him with a look. 'In fact, I think that, by comparison, Miss Granger has a lot more of "getting used to" to complain about than you do, and unless you would like a detailed explanation about everything us women have a right to be upset about in the name of beauty—' (Hermione stifled a giggle at the brief look of horror that flitted across Draco's face.) '—I suggest you go put on your cloak and start acting less like a spoilt little boy and more like a gentleman.'

'You know,' Harry said absently as Draco stalked, still glowering, out of the room, 'you could pick up tips, watching her work.'

'I am,' Hermione confirmed, smirking. The smirk quickly softened into a thoughtful smile. 'Though,' she said after a moment as Narcissa disappeared back into her room, 'I never thought I'd say this, but he looks rather fetching all done-up.'

'Yeah,' Harry said. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and Harry finished, 'Until he opens his mouth.'

Hermione managed to stop giggling just as Draco re-entered the hall a few moments later, pulling a deep red cloak that matched the accents of his robes around his shoulders. 'What's so funny?' he demanded.

'Oh, nothing,' Harry said, leaning back and looking smug. 'Except the fact that you are the sorriest mummy's boy we've ever seen.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'At least—' He stopped mid-sentence and seemed to think better of his words the same instant Hermione realised what he was going to say.

At least I have one.

Instead, he smirked, and started again, 'Careful, Potter, or one of these days I'll let her have at you.'

'I have no desire to look like a dandy, but thanks for the offer,' Harry said grudgingly.

'Jealousy breeds malcontent,' Draco remarked absently, not in the least fazed as he turned his attention to Hermione and offered his elbow. 'Shall we?'

: : :

The Cavallo Volante Palazzo was, as it turned out, a behemothic Mediterranean-style mansion. It was a huge, heavily ornamented Tuscan Villa with sandy-coloured walls, a circular court with a centre fountain, and a large adjacent racetrack. According to the small summary Draco had given her, Yaxely's largest stock was held in horse and pegasus sporting, breeding and exporting. Draco had told her his grandfather had been quite involved in the business himself, and hence the horses at the Manor.

Though unlike the Manor's antique qualities, this building had a much more modern tenor to it; wide, high windows opened into a large, marble-floored hall where everything appeared to be made of crystal and silver. Hundreds of thousands of candles floated both inside and outside of the building, lighting the walkways and interiors with warm, flickering rays of light. An elaborate pool-and-jacuzzi filled with sparkling aquamarine water stretched out behind the main hall, which was currently brimming with guests stemming from a large combination of fancy cars and carriages that lined the front walk outside the mansion.

If Hermione had any doubts concerning Narcissa's assurances that she wouldn't be recognised, the sheer volume of guests vaporised any worry she retained whatsoever. There had to be at least two thousand witches and wizards present, and as they went inside and Hermione glanced around, she found that she didn't recognise any of them.

'Are they all pure-bloods?' she asked in a whisper.

Draco made a funny noise in his throat, sounding very much like he was restraining a laugh. 'They wish.'

'I thought this was an invite-only pure-blood party?' she asked dubiously.

'It is,' he confirmed. 'They have to be at least first-generation pure-blood to be considered for attendance, but most of those requests get denied. You're looking at mostly second- to fifth-generation pure-bloods, at the most. There's only a handful of wizards you'll find in there that are anywhere near as pure as Yaxley, my mother and I.'

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'So what generation pure-blood are you?'

He smirked at her. 'Well, let's put it this way. Once we traced back to 1500, we stopped counting.'

'Ah,' Hermione said. 'So you're officially the most inbred pillock in Britain. Congratulations.'

'No, love, that'd be the man of the hour's title. He's got a full pedigree all the way back to 1392.'

'That's ridiculous,' she said, feeling scandalised.

'That's Yaxley for you,' he answered, grimacing. 'Come on.'

Draco led her through a maze of people clustered in small groups, idle chatter and light laughs drowning out the live orchestra strings singing from a small stage deep inside the ballroom. Everything was glittering and sparkling, from the heavy jewels laden around women's necks to flashes of white teeth behind smiles. Hermione no longer felt overdressed; she blended in perfectly, and people hardly cast her a glance as Draco led her, carefully but swiftly, towards the centre of the ballroom.

Draco, on the other hand, gathered more than his fair share of looks. Several witches even pointed before frowning or smiling and bending in to whisper to one another. Though many people seemed to know who he was, no one approached him, and Hermione could safely assume his father had likely received the same treatment. Malfoys were known to favour Dark Magic, and even amongst other pure-bloods, they were considered dangerous. Masquerade-like make-up adorned a large number of other couples, who were hovering near the stage where Draco had led her, talking in boisterous tones and floating about with a distinct air of superiority. They gave Draco a wide berth, though, careful not to come too close, much less approach them. All for the better, Hermione thought. The less people they had to talk to, the less chance there was someone would recognise her...

'Mr Malfoy,' murmured a voice behind the pair, 'this is an unexpected surprise.'

Hermione turned around with Draco, and immediately recognised the stranger from the profile Ron had brought to the Manor three days earlier.

Gervasio Alessandro Yaxley, as it turned out, was extremely... well, Italian in every sense of the word—from his voice to his posture, he reeked of exotic and ostentatious avant-garde. He had a very heavy tan, dark eyes, wavy, voluptuous hair, and the sort of smirk that would have mothers locking up their teenage daughters. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, but was anythingbut vile-looking; he didn't have the cool, refined beauty that Draco or his mother presented, but was still extremely handsome in his own respect.

'Gervasio,' Draco returned, with a very slight inclination of his head. 'Yes, well, I decided a cocktail party was in order and Mother was pleased for an excuse to visit.'

'Mm, yes, where is dear Narcissa?' Yaxley asked, sounding interested. He hadn't yet acknowledged Hermione's presence at all, and she had a feeling he wouldn't be asking for an introduction any time soon.

'Around,' Draco answered vaguely, his face blank. He didn't seem fussed with introducing his partner either, and Hermione pretended to gaze about casually, taking careful note of every motion and word between the two.

Looking slightly disappointed that Narcissa did not magically materialise out of thin air, Yaxley turned his attention back to Draco. 'I got word of your father,' he said in an otiose tone. 'Terrible news. Tragic. Lucius was a good man.'

'Indeed.'

'Is your mother still breeding, by any chance?'

Hermione looked around, unable to stop herself; how could Yaxley ask such a thing in public? And to Draco, of all people? Hermione almost interjected but Draco answered smoothly: 'Yes, she does, in fact. What were you looking for?'

'Wonderful,' Yaxley said, looking pleased. 'I've a few mares I'd be keen to board if you still have that Andalusian stud.'

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she'd long given up hope that men ever talked about anything other than business, sex or sports. It was hard not to fidget to keep from falling asleep from pure boredom as Yaxley began to drone on and on about his racing studs and breeding arrangements with Draco, who kept his face completely passive and his voice polite, indulging Yaxley's every proposal to the tee. Still hooked on his arm, Hermione could practically feel him vibrating with fury and made sure to give his elbow an incognito pinch whenever his arm started to twitch in hopes of reminding him that to attack Yaxley would be very counter-productive to their plan.

Just as the balls of her feet began to scream in agony at standing stationary in three-inch heels and Hermione was considering sneaking away with a trip to the loo, Yaxley's eyes darted over their shoulders and his face lit up with a jaunty smile.

'Narcissa! You are looking lovelier than ever.'

Draco's elbow twitched again, and Hermione tightened her grip on it.

'You flatter an old woman,' Narcissa said lightly, her voice playful as she sauntered up to them. She tilted her head, just slightly, in a manner Hermione remembered being trained in the previous day; the bashful head-tilt. The midnight blue of her dress made her hair and eyes appear brighter and glimmer more than ever; even Hermione couldn't help but stare.

'Nonsense,' Yaxley insisted. 'The term "old" will never apply to you, my dear.'

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, and offered him her hand: the subtle invitation. 'If I am so lovely, dear Gervasio, why do I find myself attending your party alone?'

Yaxley took her proffered hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. 'Why, darling, so you could adorn my arm.'

Hot damn, that woman was good.

'Barb, sweetheart,' Narcissa said, eyes still on Yaxley, 'be a darling and look after Draco for me, would you?'

Hermione tightened the elbow-hook she had on Draco as he attempted to squirm away. 'Of course, Mrs Malfoy,' she said with a small curtsey-nod.

'Good girl,' Yaxley observed, gracing her with a glance before offering his arm to Narcissa, who took it with a winning smile.

'Are you sure I can't just kill him?' Draco asked as the pair sauntered away. 'Please?'

Hermione sighed, deciding not to mention the fact that even enraged, Draco likely wouldn't possess the nerve to kill anyone. Instead, she tugged him firmly in the opposite direction. 'Azkaban'll be the end of him anyway,' she muttered.

'Exactly,' Draco told her in a low voice. 'Only my way, it's much more immediate. And gratifying. And we get to skip the paperwork. And the part where he's fucking my mother.'

'Oh, grow up,' she hissed, not slowing until they were at the far corner of the room and Narcissa was a blue-and-gold blot in the distance among many other blue-and-gold blots. 'I can see why she never told Lucius. He would have killed him.'

'Father would have done a lot worse than kill him,' Draco snarled, grudgingly following her lead. 'And I would have helped.'

'The sooner she gets what we need, the sooner we can leave, and the sooner he'll be where he belongs.' Hermione bit her lip and stood up on her tiptoes, peering over the sea of well-groomed heads. 'When's the ceremony?'

'Guests have an hour to arrive before they begin,' Draco remarked absently, still looking back at where they'd come from. 'Are you sure your Golden Boy can track her position in here?'

'I'm sure,' Hermione said. 'And if anything goes amiss, he'll know it before we do—and he can get to her fastest that way, even you know that.'

Draco scowled and came to a halt, still looking longingly after the spot from which his mother had disappeared.

'I promise you, she'll be fine, Draco,' Hermione assured him.

'Do me a favour, Barbie,' he drawled, finally looking at her; 'don't make promises you can't keep.'

: : :

Hermione had adopted a pattern: she would hand Draco a full glass of champagne, and he would eye it blearily, consider breaking it, before finally downing it in one swig. She would then spend five minutes patiently prying his fingers off the glass and replace it with another one, and then the process would repeat. They were still in the far corner of the ballroom, by one of the many tables laden with various colourful comestibles and a hefty amount of expensive liquor.

Not many people were mingling this far from the centre of the room, so Draco all but jumped out of his skin when a silky voice behind him murmured, 'Fancy meeting you two here.'

Spinning around, silver eyes immediately narrowed. Dressed in deep evergreen robes that suited his dark complexion spectacularly well, was none other than Blaise Zabini; he was taller than the last time Draco had seen him, almost as tall as the Weasley, his wavy hair swept carelessly aside and candid smirk in place. Slung around the waist of his robes was a thick sash, attached to which at his left hip were a pair of plain, black daisho sheaths—in the hilt of each, Draco knew, lay embedded a wand.

'Zabini,' Draco said curtly. 'Charming.'

'Blaise,' Hermione said, sounding both surprised and relieved. Draco gaped at her. 'I didn't know you'd be here!'

'I always have time to attend my father's parties,' Blaise said, smirking. 'Free food, good champagne, an endless selection of attractive trollops,' he continued, shrugging. 'Everything a bloke could ask for.'

'Your father?' Hermione asked, gaping. 'Yaxley's your—'

'Nose down, darling,' Draco said sharply, casting a glance around to make sure they weren't being overheard.

Blaise flashed her a grin, eyes flickering between the two. 'Fire and ice,' he said finally, nodding. 'Appropriate. Do I even dare ask what the occasion is?'

'No,' Draco snapped, before Hermione could say anything. She gave him an indignant look, but he continued, 'Any last requests? Or can we just Stun you now and get it over with?'

'Relax,' Blaise said, cutting Hermione off again before she could protest. 'You know my adage, Malfoy. I don't get involved unless there's something in it for me.'

Hermione finally managed to get a word in before Draco could retort. 'It's all right, Draco,' she hissed quickly. 'He's with us.'

She did not have to specify who 'us' was—Draco's eyes narrowed further as Blaise continued to smirk at them. 'You sure?' he sneered. 'He doesn't tend to get involved unless there's something in it for him.'

'Who says there isn't?' Blaise asked, his smirk increasing. 'Really, Malfoy, it's been four years. You're not stillangry about that, are you?'

'Angry about what?' Hermione asked, eyes flickering back and forth between the two.

'Oh, let me think on it for a moment,' Draco said over her, eyes not leaving Blaise. Without pausing, he finished, 'No. Bloody furious is more accurate. Is there something you want, or are you here just to gloat?'

Hermione made an impatient noise that both men ignored.

Blaise tsked at Draco. 'I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you haven't grown a day. Anyway—' his eyes turned to Hermione, who was glaring at them indignantly, '—what moniker have you adopted for the evening?'

Hermione ignored his question, eyes on Draco. 'What are you two on about?' she demanded.

'Barbara Leblanc,' Draco answered for her, eyes still fixed unforgivingly on Blaise. 'Second cousin once-removed on my mother's side.'

'Keeping up with tradition,' Blaise said approvingly. 'I suppose your votary did her nut when she heard?'

Draco's scowl vanished immediately; now he just looked horror-struck. 'She's here?'

Blaise raised his eyebrows. 'Of course she is. In fact—too late for you to run for it, I'm afraid,' he said, eyes going over Draco's shoulder. 'Here she comes.'

: : :

'There's a connection here, I just know it.'

- Calvin and Hobbes

: : :

It may have been early morning, it may have been midday; it was hard to tell, because even in summer, the sky at this altitude was always overcast, threatening rain, hail, snow or some combination of the three. If anyone had bothered to check the time, they would have seen it was just past midnight, but nobody really cared what time it was, because Death Eaters did not adhere to normal time. They were above that. They all obeyed one schedule, and one schedule only. That of the Dark Lord—which, unlike standard time, was subject to change at any point, and usually without notice.

The room was bare and comprised of some elaborate mixture of dark woods and stone, with a high ceiling, no windows, and two pairs of double doors, one at the front, one at the back. The doors at the back were given a wide berth, for no one wanted to be the closest of the group to those doors, in case whatever came through was in an exceptionally bad mood. They clustered together like a pack of starving, abused wolves, snarling at one another and cursing the Reason for this meeting in hushed tones.

'—couldn't finish off that old geezer, even with us there at his side! If Severus hadn't—'

'—told you the boy was rotten—'

'—coward like his father—'

'—never thought I'd live to see the day a Malfoy—'

'—filthy blood traitors.'

The doors at the front of the room opened with a slam, and three figures swept in—all three were tall, but the two men flanking the woman in the lead held a few inches over her. Bellatrix did not need size, however, to exact obedience over her husband or brother-in-law, much less the large group of Death Eaters before her that represented most of the Dark Lord's most trusted and loyal—the Inner Circle.

'Enough,' Bellatrix snapped, sweeping through them all. 'Pointless derogation and gossip aren't going to do us any good finding the little rat.'

'He's your bloody nephew,' Macnair snarled, stepping forward out of the group. 'Your family's chock full of bad blood, Bellatrix. One cousin a coward, the other a traitor—both your sisters no better, with one marrying a Muggle and Narcissa standing by Lucius' betrayal and that coward son of hers—I'm just biding the day you show your true colours, turn tail and run—'

Bellatrix's wand was at his throat in a flash. 'I would guard my words if I were you, Walden.'

Rodolphus, knowing better than to attempt to subdue his wife's rage, instead retreated safely back into the group of Death Eaters watching, and exchanged a significant look with Rabastan, who stood beside him and rolled his eyes. Macnair, it seemed, would never learn when to keep his mouth shut.

'Aye.' Macnair cackled at her, ignoring the sharp point of her wand pressing into his jugular. He inhaled sharply through his nose, making his heavy black moustache twitch. 'But you're not me, now are you,Black?'

There was a curse, a flash of red light and a loud bang—when the smoke cleared, Macnair's mangled form was visible on the ground several metres away, looking painfully singed, but the steady rise and fall of his chest confirmed he was still alive, albeit just barely. Rodolphus sighed; the name 'Black' was as bad as 'Mudblood' these days, and his wife went strictly by his surname only because of it.

Bellatrix levelled her wand at the rest and swung it in a semi-circle before her. 'Anyone else feel like making recreant accusations?'

There was a small pause, in which no one spoke or moved to check on Macnair. Then a soft, amused voice from the back said, 'Really, Bella, that was a bit harsh, even for you.'

A collective shudder ran through the sea of cloaks, and several Death Eaters filtered aside, allowing a new figure, followed by a stooped, quivering mass, to enter the circle. Bellatrix lowered her wand and dropped gracefully to one knee. 'Forgive me, my Lord.'

'Rise,' Voldemort said lazily. He turned his attention to the Lestrange brothers. 'Help that idiot up,' he snapped. 'I won't have his corpse littering up the place.'

Rabastan moved immediately; Rodolphus followed after the briefest of pauses.

The other Death Eaters quietly formed a ring around their master; a small gap between Bellatrix and Severus left just enough room for the Lestrange brothers, who quickly rejoined the ranks; across from them, a single space where Macnair, still incapacitated, would have stood.

Voldemort stood in the centre of the circle and surveyed them quietly with sharp eyes—searching for anything anomalous among his followers—while Wormtail huddled, terrified, at his side. He paused several times, focusing on a few individuals, and by the slightly glazed look in their eyes, one could tell he was scanning their memories for suspicious or foolhardy activity. Even with the restoration of his human form, dark hair and eyes, well groomed in appearance, half the age he should have been and easily the comeliest of them all, Voldemort still managed, almost effortlessly, to suppress his followers with a cloak of terror and obedience. His presence alone was more than enough to produce this effect, the sheer power emanating from him like a miasma of Dark Magic as he surveyed his servants.

After a rather intense mental interrogation of Rookwood, he seemed satisfied. 'I have brought you here tonight,' he began, 'to make my orders on the situation explicitly clear.' Voldemort paused; even in the silence, no one dared speak. 'I will say this once, and once only,' the Dark Lord continued. 'The boy is not to be harmed.'

When he paused this time, several hushed whispers crossed the ranks. Voldemort ignored them. 'Do whatever you deem necessary to find him. He will most likely be in Potter's company.' Voldemort stopped again, letting the whispers carry, waiting for some coward to step forward. He did not have to wait long.

'M-my Lord,' one began, voice trembling slightly, 'if he is with Potter... if Malfoy is not to be harmed—how are we to—'

'Be quiet, Rosier,' Voldemort interrupted, and Rosier stopped babbling immediately. 'Potter is a problem, but this should not come as a surprise, as he always manages to find some way to upset our agenda.' The Dark Lord's voice was sharp and coated with impatience, and the underlings closest to him winced as if struck. 'His luck, however, will inevitably fail. Deal with it. I do not care for discretion or method, so long as you bring me the Malfoy boy alive and coherent—' he paused, and the sound of Greyback's hungry panting was clearly heard; Voldemort fixed him with a knowing look, '—and unmauled, Fenrir.'

'Of course, my Lord,' Fenrir murmured, bowing his head.

Voldemort turned his gaze to Avery. 'Your task,' he prompted.

Avery lowered his head in submission. 'We were unable to locate him, my Lord—but,' he added quickly, 'we managed to secure his daughter.'

The Dark Lord absorbed this information thoroughly before responding; every moment of the silence, Avery trembled, expecting punishment, but Voldemort spoke first.

'His daughter,' Voldemort repeated, sounding thoughtful. 'Yes, yes, I suppose that will do. Where is the girl?'

'W-with Theodore, my Lord,' Avery stuttered, looking extremely relieved. 'We expect he will come to us.'

Voldemort seemed satisfied with this. 'She will be useful in the interrogation,' he said slowly. His gaze shifted to the tall, gaunt man stood beside Avery. 'Antonin, I expect you to be present when he comes for her.'

Dolohov inclined his head. 'My Lord, it will be a pleasure,' he said smoothly.

Voldemort's gaze shifted back to the shorter man; a twisted sort of smile was playing at his lips as he said, 'See to it that Theodore contains himself until then, Avery.'

'Yes, of course, my Lord,' Avery said, bowing his head low.

Turning away from him, Voldemort surveyed the rest impassively. 'This is but one small step in the necessary direction; divide the targets amongst yourselves and secure those you can, and kill those you cannot,' he said sharply. 'The boy no doubt knows we will come for him and has protected himself accordingly. If you cannot handle Potter, then I suggest you find a way to separate them. I will accept no excuses on the matter.'

There was a collective murmur of 'Yes, my Lord' as the ring clustered around him bowed their heads in obedience. Voldemort swept out of the circle through the gap left by Macnair's absence with Wormtail on his heels, wordlessly dismissing the group.

Bellatrix pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders; the room was disgustingly cold, despite the time of year. Beside her, always the taciturn partner, Rodolphus silently unbuttoned his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. She nodded curtly in appreciation and wrapped herself in it, her coldness somewhat alleviated.

Her eyes lingered briefly on their Lord, standing by the back doorway and quietly hissing to Nagini, who had curled devotedly around his feet. She briefly wondered what they spoke about; they conversed frequently, often for long periods of time—sometimes, Nagini even interrupted his tirades, and the Dark Lord was always uncharacteristically tolerant, even considerate, of such disruptions.

'So,' Rodolphus said softly in an undertone, breaking her thoughts, 'any idea of where we should begin?'

'Mm.' Bellatrix glanced at her husband. 'Perhaps we should pay a visit to my darling sister,' she finished after a moment, with a formidable sneer.

Rodolphus raised his eyebrows. 'Which one?'

Before she could answer, something large and smooth slid past her leg; Bellatrix glanced down to see a long, diamond-patterned back sliding between her feet, the scales cool against her ankles. Looking up, she met the dark eyes of her master and felt Rodolphus stiffen beside her. Hissing softly, Nagini circled once around her before sliding back towards Voldemort and then past him, out the open doors.

Without looking twice at her husband, Bellatrix handed him back his cloak and wordlessly followed her master through the doorway. Wormtail shuffled after them, quietly closing the doors behind him.

'Ro, don't,' Rabastan said quickly as his brother started forwards towards the closed door. A firm hand on Rodolphus' elbow halted him, and Rabastan could feel him practically vibrating with silent fury. 'Be reasonable, will you?' he hissed. 'There's nothing you can do.'

Behind them and watching with faint amusement, someone chuckled. 'Oh, but he'd sure like to try, wouldn't he.'

'Piss off, Severus,' Rabastan snapped. 'Learn to mind your own.'

'If I minded my own, I wouldn't have the position I do,' Severus said smoothly, smirking. 'Hardly my fault if your brother can't command fidelity from his wife.'

Rodolphus rounded on him, wand drawn, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed. Rabastan gripped his brother's wrist and yanked his arm back down; it would be foolhardy to assault Snape, firstly because Snape did not need to speak to cast and could anticipate his opponent's attacks, and secondly because Voldemort held his counsel in the highest esteem and would not take kindly to unwarranted attempts on his life.

Severus regarded Rodolphus with folded arms and little concern. 'Contain yourself,' he said coolly. 'The Dark Lord values your ability and above all, your loyalty,' he continued, 'as do I. It would be a shame to lose you.' And with this veiled threat, Severus departed.

Rodolphus' wand arm, still securely restrained, was shaking in his brother's grasp. 'He's right, Ro,' Rabastan said quietly. 'It's not worth it.'

Rodolphus wrenched his arm away, wrapping the cloak Bellatrix had returned back around his shoulders, and met his brother's gaze. 'It's worth it to me,' he snarled, voice low and bordering on dangerous, and for half a second Rabastan was worried he had finally snapped and would pursue her; but Rodolphus hovered only for a moment before whirling and retreating towards the opposite doors, through which the other Death Eaters had exited.

'And this,' Rabastan muttered to himself as his brother stalked away, fuming, 'is why I never married.'

: : :

Hermione turned and followed Blaise's line of sight; a very slim young woman with curly, dark-red hair and mocha-coloured skin emerged from the crowd and sauntered up them, so smoothly she could have been on rollers. She slipped right past Hermione in a wave of dark green silk to Draco, taking his cheek in one hand and kissing him swiftly on the other.

'It 'az been so long, chéri,' she said. 'I thought you might 'ave forgotten me.'

Draco (who had gone from looking horrified to impassive so quickly that Hermione was deeply impressed) smoothly removed her hand from his cheek and lightly kissed her knuckles. 'How could I, mademoiselle,' he said, his voice equanimous despite the woman's impertinent manner.

She smiled at him before letting her eyes sweep to Hermione, at which point she blinked to cover her momentary surprise. Hermione stared; the woman had the most brilliantly green eyes she'd ever seen.

'Mademoiselle Leblanc, I presume,' the woman said smoothly. Hermione raised her eyebrows; it seemed word travelled faster here than it did at Hogwarts. 'This is an unexpected pleasure. I do 'ope you are enjoying ze party.'

'Yes,' Hermione replied. 'It's fine.'

The woman raised her eyebrows. 'I would 'ave 'oped for more zen "fine".'

Draco quickly began, 'Barb, this is—'

'Carlotta Ouellet,' the woman intervened, hooking Draco's elbow with an arm as she did so, ''iz wife.'

: : :

Notes:

Credits: So you just lower your expectations to the point they're already met. - Calvin & Hobbes

Also, Yaxley's “Cavallo Volante Palazzo” was roughly modeled off the MGM Grand Mansion in Las Vegas. Merlin knows I'll never be able to afford a night there. “Cavallo Volante Palazzo” roughly translates to "Soaring Horse/Pegasus Palace".
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