Draco had, at best, mixed feelings towards his bedroom at Malfoy Manor. He'd lived there all his life, except when he was at Hogwarts, and it had grown up along with him. He couldn't remember the earliest decor, but photographs provided glimpses of its evolution from a nursery into the masculine suite he now occupied.

In the oldest photos, his parents were the most interesting subject, since he himself was a mere bundle. He once asked Nitta why he wore a cap in all his baby pictures and was dismayed to learn he was bald. But the photos with his parents made up for it: Mother was positively angelic—the most beautiful woman in the world—and Father was plainly enamoured with his son and heir.

One picture showed him in his cot, an elaborate Malfoy heirloom crafted from silver birch. The date was inscribed in his mother's elegant hand—August 5, 1981—and the reason for the photograph was clear: a soft toy puffskein floated above him as he slept. It was his first known instance of accidental magic, and Mother still wore the bracelet Father gave her to celebrate.

His toddler photos revealed a dragon-themed decor. In one mortifying picture, which he hid when friends visited, Draco wore a dragon romper suit, complete with cape and hood. Another photo showed him riding the toy dragon that Teddy now enjoyed; it flew perhaps a foot above the floor, and Narcissa watched over her son. Her glance occasionally flitted towards the camera, held by Lucius, and she looked at him lovingly.

Years later, when the Dark Lord returned, Draco often looked at that photo for reassurance his mother hadn't always been so angry. After Aunt Bella and the other escaped prisoners moved in, Narcissa's expression became a permanent mask, which strangers might mistake for hauteur. But Draco knew it was fury, and it only softened when she looked at her son.

When Draco was seven, his cousin Llewellyn Rosier said dragons were for babies, which prompted a Quidditch-themed overhaul. Slytherin Quidditch, of course, since no professional team was free from 'undesirables,' as Father called them. At bedtime he told Draco stories about his own years as Keeper, with the hint that he could have played professionally if that weren't beneath him.

Draco somehow got the idea that the problem wasn't Father's social status but his position as Keeper. After all, even the best Keeper lets through any number of goals. But Seekers are the real Quidditch heroes, Draco decided, and he resolved not only to play for Slytherin but also the Appleby Arrows, then his favourite team.

The Quidditch decor remained until his first term at Hogwarts. It might have lasted longer, but his anger over Potter's talent prompted a change before he returned for the Christmas holidays. His mother oversaw it, of course, but Draco also detected his father's hand, since the theme was 'scholarship.' A new bookcase appeared, full of supplemental texts for his courses, and educational prints covered the walls. At first glance they were simply decorative—magical plants and animals, or scenes from wizarding history—but they were also dead accurate.

The message was clear: You need to be the best. Or, more bluntly: Beat the Mudblood. Father was livid when Granger earned the year's top marks, and Draco's summer was filled with tutors. And also Quidditch—he was expected to excel in all areas, yet Potter's astonishing talent proved a challenge. Lucius therefore engaged a retired league Seeker to whip Draco into shape, and the results were decidedly mixed.

Alistair Wood had played Seeker for the Magpies when Lucius was a boy, and he led them to multiple league cups. But this was followed by several years with the Cannons, where he set the British record for most catches in a season without a win. After he retired, no team wanted him as a coach—for fear of the 'curse'—but he was a sought-after private trainer, and Father said Draco was lucky to have him.

Draco disagreed. Wood considered aerial tricks less important than tedious mind-training methods, which didn't suit Draco at all. Furthermore, Wood was unimpressed by the family pedigree, and by the end of their first lesson he'd dubbed his pupil 'Sir Whinge-a-Lot.' Draco wanted Father to sack him, but Wood had required full payment in advance, which meant Draco was stuck with him all summer. He managed to learn a few tricks, but it was far from the triumph Father had envisioned.

As Draco grew older, his father gave him books about the Dark Arts. For a year it was only theory, and practice without a wand. Not because of the restriction on underage magic—Draco was free to use magic whenever he liked. But Father said it was important to train one's emotions before combining them with magic: 'You'll never achieve greatness without a strong foundation,' he said, and it went without saying that Draco would be great.

Above all he was to train his pride. 'Lesser wizards use jealousy,' Father had said. But who could a Malfoy possibly envy? 'No one is more envied than we are,' he declared. 'Use that.'

During school breaks, Draco was required to spend an hour a day cultivating pride. I'm Draco Malfoy, he repeated inwardly. Heir to House Malfoy, and presumed heir to House Black. My father is the richest and most influential wizard in Britain, and my mother the most admired witch. No one is my equal, and the wizarding world will one day answer to me.

There was just one problem: he didn't entirely believe it. No matter how many times he told himself he was without equal, he couldn't shake the idea that Harry Potter might be important as well. He survived the Killing Curse. He's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows who he is, but I'm just Lucius Malfoy's son. Draco spent countless hours in his bedroom wallowing in Dark thoughts, and the room seemed to darken along with them.

Father gauged his progress with a specially charmed orb, which revealed whether his thoughts were sufficiently uniform. But the golden light of pride was clouded with smoke, and Lucius urged him to try harder. 'No one is your equal,' he scolded. 'By Salazar, you're an only child! There's no one more important to your mother and me than you.'

That was the narrative that finally worked. My parents are the most important people in Britain, and I'm who they cherish the most. Potter could defeat a dozen Dark Lords, but he'd still be an unloved orphan, with no one to shower him with affection. Draco, by contrast, knew with perfect confidence his parents would always put him first.

Until the Dark Lord returned. Draco knew his father still supported the Dark Lord, but he didn't realise what that would entail now that Voldemort was back. Prior to that summer, Father had never left the dinner table early—he and Mother always lingered over tea or a glass of port. But twice during Draco's first week home, Lucius jerked in his seat, shot a glance at Narcissa, then excused himself in haste. He even cancelled plans with Draco—they were to attend an Arrows match, but Father was called away at the last moment, so Draco invited Theo instead. It was a thrill to go to the match by themselves, without an adult, but they both knew the reason. And neither of them mentioned it.

Lucius made it up to him by accelerating his Dark Arts training. Normally Draco would have spent the summer on basic charms, but Father taught him a half-dozen curses—none of them Unforgivable. 'There are countless ways to repel an enemy,' Lucius would say. 'Only a fool casts Unforgivables, unless they know they're above the law.'

Draco never practised curses in his bedroom; Father told him this was a cardinal rule, since a wizard's bedroom is sacred. 'That's where magic is born,' he once said, and Draco couldn't conceal his horror. One night after too much wine, Lucius told him what would happen on his seventeenth birthday. 'I wish I could bring you there sooner, but your mother would never forgive me. And besides, it's a tradition.'

By sixth year, his room felt confining. Father was in Azkaban, and Aunt Bella, who was living at the Manor, frequently ambushed him in the corridors. 'Oh, did widdle Dwaco get scared?' she'd say, after slicing his cheek with a curse. The wounds were easily healed and never left a mark, but he was convinced she made them extra painful. He therefore kept to his room as much as possible, to avoid her and the other resident Death Eaters.

But there was no avoiding the Dark Lord. Draco could ward his room against the others—and he did—but his Dark Mark gave Voldemort access. Only once did the Dark Lord surprise him there, and the memory still filled Draco with shame. He was sleeping, and he woke with a start to find the Dark Lord standing by the open window, watching him. He wasn't within reach, but with magic that meant nothing, and Draco felt vulnerable under his thin summer bedding.

'You're very special,' the Dark Lord began. 'Wizarding royalty, really. A Malfoy and a Black.'

'Yes, my Lord,' Draco replied, trying to mask his terror.

'I'm counting on you,' he continued. 'It will require remarkable cunning to finish Albus Dumbledore. Some people say you can't do it. Bella says you're just a scared little boy, and Snape expressed doubts as well. And your mother thinks I've only given you the task to punish Lucius for failing to retrieve the prophecy.'

'She is mistaken, my Lord,' said Draco, mostly believing it. 'I have every intention of fulfilling your wishes.'

'I'm pleased to hear it,' said Voldemort, whose face was hidden by darkness. 'People underestimate you, same as they did with me. For completely different reasons, of course, but the result is the same. It makes us stronger. More determined.' He began to approach the bed, and Draco tensed. 'And both of us, chosen by fate. We share a rival, after all.'

At first Draco thought he meant Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord laughed. 'No, fool—the other one,' he said, and the words struck Draco like lightning.

Potter, he thought, and a breeze rippled over him. But he didn't know how to reply. Father had told him always to be humble before their lord, but he couldn't suppress his pride—not where Potter was concerned. 'He's beneath both of us,' said Draco. 'He has no talent. Only luck.'

'Luck is a kind of talent. You were lucky in your birth, after all,' said Voldemort, a sneer in his voice. 'But you're right, that's all he has. Luck, and Albus Dumbledore. And without the latter, he won't have the former—he'll just be the worthless boy you've seen. So remember that as you carry out my task.'

He vanished from the room without a sound, leaving Draco in turmoil. Until then, he wanted to kill Dumbledore only because he'd been ordered to, and to protect his family. But now, the thought of exposing Potter as a weak and useless puppet ... it was positively delicious. Confident the Dark Lord wouldn't return that night, Draco let his thoughts and hands wander, with just enough anchoring thoughts of Pansy. But deep down he knew the real source of his arousal.

It wasn't that he desired Harry; during a Slytherin rite of passage, he'd confirmed that wizards weren't really his type. But Potter was the sole fly in the ointment where his pride was concerned, and a diminished rival meant Draco was the best after all. He imagined standing over a cringing, wandless Potter: 'Admit you're nothing,' Draco would say. 'Admit you're useless.'

For the months that followed, that was the emotion behind Draco's Dark magic. 'I'm everything, and Potter is nothing,' he repeated inwardly, and he achieved proficiency at last. Even Dolohov praised his curses, which he was forced to practise either on animals or whichever follower their lord was punishing that night. Voldemort never gave praise himself, but his lack of visible scorn was the next best thing.

It all fell apart, however, that year at Hogwarts. Draco had expected to finish off Dumbledore during the autumn term, thereby making up for Father's failure. But the Headmaster was surprisingly hard to kill, and Draco's overly-complicated schemes drew jeers from Aunt Bella when he came home at Yule. 'You know, he's expecting you to fail,' she taunted in the corridor one night. 'And then he'll torture your precious Mummy and Daddy. Or make them do things ... unspeakable things. There are people who'd watch, you know.'

To make matters worse, Potter came into his own that year. Draco had been prepared to dominate his longtime rival, but Potter was more cocky than ever. He was Quidditch captain and had a gaggle of new admirers, and even Professor Slughorn fawned over him. Worst of all, he barged in while Draco was blubbering to Moaning Myrtle and bested him in a duel. Here Draco had practised Dark magic for years, and Potter nearly killed him on the first try.

By the end of that year, Draco was a wreck. He no longer considered his task an honour—he was clearly being punished for Father's mistakes. And even though he managed to repair the Vanishing Cabinet and admit Death Eaters to Hogwarts, his failure to kill Dumbledore left him more confused than ever. Why couldn't I do it? he asked himself repeatedly that summer. With the Dark Mark he'd crossed the point of no return, but if he lacked the stomach for murder, where did that leave him? Father had killed for his Master ... why couldn't he?

At least Lucius was home from Azkaban, and he took Draco on his promised trip to Pratt's. But their normal life was shattered—Father was a shadow of his former self, and the Manor was overrun completely by the Dark Lord's minions. Draco's bedroom was a refuge, as was his parents' suite, but otherwise they were prisoners in their own house. If they were lucky they only had to hear the screams of their master's victims, and if they were unlucky they had to watch.

He hoped Hogwarts would be an escape, but it wasn't. The Carrows forced him to practise Dark curses, and he learnt the hard way that if he showed restraint his parents would pay the price. Draco prayed his mother would convince Father to move to France, but Lucius was intractable. 'It'll all be fine once Potter is dead,' he told them repeatedly. 'The war in Britain will be over, and the Dark Lord will go abroad—I have his word.'

Draco's next chance came during the Easter holidays, when Snatchers brought in Potter and his mates. Just identify him, his mind screamed, as he looked at Potter's grotesquely swollen face. There was no mistaking those eyes or that hair, and with a word the Malfoys would be redeemed. But something stopped him. 'I don't know,' he said, rejoining Mother by the fireplace. He never asked whether she knew he was lying, but he liked to believe she did—otherwise his betrayal might be too much to bear.

He soon went back to school, and he didn't return home until well after the final battle. All three of them were arrested at Hogwarts and taken into custody—Draco and Narcissa to the Ministry, and Lucius straight to Azkaban. Mother was released after only a few days, since she didn't have the Mark, but Draco remained in a Ministry cell until after his trial, nearly a month later. He was facing life in Azkaban for allowing Death Eaters into Hogwarts, for using the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta, and for nearly killing Katie Bell and Ron Weasley. But Potter's testimony meant he only got two years of house arrest, and a wrung-out Draco returned to the family seat.

'You should redecorate,' said Mother one morning over breakfast, and thus was born the current iteration of his bedroom. At first he was indifferent, but she insisted he look at fabric samples. 'This is your one chance to choose,' she said. 'In the past, I made all the selections, and in the future it'll be your wife. But you know your own mind, I'm sure, and you should have what you want.' There was no need to add, 'Because you're stuck here for the next two years.'

He was pleased with the result, and visits from his favourite filles de joie supplied pleasant memories. But those were overshadowed by late, lonely nights of drinking, brooding, and more drinking. He often postponed sleep until the not-so-wee hours, fearing more nightmares, and when bad dreams awoke him, he took to pacing. He had bouts of relying on Dreamless Sleep Potion, but apparently dreams served some mental function that even magic couldn't replicate, and if Draco took the potion too often he had waking nightmares, which were infinitely worse.

During his only session with Doctor Niffler, she told him that just lying there peacefully without sleeping provided a surprising amount of rest, and he nearly laughed. I can't lie there peacefully, he thought, thanks to his prodigious ability to dwell. His sole mental discipline was to stick to a schedule: on Mondays and Thursdays he blamed Father, Tuesdays and Fridays he blamed Voldemort, and on Wednesdays and at the weekend he blamed Potter. But there was no restriction on blaming himself, which he did most often.

'I should have just identified him,' was a common refrain, although he suspected that would have backfired. Even if Voldemort had been summoned, Potter's uncanny good luck would surely have saved him. It's his one talent, thought Draco, recalling the Dark Lord's words. But tragically it wasn't—Potter was maddeningly good at Quidditch, which ruined Draco's favourite distraction the second summer of his house arrest.

He'd have done anything to practise the Dark Arts, but Potter had ruined that as well. Long, painful nights were dedicated to 'what ifs' involving the Elder Wand, ignoring the part where the Dark Lord would have killed him for it. But with a properly-functioning wand, Draco could distract himself with magic, as opposed to struggling like Neville Longbottom, or worse.

Thus went his first year of house arrest. His sole accomplishment was to learn Legilimency, but otherwise it was a wretched waste of time. He knew his friends only visited out of pity, and he feared they'd grow bored and move on. Mother warned him that whinging was considered tedious, but Draco had little else to contribute to the conversation, so whinging it was. In that respect, Potter's change of career was a godsend, since his friends seemed amused by Draco's commentary. He assumed that's why they wanted to listen to Weasley's Wizard Wireless with him—Draco's scathing remarks drew laughs from the two witches, and he was pleased with his own wit.

Only in hindsight did he realise they were there to protect him. He should have known it when Potter sent his Patronus—Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy were already there, and Theo turned up minutes later, clearly to see if he was all right. Draco had been stunned to hear George Weasley suggest sending Prongs to Malfoy Manor, and even though Potter protested, Draco could tell it was all an act. This was revenge, pure and simple, and a deliberate attempt at dominance.

'He has no manners at all,' Pansy sneered. 'And no wonder, considering where he grew up! I'm sure the Prophet will print something tomorrow about how inappropriate that was.'

She and Blaise stayed later than usual that night, and they even escorted him to his room in an unsubtle attempt to curtail his drinking. But he had Firewhisky up there as well—a private chat with the decorator and an additional pouch of Galleons had got him a concealed drinks cabinet, which Cronk kept stocked. And he drank until he no longer heard Potter's voice in his ears or saw the stag's glowing form.

Several weeks later came the news that Potter wanted to make amends, and a new obsession was born: How do I punish him? For days he combed his memory for possible weak points. Dumbledore? Ginny Weasley? Cedric Diggory? But how to do it? He had no desire to see Diggory's dead body on the study floor, nor anyone else's, but he hadn't forgotten his old fantasy of making Potter cringe.

The idea to recreate the Veil of Death literally came to him in a dream. It wasn't his usual nightmare of torture and Fiendfyre, but more of a pastiche about his father. Somehow his mind conflated Lucius with Sirius Black, and Dementors escorted him through an archway to his doom. The next morning he recalled Father's description of the Veil of Death, and he knew exactly what to do.

Watching Potter collapse into sobs was as satisfying as he'd hoped. To see the Saviour of the Wizarding World fall to pieces proved what Draco already knew: there was nothing special about him. He might be famous and newly rich, and even a Light wizard, but he was just as fucked up as Draco was. Not only that, he'd come crawling to Malfoy Manor to get Mother's approval—and his own. I can exploit this, he thought, and he looked forward to writing to Father about it.

And when Potter offered him his old wand back, no strings attached, Draco couldn't believe it. What an idiot! he thought, overcome by his own superiority. Which made it all the more shocking when his Dark Mark caught fire. At first the pain was horrific, but once the smoke cleared he was simply in shock. How did he do that? Draco wondered. Mother had brought in multiple experts, all of whom said his Mark couldn't be removed. Yet Harry Potter, who barely knew his arse from a cauldron, did it purely on instinct.

And now, unbelievably, they were mates. Best mates, even—Draco didn't count Weasley or Granger, whom Potter seemed to keep around mainly out of habit. Whereas he and Harry were business partners, political allies, and even accomplices where women were concerned. No one was surprised anymore to see them together at Pratt's, and they exchanged letters by house-elf nearly every day. It was usually some form of taunt, like when Draco sent Harry an advert he'd clipped from a Muggle weekly, featuring an excessively muscular man wearing a leather harness. 'Your next endorsement?' he wrote, with no other message. Harry replied with a leaflet entitled 'Hippogriff Safety Tips,' with an additional tip written by hand: 'Try not to be a bellend for once in your sodding life.'

Harry's taunts occasionally irked him, but they were nothing to the letters he received in care of the Prophet. They'd printed two of his articles so far, and more than a few readers were angry about it. He surprised his editor, however, by asking to read all his post, including Howler transcripts. 'What's the use of being reviled if I can't enjoy the attention?' he said, providing several large envelopes that could pass through the Manor's wards.

Such an envelope arrived that morning, and Draco read his post over breakfast. But he must have been scowling, because Mother said, 'Draco, why must you read that? And at the table, of all places!'

'Because I'd rather know the truth,' he said, not looking up from his post. 'Really, if Isabella Dovecote of East Anglia thinks I'm a spoilt monster who belongs in Azkaban, isn't it better I know about it?'

'No, it isn't. You've paid your debt to society, and you don't need to hear that.'

'Mother, you're wrong. Harry paid my debt to society. Oh, blast—I should really thank him one of these days.'

'You never thanked him!' she gasped.

'No. I wasn't ready at first, so he said I could wait. But I suppose it slipped my mind.'

She glared at him and said, 'I sometimes wonder if I'm giving etiquette lessons to the right person.'

'I thought you were done.'

'We're done with dancing lessons, but he still sends me the occasional question. Which invariably makes me wish he'd study penmanship, but all in good time.'

'He's like the son you never had,' said Draco dryly. 'How splendid for you.'

'Don't tell me you're jealous. Really, I thought you were past this.'

'I am, Mother. I'm merely testy after reading three letters in a row saying I'm not fit to associate with him. And this one accused me of Imperiusing him,' he said, indicating one of the Howler transcripts. 'Do you think it would help if I wrote back and explained how he ruined my wand?'

Her irritated sniff conveyed she was done with that line of discussion. 'Can I still count on you for dinner tonight with Andromeda?'

'I already said I would come. Although I don't see why you need me, since there's already four at the table.'

'Teddy doesn't count,' she said sharply. 'And you know I'm uneasy about meeting him.'

'Surely you're not afraid of werewolves! After all the time Father spent getting us used to them?'

'Draco, that's enough.'

'But it's Thursday, so everything's his fault. And I was terribly polite when I saw him yesterday—I didn't laugh once when he tried getting me to nick some of Harry's blood and bring it to his contact in Gibraltar.'

Narcissa closed her eyes and rubbed the space between her brows. After a silence, she said, 'Did he really say that?'

Draco remembered too late he didn't normally tell her about Father's schemes. 'No,' he lied. 'And I'm sorry I alarmed you—it was just a bad joke.'

'A very bad joke,' she said, refilling her teacup. 'And read those letters elsewhere—I don't want them at the table.'

He put them back into the envelope and pretended to read the Prophet, but he felt awful. As much as he chafed against Mother's attentions, he knew he'd be lost without her. She'd always doted on him, and unlike Father, she never burdened him with heavy expectations. He was to behave like a proper wizard and work hard in school, but otherwise she didn't pressure him as Father did.

Ironically, this made him more afraid of disappointing her. He cared less and less about Father's opinion, given his own grave failures, but letting down Mother never got easier. During his house arrest, Draco went to great pains to hide his drinking from her. She knew he drank, of course, but there was a vast gulf between aristocratic indulgence and black-out intoxication, which gradually became his norm.

He became an expert at brewing hangover potions, even without a decent wand, and Nitta dutifully hid the circles under his eyes. But a misdirected parcel from Ogden's distillery revealed just how much whisky he was ordering on the sly, and Mother's disappointment was worse than any scolding. He actually abstained for nearly a month afterwards, which was torture even with anti-withdrawal potions. But then the Prophet announced that Harry Potter had joined the Cannons, and old Ogden's became necessary again.

Draco's other source of comfort was the visit from a fille de joie every fortnight, which was laughably infrequent for an eighteen-year-old trapped at home. But even he couldn't justify asking for more, since house-calls were brutally expensive. Father had at least given him access to the fabled Malfoy erotica collection, which occupied the intervals, but Draco longed for the day he could marry and have his fill.

His thoughts drifted to Vicki that morning over breakfast. Strictly speaking, they drifted towards her all the time, but his musings had different themes, and during meals they were largely culinary. She'd exposed him to foods he'd never previously tried—or even heard of—and he was embarrassed by how much he liked them. 'Prawn cocktail Quavers?' he said dubiously when she placed a new snack into the trolley.

'Yes, you'll love them. Now where are the Hula Hoops?'

'But what are they?' he asked, still studying the picture on the bag. 'They just look like ... shapes.'

'They're puffed potatoes. And I doubt there's anything like them where you come from.'

'You'd be surprised—we also have highly original snack foods. They're just different, and nothing's wrapped in plastic,' he said, looking at the shelves with disdain.

'I wish I could see it,' said Vicki forlornly. 'If only it were safe.'

She fully believed that one false move would somehow trap her in Faerie, never to see her family again, which Draco didn't contradict. But Merlin, he wished he could show her more! She'd been thrilled by the few glimpses she'd had, like the time his suede shoes repelled water. Draco had forgotten they were charmed, and Vicki panicked when they got spattered with champagne. 'No, it's fine,' he said without thinking, and she watched in fascination as the liquid turned into mist.

'How is that possible?' she stammered. 'I understand how it might bead, if you'd sprayed it with protectant, but it just ... disappeared.'

'That's just how things work in my world—it's no big deal. But come on, champagne.'

She was thus distracted, but the next morning he spied her sprinkling water onto his shoes again, and he didn't interrupt her. He found it enchanting, in fact, and began thinking of ways to sneak in more magic. But he had to be subtle—she was terrified of faerie food, which all the legends warned about, and she might even worry he was trying to trap her. He also enjoyed their relationship far too much to endanger it.

Normally he'd have joined her for dinner that night, but it was rare for Mother to demand his presence, so he didn't dare refuse. Fortunately, he would see Vicki afterwards—he'd given her a mobile to facilitate scheduling, and they had plans to meet at her residence hall and go together to the flat. He'd made the acquaintance some of her friends, and he rather enjoyed his air of mystery.

He spent the day more or less as usual, which only barely resembled his days during house arrest. He was still obsessed with Quidditch, but now he had a mission, which made his hobby feel productive rather than sad. Cronk had unearthed a trunk full of old Quidditch magazines in the attic, and Draco was slowly reading through them, in search of inspiration. They were delightfully obscure, and he'd already found several topics for future articles.

Next he ate lunch at Pratt's; he went there nearly every day, and he felt increasingly at ease with the younger set. He still scorned them for sitting out the war, and they seemed to pity him for coming so close to Azkaban, which rankled horribly. But they admired how he'd handled Potter. 'I couldn't say which of you is more ambitious, or who's using whom,' said Charles Selwyn, 'but you couldn't have chosen a surer path to restoring House Malfoy.'

'Has he said any more about investments?' asked Brandon Nott. He'd inherited a house close to ruin—worse even than the Blacks—and everyone knew he was desperate to rebuild.

'Malfoy's not talking,' said Selwyn. 'Clearly he and Potter are deep into some alliance—with the goblins as well—but little Draco never learnt how to share.'

Draco raised two fingers at him. 'You've never shared anything in your life, Selwyn.'

'Rubbish, I'm married. There's nothing I can call my own anymore, except my time here at Pratt's. Malfoy, take care not to fuck over Potter until after you turn twenty-one—you don't want to risk not getting invited to join.'

'I'm really not worried,' said Draco. 'There's been a Malfoy at Pratt's ever since it was founded. And besides, Potter's not on the membership committee.'

'No, but a few of the senior members of the Light faction are. And they want to keep him happy, since he's more of a Light wildcard. So postpone the inevitable backstabbing until you're a full-fledged member.'

Draco's only reply was a knowing look. Everyone expected him to betray Harry sooner or later, and more than one wizard had enquired about his plans. Desmond Travers seemed particularly eager for details, since he was in the odd position of loathing Harry but also wanting Marcus Waite to succeed. 'Just give me fair warning,' he said. 'I don't give a fig about Potter's wellbeing—he can rot in hell for all I care. But if my daughter is still with Waite I'll need to warn him.'

As with Selwyn, Draco told him nothing. Father had taught him to keep his own counsel, and never to reveal his entire plan. 'Even if you don't have one yet, make them believe you do. You're a Malfoy, which means they'll never underestimate you. So use that to your advantage.' Indeed, Draco hadn't fully worked out his plan regarding Harry, except that he hoped never to betray him.

Instead, he planned to exploit Harry's desire to fit into the elite. It was embarrassing, really, how much Potter wanted to reinvent himself as Sirius Black's son. He already had the 'tragic rebel' part down, but he still needed the indefinable air of refinement, which he could only acquire from someone like Draco. Furthermore, his goal of preventing the next war presented a huge opportunity, since Harry would do anything short of taking up the Dark Arts to stay on Draco's good side.

Other than that, Draco wasn't sure how he'd ultimately best his old rival, or whether he even wanted to. He wasn't actually interested in politics—all he wanted was to make money and restore House Malfoy, and the best opportunities would surely come through Potter. Admittedly Father wanted revenge, but Mother seemed genuinely fond of Harry, and Draco didn't want to upset her. And if he betrayed Harry, that might harm Mother's relationship with Aunt Dromeda, which even Draco could see she needed.

Mother was nervous before they left for dinner. 'What if he's just after Teddy's fortune?' she asked fretfully. 'It's practically common knowledge Harry gave him half the family vault ... why can't he be more discreet?'

'At least he announced there was hardly anything in it,' was Draco's drawling reply. He no longer drank to excess, but he'd started the evening with an apéritif, in case Andromeda didn't serve wine.

'That's not funny,' snapped Narcissa. 'And it might still be enough to attract an adventurer. She's an easy target, you know—she never learnt Mother's lesson about staying away from commoners.'

With that, they Flooed to her house, which Draco had never seen. It was small, which he'd anticipated, but surprisingly pleasant—particularly when Teddy ran up to him. 'Daco!' he cried, clamouring to be carried, and Draco hoisted him into his arms. Andromeda came forward as well, greeting her sister with a kiss while a tall, angular wizard stood back.

'And this is Simon,' she said, presenting him. Mother extended her hand and wore what Draco recognised as her 'cordial, bordering on warm' expression, which she maintained all though dinner. Draco admired but could never emulate her feather-light mode of interrogation—he'd been too thoroughly schooled in Father's more direct method.

Simon's tutelage of Harry was briefly discussed, but Mother seemed more interested in FLOOF. 'Just how many people like you does FLOOF serve?' she asked.

'They keep the numbers confidential, to protect werewolves not yet known to the Ministry.' Indicating his scars, he said, 'Not everyone has the choice to remain hidden, and some werewolves resent the ones who keep their status a secret. But I believe it's a personal decision, and I support FLOOF's commitment to privacy, even though it conceals just how large a population we serve.'

'Because of the war?' asked Narcissa.

'Yes. The aggressors were rampant, and largely unrestrained by the Ministry. They mostly attacked Muggles, which almost always results in death, but the sheer number of attacks left a solid handful of Muggle werewolves. And as you can imagine, they don't fit into either world.'

Draco didn't look at his mother, but he knew what she was thinking: We harboured them. During the war, the wood behind Malfoy Manor hosted an entire colony of werewolves, since the Dark Lord wanted them close at hand. Only a few were permitted in the house, but the others roamed the grounds, which Father insisted kept the family safe. 'Werewolves are a fact of life,' he said. 'You're better off keeping them on your side, and they need territory more than anything.'

The Manor was well concealed from Muggles, but the reverse wasn't true—there was a Muggle village scarcely a mile away, and a town beyond that. The family solicitor once sent Father a clipping from the local newspaper about a woman who'd been mysteriously mauled to death at the full moon. 'I'll take care of it,' said the accompanying note, 'but see if you can't control them better.'

'What happens to the Muggles who were turned?' asked Narcissa. 'Does FLOOF look after them?'

'As much as we can, under the circumstances. The good news is they're able to take Wolfsbane, but they also need help covering their tracks, so to speak. Confunding family members or employers to explain absences, for example—and a single Muggle werewolf requires significant support. We have no shortage of volunteers, of course, but not so many who are available during the full moon.' Indicating Andromeda, he said, 'This one wants to help, but she can't leave Teddy. At least not while he's so young.'

'No, of course not,' said Narcissa, and she gently changed the topic.

Draco saw little evidence that Simon was mercenary, but he still found it odd his aunt was dating someone like him. Then again, she'd married a Muggle-born and lived in a cottage, while Mother had married Father and lived in a manor. His own dalliance with Vicki seemed minor compared to Andromeda's defection—probably because he still intended to find a suitable bride.

He was not, however, in a hurry. His original plan was to identify a new potential wife during the winter social season, and take the edge off by shagging Vicki on the side. But he discovered he wasn't interested in anyone else, at least not in the near term, and he liked just dating casually. Indeed, it was a thrill to leave his aunt's house that night and go straight to Sheffield, informing Mother he'd be home the next morning.

He Apparated to a spot near Vicki's residence hall and entered the dreary Muggle building, whose sole virtue was that the common room included a bar. When he walked in he drew stares—he didn't know if it was his magic, his clothes, or his bearing, but he found the attention gratifying. 'Draco, over here!' called Vicki, waving him to her table.

He was struck once again by how much he fancied her, and he pulled her into a kiss, which she returned enthusiastically. The public display of affection thrilled him, not merely because it felt good, but because she was plainly marking him as her own. And why wouldn't she? he thought. No one here knows who I am, but I'm obviously special.

'I missed you, faerie-boy,' she whispered, and he put a finger to her lips.

'It's a secret, remember?'

'A brilliant secret,' she said, nibbling his ear. 'I swear, you even taste magical.'

He found a chair and sat down with her mates, several of whom he'd already met. 'Drago?' said one of the blokes. 'Like "Rocky IV?"'

'No, it's Draco,' said Vicki. 'Draco Black.'

'I can't get over that name,' said a girl whose name he'd forgotten. 'You sound like a Bond villain. In fact, Michelle and I are convinced that's what you really are—gap year my arse.'

Vicki looked at him appraisingly. 'Actually, that's not a bad guess—you do look like a Bond villain, particularly in those clothes. Go on, let's hear you say, "Mr Bond, prepare to die." And really posh it up.'

'That's not very much to work with,' he drawled, pleased that he knew who James Bond was. 'How about, "You've been a thorn in my side long enough, Mr Bond. Do you have any final requests, or shall I make it quick?"'

One of Vicki's mates shook his head. 'Fatal error,' he scoffed. 'The longer you talk, the more likely he'll get away.'

The conversation shifted to the dos and don'ts of being a Bond villain, and Draco fetched a beer. He didn't mind staying for a drink, even though it delayed their eventual shagging, since he got to paw her beneath the table. Admittedly he was silent for much of the conversation, which covered Muggle popular culture at lightning speed, and only Vicki's brief explanations kept him from losing the thread entirely.

'How on earth have you never heard of the Spice Girls?' asked one of Vicki's friends. 'I know—public school ponce. But didn't you at least wank to them?'

'No, Draco only wanked to fine art,' said Vicki. 'French ballerinas and the like.'

'That's alarmingly accurate,' he said, thinking of the Boudoir. 'And besides, I was saving myself for you.'

'For the Head Boy, more like,' said another one of her mates, and Vicki pelted him with peanut shells.

'And with that, we're leaving,' she said, taking Draco's hand. 'See you lot tomorrow.'

Jokes were made about their mysterious love nest, and soon Draco and Vicki were outside. 'Shall I ring a taxi?' he asked, looking at her platform-heeled shoes.

'No, we can walk. Unless I can persuade you to whisk me there somehow.'

'You know that's a bad idea,' he said, wishing desperately he could do it.

'Yes, I know. But god, sometimes it's hard being with a ... supernatural being and not getting to enjoy it.'

'I beg your pardon!' said Draco archly, not actually upset, and she laughed out loud.

'I'm sorry, that came out wrong. It's just that you get to see everything about my world, but all I get are the barest glimpses of yours.'

'Pass,' he said ominously.

'I know, I know. But there must be something you can show me. I survived my encounter with your shoes and that weird pocket watch of yours.'

His watch had multiple faces, depending on which hand you used to open it. At first she only saw the normal face, but she had another look while he was in the loo and discovered it could also show the precise phase of the moon, as required for brewing. Even worse, if she'd held down the button she'd have seen an uncannily immersive star chart, and he would have had to Obliviate her.

'Yes, you survived. But that doesn't mean we should keep taking chances,' he said, hating the lie. It was one thing to deceive her mates—they were just Muggles who didn't matter. But he actually cared about Vicki, and she'd entered a new category. She was still a Muggle, of course, but more than that somehow: she was also a person.

Harry would probably have cursed him if he knew Draco still saw Muggles as less than human. Typical half-blood, he thought, frustrated by Harry's alien perspective. I should make friends with Ron Weasley—I bet he'd understand.

'But maybe there's research,' she continued. 'Surely there's someone in your world who knows what's safe and what isn't.'

'Perhaps there is,' said Draco, resolving yet again to find more things he could show her.

They continued walking, and she asked, 'So, how's courtship going? Have you identified a suitable consort?'

'She wouldn't be my consort, just my wife. And no, I'm not courting anyone. For some reason I'm not interested.'

'Because you're busy slumming with a mundane?'

He paused to kiss her again, and when they pulled apart he said, 'This isn't slumming. This is freedom, and I can't get enough.'

They walked the rest of the way to the flat, stopping only to buy provisions. After putting their purchases away, Vicki tugged Draco's hand and led him to the bedroom. She opened the top drawer of the bureau, which was full of lingerie, and said, 'All right, faerie-boy, what's it going to be? I can wear something simple, or more complicated. Or shall I surprise you?'

Draco had long been a fan of lingerie, first on Pansy and then at the Boudoir. 'Surprise me,' he said, leering. 'But first, I have a surprise for you.'

'Not another gift!' she cried. 'Really, Draco, you need to stop!'

'It's not another gift, and I'm not going to stop. No—I thought of something I can show you.'

She was rifling through the drawer but turned to look at him with wide eyes. 'Magic, you mean?'

'Don't use that word, but yes. I thought of it in the shop, when I paid with my card.' He led her back to the lounge and pulled a quill and parchment from the writing desk, along with a bottle of ink. He opened the bottle, then flattened the parchment and set the quill next to it. 'I taught myself this during house arrest,' he said, curious how she'd react.

Vicki was rapt as he wandlessly hovered the quill, dipped it into the ink, and signed his name on the parchment. As an added show of trust, he wrote his full name, since she believed it gave her power over him. 'Oh, Draco!' she exclaimed. 'That was amazing! Can you only write your name, or could you write something else?'

'I've only done my name,' he said, pleased by her awed expression. 'It took weeks to learn, and it's not a very useful skill, but at least it won't put you at risk.'

'Would it work with a biro, or does it have to be a feather—I mean, a quill?'

'I never tried with a biro, but we could find out.' Vicki produced one from her handbag, and Draco tried hovering it. After some effort he got it to roll a little, but otherwise it was inert. 'No, I think it has to be a quill. That plastic is so ... lifeless.'

'Does that make a difference?' she asked, holding the quill to examine it.

His mouth curled into a smirk. 'Pass.'

'Oh, bother! You'll drive round the bend one of these days.' She tickled his neck with the quill, and he moaned with pleasure.

'You've driven me round the bend already. And I know exactly what I want you to wear.' They returned to the bedroom, and he selected a sheer lacy slip. She'd have been appalled if she'd known what it cost, but Draco delighted in her ignorance. She only wanted him—not Malfoy Manor and all the rest.

An hour later, the garment lay on the floor, and they were nestled together in bed. 'Why shouldn't I call it magic?' she asked, her voice lovely to his ears.

'Because someone might hear you,' he said. 'It has to stay secret.'

'Why? And who are you talking about anyway? Are people listening?'

'Not here in the flat. But my world has to stay secret, for both our sakes.'

She turned to face him, and her look of concern moved him deeply. 'Are you also at risk? They wouldn't send you to prison, would they?'

'No, don't worry about that. At most I'd have to pay a fine—I checked. But they might ...' He paused, knowing he was about to cross a threshold. 'They might erase your memory.'

He both heard and felt her sharp inhale. 'My entire memory!'

'God, no!' he blurted, clutching her. 'No, just the part about magic. And, well, me.'

She looked stricken. 'They'd make me forget you? Like, entirely?'

'Not entirely—they'd probably just erase the faerie part, and I'd just be some bloke you used to date but didn't fancy anymore.'

Vicki buried her face into his neck, and at first he couldn't hear what she said. 'And you wouldn't be able to stop them? What about your family? They're really important, right?'

'My father's in prison, and there are people who think I belong there too, including the head of law enforcement. Trust me—if we got caught, they'd stop me from ever seeing you again.'

She was silent, and he watched her closely, worried she'd decide to leave him. 'How would they alter my memory? Would they drug me or something? No, that can't be it—a drug could never be so precise.'

'It's not a drug. It's ... well, it's a bit like what I did with the quill, only a lot more complicated.'

'Like at the nightclub, when you read Harry's mind,' she murmured. Then she pulled back and said, 'Oh my god, you know how to do it too! You could erase my memory!'

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't—not in bed with her like this. 'I'd never do that to you,' he said, not adding, Unless there were no other choice.

'But how? Would you just stare at me fixedly until I got ... selective amnesia?'

Draco had already resolved never to show her his wand. It was a minor point, considering how much she already knew, but wands were what distinguished wizards amongst magical races, so that was the line he'd drawn. As long as she never learns about wands, I'm fine, he told himself.

'Pass,' he said with finality, and Vicki sighed in dismay.


Author's note:

Draco's Quidditch instructor, Alistair Wood, is the subject of '150 Points' by Empiricalis on AO3. It's a Quidditch-themed WIP depicting a very different version of the Chudley Cannons, and I recommend it highly.