Debts of Honor

by Sare Liz

Being a tale of the consequences of a single decision made by a single woman to change the fate of the whole world. Depending on your point of view, this is a political drama with a heavy romantic subplot of Hermione/Viktor, or this is an Obvious Romance in the Midst of Real Life. Regardless, come for the plot, stay for Viktor's letters.

48. Dinner Is Served

Chapter 47: Wherein dinner is served.

Summary: Welcome to the first of January and the only formal dinner served at Cair Paravel during The Coronation Festival. We see Grandmere hasn't lost it, Ginny has the best ideas, and Harry is an opportunistic mofo. Mind the crashbar as it comes across low on your lap, and get ready as this emotional rollercoaster gets underway.

---

Ginny Potter looked at the gigantically long table dressed for a formal dinner with a deep sense of satisfaction. There were no ornate decorations. There were no triumphant centerpieces. There were, occasionally, low bowls of the Krum's ubiquitous white rose. But for being everywhere, they were too wonderful and too bloody calming to ever be taken for granted.

But the table was set with the very useful gifts from the Windsors - the china, plate, and crystal that had only just been given upon the occasion of Hermione's coronation and wedding. Fifty-three for dinner wasn't a problem - but if she ever went beyond a hundred, Hermione would have to use more than one set of china, Ginny considered, and then corrected herself. Viktor. Viktor would have to use more than one set of china - it was best to realize who cared about such things in this pairing.

Madam Potter looked back to the table and smiled a little, looking at the modest white rosebuds made of paper at the top of each place setting.

Ginny and Narcissa had, with Viktor's blessing, created the dinner seating for the only formal dinner, on the first of January, but they had not done as Mory had, using only people's coats of arms rather than names and styles. Ginny was happy to be doing this sort of thing with Narcissa for the first time and, honestly, it had been rather a treat to see a mistress at work.

There were an odd number of people. There were seven more men than women. It wouldn't be a balanced table, but it would probably be a lively one, Narcissa reflected quietly, and Ginny wondered what dinner with more than five people wasn't lively?

"May I?" Narcissa asked, looking at Ginny's master list of everyone housed in Cair Paravel for the festival.

She made a duplicate copy and handed back the master to the younger woman who stood next to her, watching what she would do with avid interest.

She held her wandtip to the copy and as if teasing a memory out of her head, she teased the words off the page and flung them up in front of her and left them there to hang, slightly enlarged, and glowing.

"Now," she said, almost to herself as she began rearranging, putting Hermione at the head and Viktor at the foot of the table. "Ideally, of course, everyone has a partner who is seated across the way, and one is not seated next to another of the same gender. Close family or friends sit nearest the hosts, or people you are meaning to honor, as with the case of the Queen of the Isles, and the Prince of Wales. And because there are twenty-six pairs besides our hosts, well, twenty-five and one half, a woman will sit to Hermione's right, namely the Queen, and a woman to Viktor's right, possibly his mother, Sofia."

"Alright, yes," Ginny said, catching on and looking at the names. "So then after Elizabeth and Charles, it would be William and Helen, and then you and… Draco? Or are we seating him with Luna?"

"With Luna, I think. No, we can leave the question of my table partner open for the moment and continue on. And we put Sofia and Gregor down here by Viktor, and his cousin next to his mother."

"And next to you, Harry and me, and then Luna and Draco as we continue on down the table."

"Yes, exactly, my dear. Hm. I suppose Mr. Dursley and Ms. Bennoit could be seated together next," Narcissa murmured, swishing her wand and sending names wafting into place in a long double line. "And then perhaps Andy and Ted. And that ends the easy ones. Now. Let's look at who is left."

"Minerva and Kingsley should be paired," Ginny pointed out, and Narcissa put their names closer together, yet still in the general area reserved for unseated guests.

"Yes, and Neville and Augusta, as neither has a guest." Then she paired all those who actually came together as a couple, George and Ron and Percy and their plus ones, those of Viktor's friends who were couples, including Bill and Fleur.

Very quickly it all came together, and Ginny had no remorse in seating Ron next to their mother in the middle of the table, nor sitting Percy next to Tommy. Who knows? Perhaps the two might balance each other out. When they were finished, all fifty-three names were neatly organized into a perfect seating chart, complete with appropriate styles and then the two women sat down to create the place cards.

Ginny wrote them out with her purple ink and her best fountain pen and Narcissa charmed the cards together with an elegant and complicated fold that made them resemble a blooming white rose that was only fully blossomed when one looked at it. When no one was looking directly at it, the paper petals folded back up again into a rosebud, and the name was hidden.

When they were finished and gazing happily on the product of their few hours' work, Ginny inquired in the politest way she could think of, "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where you learned those charms? The folding charm, and the rearrangement of words in the air?"

Narcissa smiled ever-so-slightly. "My mother," she said simply and Ginny deflated inside, because that would inevitably mean it was a family charm, and it would be the height of rudeness to ask for family secrets.

Not that Narcissa hadn't been up for sharing a variety of Black family charms, particularly where security in communication was the subject. But this was different, not strictly necessary, and so Ginny just steeled herself to accept the truth: She wasn't going to be able to do either set of charms (for surely they were not just one simple one, but a compound charm, made up of several smaller ones) any time soon, not until she researched and came up with something similar on her own.

"Shall I show you how?" Narcissa asked after a moment. "The first, I think, has quite a wide applicability, and though the second is, I will grant you, quite frivolous, it is useful in its own small way."

Ginny had grinned, then, and told Narcissa in no uncertain terms that she'd love to learn them. And then she had.

This is what Ginny thought of, dressed in the same gorgeous red dress she'd chosen for the Yule Ball, the same amazing Hebridean heels, with a black wool stole across her shoulders, as Harry led her to her seat and she saw the beautiful white paper rose unfold and declare, in her own handwriting, Duchess Black Pendragon. And she thought, as she'd never really considered (there had been a lot of changes in the last year, after all), that she was a member of the House of Black (and not just a distant cousin on both sides) every bit as much as the House of Pendragon. She'd married into both of them. Narcissa was her Head of House, even as Hermione and Harry were as well. And so… the charms Narcissa had taught her were staying in the family. Even the ones she shared back in September.

Just then Ginny looked up and across the table, next to where Harry would sit. She caught Narcissa's eye and just smiled at her. No words were spoken, and none needed to be said.

---

Draco had begun speaking during the soup course to the woman on his left, who apparently spoke only French. He wondered if his only surviving uncle, whom he had never met before this weekend, spoke any French, as he was seated on the other side of Hermione's grandmother.

"Are you enjoying the festival thus far, Madam Bennoit?" he inquired politely.

"But yes of course, young duke. The circus yesterday was truly magnificent. I quite enjoyed myself. And you?"

"The Festival has been full of surprises. So far all of them have been quite pleasant."

Madam Bennoit smiled the sort of smile Draco was not used to seeing - it animated her whole face, going all the way to her eyes, and yet it was somehow still quite a small expression on her mouth. The whole expression seemed to say so much, so blatantly that Draco's brain was shocked into a momentary pause and he was unable to immediately consider the ramifications of such a knowing and joyful smile.

All he could think of, really, was the brief and stilted conversation with Aunt Andromeda and Uncle Ted where everyone seemed to want to be somewhere else, and only the infant seemed happy to be where he was. It had been full of extremely polite nothings stretched too tightly over what, Draco couldn't quite be sure of, but it wasn't pleasant, and he had no desire to be around should the cauldron cover come off. He was, however, polite on the side of warm rather than cool, and when the infant's hair changed from sky blue to his own shade of blond as Draco had complimented him, perhaps it was possible that a heartstring was pulled, but Draco would admit it to noone but Luna. And perhaps Hermione, but only under duress.

Such brittle, tight control over thoughts, feelings, emotions, and expressions were apparently not called for in the soup course while conversing with a Frenchwoman. Honestly, Draco knew he had extended and very distant family in France, but he'd never had any contact with them, and the only French he knew, he employed, and such liberties as humor and knowing looks were not in the offing.

"I, too," Madam Bennoit said into Draco's shocked silence, "had a lovely evening last night. The staff of the French Ambassador were most accommodating. Beautiful dancers, in and out of the bedroom. So that is your young lady?" she asked, glancing across the table to where Luna sat chatting with Harry about Merlin-knew-what, but probably not orgies with the French Embassy. Really, a very unlikely conversation, even for Luna.

Draco's brain took a moment to sort itself out, skipping like an uncharmed record, as he said something to the affirmative. He could only mimic drinking the soup because he'd almost inhaled it when he realized that… and kept realizing that... Hermione's grandmother had apparently taken some portion of the French Ambassador's staff to bed last night.

Madam Bennoit said something complimentary about Luna and Draco could only murmur his agreement as he wondered if… well, had everyone been so affected last night?

Had his mother?

No. No. No. He was not thinking about sex and his mother at the same time. No.

No.

"Ah, poor young duke. I forget you are English, your French is so lovely. So uptight in the bedroom, the English. Believe me, I am well acquainted with such problems. My apologies for embarrassing you. Perhaps now we speak of grapes? I understand you are a vintner of many generations since before the Revolution? It was an early harvest this year, no? How fare your grapes, young duke?"

And so until the end of the soup course, Draco spoke about grapes, which did not have sex despite the vineyards being on minor leylines, and were turning out to be not as disastrous a harvest as Francois had feared. Jeanne, the manager of his fields in Champagne, also a third generation squib, and a little farther out from retirement, had said all along it would not be so bad…

When the soup was taken away and the fish course appeared, Draco turned to Ginny on his right and did not at all show that he was relieved not to be speaking with the French widow for a brief period. It wasn't that she was a squib, it was that he couldn't stop picturing her in the midst of some sort of gallic orgy and it was an image he couldn't quite get out of his head despite his best efforts.

"Evening, Ginny. How are the souvenirs coming along?" he asked, impressed again and again with this particular Weasley's business sense.

"Oh, it's fantastic, Draco, it really is. I'd set things up to we would have one-tenth stock on hand, you know, stock for one-tenth of festival goers to purchase one each sort of thing, but then I had it set up with my suppliers that another two-tenths could be rushed delivery in four hours notice, and another three-tenths could be rushed delivery overnight, and meanwhile we were prepped for backorders for both festival pick up and later delivery. Because, you know, I had nightmares of having a thousand extra-large yellow festival tee-shirts left, a gross of sword-in-stone snowglobes, you know, that sort of thing. But almost everything sold out three hours after dawn yesterday. There was a run on the souvenirs. We got the second round of stock in, and we were almost completely sold out again by the time the Coronation began. This morning the third round of stock arrived and it's been going more slowly, now, and it's easier to tell which are the really popular things, so I've done some selective reordering for tomorrow's delivery of items."

Draco and Ginny then embarked upon a fascinating conversation about the tricky business of having stock that no one wants and the two, by the middle of the fish course, had considered that the photos and programme book could be advertised in the Quibbler for a few weeks afterwards, and the smaller souvenir items, like the snowglobes, could be put on consignment in a storefront, if only someone had a brother who had a shop in Diagon Alley. The tee-shirts that proclaimed 'I WAS THERE' would be a loss, and have to be returned to the manufacturer, if possible, or just turned into rags otherwise, but then Ginny had been very careful in reordering them and keeping stocks somewhat lower. Better to have shirts on backorder for post-festival delivery, they both agreed, then to end up with boxes and boxes of shirts no one wanted…

And then they had a fascinating conversation about whether or not it was more beneficial to have a storefront off Diagon Alley but still in London, or to have a storefront in the magical quarter on one of the high streets of another major British city, such as York or Edinburgh or Cardiff, even.

"There is a certain status in being in London's magical quarter, but so long as you can afford to advertise in The Prophet and perhaps also the Daily Quibble, and you're connected to Floo, it really shouldn't make such a difference," Draco said, and in saying so, went against everything his Father had ever said on the topic. "I mean, if you're prepared to foot the expense of Owl delivery it could be a cottage industry from anywhere, really."

"Where's your storefront, then?" Ginny asked.

Draco's brows rose without his permission. "Mine?"

"Yes, yours. I mean, shouldn't you at least have a wine bar? Or a chain of them? Serving wine and good pairings - excellent cheese, quality fruit, little baked nibbles, sort of thing? And people can also order cases of wine and rounds of cheese, that sort of thing?"

"My father would roll in his grave," he murmured, the excellent salmon all but forgotten. But he could see it. It would have the feel of the back patio of the Chateau in France, all heavy timber and aged brick, climbing roses and whitewashed walls. It would feel like you had just walked into Champagne.

"All the more reason," Ginny muttered baldly, then ate some more. After a long moment she spoke again. "I've been learning about hard and soft openings, too, and so you have a soft opening in your area of choice for a month or so, but then you send out invitations for the hard opening, and you send them out to the press as well as us and everyone else you think might possibly show. And if the one in York, say, is successful, then maybe you think of opening one in Edinburgh, or Cardiff, and hell, maybe avoid London because rent is hell in Diagon Alley. I mean, if Hermione and Viktor, and hell, me and Harry smile for the cameras and toast the photographers, you know there will be some popularity from that, and the Prophet's got to be good for something. You name it something that's neither here nor there like, The House of Wine or something, and people slowly forget that you own it, even while it slowly brings up your reputation as active civic member, blah blah blah."

Draco took a deep breath. He looked Ginerva Adora Black Pendragon Peveril-Potter in the eye. "Has anyone ever told you you're brilliant?"

She grinned at him. "Lately, yes. But thank you, I'll add it to the pile."

After the fish course was removed and the fowl began, Draco was steeled and ready to turn back to Madam Bennoit, head swimming with ideas for Le Chateau, Wine Bar & Food Pairings. But that was when all hell broke loose across the table, because that was when Harry Potter had suggested a game of pick-up quidditch the next morning, and then no one was confining their talk to the person on their left.

So much for a formal dinner.

---

The duck was brilliant, but really, Harry was thinking about Quidditch. Hadn't had much of an opportunity to play, but there were a lot of interesting people here at present… so he decided to propose a pick up Quidditch game at eight the next morning, just for an hour or so. It was a very long table, with a great number of people, all talking amongst themselves. When word of this eventually made it to the other end of the table, Viktor immediately spoke into the now quiet void in the Great Hall.

"You will captain one team, I will captain the other," he said, his deep voice carrying down the quiet, all the way to Hermione's end of the table, where Harry was roughly sitting.

"I call Viktor," Ginny said quicker than anyone else, her voice almost echoing in the hall.

"I call Harry," Viktor's father, Gregor answered, from the other side of the long, long table.

"Viktor," Charlie said, from somewhere in the middle, towards Hermione's end.

"Viktor," Bill added, from Viktor's end.

"Viktor," said three of his friends all at once, Natasha, Ivan, and Alexi.

"Oi! Is anyone going to be on my team?" Harry asked the otherwise silent table at large. His voice also echoed slightly in the hall.

"Yeah, I'm in," George said quietly, from his position somewhere in the middle. Still, he could be heard, as no one else was talking.

"I'll do it if you'll have me," Draco said, clearly hedging his bets. He was almost directly across from Harry, at Hermione's end of the table.

"As will I," Fleur's soprano rang out, from Viktor's end.

"I need two more," Harry said after the table was quiet. He privately wondered if Ron, who had always been Quidditch mad, would sit this one out or not. It seemed he might and Harry had an odd sort of dread that he might join his team at the last minute, for old times' sake, or something.

"Can we play?" an extremely small voice from the exact center of the table asked. It was Negash, and he was looking between Harry, Hermione, his parents, and Tommy as best he could among fifty-some-odd people at the banquet table.

"If your parents agree," Hermione replied, adding what she probably considered to be sensible conditions.

Harry only smiled in a somewhat sharklike manner when both sets of parents gave their somewhat reluctant permission before Sofia chimed in that if everyone gave her a shirt tonight, she would charm them jerseys, and that she would be in the Orange Salon and people could find her there. His worry about Ron was forgotten already.

"And what will you do for a referee?" Molly Weasley asked in the impatient tone that was her standard.

"Clearly it's going to be you, Mum," Charlie pointed out. Both Harry and Viktor nodded their assent.

Viktor looked down the long table to his wife. He could still be heard, as no one was yet speaking on side topics. This was spectator sport enough, apparently. "And will you come out to watch?"

She smirked. "I suppose."

"I'll provide thoughtful commentary," Luna added, and if anyone heard Ron's muttered blasphemy at the prospect, it was likely his mother who sat next to him, and if she had stomped down hard on his foot while smiling serenely, that would explain his pained and shocked look directly after.

"We received a Quidditch set, didn't we?" Viktor asked his wife.

Hermione looked momentarily unsure, and glanced at Luna, who answered. "Fourteen brooms from Germany and an heirloom set of balls and bats from Austria. You're good to go."

"Well, we've had a bit of everything else the festival has to offer," Hermione's father said. "We'll definitely be there."

And then there was a round of general appreciation for Hermione at the coronation festival, which she then redirected to Augusta, Narcissa, and Ginny, who all demurred in their own way, and all looked quite pleased underneath it all.

"My team," Harry said when there was again a lull at the table, "after dinner, and after we get our shirts charmed, let's have a quick strategy session in the White Salon, right?"

"My team, same thing, Purple Salon," Viktor said.

"For those who wish to hear stories of difficult times," Fleur's voice chimed out in the quiet, and Harry instantly wondered what she was talking about. "An hour after dinner ends, join me in the Blue Salon, please."

Still, he didn't have long to wonder, as conversation quickly resumed his mind flitted away, as was its wont, from difficult topics. But this time the table wasn't full of just quiet, personal side conversations like before. It was crazy, wonderful, and across the table, too. Harry loved it.

---

Luna was an absolute treat to speak with. Madam Andromeda Tonks was somewhat more difficult. It was a little like speaking with one of the adult neighbors, someone who would be friendly with his mother, Dudley thought. When he'd asked her the obvious conversation starter - so, how do you know Hermione and Viktor? - the answer, even as it came in stages, was not something he knew how to work with.

"We fought in the war together."

And then after a few nibbles of fish, "I suppose I'm now something like an aunt to Her Majesty, through the House of Black."

And then as Dudley tried to figure out something intelligent to say, "She was quite friendly with my daughter and son-in-law."

That, he could respond to!

"Oh, are they here?" he asked with a smile.

"No, Mr. Dursley. They died in the Final Battle."

"Oh, gosh. Right. Sorry," he burbled. Right! War! There was a war! Come on, get with it, D! God! What personal questions are safe? Shit! Had she used the past tense just now? Shit! She used the past tense! I should have known! Shit!

"Not at all," Madam Tonks murmured, and returned to her salmon.

And that was that for conversation in the fish course.

Dudley was so relieved when the chicken was served to turn back to Luna.

"I just love Peking Duck, don't you?" she asked.

Dudley did a double take at his plate. Right. So, not chicken, then. Got it. "Never tried it before," he replied gamely. Food from countries outside of Italy, France, Spain and America were not foreign dishes his father was ever willing to eat, and even Indian Takeaway was a revelation at Uni, but then, so many things were.

"Oh, you're in for a treat," Luna said, and then she launched into a fascinating story about the first time she'd ever eaten it, travelling with her father, whom Dudley already knew to be dead, so no foot-in-mouth there.

Dudley was about to say something, something complementary about her father, perhaps, who sounded like a cross between a saint and a comedian, but that's when Harry proposed his plan for a pick up Quidditch match, which frankly sounded like a fantastic idea. D knew Harry could play, and some vague details about him playing for his house team at some point, and then Dudley grinned as very nearly everyone joined Viktor's team instead of Harry's. Well, except Viktor's father.

D listened in rapt amazement as the event came together and he was certainly planning to be out in the stands come eight in the morning. When general conversation began again, Dudley piped up, still turning blissfully to his left.

"So, do you do sports commentary as well as everything else? Goodness!" he exclaimed with a smile.

She smiled back at him and it was serene. "I'm on a rotation at school this year. Last year was, alas, a loss for good Quidditch commentary."

Draco, who sat across from her, seemed to have trouble with his food and started coughing, and really, even D recognized a level of understatement not usually found in conversation.

"Right, but you are brilliant at it, Luna," said his cousin's wife Ginny, who was sitting next to Draco and apparently ignoring his coughing fit. "You make us all sound good up there, no matter what."

"Oh, you're on one of the teams at school, at… at Hogwarts, then?" Dudley asked, slightly embarrassed for stumbling over the name of the school. It was a word that was forbidden at home.

"Yes," the red-head said with a smile that was sort of an all-purpose smile and made Dudley wonder if perhaps something was off for her tonight, or something. The feeling of offness was fleeting however and gone by the time she continued speaking. "I'm seeker for Gryffindor."

"She's Captain for Gryffindor," Harry added, then turned to Luna. "What did you say this dish was called? This is great. I wonder if the twins can make this."

"Yes, but have you caught the recruiter's eye?" Draco asked, and yes, of course Dudley thought, there was no University - professional players must be recruited right out of school.

"No," the red-head said placidly, preparing another pancake with two slices of duck, several pieces of scallion and a bit of the brown sauce that was really not Brown Sauce. "But I've decided not to be upset about it. Gives me more time to focus on business, you know? Quidditch is fun, but if I can't play at that level, best to let it go now, you know? Being third string forever somewhere would just make me unhappy, because I know I'd want more than that."

"You're better in business," Luna said in a dreamy voice and Dudley just listened to the by-play as he ate what was, frankly, an amazing course. There wasn't a huge amount of it, but then again, it was the third course in how many he had no idea. Still, he listened as Luna continued. "You'll meet more challenge and more opportunity to exercise your creativity in business, than in Quidditch. More opportunity to grow in really healthy ways. Business will look good on you, Ginny."

"It already does," Draco pointed out.

"You've been utterly brilliant, Gin, you really have," Harry agreed. "I wouldn't have known the first place to start, and you just… managed it all."

"George has been advising me, and plenty of sixth and seventh years were keen for pocket money, so that made it all quite a bit easier."

"And still, it could have been an utter trainwreck, had you managed it badly," Draco pointed out gently. "I'd be curious to know what your net was when all is tallied."

There was a pause for a general moment of eating excellent food before Ginny responded.

"I'm taking the day after tomorrow off, and then after that I'll be sorting out order fulfillment and I'm really glad that three of my seventh year workers are coming back for that for three days, then another two days for sorting out the books. Yeah, I should be done sometime next week, but I'll let you know. I'm curious, as well."

"Well, on the 3rd I'm off to Burgundy to show this one around and see if he might take to becoming a vintner," Draco said, nodding at him, and D grinned back.

"I wish I could come," Luna said, filling a pancake with Peking Goodness, "but I do have so many interviews to edit, and by then I'll have even more."

Dudley watched Draco smirk, and then squash it. "When do you suppose Hermione is going to actually start reading the paper again? There's one or two things from this morning that she might have missed. Suppose she'll catch up?"

Luna giggled and Dudley wondered what he had missed. Of course he had the newspaper delivered, but he'd also just popped it into his bag and instead watched the Queen of Magic open her gifts which included, among other things, a box of snakes and a Chimera egg.

Thank God Mum had just gotten Waterford.

But definitely. Paper. Maybe he'd read it over before he went to bed tonight - probably no late night drinking with mermaids and centaurs tonight, and that was just as well, because wow that had really taken it out of him; he'd been stiff and somewhat achey all day, even with paracetamol.

"Um, I didn't read the paper either," Harry pointed out, and D was grateful it wasn't only him.

"Yup, me neither. What'd we miss, Luna?" Ginny asked.

"Oh, you know, a variety of announcements, blatant hatred from the Prophet editorial staff, the usual round of excellent advertisements, some fair Quidditch coverage from yesterday's exhibition game-"

"No, Luna," Ginny interrupted. "From your newspapers."

"Oh! That. Well, I just started running some abridged versions of interviews I had last night, you know, just what I could get to press with two hours work. I did need to sleep last night. Well, this morning. A bit."

Ginny gave Luna a look that Dudley was fairly certain he wasn't, as a man, supposed to see. It seemed like some silent feminine equivalent of a high-five.

"Anyway, the unabridged versions, with greater commentary, will be in the Quibbler and I'm really looking forward to the balance of voices I've managed to get throughout the Festival. It's really been an amazing opportunity, so many different people so perfectly congregated, and from so many walks of life. It's a dream opportunity, really."

"So, wait. It's just some interviews?" Harry asked.

Draco chuckled into his wine.

"Well, it's not like Luna's last name is Skeeter," Ginny said, referencing something totally foreign. "I'm sure there's no cause to worry."

"Oh, none at all," Luna added quickly. "Really, it's just doors of opportunity waiting to be opened."

"Yeah, I'm totally lost. I'll just read the paper tonight," Harry said.

"Start with the Chinese Ambassador's interview," Draco suggested.

Chinese Ambassador. Not where Dudley would have expected the conversation to go, but okay. He would have thought maybe someone important, like Queen Elizabeth, or the Prime Minister of Avalon or something. But… interesting things probably happened in China. It was a huge country. Bound to be interesting things there. So, the interview would probably be really interesting, kind of like everything else so far.

Dudley, totally content, just listened in quiet as his cousin and his cousin's friends talked and soon enough the fowl course was finished and vegetables graced his plate. They looked fantastic with the cheese sauce dribbled artistically over them.

---

Elizabeth watched with passing interest as the formal nature of the dinner went to hell in a handbasket. Her hostess seemed to take this, at least, with complete equanimity and Elizabeth was glad that it would not be a further cause for stress for the young queen. Following the new form, she spoke to her son, seated across the table.

"I say, Charles, what do you make of the line up for tomorrow's informal Quidditch match?"

He smiled and finished his mouthful of cheesy vegetable, which was rather cheating, putting creamed cheese on vegetables. Still, it was wonderful, and she wasn't complaining.

"Well, without the young children it might have been a very different game. It seems like they may provide a buffer for the... higher levels of play we saw earlier today. Now, there's a thought." He turned to Hermione. "How would you say professional Quidditch compares to what is played in school?"

After only a brief pause, Hermione responded. "I'm no expert, but generally it seems like school is a bit of a mish-mosh and you might get moments of well, sort of elite play, but it still can be quite hit or miss, you know? And then on the professional level you get much longer stretches of elite play without ever really reaching or maintaining perfection for long." Here she grinned. "Well, except Viktor, and a few others like him, of course. But even that can only last for so long, even if it is years. I understand Chimera, the Inferi keeper is another one of those super elite players who just exist on another level. But to return to your question, Quidditch at Hogwarts is still utterly brutal, and Harry was younger than Tommy and Negash when he first played for Gryffindor. Though normally you do have to be a second year to play."

Eager to engage the people on her right, Elizabeth included the Grangers in their conversation.

"Dr. Granger," she said, addressing Hermione's mother, "and are you a sporting woman, or did Hermione get her preference for books from your side?"

Helen Granger laughed just a bit and smiled. "No, she got that from her father, though neither of us is particularly coordinated outside of surgery. I stick to distance running. Team sport was never a strength of mine."

"I tried running once," Dr. William Granger added with a self-depreciating smile. "I found it to be an entirely dreadful activity. Gave it a solid go. Trained and everything. Ran a race, got a medal. Never again."

Charles chuckled and then the cross-table conversation was firmly engaged and Elizabeth could sit back and enjoy her cheesy vegetables and observe, a sport she had elevated to an art form. And what she noticed, really, was that this was the merriest group of fifty-some-odd people she'd ever witnessed. And these were the people who were nearest and dearest to Hermione and Viktor's hearts.

Elizabeth indulged herself in a moment of memory.

The time she had been able to formally meet Viktor Pendragon, nee Krum, had been just yesterday and only moments before his wedding and there had been no opportunity for any sort of conversation, and besides, the poor boy was about to wed, and then do heavy magic in the seating ritual and there was no point in cluttering up his mind with other things. But she got a chance to sit down and talk with him just earlier in the day, as they waited for the play to begin. The words were neither here nor there, of course, polite nothings, but she was able to take his measure all the same, and he seemed a very good young man, and not the sort where the gloss and shine is covering shadowy corners with dreadful secrets. If she wasn't very much mistaken, he was just as Hermione had described him, and that brought Elizabeth a bit of relief. Not that there was much she could do about it if it wasn't the case, but oh, to be crossed in love was a hard thing. It made everything more difficult, more painful.

No, what she hoped for Hermione was that she had found not just someone to love, but someone who could be a true partner, someone with whom life would be easier. To love and be loved was good, but it brought with it drama and pain and anguish if each one hadn't decided, or simply wasn't capable, of being a true partner to the other. True partners still created a bit of drama, of course, and there were always growing pains, but they also made easy the difficult, and put within the reach the previously unattainable.

Love made you the sum of your parts, Elizabeth thought. Partnership made you so much more.

And then she was jogged out of her thoughts and pulled back into conversation, but it was a pleasant and beautifully flowing conversation all throughout the cheese sauce vegetable course.

---

Narcissa Malfoy and Father Michael Fielding were an island of conversation in a sea of people speaking to others. Harry Potter was on her right and William Granger on her left and each were utterly engrossed with other people. It had been this way since the beginning of the fowl course, and now they were beginning on their filet mignon on a small bed of decadent mashed potatoes and while the plate was quite small it was excellently presented and perfectly cooked. She knew Viktor had planned the meal itself, and he was clearly quite good at it.

Still, Narcissa was resigned to her conversational partner. Which was to say that the part of herself involved with self-regulation was posting periodic warnings about the foolishness of paying so very much attention to the Rev. Fielding, and reminding her that she was still in mourning and that it would be utterly disastrous to attempt to initiate a liaison this weekend and then still expect to be able to face him at any point in the future.

Of course, there was another part of Narcissa that very badly wished to bed him as immediately as possible and for as long as she could convince him, without benefit of potion or artifice, to remain.

She was not, however, a woman of whim. Nor was she a slave to her base urges, unlike her deceased husband, and wasn't that just something she'd grown to loathe about Lucius?

No. She had mastered this last night, and she would do so again tonight. And for the present she would not ignore him, as he might take it the wrong way entirely and as an indication that she wasn't interested in anything, ever, which was plainly not the case. She would speak with him.

But not too much.

Oh, this was agonizing. And as a planner of the table, it was entirely her own fault.

And so Narcissa was resigned, and mentally went through the lists of safe subjects about which to speak, attempting to find a nuance they had not yet covered. She tried not to think about the next three courses, and instead let them fend for themselves.

The beef course brought its own worries.

---

The salad course came, properly in Viktor's mind, at the end of the meal just before the desert courses and the salad course found his end of the table in utter melee. It was, once one embraced the madness, quite glorious.

There was an argument going on at present between no fewer than ten people in no fewer than four languages. Viktor had lost track of what the argument was about. His friends were all in the thick of it, even the ones who had never met each other before this weekend - his childhood friends were mixing well with his friends from Durmstrang, and his friends from the Vultures, and with Fleur and Bill. The conversation at present seemed to be about Russian authors and whether or not they were inspired in their despondency or just dull as dishwater.

Mikhail was holding forth on their utter brilliance and Fleur was holding her own in a mixture of Russian and French with surprising eloquence as concerned their deadly dullness.

His parents and his cousin seemed to be on Fleur's side, but everyone else, including Bill, was siding with Mikhail, and Viktor wondered if that was out of some misplaced loyalty or if they actually liked Dostoyevsky.

Viktor grinned around his mouthful of greens as Fleur passionately held forth, gesturing at this point with both hands and, if he wasn't mistaken, using a bit of her Veela heritage to sway the opposition.

He refused to take sides, even though each side beckoned him to do so, and had done back when the conversation seemed to be about the best Quidditch team, and before that, when the conversation was about the weather, and more particularly, the pros and cons of deep winter of the sort he was unlikely to experience in Wales. No, Viktor considered to himself. There was no need to take sides, not when everyone was so lively and amusing without him. He was entirely content, enjoying his dinner and the liveliness and vibrancy of the conversation at his end of the table.

All this, and he got to gently rest his eyes on his wife, admittedly very far away, but with a sightline totally unhindered by a tall centerpiece or anyone else's head.

It wasn't the dinner he'd planned, but it was turning out well despite everything.

---

It was, in some ways, a huge relief that all decorum broke down entirely, Reitta considered. Not that her conversational partners were dull, by any means. A non-wizarding solicitor on her right, a rather humorous red-headed brother to her left, it was shaping up to be a perfectly unexceptional dinner, despite the fact that her little muscle-bound, dragon-taming stud was seated across from her for dinner, teasing her with his pretty eyes through the first three courses.

Not that he was hers per se. Just a manner of speech, really. Though even through the first three courses, if his eyes were anything to go by, he certainly wanted a replay tonight.

But he was a man. Men were, by and large, dogs, and very fond of a sure thing. And to be utterly frank, Reitta was not yet certain if she was going to be Charlie Weasley's sure thing this weekend. Yes, yesterday was fantastic. Utterly fantastic, if she was being honest.

Really quite completely fantastic.

But that didn't mean tonight would be. He was probably just making an effort last night, and tonight, if she took him up on his offer, tonight he'd probably be one and and done, and that might have been okay, before. Before last night. But her bar had just recently been raised. Not entirely. But a bit. And what she really wanted was to be rogered senseless into the night and on until morning, but was that realistic? Really? Just because it had happened once, and recently at that?

And then all sense of decorum broke down and her little dragon stud was inquiring directly about her family and Reitta found herself talking about her mother, her sisters, what Christmas and New Years had been like before she started working for Her. And his bedroom eyes shifted, somehow, but not in a bad way. But perhaps in a dangerous way. They were soft and beautiful and perhaps no less beckoning for being no longer overtly sexual. But even more dangerous than sex, they seemed to offer something else, something more, something Reitta flatly refused to define, even in the privacy of her own mind.

Do not get your hopes up, Henrietta Pembroke, she counselled herself sternly. You have slipped quite efficiently into a quiet and industrious middle age and you do not need a hot piece of hormones complicating your quite tidy existence.

She held strong all the way until he started eating mashed potatoes. How anyone could make eating steak and mashed potatoes sexy, Reitta wasn't sure. But her little stud could. By the time the sweet pudding showed up, all her previous determination to do anything but disappear behind closed doors with him after dinner had all but evaporated.

It wasn't quite that Reitta ate the creme brulee in a mindless fashion. She was quite rudely staring without speaking at him, as he stared without speaking at her, but their table companions were all off having other conversations. It was more that she was currently imagining licking the creme brulee off his torso that was the issue at hand. And she was fairly certain that they were on the same page, in that regard.

They finished the sweet pudding at roughly the same time and just stared at each other, both ignoring the final course of pears and cheese, both counting the minutes before dinner would finish and their hosts would rise so they could bugger off and go do something else.

Namely, each other.

---

Molly Weasley was having something of a rude awakening.

It had been a long time in coming.

It wasn't beginning now, per se. It had begun a week or so ago in a smaller way, when she had been corresponding with Hermione and then moreso with Ginny, and then in a rather larger way shortly after she had arrived yesterday.

The thing of it was, if Molly Weasely had a bit of a blind spot, it was for her youngest son. She wasn't sure why he was so different. She loved all of her children, really she did. But somehow, without realizing quite what had happened, she accidentally loved her youngest son most of all, and of course the terrible trouble with such a thing, she only realized well and truly far too late, was that she was less strict with him and more accepting… well, of many things. And as it turned out, some of her boys required more watching and some less, but he needed it most of all, and he got it least of all.

And this past summer Molly was so pleased to think that Ron might actually settle down with Hermione, even before all of this regent business. Hermione was a bit headstrong, but then so Molly had been, and while they had their disagreements, it just seemed so obvious, so clear that Hermione would be such a good influence on Ron.

And when he started getting courting letters from virtual strangers, Molly went into hysterics such that Ron promised to lock them away and not answer them until he and Hermione had sorted themselves out.

And then he had admitted that they weren't actually courting.

"Oh, come on, Mum. She's a bit much sometimes. You don't get to see that side of her, but I certainly do," he had pointed out, being perhaps slightly more reasonable than Molly was used to seeing from her favorite son.

Ron had never seen fit to tell his mother the outcome of their decision at the end of the summer, though it was clear enough in September with Hermione and Viktor in the news so often, and then the announcement of their engagement… and by Narcissa Malfoy of all people.

But she dutifully invited her to Christmas at the Burrow. How could she not? She was like family, and she and Ron were still close friends and Harry and Ginny would come too, and Bill and his new wife, and Charlie would be home. Of course, Hermione would be welcome to bring a friend, if that's what needed to happen, and that was clear, if between the lines. She'd never been hugely fond of Mr. Viktor I'm-So-Wonderful-At-Quidditch Krum, but she would feed him if he showed up, certainly.

But then Molly had received an icily polite refusal from Hermione, citing her own house guests to attend to, and it was all quite shocking and later on Molly had come to realize there were quite a few things that she had assumed about the situation, but at first blush, at the time she had been so angry…

She wrote a very regrettable note to her daughter. It was… perhaps not well thought out.

And Molly received a rather eye-opening reply that came in the form of a howler.

"Don't you DARE attempt to tell me what you think you know is true when you truly know NOTHING. Ron has ALWAYS been your favorite and you've had BLINDERS ON CONCERNING HIS BEHAVIOR FOR YEARS. Well, we've all grown up now and our true colors show on a regular basis, and you know what Mum? Your sixth child is a total shit sometimes, and it's mostly directed at Hermione. He's rude, selfish, and neither Harry nor Hermione are friends with him any longer! When you decide to OPEN YOUR EYES concerning Ronald Bilius Weasley, feel free to write to me again, and until then KINDLY KEEP YOUR UNINFORMED OPINIONS AND FAULTY JUDGMENTS TO YOURSELF! Hi, Dad, love you."

And she'd had a quiet, tearful conversation with Arthur on the subject.

And then come Christmas break she'd had a firm and difficult conversation with Ron on the subject. She didn't go so far as to admit her favoritism, but they did discuss how she had spoiled him, how some rules didn't apply to him, and he acknowledged that he could see it, too. And she was clear: no more. If he had questions, she would answer, she would help, but henceforth, she would expect the same gentlemanly behavior from him as from his older brothers, and he would be in the same level of hot water should it not appear.

And then they discussed Auror training and getting a part-time job to support himself while he stayed in the barracks come July.

Yesterday morning when they'd all arrived Molly had a chance to observe him for just a few essential minutes when he wasn't thinking. She was stunned at how shallow and frivolous he really was.

Molly herself took one look at the giant Pendragon estate and all the purported house elves and what she saw was Responsibility in large, flaming letters. Responsibility and More Responsibility. One only had upwards of fifty house elves when one a) had intense use for them and b) had enough magical output to safely support them all.

Pendragon was an Ancient and Resurrected house, it would need to be self-sufficient very soon in the current political climate if Hermione hoped to be a force for good in any small way, and it was apparently also the natural human liaison with the Centaurs and the Merfolk, who were, collectively, almost as tricky to deal with as the Goblins.

Responsibility and More Responsibility.

All Ron could see was the loss of his own personal Quidditch pitch and the power to make people play for him, of having elves tend to his every whim, of having power and privilege for his own amusement and leisure.

Leisure, Molly was certain, was a thing Hermione was not well acquainted with, and having this estate and the immense Responsibility it represented wasn't going to help her much.

She had said nothing at the time, but had been considering many things. She'd spent the early afternoon brewing off her guilt - how could she bear to enjoy herself at a concert at a time like this? Even Celestina Warbeck? There would be other times, other concerts - or there wouldn't, and that would be her loss.

How could she have been so blind?

This is what Molly Weasley contemplated as she ate her pears and cheese and conversed politely with the young muggle couple to one side, leaving, for now, the hypervigilance for her youngest son to the other side.

---

It was prearranged between them; when the plates of the last course disappeared, they would end their conversations as quickly as they could and look to each other. When they were both ready, they would stand together, thank the assembly, point out that brandy would be served in each of the salons, and excuse themselves to retire for the evening.

Except of course that Viktor now had a Quidditch meeting. It would not take long, of that he was very clear.

The dishes had disappeared.

They ended their conversations.

After a moment, they rose together, and very quickly everyone else followed.

Hermione had just thanked all the assembled.

"You will find brandy in each of the salons for those who wish to linger," he said.

"And now, please excuse me. I will retire for the evening," she said, still looking at him.

"I will accompany you," he added, his voice carrying the roughly fifty meters between them. As he began walking around the table, he added, "My team gathers in thirty minutes."

At length, he reached her end of the table and her end of the room and when he drew close to her, it was like the magnets she had demonstrated to him; an ever-increasing, irresistible pull. Well within her personal space he offered his open palm to her and she slipped her hand in his. She didn't smile, but her eyes were soft. Everyone was watching of course, and Viktor had no intention of being anything but perfectly correct and polite, but this close to her the desire he felt was palpable; he had dispensed with the Gentleman's Charm sometime mid-morning and he suspected that something about the ley line magic disrupted it anyway.

His eyes held hers as he bowed ever-so-slightly, and brought the back of her hand to his lips. Oh, how he wanted her.

Viktor tucked her hand into his elbow and as they turned and walked away from the table and toward the grand staircase, conversation started again and others were free to linger or drift into a salon or up to bed as they chose. They were silent as they walked and only the press of her fingers on his arm was an indication of how she felt. A little he could write off to reflexive action. This much pressure was clearly intentional, not that he needed further impetus at this point. The few precious hours they'd shared in the Roman Bath today felt like ages ago, and it wasn't enough. It was ridiculous to think that they could just spend six weeks in bed as Mory had implied they ought to do, but right now the thought was so attractive that Viktor couldn't bear to think of it at all, because he knew it was impossible. She had school for one, besides other responsibilities.

They climbed the stairs at a sedate pace and Viktor took deep breaths, holding on the inhale and the exhale both, attempting to calm himself the old fashioned way. Focusing on his breath, and thus less on Hermione and how utterly desperate he was to be inside of her, to hear her sigh and gasp was helpful, for as long as his focus lasted. Happily their suite was at the top of the stairs.

Viktor had barely shut the main door to the suite before he found himself pushed up against it, arms full of his wife who was apparently feeling as amorous as he was.

"Cancel the charm," she gasped, pausing in kissing his neck above the collar.

"I'm not using it," he growled, moving his hands lower to grab her hips and pull her in close so she could feel him.

She gasped and he could feel the curve of her smile against his neck.

"We've got twenty-five minutes for round one. Is that going to be a problem?" she asked, her hands at his waist, unfastening his belt.

"No problem," he confirmed, inching her dress up her hips with his fingers. "I've wanted to fuck you in this dress since you first wore it. The urge has not abated since then," he said as he continued to crumple the sides of her long black dress in his hands.

Belt conquered, buttons open she half shoved his trousers down and started pumping his cock in one of her hands while the other cradled his balls. "I'm so wet. Viktor I'm so wet it's crazy. I know we usually start off soft but please, please can we start hard?"

Viktor almost choked on his saliva and with the remaining blood in his brain spun them around and pressed her to the door. He'd managed to get her dress up to her hips and leaned in to grab her firmly and so hoist her up.

"Climb me," he ordered her and suddenly her arms were tight around his shoulders and her legs clung to his hips. He pinned her to the door and as he went to shove her underwear aside his fingers slipped through her wetness and he throbbed with longing. He groaned and lined himself up, notching the head of his cock at her entrance with ease, as if he had been already doing it for years.

"Yes, yes, please, yes," she was chanting in his ear.

But he paused.

"Hard? You're sure?" he asked, his voice almost cracking.

"Please-please-please-please-hard-so-hard-please-"

Viktor took several deep breaths, almost hyperventilating, muscles shifting, his stance widening. He moved one hand behind her head to cushion it, but it was palm to the solid wooden door so he could also use it as leverage. He was trying to be more aware, hyper aware of her so that he had even the smallest chance of lasting longer this first time.

"-so hard, Viktor, hard as you can, please, hard as you can-"

He did not modulate his pace. He was not tentative. From the first he slammed his hips into her as hard as he could get leverage to do so.

It was so good.

He didn't care about his arms straining, or the punishment inflicted on his back muscles.

It felt so good. She felt so good. And it was like coming home, from the first thrust inside of her. And to be able to just lose himself in a hard, fast fuck… well that was yet another dream come true.

Well, not quite lost. Not if he wanted to last.

It wasn't quite so deep as other positions they'd tried, but the leverage was very good indeed. And from the first his growling yell, entirely unintentionally, consisted entirely of the oft-repeated word fuck.

When she came, she screamed, and just as he was about ready to perhaps join her, and then, blissfully, be able to slow down and sit down both, that was when she begged him not to stop, begged him to go harder.

She had done that once before and the realization of it jolted Viktor so profoundly that it staved off his orgasm.

No.

No.

They had twenty-five minutes. Ten of which was likely already gone, if not more. This was not a good time for multiple orgasms. Almost any time was a good time for multiple orgasms, except for now.

Fuck. He needed to get her off fast, and hard, and right now.

"Switch!" he gasped and staggered over to the bed. "Off! On your knees!"

"Oh, thank God," she said, also on a gasp as she kneeled on the bed just at the edge, folding her legs up underneath her. "So hard, please, so hard," she murmured.

Viktor lined himself back up and slammed back inside, instantly overwhelmed all over again by the heat and the pressure and the slick wetness and her gasping cries for more. He gripped her hips tightly and knew that if he could manage to say something, anything remotely coherent it would help but he wasn't sure he could. Still. He tried.

"Beautiful. So beautiful. Wanted you... all day. Wanted you... everywhere."

She came again, but begged for it even harder, which while not presently possible, certainly got the point across that she was not yet done.

As Viktor tried to comply, and slowly felt himself unravelling at the seams, he only realized belatedly that he was chanting the word fuck over and over, gasping it. A thought chased across his mind; he was holding her too hard. He shifted his hold on her hips, but some tiny part of his brain registered that she would have bruises in the shape of his fingers.

By the time he came Hermione was chanting for more that she wasn't, presently, going to get, and he himself was shaking.

He lasted standing for the length of a single deep inhale after he came, and then his knees gave out. He had released Hermione, thankfully, and just gave up once he hit the floor. It wasn't so bad down here, anyway. Stone was a bit hard. And a bit cold. But very clean, at least.

Viktor groaned.

"You okay?" Hermione asked and as Viktor could see out of his peripheral vision, she had rearranged herself on the bed.

He was fine. Or he would be at some point in the near future. And she looked great. Was that fair? Viktor wasn't sure it was fair. When they took polyjuice potion she'd see how utterly draining a really good orgasm was for a man.

"Viktor?" she prompted, and he realized he must not have answered out loud.

"Mm." Also, holding her up and having really rough sex? Somewhat more exhausting than the same with gentle sex. It was a good thing he was on vacation. Possibly their sex life could constitute on-vacation cross-training.

If he didn't stretch at some point soon his back was going to be screaming at him in the morning.

She checked her watch, which just reminded him of stamina drills. Dear God, woman, hadn't he just proven himself? He wasn't doing it again. Not any time soon. It was possible he'd lay on the floor for the next hour.

"Three minutes before you have to go, Viktor."

"Go?" his voice was a croak, like he'd been yelling. Had he been yelling? He had no memory of that.

"Your Quidditch meeting?" she was grinning at him.

"Fuck Quidditch," he groaned. "I'm on vacation."

She hopped off the bed, laughing, possibly at him, and with all the energy in the world. Totally unfair.

"Not the Inferi. Your pick-up game against Harry in the morning. Two and a half minutes. Come on, I'll help you get dressed."

Viktor's groan came from the innermost part of his being.

"Why did I agree to that?" he asked slowly. "At eight A.M. I should still be in bed with you." Still, he lifted his hips and quietly let her pull his trousers back up and tuck his shirt in before she fastened everything she had unfastened only minutes before.

"My guess? Because you genuinely like Quidditch, and as much as you get along well with my brother and best friend, you are as competitive as the day is long and you want to prove yourself better than him. Just a stab in the dark, there. Good for you, I genuinely don't like Quidditch and I already know you're the better seeker by a long shot. I'm just going in order to perve on you while you fly. It's the one time I get to stare at you for hours in public and no one thinks it strange. There you go. All tucked back and ready to go."

Viktor did a little crunch and saw that she'd rebuttoned his tuxedo jacket as well. He let his head sink gently back to the stone floor, which was getting a bit hard. May as well get up.

Still he groaned. And then rolled over and pushed himself off the floor. Oh, it was hard to get up.

"I hate Quidditch," he groaned, hands on his knees, bent over. But he was on his feet, at least.

"No, you don't," she countered and he could hear her smiling.

"I do right now," he said, straightening up and then cracking his back.

He turned and she was there, looking radiant and thoroughly tumbled. Still, the circlet she wore on her forehead kept her hair from being too mussed, which reminded him. Cleaning spell.

He closed his eyes and concentrated and at least erased the scent of sex. He quite liked it, but not as a cologne for a meeting.

She leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth and Viktor wrapped his arms around her.

"Don't be too long, okay?" she asked.

Viktor nodded. "Order a snack for us for two in the morning, yes? And will you have an elf deliver one of my undershirts to my mother for transfiguring?"

"Done," she said before kissing him again.

He tore himself away and took the opportunity of a calm walk down the stairs to finish regulating his breathing before walking into the Purple Salon and his waiting friends.

---

"We will crush them," Natasha said, clearly shaking her head at the shame of it all.

It was obvious.

It was clear.

It was inevitable, and Natasha laid out her rationale for the whole room.

Their beaters were the red headed brothers, and had played for years together that way.

Their chasers were the three friends from Vratsa who had grown up together and chased all their days away together.

Their seeker was the best in the world.

And if their keeper was a displaced seeker? What did it matter?

"There is only one tactic they could take which would undermine us," Viktor warned, looking around his team which was too full of hubris for his liking.

He outlined his concerns, but only Ginny seemed to take him at all seriously, which was a very bad sign indeed, as her husband was the mastermind of the other team. And if he understood the situation correctly, he would be the only opponent he'd ever played who knew his strategy.

Hermione had said she'd shown Ginny and Harry his first courting letter to her, to have it translated for her. And that was the only one in which he sought to amuse her by sharing his strategy. It would be just his luck that Harry would remember at least the gist of his words.

For a brief moment, perhaps twenty seconds, Viktor cared. His competitive nature at the fore, he cared and it bothered him that his friends weren't taking him seriously and strategizing around the complex situation in which they found themselves. This, of course, was the problem with a team that wasn't cohesive, that wasn't truly a team.

Which meant that either he sucked as a captain, or he cared far more about going back up stairs and spending the rest of the night and wee morning hours with his wife than trying to convince his childhood friends that Harry Potter was, in fact, 'a crafty mofo' (Ginny's words) and would use every advantage.

Viktor decided to believe it was because he wanted sex more than he wanted to win and adjourned the meeting before the arguments began in earnest.

---

Harry was smiling in the White Salon after dinner.

"We're going to win, and here's why," he said. And then said, "Negash! Catch!" and chucked the liberated quaffle at his head.

He caught it.

"Tommy! Catch!"

It hit him in the nose.

Gregor checked the nose, declared it unbroken, and ruffled the young man's hair.

"Right. Fleur, I need you on goal. Gregor and George, you good to be beaters? Excellent. They'll expect me to take the seeker's position, but we're not going to win if its me versus Viktor. But we will win if it's Viktor... versus Tommy."

"Uh…" said Tommy, looking worried. He also looked the very picture of childhood innocence and goodness and kindness.

"And that is exactly the sort of look you're going to give Viktor, my little friend," Harry said with great satisfaction in his voice.

Gregor burst out laughing.

"You are devious, Potter," Draco drawled with possibly just a shade of envy in his voice.

Harry grinned at him.

"Negash, you're going to play chaser with me and Draco, and unless I'm mistaken, it'll be Ginny on goal and it's not her strong suit. But her brothers will be the beaters and work together, and Viktor's three friends look like they've been chasers as a team since the beginning of time," and here he looked to Gregor for confirmation, and the older man nodded once. "So this is how we're going to play it…"

---

Draco had left the door to his suite just slightly ajar so that Luna could join him if and when she desired to do so. Of course, he hadn't just gone and left it open. Even here, that smacked of rampant foolishness. I'll Leave The Door Ajar For You. It was a specialized locking spell and one of the twelve seduction spells his father had sat him down and taught him at sixteen, despite the insanity of their lives. Fully half of them he would never use, not now that Luna was firmly a part of his life.

He had been edging toward the realization that all the dark artifacts had to go and that all the dark spells ought to be forgotten, but there was something somehow reassuring that they were still there in the background, just in case.

But no more.

Saying yes to Luna had also been taking a firm and decisive step away from the darkness, as firm and decisive as he could manage, even more so than his growing friendship with Hermione.

He surveyed the space he had to work with. It was a nice suite, if a bit plain and a bit bare. Or taken from the proper perspective, it was decorated in the ancient style. Hermione and Viktor had given it to him for his use whenever he stayed with them and had invited him to redecorate it in whichever way he wished.

Draco had to check with his mother on that one to make sure that he could, in fact, take that at pure face value. The last time he checked, redecorating bits and pieces of your host's home was the height of rudeness - it implied they were incompetent hosts. Even casting a spell for privacy or silence ought to be done with exceptional discretion, as your host really ought to have provided for that if it was needed.

Still, that would be something to sort out with Luna in the due course of time, as come summer it would be her home away from home as well.

Then again, come summer she would be the mistress of Malfoy Manor. They had no house in town, though they used to have one in Paris, that was generations ago, now. There was the Chateau in Champagne which was at the vineyard - the land in Burgundy holding only work buildings and a small cottage for the manager. Two country houses that needed to be swept of dark artifacts, two vineyards that needed quite a bit of work, and a rather tarnished name.

Duke or no, Draco was well aware he was no catch.

The holdings over the last four generations had dwindled until the vineyards and the Manor in Sussex were the only things the Malfoys held outright. Where the money had gone, the books were not entirely clear. Oh, certainly much had gone in the last twenty years to finance the efforts of the Idiot King, Draco's private name for Tom Riddle, post-war. But that didn't account for the terrible management of the previous hundred eighty years.

His plan for recovery was simple: Solidify his base; he would get the vineyards on a more solid footing and do his best to push the label, and perhaps attempt to break into the muggle wine world. Liquify assets; everything dark would be auctioned off, likewise everything garish and gaudy, though it would be two separate auctions and he would be happy to receive Luna's opinion on the second. Diversify his investments; investing only what he could afford to lose, primarily the income from the auctions, looking more toward long-term payoffs and possibly things that could open doors to further diversification, like investing in Ginny's entrepreneurial endeavors. And above all, cease stupid spending; his father bought the oddest things at a whim and Draco had begun to follow in his footsteps, but no more.

He'd already had a preliminary conversation with the Auctioneer his father had preferred and in truth the man was discretion personified. Mr. Fielding-Morris had suggested that due to controversy, they put out the word that it both was and was not the liquidation of all dark assets in the Malfoy's care, that way they could cast the widest net. He and mother would need to take roughly a month of afternoons to work with Fielding-Morris' assistants to catalogue the collection, and of course any items mother wished to get rid of, all the better. That might happen at soonest when Hogwarts was back in session, but it should not be, Draco thought, too much later than that.

Time would pass quickly, especially if Luna applied for his (Merlin help him) right to cohabitate with her between dinner and breakfast every day.

Oh, hell.

Returning to Hogwarts.

It was hard enough to summon up the energy to do it once, for that damnedable Yule Ball which had, at least, turned out to be not a total disaster. But every night? If she got a suite near Hermione's and he was allowed continued access through her floo, it might not be horrific, but if he had to come through the front entrance every time? He'd have to time it perfectly while everyone was still at dinner or risk replaying his nightmares in the hallways.

Draco sighed and ran a hand over his face before thinking again of the suite. He should talk with Luna, of course, but two desks, or perhaps a double one? ...No, perhaps not a double one. He just needed a discreet writing desk really, and he'd already noticed just how many documents she had to shuffle and how much space it required. A few owl stands would be useful of course. And for heaven's sake, a comfortable place to sit and read a book, or more particularly to canoodle with Luna would be appreciated.

Draco looked back into the bedroom. The bed was perfectly lovely, really. The walls could use some locked art, but there was plenty to shuffle around, and Luna would want a say in that.

He glanced in the dressing room. It was serviceable. The tub could be bigger and a second wardrobe wouldn't go amiss. One with a rack, and hangers.

The powder room… was not worth mentioning. He'd tried that early on with Potter and instead of commiseration, Draco got a lecture on the intense need for more composting in the world, not less.

Draco sighed again, but then smiled as the main door to the suite pushed itself open as a sweet voice said softly, "Knock, knock."

It was part of the spellwork. Only she could open it, but still, it was sweet of her to call out.

Luna was, Draco reflected, an incredibly sweet person.

She leaned against the door after she closed it, and her sigh was a great deal happier than any of his had been. "What a day!" she exclaimed and somehow everything and nothing was conveyed in her tone. Per usual, Draco was left perplexed by her simplicity and complexity both. She was just so expressive.

"Were the interviews good?" Draco asked, knowing that for Luna, this festival meant unparalleled opportunity and an incredible amount of work.

"They were fantastic!" she said, and as she did so, she was utterly radiant and Draco felt himself fall a little further in something with her. Not love. He didn't think. But… fascination, perhaps?

Luna twirled a little twirl of happiness, and then kept twirling, now moving across the room until Draco had the option to get out of the way, be struck down, or catch her.

"Hi," she said, grinning as he held her.

One eyebrow lifted of its own accord. "You certainly seem to have plenty of energy this evening, Miss Lovegood."

She grinned wider. "I do, don't I, your grace?"

He ignored it, her open invitation to discuss the silly nature of formal titles between them and instead asked a leading question of his own. "Have you much work left this evening?"

"No!" she exclaimed rather quietly, all things considered. "None! I am done for the evening!" And then she stared rather more intently into his eyes and in a softer tone, continued. "And there's nowhere I'd rather be but here with you."

He didn't smile. He wanted to, a bit, maybe, but their relationship was still too fragile, too tentative for that level of vulnerability just now. And just now he neatly forgot how often he had smiled last night, and again this morning... But just now he wanted to quite consciously, and moreso than he'd wanted before. Because he suspected that what she'd said wasn't just an expression with her. He suspected she was being utterly truthful. And if she was…

Instead of smiling, Draco watched her eyes, her happy, laughing, lovable grey eyes and leaned in slowly, finally breaking eye contact as he got so close to her that her eyes shut. He brushed his lips over her cheekbone on one side, greedily taking in her sigh of pleasure, the feel of her hands at the small of his back.

"Why do you want to marry me?" he whispered into her neck, and maybe now wasn't the time, and certainly he'd asked before now but he'd gotten the sense that she'd always censored her answers in the past.

And then Luna was pulling him across the room and grabbing up an animal rug from one side of the bed and putting it before the fire. She thanked it before she gracefully sat in a heap and pulled him down after her.

"Oof!" Draco exclaimed. But he wasn't hurt and now he had his head in her lap and with the warm fire it was… surprisingly nice. Even if she did thank the rug before sitting on it. Not something he'd ever considered doing.

"So, I usually code switch, you know? Because I've come to understand I see things other people can't, even magical people, and I see into people in a way that isn't obvious to others. I don't so much mind the ridicule, but when I can't be understood by others, then that does become a problem. So I learned. Code switch. Translate. And you've asked me this question before, and I've answered honestly, but I've also translated out of the way I see the world and into a way I thought might be more understandable for you. And I know that hasn't been very satisfying for you. But the thing is, Draco, if I answer without code switching, that might not be very satisfying for you either, as answers go."

Draco swallowed tightly and prepared himself for brutal honesty, and then engaged in a bit himself. "I want to know how you see the world, Luna," he whispered up to her even as her hand caressed his hair.

She smiled, and it reached her eyes easily. "The world I see is beautiful. And so are you."

And then she explained the concept of karma, the idea of past lives, and the concept of returning to non-duality.

"So," he said quietly, absorbing her beliefs and more than beliefs - what she could see that he couldn't. "You're saying you and I have known each other before."

"Yes, broadly. But really, everyone has. Everyone's known everyone. Everyone is everyone. And also, you and I have been orbiting each other for a very, very long time. Each time taking turns in… shall we say… disappointing one another."

Draco gave her a look that silently asked for clarification.

"Oh, you know, betrayal, murder, more gruesome things. But the bigger picture here is that we take turns. In one lifetime I'm the aggressor, in another it's you. And we're getting each other back for the lifetime before, but that just perpetuates the cycle even as we get generally less brutal as the generations pass.

"And the whole point is that it has to end somewhere. It always does. In this lifetime it would have been my turn to kill you, and it was when you imprisoned me, that's when I saw so clearly that it was karma - you were trying to head me off, unconsciously. And how could I be angry at you for that? Somewhere deep down you were terrified I was going to kill you in return for what you'd done to me last time, but I'd already made a decision a long while ago, no more murder. So regardless of whatever other karma we had, I refrained from killing you when I had the opportunity, and I refrained from hating you when the urge struck.

"But don't think you're special in this way. This is how it is with everyone. Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Viktor, my parents, your parents - we're all working out our karma, sometimes backsliding, if you will, building up even more destructive karma, and we've all come from even more violent cycles and lifetimes than even this one."

Draco looked at her and he knew his expression spoke volumes of how dubious he found that. "Even Hermione and Viktor? I've never met a sweeter or more doting couple."

Luna snorted and grinned. "And yet. If only you could see their karmic history. They've spent most of Time both loving and hating each other to the best of their ability. I won't share details, that wouldn't be right, but believe me, they've had their lifetimes of being far, far worse than Tom or any of his death eaters could have imagined being. But then the point is, we all have, if you look far enough back."

Draco nodded silently and thought about this for a while, staring into the fire. Finally he spoke. "So, you see all of this, all of the time."

"Mm, yes and no. Some of it I see even when I don't want to, or don't mean to. Some of it I see because I look deeply and ask, though I try not to do that just for curiosity's sake. That would be a terrible invasion of people's privacy, after all. But then most of us do wear our karma on our sleeves you know, not even making the barest attempt to rein in our emotional responses to other people."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, when you hate someone on sight? Or have a soft spot for someone for no apparent reason?"

"Some people just rub you the wrong way," Draco pointed out and then a moment later realized how defensive he sounded.

"And there's an excellent reason why," Luna replied plainly. "Because it's your turn to be the aggressor, or in the pleasanter way, because you have unfinished business with someone with a lifetime before and it's positive, which also happens. There's more to it than that. More detail. But you could spend a lifetime describing how it works and still only understand a small part of it. But the point of me telling you any of this is to lay a foundation for what I'm going to say next. Are you ready?"

Whenever Luna asked him if he was ready to hear something, Draco knew he needed to brace himself. When he thought he might be ready, he nodded his assent.

"I broke the negative karmic cycle between us when I was still in your basement. And if nothing else had ever happened between us, you and I would have walked away better and lighter people for it.

"But there was an opportunity there as well that only opened up when you later defected; you made a crucial decision in favor of goodness and light, and after you had done that you reinforced it with small decision after small decision - and the small ones are usually the most important you know - and I could see so clearly that there was unfinished business between us as well, and positive business at that. That means that not only could we positively affect one another, we could make waves and ripples in the world together that would help others. Not out of any particular effort, you understand, just by being ourselves. And because of that you would have a soft spot for me, and I would find you attractive, but of course it takes more than that. We would have to choose each other. Choose for ourselves, you know?"

Draco took a deep breath. "So…" he began, not really knowing what or how to say what might come next. "So, love was never the object. It's about karma and past lives."

She raised a single eyebrow, but didn't stop caressing his head. "Draco, love is always the object. And if the karma and past lives stuff muddies the waters, let it go and know these two things: First, that I don't hold the past against you at all, in any way, and second, that I see something in you that resonates with something in me. And that something tells me with perfect clarity that we could be good together."

She doesn't hold the past against me.

She knows we could be good together.

Love is always the object.

Draco took a deep breath and decided to be honest. "I want love to be the object," he whispered, and then leaned up and kissed her before she could say anything else.

---

Dudley had just heard an earful about the war that he could have never guessed from his new French friend, Fleur. It was… sort of hard to process, like, like watching a war film and thinking it was so fictionalized, and then as the credits rolled, reading the sort of fine print they sometimes put there and finding out that it was almost entirely true, and that it was only slightly censored because the truth was too horrible, too gory, too hard to believe to put in the movie.

Maybe it was a good thing it had been more than an hour since dinner. Maybe he wouldn't vomit it back up again.

Harry had been hunted. Captured. Died. Resuscitated. Hermione was tortured for information. Their friend, Neville, had run an underground school within the school. And then other names. So many individual people trying to win a war, but where was the Army? Special Forces?

Why were school children fighting a war for adults?

Why was the battleground a school, for God's sake?

Dudley thought of Smeltings. Of the seventh and sixth and fifth years at Smeltings. Of the teachers. And he tried to imagine them fighting siege warfare. Hand-to-hand combat. And to have some of the aggressors… be parents.

Parents.

He didn't realize he was crying. But he did realize he needed some air. He wouldn't go far, just inside the walls of the castle complex.

He walked in silence around the big Roman building with the red curtains, not feeling the cold, but liking the way the crispness of the air cleared his head. He walked through the curtains with half a thought to maybe sit in the greenhouse courtyard in the center, but found himself cutting through the communal toilet and vomitorium, which was convenient because that was the exact moment when every fiber of his being had had enough of the horror and the death and the horribleness, vicarious though the trauma had been.

He was, though he knew it not, the first person in a thousand years to use the vomitorium for it's proper purpose. Dudley was also, though he was entirely unaware of it on the first of January, the first person in a thousand years to have an orgy in a structure built for the purpose.