A fine sheen of sugary frost covered everything in sight. Snow flurries swirled around people's legs like house cats before falling gently to the ground to form soft white heaps. Harry took a deep breath. If he could eat the cold air, he would, for the snaps of wind carried the delightful aroma of chocolate cookies with their cool, brittle vanilla icing.
Christmas was approaching fast. The Burrow was shining with glittering decorations. Hogwarts had been rather spectacular, too, but Harry was glad he'd left for the Burrow. The awkwardness of the last two weeks of the term had been simply too difficult to handle.
The corridors of Hogwarts had been graciously decorated with numerous mistletoes, much to the delight of Ron and Lavender, who seemed to have become inseparable. In fact, wherever Harry went lately, he only seemed to walk in on those two snogging, he thought.
Snogging was all Ron and Lavender ever did—they didn't talk or even pause to breath.
When Harry dared mention Hermione, Ron would simply shrug it off.
"I haven't done anything wrong," he would say to Harry, "I'm simply tired of her bossing me around. She can do whatever she wants, and I will do what I want. It's a free country. Besides, Ginny reckons she's snogged Krum."
Hermione, on her part, had been avoiding them until the last day of the term, and by the time Harry and Ron had boarded the Hogwarts Express to return to the Burrow, she hadn't even come to wish them a merry Christmas.
Harry understood. He himself had been busy avoiding Dean and Ginny. It was a blessing that Dean hadn't come to the Burrow with them. This way, perhaps, Ginny would notice him, Harry. If Fay was right, there was some hope.
"So, are Fred and George coming home for Christmas?" Harry asked Ron to have something else to talk about as they were sitting by the window in a tattered guest room.
"Dunno, I guess so. They're really busy with their shop," Ron answered absently. "I know Charlie isn't coming, though, which leaves you, me, and Ginny. We'll be sharing the attic."
Harry nodded.
"And Percy?"
"Still not showing his nose—the prat," Ron muttered darkly. "Say, Harry, what's up with you? I mean, you could have taken any girl to that party, and you took Loony. I mean, she's not ugly or anything, but still, she's… ya'know, Loony. And since you've been hanging out with Fairy lately, I thought you'd take her..."
"Ron," Harry said tiredly, "it was just a stupid party; nothing happened, and Luna's great—she was the highlight of the party."
"I can imagine," Ron snorted. "Did she tell Slughorn he was full of wackbutts?"
"Wackbutts?" Harry snickered. "You know, Ron, you're actually getting better at naming Luna's creatures."
"Whatever, that's not the point," Ron argued. "I mean, you've been seen with Loony and Fairy a lot. People talk, you know."
It was Harry's turn to sigh.
"Listen, Ron," he said firmly, "if you don't stop bringing this up, I will start talking about Herm—"
"Fine, you've made your point," Ron shrugged. "Want to play chess?"
"Sure," Harry agreed.
"At least, you're not obsessed with your Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater theory."
Harry didn't comment on this. Ron didn't know the half of it. Their mission with Fay had gained a new force.
"Say, what do you think of McLaggen?" Ron asked despite himself after a while. "I mean, he seemed to be really into Hermione until lately, but then he just cancelled on her and took some fourth year to the party instead."
"McLaggen's a nasty piece of work," Harry informed Ron. "I did some asking around, and it turns out that he's only out for popularity—he ditches people overnight when they're not needed any more and finds new victims to annoy. Just ask George how McLaggen would harass Angelina when she was still at Hogwarts. The girl he took to this latest party is the niece of the band player Merton Graves, or so I've heard."
"Really? Merton Graves from the Weird Sisters? This McLaggen should have been in Slytherin. What is he doing in Gryffindor anyway?" Ron reasoned, grimacing.
"Fay and I think that the only reason he wasn't sorted in Slytherin is because he's too direct. Can't hide his bravado, doesn't possess an ounce of cunning."
"You and Fairy discuss a lot," Ron commented.
"Yeah, we do," Harry admitted.
And indeed, they did. Often one topic would lead to another. They had once started wondering if Luna's creatures could be real based on the evidence Quibbler seemed to provide and this, in turn, led them to the general topic of people's attitude. Curiously, the majority of people appeared to be remarkably close-minded—even Muggle-borns and half-bloods.
One would have thought that for someone who had been raised in a thoroughly Muggle way—watching TV, playing video games and knowing nothing of magic—accepting the possibility of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack's existence would be easier than for someone who had been exposed to the wizarding culture alone. Yet it wasn't the case. People's close-minded attitude and unwillingness to admit the fact that they could be wrong would often surpass any education they might have received. Maybe this was how the conflicts usually started.
"What are you thinking?" Ron's voice called from somewhere beside him.
"Nothing much," Harry lied. "D'you think we should go to the kitchen? I can definitely smell something good."
"Nah, Fleur will tell us," Ron said dismissively.
Harry nodded.
What he really wanted to do was discuss what he had witnessed the night of the party.
He had seen Snape question Malfoy on the latter's odd behaviour, to which Malfoy had only snarled that it wasn't any of Snape's business and that unlike his father, he, Draco Malfoy, would not make the mistake of trusting an inadequate failure of a spy.
Harry hadn't heard anything else, but one thing was clear: Snape had lost all respect in Malfoy's eyes.
Perhaps he could confide his doubts in Mr Weasley?
He wasn't sure this was the right thing to do, but he really needed someone's insight—an objective adult's insight—and Mr Weasley's new job now allowed him to arrange raids in Death-Eaters' houses. It was worth a try.
"Checkmate, buddy, you lose," Ron yelled triumphantly, ending their game. "Let's go to the kitchen, never mind waiting for Fleur; I'm hungry."
The boys promptly left the tattered guest room of the Burrow, having succumbed to the delicious scents emanating from the kitchen, and joined the noisy crowd that was helping with dinner.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::
Diagon Alley was a sight to behold. Looking out of the ice-coated windows of Fæger Herbae, Fay saw jolly shoppers strolling excitedly down the street with their arms full of presents. Glittering white heaps rested peacefully on rooftops and fences. The view filled her with a sense of both excitement and peace. It was a moment when nothing else mattered and all the sadness, disappointment and uncertainty of the past were hidden beneath the soft white drifts.
At magical moments like this, it seemed there were only good things to look forward to. She couldn't but smile when she observed cosy couples meandering lazily across the street and children chasing snowballs and treading after their sledges, which glided before them of their own accord. No one seemed in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day. It was so good to be home.
"Fay, baby, what are you doing hiding there?" Mrs Dunbar called.
"Coming, mum," Fay called back. "Do you need help?"
"No, I think I got it," her mum assured. "Do you like the new design?"
"Love it," Fay confessed, studying the way her mum had rearranged the place.
Fæger Herbae offered exclusive plants and herbs from many parts of the world, and they all required different growing conditions. Her mum's idea to arrange the shelves according to the origin of the plants was simply wonderful.
The customers who came in would find themselves literally mesmerised. Those looking for the plant of Alihotsy would find it growing on fresh green moss typical of the North European forests, and those looking for some black walnut would find themselves in a warm riparian area. There were even the smell of fresh pine, the buzz of grassland, and the sensation of cool breeze present respectively.
Numerous charms had had to be applied to reproduce those natural conditions, but to a visitor, it felt like an excursion to the different parts of the world.
"This took me a lot of time and effort, but I thought it would be fun to show our clients how the different plants grow," Moira Dunbar commented absently.
"I agree, it's a brilliant idea," Fay gushed. "I especially like the tropical area—it's so colourful."
"And very fragile," her mum reminded her.
"Of course, but still… the world is full of wonderful, magical places, and it's so good that we can show some of them to our customers," Fay rushed on. "What's our Christmas special this year?"
"Cheering chocolate cookies and a booklet full of interesting Christmas recipes. Do you think we should add anything else?"
"No, I think it's good. It's included as a present for every purchase, right?"
"Right you are, sweetie. But tell me, how's school?" her mum interrupted. "I'm very curious about that boy you've befriended."
"Mum, how did you—"
"How did I guess this new friend you wrote me about was a boy?" Moira Dunbar asked playfully. "Well, I deduced it."
"How?" Fay asked, curious.
"Oh, Fay, you may be a good investigator, but don't forget I used to be married to your father, and I definitely have a few tricks up my sleeve as well."
"Oh, come on, mum, don't torture me—how did I slip?"
"Here," Mrs Dunbar said, giving her a piece of parchment.
Impatient, Fay opened it and was astounded to see her own letter she'd written to her mum in October.
"If you look at this sentence here," her mum instructed, "right where you wrote I have befriended another student, a Gryffindor. We happened to share a compartment and…, you will see there is a change in your handwriting. Just after the dash, you seem to have applied less pressure, as if hesitating. This is what made me wonder in the first place. Then there was your request to send a double dose of green tea extract; this was the biggest giveaway. And lastly, the mother's instinct."
"I see," Fay said.
It was true that she had hesitated to write to her mum about Harry. She had thought it would better to tell her in person. The green tea extract had also been for Harry. Green tea was widely used by Muggles for its anti-inflammatory effect, but what many wizards didn't realise was that this simple plant could be used to make even such unpleasant potions as Polyjuice wear off in a little less inconvenient manner.
"You're right," Fay confirmed, looking at her mum. "It's a boy, he's in my year. I just wanted to tell you personally rather than in a letter."
"Aw… I can't believe how fast time flies by," Moira Dunbar cooed. "I can remember you crawling around our living room in a tiny jumpsuit as if it was yesterday. You were such an adorable little thing. And here we are talking about boys."
"Mum," Fay protested, her cheeks blushing red, "do you want to hear about him or not?"
"Of course I do!"
"All right," Fay said, taking a deep breath. "He's in Gryffindor, in my year. He lives with his aunt and uncle. He's a really great person, and very polite—you'll like him."
Suddenly, Fay felt a little self-conscious. It was ridiculous, really: Harry wasn't her boyfriend or anything, and yet, as she was telling her mum about him…
"I see," Moira mused. "Is he cute?"
"Yeees," Fay sang awkwardly. "But it's not like that between us—we're just friends."
Moira looked at her daughter attentively, fully understanding that there was something unusual about her baby's agitation.
"Fay," Moira pressed gently, "do you have… a little crush on that boy?"
"No," Fay affirmed. "I mean… I don't think so. He's my friend, but not like Neville… I'm helping him get together with the girl he likes."
"But you say you might have a little crush—" Moira objected confused and a little amused at the same time.
"A tiny, invisible, hypothetical crush, perhaps. You know, I think it's just this conversation that is weird; there is no crush at all."
"All right, all right—a tiny, invisible, temporary crush, which doesn't exist—and yet you are helping him get together with another girl?"
"Yes, we're partners—we have each other's backs—like Muggle cups."
"Muggle cups?"
"That's what Muggle-borns call their Aurors. Sounds funny, I know, like some dish for beverages. I should have explained the term first."
Fay smiled at her mum.
"You know, it's all right," she said. "It's not like when I had a crush on Cedric—oh, speaking of which: while I had a crush on Cedric, he had a crush on Cho. It's so funny! We laughed a lot when it came out."
"Oh, I remember." Moira smiled, recalling what Fay had told her two years ago. "The way you would tail this poor girl."
"Yes, and it hurt a lot to admit that Cho Chang was a thoroughly decent person. All my work was futile."
Fay snickered, too, as she recalled it. Now—two years later—it seemed so comical, like it had happened to someone else.
"Ah, yes, there's nothing worse than discovering that your love rival is a good person."
"Mum, don't laugh, but there used to be a time when I wished Cho were some kind of monster—it would have been easier."
"Oh, I'm not laughing," Moira assured. "I know these things far too well. What about this new boy, though?"
"Oh, let's talk about him later. I think I just saw a customer walking by—"
Fay had been about to say 'by the window', but the words had died on her lips.
The bell rang, and the door opened to reveal none other than an elegantly dressed Draco Malfoy, his pale visage slightly pink with cold, and his shoulders covered with fresh snowflakes.
The young man swiftly made his way towards the proprietor, making sure to bow in a respectful manner.
"Madam Dunbar," he greeted Fay's mother while the girl herself stood off to their side, puzzled at Malfoy's visit.
"Mr Malfoy," Moira greeted back neutrally, gracing the youth with a pleasant professional smile. "Welcome to Fæger Herbae. How may I assist you?"
"I'm not buying today, thank you," Malfoy replied. "I come to invite Fay to Le Goût du Sortilège—I've taken the liberty to book a table there for the two of us. I sincerely hope Fay will accept my invitation."
Draco looked Fay directly in the eye, appearing every ounce the polite, slightly nervous young man who was asking his girlfriend out to dinner in front of her mother.
He played his part almost flawlessly.
Draco had obviously prepared for this encounter. He wanted to appear as natural as possible in front of her mother. His pose, his stance—everything had been rehearsed. Even his clothes were well-chosen for the occasion: the coat he was wearing was a masterpiece by Vincenzo Veggente, an Italian robes designer whose collections were known by the famous, worn by the elite, and showcased by the good-looking.
Fay knew those things because Fæger Herbae's success had been slowly but steadily growing during the last few years, and sometimes Fay would accompany her mum on her business trips. This way, she had got to know some famous European brands and had even got to sneak a peek on some of the wizards and witches featured in magazines.
"It would be a pleasure for me to accept your invitation, Draco," Fay found herself saying, which made her mother almost gasp in shock. "If you would just give me a moment. Mother, may I?"
"As long as Mr Malfoy gives me his word to return no later than by eight o'clock," Moira Dunbar replied in a clear, cold voice. "Do I have your word, Mr Malfoy?"
This brought a smile to Draco's face, which would have looked sincere, if it weren't for the steely, calculating glint in his eyes.
"You needn't worry, Madam, you have my word of honour," he assured, bowing slightly to the proprietor again.
Fay smiled at Draco, playing along, and she quickly ran upstairs, her chest filled with a heavy weight of anxiety.
This was big. It could be a trap, it could be a part of some plan; Fay didn't know for sure, but something was going on.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::
When Fay stepped out of her shop's cosy warmth in Draco Malfoy's company, it had already begun to dusk. The snow was still falling peacefully, muffling their footsteps as they walked, but now that there were numerous lights shining on it from the windows and lampposts, it also glittered beautifully.
"Beautiful dress," Draco commented, keeping up the polite tone.
"Thank you," Fay answered. "Would you mind giving me a hand? This zip appears to be stuck."
Fay demonstratively shook her purse, calling for Draco's attention.
Draco narrowed his eyes, but complied all the same.
"Sure," he said, stepping closer.
He reached for her purse, and Fay used this opportunity to whisper to him.
"Someone seems to be following us," she declared, barely moving her lips.
To her surprise, Draco remained utterly calm.
"They are following me," he clarified. "It is nothing we should worry about. I would appreciate it if you acted along."
Fay processed that.
If Draco was under some kind of surveillance, then the only way he could have got out without arousing any suspicion was to pretend that he was just out with a friend. This had to be the reason why all this acting was necessary in the first place. She had to make sure.
"And what happens if I don't act along?" she asked in a challenging voice.
"That would be a pity. We might not get another opportunity like this, and what I need to tell you is rather important."
"All right," Fay agreed. "But what happens, should Pansy find out about this?"
"I don't particularly care what Pansy thinks," the boy dismissed casually.
"That's cynical, Mr Malfoy, even for you," Fay stated coldly.
She wasn't particularly fond of Pansy Parkinson—no one really was—but as a girl, she could imagine the pain Pansy would feel if she should find out about Draco's real attitude. In that relationship, Pansy was the giver, and Draco merely an ungrateful receiver.
"Isn't it a bit rich of you to judge me?" he sneered. "By the way, there is no need to be so formal; you may as well use my first name. We have arrived."
And indeed they had.
Le Goût du Sortilège was an eclectic little place squeezed right between Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and TerrorTours travel agency. During all the years Fay had practically lived in Diagon Alley, she had never actually visited the place. She only knew that it was mainly oriented on French cuisine and was popular among hand-holding couples. Pretty much like Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, only classier and more expensive. When she had been younger, she would sometimes wonder whether, one day, she would spend a night out in there with her boyfriend. She certainly wouldn't have thought that the first time she actually ventured into this restaurant would be to discuss some shady business with Draco Malfoy.
Fay didn't really pay attention when a young hostess escorted them to their table, speaking in an exaggerated and clearly fake French accent; she was busy studying her surroundings. Their tail hadn't followed them inside, but it didn't mean there couldn't be more spies around.
"Shall we order? " Draco's voice called out, bringing her back to present.
Fay gave a polite nod, just as the elegantly folded menu cards opened before their eyes as if they had sensed their proximity. At the same moment, the creamy cloth napkins left their plates and unfolded themselves before dropping onto their knees, feather-light.
A superficial glance at the menu left it clear that nothing less than the very pearls of French cuisine could be found here. Among many other soundly dishes, Fay could glimpse such names as Noix de Saint Jacques à l'orange, Paupiettes de veau rôties, Foie gras au chutney de prunes et raisins secs, and Cuisses de grenouille au beurre aillé et persillé.
"I'll have coquilles Saint-Jacques, please," Fay decided.
"Very well, cuisses de grenouille au beurre aillé for me, then, and a bottle of Bordeaux Elf Wine for both of us."
The orders were taken hastily by a waiter who had the uncanny ability to blend in with the stone arcs of the place.
"Well, Draco? What is it you wanted to talk about?" Fay asked, taking a deep breath.
"Oh, please, there is no rush. We're not at school; nobody's pressuring us with the curfew rule," the boy drawled.
"I don't particularly care about the curfew rule," Fay assured him. "However, I was under the impression there was something important you wanted to tell me."
"Oh, really?" Draco mocked. "A saint, I-can-do-no-wrong little Gryffindor doesn't particularly care about the curfew rule, is it now? You know, it makes me wonder about your other exploits."
"What kind of exploits, Draco?" Fay asked, raising an eyebrow. "What are you referring to? I don't think I understand."
Draco leaned comfortably back in his chair, pausing in his speech as the tasty dishes appeared before them.
Fay watched the boy warily despite the waiter, who had briefly claimed her attention, waiting for her approval on the wine.
"Thank you," the girl dismissed him gently. "Well, Draco?"
"You see, here's the funny thing," Draco started as soon as they were left alone. "According to Theo, someone broke into my dormitory during the first Hogsmeade weekend, impersonating Blaise. Now you may say it's nothing but Theo's wild imagination, but something doesn't fit. Theo swears Pansy was down there with the fake Blaise as well, yet when I questioned Pansy, she denied everything."
"Interesting," Fay commented in a pointedly bored voice.
"No, you wait, it gets even more interesting: Pansy said she hadn't been anywhere near my dormitory. Moreover, she held a long, explicit monologue on how she had had to wait for Daphne in the Three Broomsticks that day."
"Is there a point to your story?" Fay asked, visibly just as distant, although in truth, she thought she knew where this was going. She hoped she was wrong.
"I haven't finished yet," Malfoy said quietly. "When I asked Pansy why she had been waiting for Daphne in the Three Broomsticks, she said a shop assistant from Gladrags Wizardwear had directed her there. So I had a chat with that assistant, and do you know what she said?"
"How can I possibly know if you haven't told me yet?" Fay asked rhetorically and quickly covered her bare shoulders with a scarf—otherwise her goose bumps would surely give her away.
"The shop assistant from Gladrags Wizardwear described a girl eerily similar to you... I wonder if you have any idea why."
"Oh, dear, such suspicions, Draco! I'm wounded."
Fay made sure to keep her tone sarcastic; it was her only option. Draco had deduced everything but had no evidence.
"I'm sure you'll survive," the blond snapped drily, clearly annoyed at Fay's calm attitude. He had obviously hoped to intimidate her, to make her confess.
Fay allowed herself a little mental praise. Now she only had to carefully turn the conversation in another direction.
"Draco, it may come as a shock to you, but it is not the dream of every single girl at Hogwarts to break into your dormitory. Better tell me, was anything missing? Or are you operating merely on Theo's suspicions?"
"Never mind that. What are you saying? That according to you, I'm utterly unattractive? That's funny because I could have sworn you were just flirting with me."
"Don't get me wrong, Draco: aesthetically speaking, you are considered handsome by many witches. However, I strongly disagree with some of the choices you've made, which is why, regardless of your—"
"What choices are you talking about?"
Draco's tone had suddenly turned sharp, and Fay had the feeling that if it weren't for the prying eyes in this public place, he could as well have physically grabbed her.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, wondering what exactly she had said that had hit a nerve, then slowly lowered her glass.
"I was merely alluding to the fact you are not in the slightest bit shy when it comes to expressing your rather daring political views—and I happen to disapprove of the radical views in general. I didn't mean anything else," she clarified.
"I see," Draco muttered. "I apologise for my outburst."
"It's all right," Fay said. "What did the shop assistant from Gladrags Wizardwear tell you exactly?"
"She didn't tell me anything," Draco stated, surprising Fay. "I was bluffing—I've never even met her. I just wanted to see your reaction."
"I see," Fay said. "Sorry I disappointed you."
"Someone was in my dormitory that day," Draco overrode her. "Nothing was taken, but someone had been there. I think I even know who."
"Oh, really? Whom do you suspect, then?"
"Potter," Malfoy said simply. "But he wasn't alone; he had to have an accomplice. I wanted to make sure it wasn't you. I hope it wasn't you."
Fay narrowed her eyes, sensing a possible, veiled threat.
"You hope it wasn't me?" she echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," Malfoy said seriously. "Potter's days are as good as counted—he won't be called 'the Chosen One' forever. When the Dark Lord takes over—and it will happen soon—he will be hunted down and killed. There is no other way for him. I once offered him another way, but he rejected it. It's too late for him now. You, on the other hand, do stand a chance, and it would be stupid to waste that chance. So, if Potter approaches you, don't be stupid. After all, unlike him, you do have a lot to lose."
"How touching, Draco. But you see, this gentle, caring image doesn't sit well with you… What is it that you really want? To find evidence to Theo's words? I'm afraid I can't help you there. If what Theo said is true, then perhaps you should investigate some of your fellow Slytherins because this sounds like some kind of inside job to me. A Gryffindor wouldn't know the password."
"Thank you for your advice, but please don't flatter yourself," Draco sneered. "I'm certainly not worried about you; I'm merely doing you a favour. A pure-blood to a pure-blood. There aren't many of us left, and it wouldn't hurt to at least try and be nice to each other. After all, you never know when you might need a favour."
Fay genuinely smiled at Draco, having finally understood.
Draco Malfoy was trying to hit two Gnomes with one swat!
He had deduced that someone had been down in the dungeons, that much was clear, and he was looking for a proof; but at the same time, he wanted to find out which pure-blood families would turn out to be blood traitors. With the Weasleys and the Longbottoms, it was clear, but when it came to certain less known but fairly prosperous families like the Dunbars, the Death Eaters weren't really sure what to make of them. And this was another thing that Draco Malfoy was after: he was gathering information. Harry had been right all along: this boy was a Death-Eater. Something had just settled into place. Fay knew exactly what had upset him about her choice of words a moment ago: she had incidentally formulated it in such a way that he had grown momentarily afraid she knew about his possible involvement in organisation called the 'Death-Eaters'.
It all made sense now, including the men who had been sent to keep an eye on Draco: as the newest and the youngest Death Eater, he couldn't yet be fully trusted; they thought it was only fair to keep an eye on him.
"What's so funny?" the boy asked, seeing her amusement.
"You know what, Draco? You're clever—you are smarter than most people give you credit for. Consider me impressed," Fay said honestly. "Thank you so much for this dinner, it was great."
She quickly rose, feeling the familiar excitement from the investigation work, when his hand brushed hers.
"Wait! Why such a rush?" he asked. "Stay for the dessert course."
"I can stay only until eight o'clock," she reminded him. "And on the condition that we don't discuss politics."
She wasn't sure why she was agreeing. For some reason, it really seemed that he wanted to stay for a bit longer, and this time, it didn't look like something he was faking.
Reluctantly, he agreed with her condition. "Fine—no politics. But think of what I said—sooner or later, you will have to decide."
"How about a fondant au chocolat?" Fay asked as she seized the floating menu, purposely ignoring Malfoy's last statement.
He was trying to make her talk, to reveal her true feelings towards the wizard who called himself the 'Dark Lord', and she had no intention of letting herself be tricked this way. If there was one thing her Ravenclaw mother had taught her, it was the fact that revealing one's true feelings to a wrong person could be fatal.
"I'll rather have crème brûlée," Draco decided, abandoning political talk as well.
"Crème brûlée? Really?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Nothing, it's just… I would have never thought you had such a sweet tooth."
"I don't," Draco argued indignantly. "Crème brûlée is an exception."
"Oh, for Godric's sake, Draco, lose that sneer; you look almost like Professor Snape. Crème brûlée is a very good choice, seeing that we have a whole bottle of Bordeaux."
"You're not very fond of it, are you?" Draco noticed.
"It's a little strong for my taste, but then again, I'm very partial to the Italian collection."
They spent the rest of their dinner careful not to turn the conversation to any dangerous topics, and opting for a light chatter about food, drinks, and the popular wizarding entertainment. At some point, it even felt as though they were really having a night out and it wasn't merely one suspicious person trying to interrogate another.
It was really unfathomable how something like this could be possible, for within the walls of Hogwarts, it would have been unthinkable. Yet at the end of the day both had to make a choice. It went without saying.
AN: Right, Christmas is here and it's only fair to continue with the Christmas holidays in the next chapter as well. As to Draco and Fay, then all I wanted to show was that they are two young people who honestly don't have anything against each other, but the choices they make in this political environment can easily place them in the opposite camps.
Vincenzo Veggente is something of a wizarding Giorgio Armani—a master designer who also has magical means of making any clothing look fabulous—and Fæger Herbae would have been one of the best places to hang out because plants rock! On a side note, I can't stop laughing when I try to imagine Ron Weasley visiting a place like Le Goût du Sortilège—poor boy, he wouldn't even know how to pronounce those things, let alone eat them!
My readers are the most amazing people ever and thank you for reading. Reviews are welcome and not only on this story but also on others. "The Darkness in My Veins" would need some support too (hint, hint [ ;)] ).