Author's Note: There seems to be some confusion about the title. It's a play on words. Draco's name is a constellation. I'm well aware of the difference between "constellation" and "consolation." You'll find the latter used within the fic.

"Let's start the bidding at twenty-five Galleons!" George Weasley boomed, pressing his wand to his throat. His voice echoed throughout the packed venue, bouncing off the gaudy red walls and the stained carpet, every bit the volume of an announcer in a football stadium.

Several paddles shot into the air. Everyone else covered their ears.

Beaming out at the crowd was none other than Oliver Wood. He straddled the center-stage stool, his gapped teeth shining brightly beneath the Spotlight Charm that glowed above him. Even from afar, Harry could make out a chip he'd earned during a Quidditch practice many moons ago.

George whistled lowly. "That's a lot of blokes for twenty-five . . . Think we have us a popular wizard here! Let me get thirty . . . Can I see thirty? Calling for thirty — Harry Potter, are you really not going to spend a Knut at your own charity auction? You cheap bastard, you!"

Harry awkwardly raised his paddle, suddenly remembering that he had made a promise to bid on Oliver. The idea of his old Quidditch Captain thinking Harry fancied him made Harry a bit queasy, but he did his best to let the feeling go. It was for a good cause, after all.

"Lots of takers for thirty! Not shocking with this room full of old-gold wankers . . . Let's see thirty-five! Can I get thirty-five?"

A few paddles lowered.

Hermione leaned towards Harry and whispered, "I can't believe how many people came this year. Harry, this is amazing!"

"It was all Padma, really," Harry said. "When I saw the signup parchments, I thought she'd Imperiused half of them."

Ron leaned towards them both, his champagne splashing dangerously around the rim of his glass.

"Was that a Malfoy joke?"

"Wasn't meant to be," Harry replied. "Suppose the shoe fits, though."

Ron snorted. "Couldn't believe he showed up here. To donate, sure, the bloke's got gold. But for auction? Now, that's taking the piss . . ."

"Fifty Galleons! Do I see fifty Galleons?" George gazed out into the crowd, shading his eyes with his hand. "Oi, that's too rich for your blood, Jenkins, you can't pay in misuse tickets . . . Ought to've gone two wizards ago, could've left with a date for just a Sickle!"

"Now, that was a Malfoy joke," Harry pointed out.

"He didn't even try to hide it!" groused Hermione. "That was beyond rude. Harry, you have to talk to him."

"I'll ask Padma to after the auction . . . Can you imagine, though? Malfoy and Jenkins? " Harry shuddered at the thought. "The smell alone . . ."

"Thanks for that picture . . ." Ron grumbled. He took a swig of champagne. "Bit sad how there wasn't even a single bid on him, though. And wasn't he was open for both witches and blokes? That'd be what, then? Nearly two-hundred people rejecting him?"

"Something like that," said Harry.

"Almost feel bad for the git . . ."

"Almost," Harry snickered.

"Yeah, I mean, he's still Malfoy. Was surprised he's not full-on gay, though. Y'know, he always had that thing with his hair . . ." Ron laughed into his glass. "To be fair, he could just be getting desperate. Not much market for inbred Death Eaters, maybe he had to expand his options a bit."

"That's not funny, Ron," scolded Hermione.

"You're right. It's not just funny, it's hilarious."

Harry's arm was going a bit numb from holding the paddle, but he was still grinning from ear-to-ear. There was no better show than Ron and Hermione bickering.

"In the Muggle world, that's called bisexual erasure and it's —"

"I've got two for fifty! Can I get fifty-five?" George called out. "Fifty-five for the strapping, former reserve Keeper of the Chudley Cannons! That's fifty-five!"

Ron elbowed Harry. "It's just you and Charlie! You're supposed to put it down!"

"Oh, right."

Harry lowered his paddle, holding his smile when he saw the way Oliver positively glowed as he turned towards Charlie's table. The two of them had been dancing around each other for at least half a year.

"And that's fifty-five Galleons from my dear brother, Charlie! Charlie, you and Oliver here have won a lovely holiday to beautiful Brisbane —"

"No, they haven't!" Padma shouted towards the stage, waving her hands. "We are legally obligated to inform you all that no , they have not won a holiday to Brisbane!"

The crowd laughed.

"I was only joking . . ." George muttered. "What you've actually won is a single date with this bloke here . . . Not in Brisbane, mind you."

"That's okay," Oliver breathed. "Anywhere's fine."

He gave Charlie an anxious wave.

George shook his head. "All right, all right, off the stage with you, lovebird, off the stage . . ."

Oliver was nearly as red as the walls when he finally slipped behind the ugly brocade curtains.

"Fifty-five Galleons for one date? Maybe I ought to take up dragon-taming . . ." George clapped his hands together. "Anyway, that wraps up the final group for tonight's auction. Thank you, ladies and gents, and —" He cupped his working ear dramatically. "Oh? Oh, I'm getting news from behind the stage, folks! Yes, this is big news indeed! Apparently, there's a rule saying the organization's chairman must take home a date!"

Harry's stomach dropped.

"That's right!" George exclaimed, pointing at Harry. "Harry Potter, leader of the Children of Magical Veterans Foundation, will be taking home a bit of a consolation prize for missing out on the esteemed Mr. Wood, as he was so viciously snatched up by my independently wealthy brother . . ."

"Ron, tell me he's joking," Harry whispered, his tone urgent.

Ron shrugged. "No idea, mate. He didn't mention this to me."

"As I believe we all noticed by the awkward silence earlier this evening, not a single soul bid on one Draco Malfoy," George continued.

"Oh no," Harry groaned, sinking into his seat.

"I'd like to think that's because he was such a prize, nobody thought they had the coin to compete," George went on. "But —"

Just offstage, Malfoy could be heard yelling, "Get your hands off of me!"

"Er — as you can hear, Mr. Malfoy is so excited about the arrangement that he er — can't be held back," George scratched his head. "Suppose we can't blame him, Harry is quite handsome."

"There's no way I'm taking Malfoy on a date," Harry hissed to Ron and Hermione.

Lines of concern were written in Hermione's expression. "Maybe you can get out of it?"

"We still don't know it's not a joke, mate," Ron said.

Meanwhile, Malfoy was all limbs trying to fight off Lee Jordan, who was promptly pushing him towards the center of the stage. The lights shone down on him, and his eyes widened at the sight of the staring crowd.

Lee shouted something that Harry could have sworn was, "Swing at me again and I'll curse you across the Atlantic! Wanker!"

The wizard then scrambled behind the curtains, leaving Malfoy to stand there, bandy-legged and scowling.

"Well, here you have him!" George announced, gesturing to Malfoy. "A charity date for the charity chairman! Say that three times fast."

"Charity date is right," muttered Ron.

Horrorstruck, Harry simply sunk deeper into his seat.

Throughout his life, Harry was known for many things. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, a Gryffindor, a Seeker, Quidditch Captain, Triwizard Champion, the Chosen One, the Man-That-Lived-Twice — he had gone by a number of titles, but of them all, he was proudest of just one: Chairman.

The foundation was the single most important thing he had ever created. It afforded books and robes for Hogwarts students. House-elves could fund wizard-free schooling, or move into homes all their own. Even centaurs, who had no use for Galleons, received land donations and relics once stolen from them. The foundation had become the gold standard for fair liaising, and Harry wore that badge with more honor than any other.

When he woke up each morning, he took the Floo to his office, and he knew he was doing something truly good.

Two weeks after the New Year's auction, he felt that very way.

He made a beeline past Padma's desk, straight for his office door. Over the holidays, they'd received more funding than ever, and Harry had resigned himself to writing to their most generous donors. Naturally, he loathed the task, but if a letter from Harry Potter would ensure they donated again, he'd happily write them each a foot. He'd hand-deliver it himself if they'd pay what they had this year.

Alas, Padma had other plans for him.

"You've got Malfoy at six!" she shouted down the hallway. "At Thistle and Ginger! I arranged for —"

"Cancel it!" Harry shouted back.

He stepped into his office and shut the door behind him. It was the first he'd heard of the date — which was decidedly not a joke — since the auction, and he wasn't about to let Malfoy get in the way of his work.

Unfortunately for him, Padma was an exceptional assistant — and exceptional assistants scarcely let their bosses skive off.

"What?!"

Harry heard her heavy footfalls approaching as he seated himself at his desk. Wanting nothing less than to argue with her, he quickly reached for his wand.

It was just in time too. He completed the Locking Charm mere seconds before she reached for the knob.

She rattled it, rapping on the door as hard as she could.

"You're not canceling this, Harry!" she yelled. "Emmetta's already working a story with the Prophet! "

The Daily Prophet had published countless mistruths about Harry in the past. What was one more?

"So the Prophet lies and looks like the same steaming pile of dragon-dung it always is, who cares?"

The rattling stopped.

"Alohomora."

Just then, the door swung open, revealing Padma. The woman was all business, sporting a clipboard, a tangerine pencil skirt, three-inch pumps, and a wanded hand on her hip.

Harry groaned. "Didn't I tell you not to do that anymore?"

"If you'd come to talk to me like an adult, I wouldn't have to," Padma retorted. She sleeved her wand. "The foundation needs the good publicity. You have to go."

"We raise gold for house-elves and orphans," Harry pointed out. "How much good publicity could we need?"

Aside from that, he was not entirely sure how a date with Malfoy would make the organization look any better. The man was once a Death Eater, now a social pariah of the highest caliber. If anything, a public appearance with him would be bad form.

Padma sighed. "How do I put this lightly . . ."

"Put what lightly?"

"Well, you see . . . It's not the foundation itself that's the issue . . . It's you."

"Me," Harry repeated.

"Yes, you. People question your authenticity."

"My authenticity?" Harry asked, flummoxed. "I'm a war hero. I was the bloody Chosen One. How much more authentic could I get?"

"Yeah, that's kind of the problem," Padma said, sitting down in the leather chair across from him. She sunk into the thick cushion. "People worry you may not have the best interest of everyone that was involved in the war — namely children from the other side."

"You're joking."

Padma shook her head. "I'm not. This has been on my radar for months, which you'd know if you read the reports I left on your desk."

Harry did recall moving several parchments in the weeks leading up to Christmas. He'd been meaning to read them, but he was a busy man, and they quickly fell into the forgotten corners of his mind, hidden away in his lower desk drawer.

He narrowed his eyes. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Padma smiled sheepishly. "Nothing like a date with a Death Eater to prove you're not prejudiced."

"It sounds even madder when you say it."

Padma exhaled. "The irony's not lost on me, Harry — trust me. We're just acting in response to the polls."

"Well, the polls make no sense," Harry grumbled. "If the other side is so worried about prejudice, maybe they should've thought about that before they decided to go to war in favor of it."

"Personally, I agree. Professionally, I'm obligated to tell you we can't put that in a statement."

"Ugh." Overwhelmed, Harry massaged his temples. "Can't we just show them the numbers? We've always donated fairly to children from Dark families, you know that as well as I do."

"The numbers are already available to the public."

"And they're still complaining?" Harry asked incredulously.

"It's not easily accessible," Padma explained. "They have to request it from the Ministry."

"Then have Emmetta give the information to the reporter she's working with," Harry suggested. "They'll publish it and we'll be done with it."

Padma snorted. "The Prophet will laugh in our faces before they publish a bloody line graph ." She tapped her clipboard. "It's just two hours. Surely, you can tolerate him that long."

"Have you met Malfoy?"

"I'm not saying it'll be fun ."

"That's an understatement," Harry muttered.

"If you go, I'll buy lunch tomorrow."

"It best be a bloody good lunch."

Padma grinned. "So that's a yes, then?"

"Not a resounding one."

"Doesn't have to be!" she sang, leaping up from the leather chair. She then looked him up and down. "And wear your blue robes. I suspect they'll be taking pictures."

Harry frowned and peered down at himself. He thought he had dressed rather well that day.

"What's wrong with these ones?" he dared to ask.

Padma made a face. "They're pinstriped, Harry."

"So?"

"It's 2007!"

The year meant little to Harry. Pinstripes were timeless; at least, that was what Molly Weasley said about Ron's wedding robes.

Not that it mattered. Impressing Malfoy was not at the top of his priority list.

"Fine, I'll change. But I'm serious about that lunch, Patil! You owe me!"

Padma slipped out of his office with a scoff. "If I'm the first one to get you to stop wearing fucking pinstripes, then we're even, Potter."

Harry examined the fabric again. Maybe timeless wasn't the right word, but still —

"They aren't that bad," he mumbled to himself.

"Yes, they are!" Padma shouted after him.

Harry sighed. There was no escaping Padma Patil, and apparently, there was no escaping Draco Malfoy either.