Harry stared in disbelief at the letter in his hand. It had come in through the Muggle post yesterday but lay sealed on the kitchen table until he opened it a few minutes ago, having gotten tired of Kreacher's constant reminders to stop ignoring the growing stack of correspondence.
Mr. Draco Malfoy requests the pleasure of Mr. Harry James Potter's presence in celebrating the holiday season with a Christmas party on Saturday. Listed below was the address, along with the time of the event. The invitation was written in a fancy script in luminous gold ink. If Harry hadn't known any better, he would have guessed that this was one of George Weasley's pranks. But he doubted that George would go through the trouble of making a fake invitation and using the Muggle post just to fool him. What would be the point of pretending to be Draco Malfoy?
Harry was currently enjoying a relatively peaceful and quiet life after the Second Wizarding War. 12 Grimmauld Place was now his permanent residence and he wisely opted not to divulge the location to anyone else outside the Secret-Keepers so that he can have some semblance of privacy. He didn't have the heart to replace Hedwig with a new owl and thought it would be a better idea to have his mail delivered in the Muggle fashion by keeping a deposit box at a nearby post office, adding another thin layer of seclusion between him and the rest of the wizarding world. Apparently The Boy Who Lived (Again) is a hot commodity and he fervently wished that wasn't the case. He didn't mind overly much when strangers came up to him on the street, thanking and congratulating him, but it happened so often that it had grown tiresome and embarrassing. He wished he could tell them all that the best way to express their gratitude was to live without fear, be happy, appreciate their families and loved ones and to never forget the people who had sacrificed their lives for the greater good. He didn't need to be showered with gifts or praise. The only thing The Boy Who Lived really wanted was to live.
Fortunately for him and his sanity, there were other people who saw him simply as Harry. The Weasleys were family to him and they treated him as one of their own, granting him no special privileges or favors. Just the other night, he'd received a stinging lecture from Mrs. Weasley for putting her through the wringer with unnecessary worry when he'd failed to let her know that he would be late for dinner. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic, would never let him get away with slacking off at work or missing deadlines and meetings.
He had to shoulder the responsibility of being the hero, but thank Merlin he had Ron and Hermione to help carry the burden. They were the only ones who could fully understand what he was going through for they were experiencing the same thing themselves, albeit only to a certain degree. Instant fame flustered Hermione, but Ron dealt with it surprisingly well, almost as if he was meant to be in the spotlight and had just been biding his time.
"What would Master Harry like for breakfast?" Kreacher asked as he shuffled his way over, snapping Harry's mind back to the present. The elf was sporting a clean, fussily embroidered towel and a hat that Harry himself had knitted in gratitude for his service. Though Kreacher had been given his freedom, he continued to serve Harry willingly. At Hermione's insistence, Kreacher received monthly wages and had one day a week off. Not knowing what to do with his free time, however, the house-elf happily continued to dote on his master. The way Harry saw it, he had no right to tell a free elf what to do, so he would only half-heartedly object out of habit and because Hermione would never let him hear the end of it if he didn't try to enforce these new conditions.
He glanced at the watch Mr. and Mrs. Weasley gave him four years ago when he had come of age. "Actually, I need to get going," he told the house-elf, putting the invitation back inside the envelope before tucking the parchment away in his pocket. He knew just the people he needed to see about Malfoy's party. "I'll see you later for dinner."
Five minutes later, Harry was knocking on the door of Hermione's small flat, knowing that she was most likely awake by now. Sure enough, after just mere seconds the door flew open.
"Harry!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Good morning. What are you doing here?"
"Good morning, Hermione. I wanted to talk to you about something," he replied.
"Come in." She stepped aside so he could enter. Crookshanks greeted Harry by rubbing his body against his legs, purring loudly. He bent down to scratch a spot behind the cat's ears.
"I was just making breakfast. You'll have some, won't you?"
The grumbling in his stomach answered her question. As he always did whenever he was at Hermione's, he stared in admiration at the home she had made for herself. She'd managed to combine both Muggle and magical worlds in a way that he could never accomplish. Her cauldron was hanging on a hook among pots and pans of stainless steel, Muggle newspapers were stacked alongside editions of The Daily Prophet, and a computer was next to a cabinet that housed the Pensieve the Weasleys had given her upon graduating from Hogwarts. He longed for Grimmauld Place to be like her flat, not wishing to completely abandon his Muggle heritage that came courtesy of his mother. He'd have to ask for her help in seamlessly blending those two sides.
"I stopped by the joke shop on my way here," he told her as he joined her in her tiny kitchen. He noticed that she was making breakfast the Muggle way by relying on electronic appliances rather than with the aid of her wand. "But it was still closed. Would you happen to know where Ron is?"
Harry then heard a familiar voice say, "Hermione, you need to get some soap that isn't so flowery. I like it well enough on you, but I'd rather not have people asking me why I smell like a meadow." Ron emerged from the hallway, his flaming red hair wet from the shower. It was quite easy to deduce why no one answered at the shop. Harry and Ron grinned upon seeing each other.
"So what do you say when they ask?" Harry wanted to know. "Do you tell them that you fancy frolicking in a field of posies?"
"Oh, he's just exaggerating," Hermione replied, swatting Ron's hand away when he tried to pilfer a piece of bacon. "No one ever asks. As I always tell him when he gripes about it, he can use his own soap in his own shower and sleep in his own bed."
"Now where would the fun be in that?" Ron asked her. He whispered something in her ear that made her stifle a smile and clear her throat. He deftly swiped a strip of bacon while she was briefly distracted. "So what brings you 'round, Harry?"
"He said he wants to talk to us," Hermione answered as she glared at him and the stolen bacon. Crookshanks batted a paw at Ron's ankle in a show of retribution on his owner's behalf.
Ron, who had been grinning in response to his small triumph, was now frowning as he leaned on the counter. "Is something wrong?"
"Well, not wrong, exactly," Harry replied, "but it's definitely unsettling."
Once the food was ready, they all sat down at the table. It felt so blessedly normal having breakfast with them, almost as if Harry was back to his Hogwarts days in the Great Hall. The only difference was the way his two best friends acted very much like a couple, with Ron preparing Hermione's tea the way she liked it while she heaped jam on the toast on his plate. Seeing them made Harry miss Ginny even more so; it felt like a sharp pain, much like how his scar used to hurt him.
"We got a card from Ginny," Hermione said, as if she had sensed where his thoughts were directed. "She says the tryouts for the Harpies are going well."
"Of course she'll make the team," Ron remarked confidently, his voice filled with pride. "They won't find anyone better."
"You're right about that," Harry agreed, though it truly didn't matter to him whether or not she made the team as long as he could see her and spend time with her again.
"So what did you want to talk to us about?" Hermione asked.
"I received this invitation yesterday and I hadn't read it until this morning." He pulled the envelope from his pocket and showed it them.
"I got one too, a few days ago." Hermione got up and retrieved her invitation.
Ron shrugged. "So both of you got invited to a party. Big deal." It was said without bitterness, having long gotten over his exclusion to such events. Harry and Hermione both worked for the Ministry now, therefore it was understandable that they would be invited to parties together.
"I'd say it's a big deal, considering it's from Malfoy."
Ron gaped at Harry. "Draco Malfoy?" He snickered as he looked over Hermione's shoulder at the invitation. "Now that I'm looking it, of course it has to be from Malfoy. Only pompous gits would use fancy gold ink! Who does he think he is, Gilderoy Lockhart?"
Harry joined him in laughing. "Even Lockhart didn't use gold ink in his autographs, I ought to know. 'Mr. Draco Malfoy requests the pleasure of Mr. Harry James Potter's presence...' No one else talks like that!"
"Not unless you're a pompous git!"
Hermione scowled at them. "Honestly, you two. What's wrong with addressing an invitation that way? That's the proper way to do it. And I think the gold ink is a rather nice touch, if you ask me."
"How does he even know my middle name?"
"Who doesn't know your middle name, Harry? At any rate, I'm sure he didn't only invite the two of us. You probably got one too, Ron."
"You reckon? I'll go check." He Disapparated to the joke shop in Diagon Alley and returned almost instantly, carrying the invitation with him. "Blimey, you're right. What could he possibly want?"
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? He wants people to come to his party," Hermione replied.
Ron shook his head as he sat back down. "That's what he wants you to think. This is Malfoy we're talking about, Hermione!"
Harry nodded in appreciation at Ron's reluctance to take the invitation at face value. "Exactly. I don't think this is an innocent Christmas party."
"And I suppose you came up with that by reading between the lines? It's just a party, it's pretty straightforward."
"The only thing that is straightforward is how Malfoy hates us all. I refuse to believe he just woke up one day and thought, 'Oh, I wonder what my old Gryffindor buddies are up to?'" Ron remarked.
"You don't think it's a nice gesture?"
Harry and Ron stared at her as if she'd sprouted another head on the spot. "Are you mental?" Ron asked. "It's about as nice a gesture as You-Know-Who asking us over for tea and biscuits!"
She rolled her eyes. "You know very well that Voldemort is dead-"
"That's not his point," Harry interrupted. "He's right. We can't trust Malfoy, no matter how nice his invitations look."
"Well, there's only one way to find out what Malfoy is really up to, isn't there?"
Harry nodded. "Right. We'll go out one night-"
"And break into his house to get some answers," Ron finished. He and Harry grinned at each other, appreciating the way their minds often operated on the same wavelength.
"Or," Hermione said pointedly, "we can simply go to the party to find out his true motives."
"You've gone mad, Hermione," Harry told her. "Do you want to walk right into a trap?"
"How do you know for certain that it's a trap?"
"And how do you know that it isn't?" Ron retorted.
"Both of you are completely overreacting," she fumed, frustrated with them for refusing to see things her way. "I cooked, so you two can clean up." She rose from her chair and stormed off to her room, annoyed that they had ganged up on her once again. Crookshanks trailed after her, loyal as always.
Harry and Ron carried the dirty dishes into the sink. Ron made sure that she was out of earshot before he said, "We're overreacting? She's not reacting enough, in my opinion. It's Malfoy!" He looked at the jumble of plates and pans waiting to be washed.
"Mind if we use magic on these? I have to open the shop in a few minutes and I haven't quite mastered the Muggle way of cleaning up." He glanced warily at the Muggle appliance Hermione had called a dishwasher, not at all eager to use it again after creating a small flood of water and suds just a few days ago, much to her chagrin and amusement.
"Not at all." Harry took out his wand and together they set the kitchen to rights in mere moments. After checking once more that Hermione wasn't nearby, he told Ron, "I need to know what the hell Malfoy is up to."
"Same here. I wouldn't put it past him to do something sneaky. So when are we going to break into Malfoy Manor?"
Harry smiled and took the question in stride, as if Ron had just asked about the weather. "I haven't got a plan yet. But give me a couple of days and I'll come up with something."
