Draco Malfoy blinked, as he noticed the crowd beginning to thin.** Now what? he thought, knowing that he couldn't just stay standing out here. He'd look odd. Falling behind (cattycorner) to a distinguished looking gentleman, he ambled along, smiling as the man turned into a public house. Draco Malfoy made a show of looking up at the sign - The Red Bantam - before walking inside. Blinking, as he looked around the dimly lit room, he saw that most of the older men were sitting along the bar, drinking and carousing, as if it wasn't just past noon. Draco wanted some time to think - it was something he had been avoiding for a few days, the suspicion growing by the minute that he had some reevaluating to do. So, he strode to the rearmost table, seating himself with his back to the wall. He eyed the rest of the room half-mistrustfully (trying to conceal it), as a serving wench sauntered up. She bent over the table, revealing most of her bosom with that lowcut dress. "What's your order, sir?" She asked. "What they're having - and keep it coming." Draco said in his perfectly genteel tones.

Outside, and on the other side of the street, Hermione Granger was indulging in window shopping. It somehow felt different now that she was older. Back when she had been ten or eleven, everyone eyed her with suspicion - not necessarily of shoplifting, but of touching the merchandise. Nevermind that her hands were always scrupulously clean. Now, well, there were appraising glances, followed by a sheer indifference that she found refreshing. In Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, there were so few customers that shopkeepers knew you. The bookmerchant always had a smile for her, and the Quiddich merchant a hastily smoothed frown (probably turning more cheerful as soon as Harry Potter was spotted, come to think). Here, nobody cared - it was a cheerful sort of anonymity, the city-buzz saying 'we haven't time to nose into your business.'

"Brandy, neat. Asbach Uralt if you have it." Draco Malfoy said, his voice shifting slightly out of Received Pronunciation - he found himself very glad to have heard one of the old salts at the bar ordering something stronger than beer. He was in a mood, and moods were always better when you were drunk.

The cheerful wench leaned in over him to take the empty beer mug, saying with a smile, "Of course." Draco Malfoy fought to not shrink backwards - it would look cowardly. Besides, he wasn't really afraid, just impinged upon.

When the brandy appeared, Draco took a careful sip, enjoying the smoothness and bite - dark and sweet like stone fruit. With a gentle snort, he found himself thinking, I could get used to this. It was a foolish thought - he hadn't the money, the power, even the experience to live in the Muggle World. Not for long. Draco considered himself quite the hedonist, and he could tell when something was exquisite.

With a trace of a frown, Draco started to unpack all of those observations that had been bothering him. He started with what he had thought this would be like - the Dark Lord's return. As a child, he had pictured the Dark Lord as a kindly man, clad in black robes - ready to protect the purebloods. Even a few months ago, Draco would have contended that the Dark Lord's return would have put Dumbledore on the backfoot, and led to Draco Malfoy's inevitable victory at Quiddich (because surely without the blatant favoritism shown Potter...). His parents had protected him from the Dark Lord. That was no unified front, no loyalty given to someone who deserved it at any rate. Was the Dark Lord - were Parkinson's parents - so horrible that they wanted to shield her innocent eyes from the awful sights? It wasn't an out of the question thing, honestly. Draco hadn't detected more than a light strain of sadism in Pansy's mother... but, they were Slytherins, and keeping your cards tucked away was simple good sense. Still... sending Pansy away spoke volumes more - volumes about how much her parents wanted to protect her, treasured her even. Did even the meanest and nastiest of villain*** - of Muggle, even - love? Romantic love Draco would believe, from even the worst soul. But parential love? Fidelity? Draco pondered, swirling the brandy in his latest glass. With a trace of a frown, he set the question aside, turning instead to the propaganda.

Draco Malfoy idly supposed that some would be surprised (though they really ought not to be), that he could recognize propaganda when he saw it. Was he not a Slytherin? (on the other hand, so were Crabbe and Goyle...) Draco Malfoy had always believed himself special, that his name leant weight to his words, and a surety to his beliefs. But he knew that the claims that purebloods were inherently more talented or more intelligent were so much rubbish. Potter was certainly talented, and he was a halfblood of some renown. And Granger was more intelligent than any witch he had met, save one or two of the Pureblood Dragonladies****. With a quirk of his mouth, he idly thought of an impossibility - Granger as one of the Dragonladies. Oh, she'd be grand, he thought with a low chuckle, clad in stylings so ancient they were avant garde. Oh, and that Gryffindor temper - it would make waves! Draco Malfoy thought, I'd like a ringside seat for the bearbaiting. As he pictured Granger, clad in corset and stays, he saw spear after spear sticking out of her, blood slipping down the pure white dress - and that look in her eyes, as fierce as the day she slapped him, third year. Oh, but it was a pretty picture, he thought with a quiet laugh. Pity he'd never get the chance to see it.

**Lunchtime Over!

***old definition

**** not a club, just a nickname for the stout women who tend to govern their husbands and their affairs wisely.

[Asbach Uralt is a traditional British officer's brandy. It's from Germany, and is really quite good. The germans don't drink it.

Draco is drinking rather slowly, but he is getting steadily more drunk.

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