Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 11: Subtlety in Motion

Perception is the filter by which we view reality. In theory this works quite well, but then so does communism. All men are idealists and view the world through rose-tinted glasses, the left hand lens being called Experience and the right Bias, both such being so wound up in who we are that the whole is called Ego. Ordinary pink spectacles they are to others but to our own selves perception is a validation and summation of our existence. Thus will a man choose perception over reality if the latter disagrees with the former. To an intellect, this is irony - to a Slytherin, this is opportunity.

Theodore Nott's family was neither pureblood nor well-heeled and, truth be told, not even all that accomplished. Rumor has it that an aunt and second cousin were, respectively, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, though you didn't hear that bandied about carelessly. The reality of it is that a close examination of pureblood society would show to anyone with sense that the Notts simply did not belong. However, sense should never get in the way of a good dinner party.

Of all the qualities that the Notts did not possess, the one they did - and the only one that really matters - was a fine ability to lie. Nothing quite so vulgar as the outright falsehoods suggested, but the Notts were adept at saying a simple thing and then stepping back to allow a man's perceptions to do the lying for them. As the old saying goes, tell an untruth to one man and you're a liar, but tell it to many and you're a politician.

Back in the common room, Nott ran the gauntlet of watching eyes as he made his way to Draco's writing desk. The taller boy didn't even look up.

"You gave the chocolates to Portia?"

"Of course."

Draco picked up two books. "These books can go to that nasty, common, filthy little -" Strangled noises issued from his throat and he shoved the books into Theodore's arms. "Give them to her."

"The Mudblood?" Theodore's voice was innocent and Draco's return gaze was murderous. "Oh, and I had a little run-in. Seems your intended has champions who are busily fretting you might not treat her with loving kindness and such."

"They're right."

"I assumed so."

Nott turned to go but Draco froze him to the floor with a look. "What's on your mind, Nott?"

"What makes you ask?"

"You must think I'm stupid. Sit down and tell me what you're thinking."

He obediently sat and pushed the useless books to one side. All this letter writing and reading wouldn't do any good, not that he had any intentions of pointing this out to Draco. That was ever Draco's biggest fault; he didn't think far enough into the future.

"Weasley's not pleased with this whole thing, you realise."

"He can have her with my blessings," Draco grunted.

Nott toyed with Malfoy's quill. "Weasel-face has never had the sort of money to buy his little girlfriend a present, I don't believe."

Grey eyes glanced up through an overhanging shock of hair. Nott could see the interest, the spite. His lips twisted in a mocking grin and Draco's cheeks twitched, eyes crinkling.

"Probably nothing, old boy. Just a thought." Nott stood and clapped Malfoy on the shoulder lightly. "I'll leave you to your work."

It was no huge surprise to see a package winging its way to the Owlery between a pair of white owls two days later. Shortly past lunch Draco handed him a gilded box with a note pinned to the ribbons. "There's Impervious Ice Cream Bombs on my bureau for Portia," he said tersely. Draco returned to his book without mentioning the package.

Nott retired to Draco's room, ostensibly to fetch Portia's daily offering. It was the work of a moment to slip open the box but he replaced the lid with a certain disappointment. He had been expecting jewelry. Carefully he pried loose the note's sealing wax, to be replaced exactly so later, and read with great amusement. Nott wondered idly how much parchment Draco had wasted before he got the insults out of his system.

Miss Granger,

This being none of my doing, I was pressed for time in the matter of your gift. I trust it meets your satisfaction. You will also find enclosed a book on multinational contract law, borrowed from the Messrs. Franklin of America. They're Yanks but highly regarded for all that as the preeminent men on the subject. Kindly do not dirty the book; it is part of a peerless collection.

D. Malfoy

Nott spent a few moments contemplating with delicious mirth the picture of Draco wrestling with the choice of "Regards, D. Malfoy" or "Sincerely, D. Malfoy" or even "Yours, D. Malfoy" - oh, that one was too much! - before leaving off altogether with the bald signature. How utterly priceless. But there was business afoot so he collected Portia's sweets, made sure the package looked untampered and hied himself to the hospital wing. He found Mrs. Greengrass there with Granger, and Portia's bed pulled far too close for Madam Pomfrey's comfort. Granger sat looking from the Slytherin on one side to the Slytherin on the other, clearly pondering how matters had come to this and when she could escape to the library for solace. Nott greeted all three ladies courteously, doled out his parcels and inquired after their health. Portia looked with great interest at the package for Granger, sucking intently on an ice cream ball. Granger looked as if she thought her package might bite her - which was not entirely outside the realm of possibility, actually.

Mrs. Greengrass set aside swatches of fabric. "I was wondering what could be keeping him. Do open it, I'm curious."

Gingerly she undid the ribbons and pulled off the lid. By the set of her jaw, Nott deduced that she was not pleased. "It's a toiletry set."

She passed the heavy silver mirror, comb and hairbrush - monogrammed handily with H. M. - around so everyone could admire them.

"Lovely," judged Mrs. Greengrass with an askance look at Granger's bushy hair. "I was expecting jewelry. Now, Miss Granger, back to colour. I can get the cream voile with a green trim, which would be a nice touch, or this crepe silk in either eggshell blue or dove grey."

Granger smothered a groan. "Are we planning a wedding?" Nott asked.

"The social event of the year," Mrs. Greengrass corrected. "Or it would be if I were allowed. Circumstances being what they are, a large wedding would be vulgar, so we're aiming for sumptuous yet subdued."

"In that case, why don't we go with the grey," Granger said with an air of desperation to have done with it.

Regretfully, Mrs. Greengrass set aside a bewitching bit of brocade and then brightened. "Perfect! Subdued, yet we can still work in silver and green for a colour theme. I can just see it: you in dove grey silk with silver threads in your hair and bouquet and greenery simply everywhere. A tasteful acknowledgement of our national mourning yet still a delight to the eyes of the guests."

Granger didn't smother this groan. "Mrs. Greengrass, is this really necessary? I have so much reading to do, and -"

Mrs. Greengrass stilled her with a look and patted her hand gently. "You'll be thankful of it one day, dear. Frivolities they seem and are, but when the day comes you might find that the only thing you have to look forward to is that at least you enjoy your dress." After an awkward moment she stepped right along. "Now, do you fancy orchids or lilies?"

The forms of communications are legion, be they telephone, television, tell the school gossip, post owl, Post-it note or the paralinguistic presentation of one's posterior, preferably naked. Malfoys have a long-standing tradition of saying things with presents, not to be confused with the aforementioned presentation (how crude). It certainly isn't a trait that particular clan invented - after all, how many wives received cleaning appliances as their Merry Christmas and took it as a gesture of enduring passion - but one they have unwittingly refined throughout their normally selfish existence. There are few other ways to so neatly convey insult, apology, indulgence and a father's hopes for his son's future dastardly career than to buy said son a shrivelled human hand immediately after castigating the boy for noticing it.

Lucius always was a drama queen that way.

The knack, a gift in and of itself, was passed on from parent to child in a thousand little ways, with a thousand little gifts given to, and in front of, him. Dusky cherries flown in 'specially for his mother the day she decided red was a colour to be banished forever from the Manor (You're a terrible tease, Lucius, do stop laughing or I'll spit every pit right at you.); a luxurious and costly perfume just before the holidays (Your old uncle is coming to dinner and you're going to sit him next to me again, aren't you); a rope of pearls and emeralds, one pearl for every day of their marriage and one emerald for every anniversary (Oh, Lucius...). Every year on Draco's birthday he savaged a veritable mountain of wrapped trinkets, but the first present was always for Mother.

You gave a gift to me on this day, love, so here is my gift to you. Oh, and some for the boy as well.

The merry sound of her laughter. You charming devil. Yes, Draco, you may open yours now, Father's only playing.

Draco was a bright child and he learned both early and well. At the tender age of eight he bought with his very own pocket money a birthday present for one of his little playmates. A tiny silver locket, engraved with a tiny 'P'. Her parents and the other adults had looked on with amused, indulgent little smiles. Of course it was unbecoming for a gentleman to give jewelry to a lady other than his wife or mother, but wasn't it adorable? And one day, perhaps...

Lucius had the very next week pressed upon the Parkinsons a trip to southern France, insistent that Narcissa felt poorly and the already booked and paid-for holiday would go to waste if someone did not stand in for them. That the chateau was less than three miles from the most prestigious young ladies' finishing school in all of Europe was lost on no one.

Draco sat now in the Slytherin common room, moodily toying with a tiny silver memento in one hand and watching the Italian chancellor's response become fire and ash in the marble hearth. No one had objected to him going through Pansy's things, because Pansy was with his mother in some dank cell buried underneath the Ministry. While Father was dying, Mother scheming and he himself leaving Bulstrode behind under a crushing rain of stone wall, Pansy was being caught on the edge of the Forbidden Forest in the company of Death Eaters. Neither Pansy nor his mother would have use for pretty gifts in six more days.

Five more days.

Four more days.

Zabini watched as his housemate hurled a fresh stack of responses into the fire and threw an insignificant bit of silver in after it.

"Are you all right, Draco?" he asked, his quiet voice rumbling through the late-night stillness.

"I'm tired," Draco said shortly.

And he was.