To Have and To Hold

The first batch of girls arrived the next day, responding to the traditional first step call out to all the rich, eligible, purebred young witches populating the world. Those first dozen were a good mix, from as far as China, to as near as France. American, Russian, Welsh – a dozen every other day came in for the next two weeks to meet the patriarch hosting the pageant. Each girl, after being made up expertly to look their best (which, in some cases, was a very poor excuse) was sent individually to meet the patriarch. Lucius would look them over, inspecting for flaws and impurities – physical, of course. Age and personality-wise, he could care less, but reasonable beauty was a must. After the physical inspection had ended, he would observe their eating habits – how much they took in, how loudly, how apparently, etc. Did they use the correct utensil? Did she know which was which? All the things that were imperative to outings, dinnerparties and the like. The only thin Lucius checked for in the slightest relation to personality was their speech. No wife of a Malfoy must seem dominant, nor embarrassing to the spouse in any manner. Above all, however, she must not be barren.

And so, the parade continued, a mockery of love and marriage. It continued on through the end of summer holidays, into the school year. And still, a wife for the Malfoy scion was yet to be found.

In the end, the few that did make it through the Lucius interrogations were frightened off by Draco at the final meeting. Literally. One was so far into hysterics that when she exited Draco's warded room – sprinting – she was claimed to be heard yelling that she would not ever be "bound" by marriage, never for all the millions any could possibly offer.

Draco, of course, found it all very amusing, and when asked what, exactly, he was doing to those girls, his answer was a snort and an evasive reply. "No two encounters are ever the same." He smirked. "I make sure of that."

His godfather only shook his head and told him he'd be sure to warn him of his father's coming. "After all," He had added wryly, "It would be such a shame to see you die so young."

"Yes," Draco replied, "and without a single legitimate heir to succeed." A sharp glance was all he got from his godfather, but Draco wasn't worried, Anything his godfather suspected, even if he knew all his plans and thoughts – not one of them would ever pass his lips, of that he was sure. To Severus Snape, 'confidante' was literal.

"Hey, Drake!"

Draco gave an inward groan. It was on of his many hangeron's, the ones who hoped that his infamy and talent would rub off if they stuck to him long enough. This one, while not the worst, was definitely the most persistent. Draco had even fixed him with the never-fail get-lost glare, and still he returned, boomerang style. Okay, it was now the single-failed get-lost glare, but he would try to ignore that.

Blaise Zabini came trotting up, an asinine grin splitting his face. "Heya, Drake, how's the bridal procession going?" He winked cheekily as he slung an arm about Draco's shoulders. "Bet you meet a lotta hot spots that way. Y'think your dad could recommend that approach to my parents?"

Draco shrugged out of his hold and lifted an eyebrow noncommittally. To the people at Hogwarts, that was a maximum of expression.

Ever since his seventeenth birthday – the day his mother "disappeared" – Draco had begun to recline in the public eye. Every week he spoke less and less, and his verbal responses became more and more contrite. What was – where was – the point in excessive speech? Why bother if body language could compensate?

Eventually, the more silent he became, the more inward he looked. For the first time, he began to examine himself. Even now, a year and a half later, his search was still in progress. Some things he uncovered he liked, and some, not so much. Some things he wished he'd never discovered. Others frankly shocked him.

One of the more surprising memories he had uncovered was from his childhood. He had never fully recognized how distinctly different he was when he had been a child than when he "grew up." The differences were astonishing.

While walking through his soul one day, he stumbled upon this:

It was summer, bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. An eager little boy with a head of tossled gold hair raced ahead of his mother and father, stopping on one rise or another to smell a flower, then carefully pluck it and rush back to give it to his mother, meticulously holding it against his breast to shield them from the wind. His mother, a beautiful young, very young, lady, would laugh each time and tossle his hair or give him a hug or kiss.

Suddenly, his father rushed forward. If anything like that had happened at a later point in time, he would have bolted as far away as possible. But the little boy simply squealed in delight; his father had just tossed him high in the air and caught him, spinning around in a circle before collapsing among the wildflowers, gently swaying in the wind, the grass rippling, as green as an ocean is blue.

His mother clapped in delight, and suddenly the were picnicking, nary a care in the world. His mother wove a crown for herself and her son. The child tied and tore flowers haphazardly into a rickety circlet for his father, who laughed as it drooped disconnectedly over one eye. The child, all silent smiles until then, burst out into peals of laughter as mother and father both began to tickle him. All three laughed. Mother and Father kissed. They were a family.

Draco jolted back to the present as a long, spindly ruler smacked down on his desk.

"Master Malfoy," a dark voice came to his ear, "If you would be so kind as to oblige the class by moving to the blackboard, we would all be most gratified."

The fact that his godfather was singling him out during class was proof of his irritation at being forced to play matchmaker.

Automatically, Draco stood and walked to the blackboard, gratefully inhaling the familiar fumes of potions class. He wasn't quite sure whether his mask was all the way on or not.

Thinking back to what his subconscious had just recalled, he wondered if it were indeed a true memory, or simply a dream.

When was the last time he had laughed? Perhaps he had forgotten how.

Startled, he reached up to touch his cheek. Something wet was running down his face. Condensation? He wondered.

Whatever it was, he wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe, and forgot about it.