"...and because of that and other reasons - we all wish Bianca the best of luck. I mean, the best of times. I - we hope - that the Goyles will be happy and - many happy returns."

Blaise Zabini, next to him, was shaking his head in disbelief; George Vaisey, to his left, was rocked with spasms of silent laughter. Pansy and Daphne Greengrass looked aghast; Mrs. Florence Higginbotham, drunk, had dropped her champagne flute in the middle of the speech, but the toast was such a disaster that nobody even noticed.

There was a stunned silence when Malfoy had finished, and then Bianca began to clap, smiling placidly. Her cousin, Hannah Abbott, who had been her maid of honor, followed her lead, and soon a belated ripple of applause began to drift through the hall, and Malfoy sank back into his seat.

Blaise nudged him and nodded across the room to where Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy were seated, still as statues, their faces polished and blank.

"Malfoy let slip at the stag night - pater's been threatening to cut him off again if he doesn't pull himself together. He thought he'd be able to talk him down. This isn't going to go over very big, though."

A flash of savage satisfaction that went through him at Blaise's words. What was Malfoy, without his family's money, without his name? There would be no flashy parties, no girls, no hand-waving and whispered exchanges to get him out of trouble; really, no Malfoy. His friends and hangers-on would disappear in a puff of smoke, and Pansy, surely, as well.

It was the second or third time they had been in each other's company since she had ended things last November. He had seen her at a Christmas party about a month after, and once in the spring at Zenobia Hampstead's birthday celebration at the Pearl. He had intended to talk to her, just to say hello, at the Pearl, but lost the moment when Vaisey, dared to chug a bottle of champagne, made it halfway through before turning his head aside and vomiting on Theodore, to Malfoy's rapturous delight.

Since Draco had resumed his seat at the head table the two of them had not spoken. Pansy focused on cutting her food into very small, delicate bites and pushing it around her plate; Draco looked like he was considering putting his head down and going to sleep. The only person at the table who looked more miserable was Hannah Abbott; she attempted to make conversation with Goyle a few times before giving up and lapsing into silence with the rest of the table.

As the meal concluded, Theodore, feeling reckless after two glasses of wine, determined to make his way straight over to Pansy and have it out with her. The nervous energy coursing through him left him with no alternative; he had to speak to her, to explain to her that she had been wrong to break it off with him, she had made a terrible mistake, but there was no turning back now. She had made her bed and now she would lie in it, with that foul, spoiled, cruel, arrogant child.

"Theodore, m'boy! You're looking well."

A heavy, be-ringed hand grasped his arm and Theodore's neck snapped around, startled, to see Horace Slughorn, his old head of house at Hogwarts.

Slughorn reached up and clinked his glass to Theodore's. "To the happy couple," he said mistily.

During Theodore's repeated seventh year, Slughorn - out of an impulse Theodore might have recognized as guilt in a less shameless man - had made a great effort to include him in the Slug Club, inviting him to parties, offering him introductions and recommendations to people in the Ministry and in the potions industry. Feeling both resentful and overwhelmed by his circumstances, Theodore had never bothered to follow up; it had really only occurred to him a few years ago that he might want to do so, and by then he felt it was far too late.

The old man had hold of his elbow and was leading him over to the bar. "They have elf-made schnaps from Austria, you know," he told Theodore, before ordering one for each of them.

Theodore took a sip and found it foul, but Slughorn was elated. "Truly a rare delight," he sighed, wafting the glass in front of his nose, and began to gossip at Theodore about some guests at a safe distance from them.

He could not wait to rid himself of Slughorn, could not stand to listen to the old man's prattle for another minute. But it wasn't as if any of the other guests were going to offer a more scintillating conversation. What was he doing here? Why had he come? It was difficult to believe he had ever had anything in common with these people.

"How have you been keeping, Theodore?"

He had the uncomfortable realization that the entire time Slughorn had been talking, the old man had been observing him. At school Malfoy and Zabini had dismissed Slughorn as a vain fool, but Theodore had been wary of him for that reason - his vacuous facade made it easy to mask his true intentions.

"I'm well," Theodore said. "Thanks."

Slughorn nodded and exchanged pleasantries with a middle aged couple who stumbled over to greet him.

"We must get together again," he told them warmly. "St. Clair asks after you every time I see him, Paula."

"In truth he asks if she's managed to find her way out of the bottle yet, but clearly there's no good news on that front," Slughorn sighed, as the couple passed, then added, "I thought you should know that your supervisor Sneha speaks highly of you."

There did not seem to be anything to say to this. Sneha was not there, so he could not thank her; Slughorn had offered no compliment, so Theodore could not thank him. Highly conscious of Slughorn's penetrating stare, Theodore settled for nodding awkwardly.

"That's good," he said.

"Sneha suggested that if you were to express interest, it would be the work of a moment to fix up a position for you. Get you out of the lab."

"Ah," Theodore said.

Slughorn had never paid this much attention to him. If this was guilt, Slughorn could keep it; all was forgiven; Theodore just wished he would go back to rubbing elbows and leave him in peace.

"I could also make a few introductions to some of my friends at top-level potions firms - research, commercial, any area of specialty you would prefer. You'd be asked to interview, of course, but a mere formality - my recommendation speaks for itself in these circles."

"I see."

The silence stretched.

"Not many from our House go into healing, outside of the private sector," Slughorn observed.

This, certainly, required a response. Theodore watched as across the room, Draco Malfoy bent close to Astoria Greengrass' auburn hair. He lingered a moment, then left. After another moment, she followed.

"It appealed to me. They do interesting research there. And I felt… it seemed a good fit."

How to explain to Slughorn the impulse that had drawn him to working in the lab at St. Mungo's, a position of low wages, little prestige and scarcely any room for advancement? He could barely explain it to himself.

It was not in Slughorn's nature to understand guilt; they had all been taught to repress this as early as possible, before they were aware of its power to destroy. Empathy was a weakness, reserved for one's most trusted companions, the people one could hope would not use it to overpower you.

Theodore would not call what he had experienced guilt; he would not say that he felt empathy; but when he had needed to make a choice between a job at a consulting firm offering a comfortable salary that could have maintained a lifestyle in line with his peers, and working at St. Mungo's, he had chosen the latter. The idea of a clean break had appealed to him immensely; but as much so, if not more than, the chance to do work that he felt was an unqualified good.

Over the years working at St. Mungo's the scales had fallen from his eyes; even an organization whose only goal was to heal the sick was plagued by internal politics, bureaucracy, inefficiency and waste. It was not a place he had any strong desire to advance - the executive staff were too heavily Hufflepuff to allow him much room for growth - but he remembered strongly the sense of purpose that had drawn him there, and coveted it.

Slughorn continued to watch Theodore and sip his schnaps, seemingly undisturbed by Theodore's lack of interest in the opportunities he had proffered.

"Long ago - many years ago - don't ask me how many years, I beg you! - I felt that way at Hogwarts, you know."

"You told us you liked having summers free, that's why you were a professor."

Slughorn laughed. "I like to remind children how pleasant it is not to be around them," he said. "In truth - I don't share this with everyone, Theodore - in truth, I was at Hogwarts because I cared about the future of Slytherin house. It's been a tumultuous time. I very badly hoped that we should not become a House defined by outmoded values, and the shortsighted power grab of a few outspoken people. Now, of course, we are bound to this; it's part of our story. But we are more than that. Greater than that. We must be - all people are, if they seek it.

"All the children who grow up in Slytherin cherish greatness, but many cannot bear to put aside their pride to achieve it. They have a narrow vision of what greatness can be. They lack the subtle sensibilities that the best of our House embodies."

Theodore finished the last of his schnaps, listening closely.

"I can't do this forever, Theodore," Slughorn sighed. "Dumbledore - Merlin rest him - dragged me back against my protests. I knew I was needed then. But I'm an old man now. I've seen two wars. I need to enjoy peace."

"You're planning to retire?" Theodore asked, after a brief break in the conversation in which Slughorn enthusiastically greeted a few more old friends.

"Yes, I rather think it's time for me to move on," Slughorn said airily. "Don't you? Perhaps we can talk it over more this summer. Ah-a! And here's Gregory! My dear boy, congratulations. I wish you all the happiness in the world. And doubly so to your charming lady."

Theodore's stomach dropped as he looked over. Pansy had come up alongside Goyle, stormclouds scrawled across her face.

"And Miss Parkinson," Slughorn said with a kindness that made Theodore despise him. "Always a pleasure."

He nodded to Goyle and Theodore and gave a slight bow to Pansy as he glided off.

"Daft old poof," Goyle grunted. "Where was he after school, when we needed him? Nowhere. Still, that's true Slytherin, innit. He looks after himself first. No shame in that. Alright, Nott?"

"Alright."

Goyle shuffled along to the bar, leaving Pansy and Theodore alone.

"I don't suppose you've seen Draco," she said, sounding bored.

"I haven't," he told her.

Her eyes scanned the crowd. "I think Florence Higginbotham is asleep," she said.

"She passed out half an hour ago," Theodore said, then added, unable to restrain himself, "Slughorn's just been talking with me about the Potions master position at Hogwarts."

She did not even look at him. "What about it?"

"He's thinking I could take it over this fall. Maybe."

Pansy sipped her champagne.

"Draco's in the vestry with Astoria Greengrass," he said.

He was sickened to discover how badly he had wanted her to react. The disappointment he felt when she did not was like a physical blow.

"Thanks," she said, and moved along.