A/N: Thanks for your patience!


Sunday, November 16, 1997

The fire in the common room is dying. It's almost three in the morning and I'm considering whether to stoke it.

I haven't been able to sleep for a few weeks. I feel the war coming. The weight of it keeps me awake.

I don't know what Blaise's excuse is, though.

He nodded off an hour ago, sitting across from me, reading his History of Magic homework.

He hasn't been tapped for the Death Eaters. He doesn't have family relations to pull him towards the war. All he has is his mother and her new husband, for as long as this one lasts.

I watch him sleep. I envy him.

The dungeon wall opens, and Theo Nott appears, moving quietly before he sees me watching him.

"What's kept you up, then?" he says, taking note of Blaise passed out.

"I could ask you the same," I hum. "Or should I ask 'who?'"

Theo stops, and before he's allowed himself to blush, he says, "Hufflepuff." He smiles, a tight grin. "She's pure-blood, I assure you."

He flops into a chair, and I decide not to press further, knowing that the only pure-blood Hufflepuff in our year is Ernie Macmillan.

"Anything new to report?" Theo asks. He looks around the room for curious ears – even though it is clear we are the only two conscious occupants of the common room – and asks, "Anything on Potter since the Ministry break in?"

I shake my head. "Nothing from Father."

I look back to the fire. Theo is always trying to get into the thick of things.

"I've heard something interesting."

I look to him. His brows are raised and he's examining his cuticles.

What an irritating little closeted queer.

"Yes?" I take the bait.

He looks around the room again, eyes landing on the sleeping Blaise, then back to me.

"Have you heard about an Auction?" he asks.

A year ago, my eye would have twitched.

Two years ago, I would have taken a deep breath and centered my thoughts to find a lie.

"Yes," I say. "I've heard rumors."

Theo grins. "I'm thinking of asking for a Mudblood for my birthday."

He laughs.

I grin back.

"Or a Weasley," he says. "Make them clean my house. Polish my shoes."

I'm about to make some comment about the majority of the Weasley options being men… who would have limited purposes for most blokes, when Blaise beats me to it.

"Could have them working in a loin cloth for you, Theo," says Blaise's groggy voice. He sits up and rubs his eyes. "Better hope they're auctioning off the older two. Infinitely more handsome than the rest." He finds the energy to wink at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Theo's jaw tenses. His eyes dart to me, then back to Blaise.

"Nothing, Theo. Nothing." Blaise closes his book and stretches his arms over his head. "I'm sure you meant Ginny Weasley. Having her slave for you and bring you meals in bed."

So, Blaise is already aware of the Auction. Or is not surprised by it. I concentrate on emptiness while they bicker.

Theo simmers in his chair. "The Weasley chit is too expensive. Both she and Granger are starting at 10,000 each."

Dolohov's words reaffirm themselves. 10,000 to begin with.

My stomach pulls.

And Blaise looks over at me. Then back to Theo.

"That much?"

"Yeah," Theo pouts. "Too expensive for a Weasley. She'll get up to 20,000 most likely. Ridiculous. Just 'cause she's Potter's girlfriend."

My eyes are set on him. I don't bother checking with Blaise. He's already watching me.

"And how about Granger then?" Blaise asks. He leans back in his chair. "How much is the Golden Girl going for?"

"Probably twenty-five, maybe thirty." Theo gives a dramatic yawn. Now that he doesn't have my undivided attention, he's ready for bed. "What's it to you Blaise? You don't have the galleons for them."

"I've got galleons enough. And I don't need to worry about my inheritance being bound to my wedding day, like some, Nott." Blaise gives him a lazy smile. "Besides. Me and Draco could split one."

I look to him. His dark eyes are smiling at me, digging into me.

"Who do you have your eye on, Draco?" Theo says.

"No one in particular," I say. "We'll have to see who the Snatchers drag in." I stand, stretching. "Gentlemen. I'm off to bed."

Theo looks like I just stole his exit line, and Blaise looks at me like a crystal ball, finding all the answers he was searching for.

I descend the stairs, resigned to lay awake in my four-poster.

30,000. Plus 5,000 if she's a virgin.

I ignore Crabbe and Goyle's snoring, shutting the curtains around myself.

I can't trust Theo's word. He's not connected. I'll need to do some digging over the holidays.

And hope that she doesn't do anything stupid in the meantime.


Tuesday, November 2, 1999

I'm tapping my thumb against the table as Katya picks at her salad.

"Why are we meeting without cameras, Draco?" she asks.

I look up at her. She chews silently, her lips pressed together in a delicate way.

"I needed to speak with you," I say. "About the public affection again."

She blinks at me, and sips from her water glass. "Again?" She lifts her brows. "I've have hate mail over breaking Hermione Granger's heart from our last romp. I've had distant relatives writing letters, edging their way onto the wedding guest list."

She smiles brightly. I stare blankly.

She looks down at her salad. "What did your father say?"

I straighten my napkin.

"Nothing." I push my fork back into place. "He didn't say a word."

I look up at her, and I feel like she's one of the only people in my life who understands what that means. She takes a deep breath. It circulates between us.

I continue, "I need to distance myself as much as possible from yesterday's article. From the convoluted love triangle Skeeter has concocted." My tongue runs across my teeth. "It's juvenile, really. And I'm trying to present myself as a responsible adult here."

"And you think responsible adults embrace each other for the cameras to see?" She smirks at me.

"I think getting serious about one woman is a responsible thing. A mature choice." I check in with her.

"Are you sure you're getting serious with the right woman?" she says, winking at me. I breathe. "The more you flirt with Hermione Granger, the more public opinion will shift—"

"If you're not comfortable I understand. We can continue to be seen at dinners."

It's too abrupt. I shouldn't have jumped it. I take a long sip of wine, ignoring her eyes.

"Let me check with Andrei. I will let you know tomorrow."


Friday, November 5, 1999

I'm thinking of Pansy, actually.

My fingers wrap around Katya's hip, my other hand tracing her arm.

I'm thinking of Pansy and how I really owe her some kind of apology.

Katya smiles at me before I press my lips to hers. She drags her hands up my chest and into my hair, pressing her body against me, and I'm thinking of how I wish I hadn't tricked Pansy into this. Into posing.

Only it's a camera this time and not a bushy-haired prefect.


Saturday, November 6, 1999

It's a rough morning at Hodgley Field. Ginny Weasley has been promoted on the Harpies, so she'll be bowing out of the Ministry's Quidditch league. I wonder if it has anything to do with some questions of whether Weasleys-who-don't-work-for-the-Ministry should be allowed to play on the Ministry Quidditch league.

Not that I know anything about that anonymous letter.

Goldstein wants to try out Chaser in her absence. He's shit.

I'm watching Turpin, our remaining Beater, try to train a willowy, thirty-year-old witch from the Investigation Department with absolutely no upper-body strength to hit the Bludger with the Beater bat. She's quick on her broom, clearly an excellent Seeker, and I'm wondering about switching and letting her play Chaser just so I can beat some things up on the weekends.

She knocks the Bludger right at me, like she's hearing my complaints. I duck.

She smirks.

Touché.

Potter is clearly getting nervous about the quality of his team. I'll be gone in a month too. Part of me can't wait to get the fuck out of the Ministry with their worthless interdepartmental rivalries, and part of me relishes the competition of it, like at Hogwarts.

He's scribbling at a notebook of plays and drills when I head to the showers. I don't even bother to dry my hair in my haste to leave quickly before he corners me and talks defensive strategies.

I Apparate to the hill outside the gates of the Manor, feeling the wind lick at the wet hair near my ears. I drop my things in the entryway, tucking my bag and broom into the nook we store coats in at parties. I'm famished so I head to the kitchen.

Down the hall, I can hear my mother's voice from the library. Talking to her elf? Perhaps she has company, but it's awfully early for guests. I should let her know that I'm home.

I'm steps from the library doors when they explode open, and Hermione Granger rockets through them, pausing to look at the bust of my father, before her feet carry her straight into my chest. My breath leaves me.

Her eyes are wide and wet. My mother has made her cry? She's gasping.

"What's happened?"

My hands itch to grab her, hold her still. Run down her arms to her fingers.

"I'm – Draco, I'm so, so sorry for everything. I – I didn't mean any of this," she says. She turns and runs all the way to the fireplaces. Her hair is braided again.

My neck is still warm from the sound of my name. I turn to see my mother, in her library, at the alcohol cabinet.

"Well, Draco," she whispers, swirling a glass of gin. "Your father's managed to ruin everything."

I watch as she tips the glass into her mouth, and my brain wraps around what she just said.

"Father?" The heat leaves me. I feel sand in my throat. "What does he have to do with her?"

She pours herself another. A rarity. This one she sips. She turns to the window. "She went to see him today."

My ribs tighten. "What," I growl.

She shakes her head. "I misjudged—"

And I'm running. I follow her path to the fireplaces. Maybe she's still looking for the Floo powder. And the hall is empty. The front door is cracked and I throw it open, finding a small figure bolting away from the Manor, hair wild and falling out of her plait as she throws open the iron gates.

I watch as she stops, tries to Apparate and then continues running. I stumble down the front stairs, entering the gardens and darting down the drive. She's running for the top of the hill and as I reach the iron gates, she tries again, and disappears. I hang off the gates, gasping.

Father…

There are countless ways Lucius could bring her to tears. But the best way…

I stomp up the drive, slamming the front door, and march to the library. Mother is still at the window.

"I'll fix this Draco," she says to her glass.

"You will do no such thing," I hiss. Her lips purse, and she takes a sip. "What was your masterplan, Mother?"

I watch her long neck move as she swallows, still looking out the window.

"He promised to stay out of the way. To allow your business to move forward and to not interfere with the finances any longer. As long as he could meet her."

I laugh. And I make it cruel on purpose. "You've lost your touch, Mother." She shifts her weight. "I already had my deal with him. I had this under control," I spit.

"I know, Draco," she coos. "I wanted to take that burden from you, that's all." She brings her hand to her cheek, cooling her warming skin.

"What did she say."

Mother narrows her eyes at the grounds, her right hand swirls clockwise, her left fingers come to her lips. "I pushed her. It was too much." She's thinking aloud, not speaking to me.

"Mother."

"And the ring was too much…" she whispers.

"Mother!" I'm still standing in the doorway of the library and she's still at the window, the entire room between us. She looks at me.

"She made it clear that the two of you are not in a relationship."

I watch her as she pities me. Naïve, stupid woman. It's a fact, not a death sentence.

"And she made it clear that you never will be."

My eye twitches.

My skin is tight. My mind…

I choose yellow bricks, laying mortar with a small hand tool. The first row is easy. Placing her in a corner and stacking until I cannot see her curls.

My mother watches me. She twists her lips.

It's easier to look at facts now. Now that she is hidden behind a hasty wall of yellow bricks.

She knows.

He told her how I wanted her. How I would have kept her.

He told her the truth about the Auction.


Thursday, January 1, 1998

My grandmother gave her eyes to all her children. But her hair and her nose went to Bellatrix.

Now that I've met my aunt, it jolts me to see her so thoroughly represented in this older woman I've been seeing twice a year for all my life.

"Draco, darling." My grandmother begins to stand.

"No need, ma chérie." I come to her side and guide her to sit back down. She smiles at me. The only grandson. The only grandchild, if you don't count…

"I'm so happy you're here." She brushes my hair back. "Getting long." She flicks my nose like she used to.

"I'm sorry we couldn't see each other at Christmas," I say, taking my seat across from her in the parlor. "It's been…" I think of the Dark Lord, slithering through my hallways and the Death Eaters eating my food.

"Inconvenient," she finishes for me. She's scowling at her teacup, and I hope it's directed at the roaches swarming the Manor, not her family. It will make this infinitely easier.

"Yes," I say. "I'm missing a bit of the freedom I used to have…" I check in with her eyes, waiting for her to chastise me for speaking ill of the Dark Lord's plans. "…but I'm trying to accommodate the changes."

She purses her lips, like Mother does, and nods, saying nothing.

"How is your father adjusting?" She sips her tea, watching me. "I was sorry to hear you and your mother had to be without him for all that time."

Not "sorry he was wrongfully imprisoned" or "sorry to hear he failed the Dark Lord." Sorry for me and mother.

"I was at school, but Mother was lonely, I know. I think she much appreciated your letters, and the time she could spend with you, though short."

Her house elf offers me the tray of scones. My favorites are there. I take one, but my stomach is thundering.

"I've grown closer with Bellatrix," I say, testing. She looks up at me with steady eyes. "I've learned much from her."

A small muscle in her jaw moves.

"Do tell her hello," she says. And sips her tea.

Intriguing. And helpful.

She watches me. Knowing that I'm in the middle of a monologue, and still have not hit the climax.

So I dive in.

"While I was at school last year, Nymphadora was there. As security." I look up and her face gives me nothing. The thin skin around her eyes doesn't move. "I didn't get to know her, of course, but… we saw each other."

She sets her teacup down on her saucer, and pats her mouth.

I break a corner off my scone. Prepare myself for the next step.

"She's pregnant, you know," she says.

I look up. My grandmother is pouring herself another cup of tea. She doesn't meet my eyes.

Do the Death Eaters know this? Is this common knowledge? Is this even valuable information? My eyes drop to the piece of scone in my fingers.

How does grandmother even know? I look at her eyes. They're on me.

How does she know unless she heard it from…

"That's wonderful news." I smile. She nods.

Grandmother Druella and I used to play a game when I was six or seven. Whenever I wanted more sweets after dinner, or another slice of pie, she would look directly into Mother's eyes, starting a strange conversation about gardening, or the German Minister for Magic, and she would tear Mother's gaze away from the pie or the candy jar until I was safe to slide in and take what I wanted. We even tried this when I was thirteen, playing cards with Father. I swindled him out of fifty galleons that night.

It isn't until this very moment that I wonder if it is Legilimency.

I swallow, and do something I haven't done purposefully since I had my wand pointed at a feeble, grey-haired wizard, clutching to the side of the Astronomy Tower, lowering, lowering – lower my walls.

I'm afraid, Grandmother.

She blinks at me. And sends the thought into me, like Severus does.

Of course you are, dear child.

My throat chokes on a gasp, gurgling. My eyes sting.

I have to pull myself out of her gaze. I look down at my scone, crumbled into pieces by my grip.

"Draco," she coos. I lift my eyes, wet and blurred. "Is your mother safe?"

"For now," I reply. "I have no reason to fear for her immediate safety. She is ever the gracious host." I grab my teacup, hearing the saucer rattle.

I sip my tea, trying to get ahold of myself. I look at her.

It's not us I'm afraid for, I think. There's someone I…

Even in the privacy of my own mind I can't say it. A jewelry box sits unopened in its corner.

I think of Greyback, Yaxley, and Dolohov moving through a front door on a quiet street, wands at the ready.

I blink. She nods. She's seen it.

She's Muggleborn.

Grandmother tilts her head, not expecting this. I feel a whisper of her mind reaching out searching for her.

I shut down, slamming up a wall, pushing her out.

She looks down at her tea in apology. I run my hand through my hair, ruining the style.

"What brings you here today, Draco?"

I calm my racing heart and say, "There may be a time in the future where I need financial assistance." I look up at her. "And I was wondering if I could come to you."

She studies me. "You know I will always look out for you, Draco," she says. "But to take a large sum from a family member, after your seventeenth birthday…" She squints at me, her cold blue eyes trying to figure me out. "Well, due to the old magic, it will forfeit your right to your inheritance –"

"I'm aware."

Her brows lift. "How much do you think you'll need?"

"About 35,000 galleons."


Sunday, November 7, 1999

She's not at work on Saturday or Sunday. I swing by Cornerstone both days. Morty tells me she's ill. On Saturday I buy a book to not look too desperate. On Sunday I don't bother.

I can see it all in my head.

Miss Granger. So good of you to stop by.

Mr. Malfoy. I was so surprised by your invitation.

I slog through the Sunday traffic in Diagon Alley, bumping shoulders.

I thought I should meet you in person. My wife is under the impression that you and my son are in a relationship—

No, no. He would tease her. Draw it out.

I thought it was time we officially met. Narcissa is quite fond of you.

I tumble into the Leaky, plopping onto a barstool.

I'm quite fond of her.

And my son is quite fond of you as well.

Oh, that can't be true. He really can't stand me, Mr. Malfoy.

I'm two firewhiskies in. I order a third.

Nonsense. He's fancied you for years. Quite obsessive about it, really.

Tom stops me before my fourth. I try to pay double to bargain for one more shot. He sends me out.

I don't know what you mean, Mr. Malfoy.

Don't you? The lengths he would have gone to obtain you, and you don't know?

I stumble into Muggle London. This is nicer. No one knows me out here. No one knows what I would have done.

Obtain me?

Surely, you've heard about the Auction, Miss Granger. A bedroom was made up in the Manor just for you, before the war ended. You would have slept next door to him in your pretty cage forever.

A Muggle pub appears before me, and luckily I have just enough Muggle money to get one last drink. I ask for a firewhisky and the man behind the bar raises a brow.

Your son told me about an Auction, but not like that. He said he'd sell me off.

Oh, no, Miss Granger. He would have kept you all to himself. In a few years' time, he would have married a pure-blood girl, and kept you on the side, like the common whore you are.

Someone tries to speak to me at the Muggle pub, and I ignore them.

The only thing I'm curious about, Miss Granger, is how long he would have been able to keep his hands off of you. Sleeping just next door to him. Tempting him. After all, he should get his money's worth.

I slap my money down on the bar, and stumble into the sunlight. Muggle automobiles everywhere, and I just wish I could Apparate.

So, you'll understand, Miss Granger, why I'm so curious as to your current relationship with my son. Narcissa has alluded to your involvement, and I must admit, I thought you had higher standards.

We're not in a relationship. And we never will be.

I'm in an alley. I'm heaving, leaning against rubbish receptacles and letting the firewhisky leave my body. My head is pounding. And I can't open my eyes.

If I splinch myself, then so be it. I need to get out of here.

I pull my wand and send myself home. Minus my shoes.


Monday, November 8, 1999

My Daily Prophet article comes out Monday. It's exactly as Skeeter would have printed it last week. No mention of Hermione Granger or Ron Weasley. Or of any public intoxication yesterday.

I glance over it before heading into the office.

People smile at me. They congratulate me. No Howlers today. Some resumes, which make me laugh.

Potter stares at me when I get to my desk. Like he has something to say. Like he's itching to ask me something. Or maybe hit me.

I'd welcome either.

A few hours later I head down to the courtrooms. Jugson. I've had limited interactions with him, but there's no possible way he was Imperius'd.

I should have taken a Pepper-Up Potion. I probably look as hungover as I feel.

I'm leaning against the wall of the lift when it slows and stops at Level 4. I raise my eyes to find her on the precipice, staring at me.

I wait. Wait for her to hit me again. To spit on me.

She enters the lift and stands with me.

I wait for her to hiss at me or request that I exit at the next floor.

"Good morning."

I blink at her.

Why? How could she greet me?

I'm opening my mouth to wish her a good morning when O'Connor joins us at Level 5. He talks my ear off. He congratulates me on the article. He reminisces about his desires to leave the Ministry. I feel like he's about to list off his special skills when the lift slows for the Atrium, and he starts to exit.

She's going to the courtrooms too. For Jugson.

We're alone in the lift again. Is it too late to say good morning?

"It was an excellent article, really. Skeeter did a wonderful job introducing Malfoy Consulting Group to the Wizarding World."

I'm watching her, waiting.

"Thank you."

"And congratulations on Witch Weekly." She laughs. She thinks so lowly of the periodical that it's barely a compliment at all.

I follow her out of the lift, holding the gate open for her. All I can hear is the click of her shoes against the stones. She stands against the wall I lean on. It's better this way. I don't have to stare at her.

But I still turn my head and watch her. She avoids me, staring at the stones.

"You weren't at Cornerstone yesterday," I whisper, the sound loud in the small hall.

She holds her breath. I wait for her chest to fall on the exhale and it doesn't.

"No, I was ill." She won't look at me. "Was Morty able to help you?"

I wasn't at Cornerstone for Morty. Or for books. I come there for you.

I turn to face her. I have to know the damage. I have to begin to fix it.

"I heard you went to see my father."

She finally exhales.

"I did," she says. "It was very nice of him to want to meet with me."

I watch her. I wait. And nothing. That's all she feels she owes me.

I crack my knuckles. Shove the hair out of my face.

Maybe it is all she owes me.

"And you had a nice visit?"

She won't look at me. Like we've started from the beginning. Like I need to convince her I'm worthy of her eyes.

"Perfectly nice. I'd never truly met him." Her face turns to mine, finally meeting my gaze, just to deliver, "You're very similar."

It hits me like a blow to the cheek. I feel the muscles of my face react as such.

It's cold in my chest and I think I'll shuffle away now, but then I see the corner of her mouth smile.

She wants to hurt me. She wants to land a punch.

I step in to her, before she can look away from me.

"If I'd known about the meeting, I would have stopped it."

I never wanted you to know. To see what I am.

"My mother likes to meddle in things she has no business in. I apologize that you got wrapped up in it."

I promise I never would have touched you. I would have cut off my arm before touching you.

"I don't know what he said to you, but—"

"Why is your blood on my living room walls?" she says.

And my mind is blank.

This? This is what he told her?

I try to respond and there's no sound.

I had no idea my father knew about Yaxley's letters on her wall.

And he told her?

To prove I was a monster?

Or…?

"Miss Granger?" A voice calls for her. "Are you ready?"

"Quite."

She walks away from me. She feels like she's won. But no one told me the name of the game.

She wanted to hurt me.

But she still wished me good morning.

And she ran from my house, apologizing.

Draco, I'm so, so sorry for everything. I – I didn't mean any of this.

The oak door clicks closed behind her, and I'm alone in the hallway.

Maybe he hadn't told her about the Auction after all.

Maybe it was much worse than that.