I worked hard to cleanse my mind of anything related to Draco Malfoy.
The pain of rejection gutted me like a knife, but with it, came an undeniable strength. No longer would I be naive, pitied, mocked. I was a Greengrass, for goodness' sake. And if the world decided I was a snake, then a snake I would be.
"Astoria," my mother said, eyeing me uncertainly. "You look…"
I raised my eyebrows. I'd already spent thirty minutes making peace with my reflection, fighting the imposter feeling at the sight of myself in ripped jeans and white shoes, with a bomber jacket and my hair half-tied into space buns. I'd lengthened it with magic, so the loose parts hung straight and sleek down my back.
"You look lovely," Father said, glimpsing up at me from the Prophet.
I smiled a thanks and poured coffee with a flick of my wand, into a reusable cup.
"Are you off already?" Mother frowned.
She was a stern woman, in appearance and demeanour. Father was softer, more likely to laugh.
"I'm sitting in on the confederation meeting," I explained. "They meet in half an hour. Could I please borrow Karkus before I leave? I need to confirm an interview this afternoon."
Mother fetched the snowy owl from his cave. "I do think it's high time you got an owl of your own."
"I have no need, really," I explained, fastening the parchment to Karkus's leg. "We have an abundance of them at work. It would almost feel like a waste."
"But still, you use ours."
I tried not to roll my eyes. "Right, I'm off. Love you."
"Astoria…"
I stopped, surprised by the rare creases of concern upon Mother's face.
"Are you alright? You've seemed… well, we've noticed a difference in you."
Exactly the point. I hid the tug threatening my lips, and assured Mother I was fine. And I was, really.
Draco Malfoy had not plagued my mind in days.
The Confederation meeting was even vaster than I had imagined. And this was only the British seats — Ernie had told me of the immense halls used to house seats from almost every country in the world. I settled in on a bench at the far side of the room, gazing upon the chairs all rising in a circle, with a podium at the centre. I spotted Julius Podmore among the members, and other familiar faces of ministry officials. A few others sat beside me, presumably speakers or prestigious guests. I said hello and began setting up my quill and parchment, sneaking a few photos to test the camera before we began. My photography skills were definitely my downfall. I'd need to put an ad out for a photographer, I realised. Or, at least discuss the idea with Ernie when he returned.
I was deep in thought, fussing at the blurred lense, while the last few people took their seats behind me and the lights dimmed enough to let me know the session was beginning.
Kingsley Shacklebolt took the centre podium. I gazed in awe, all manner of adjectives coming to mind, but none seeming quite satisfactory to describe the effect he had on the room. It was as though all worries, all cares in the world simply melted away in his presence. He would take care of it all.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, "I thank you for your attendance today. We have a rather grave matter to discuss, and a confidential one, at that. It is my intention that the information shared today does not leave this room, at least not until such a time that the ministry is prepared to release it."
He gave a rather pointed glance my way, and my cheeks pinkened. What on earth am I doing here, then?
As though reading my mind, he gave an answer. "Of course, there are many items on the agenda more suitable for report and discussion. But I must ask, Ms Greengrass, that you retain your quill for a moment, and have the respect not to divulge these facts until given approval."
I felt the entire hall turn to look, and I almost wanted to melt on the spot. The fact Shacklebolt had actually addressed me by name, that he actually knew who I was and why I was there, shocked and thrilled me. But, remembering my new resolutions, I fought the giddiness. I simply nodded firmly, and put my quill back in the bag of supplies. And, sent a silent thanks that Ernie had decided to catch some sun, and I had ended up here in his place.
It may have just been my imagination but the stone hall, already large and black, seemed to grow colder and darker as Kingsley spoke. I fought a shiver threatening my spine, and settled in to listen — slightly uncomfortable without my usual clutch of quill and parchment.
"We have long suspected death eaters still remain in Britain, and to some extent, across the world. People have been apprehended — some with truly malicious intentions, and some just mouthing off after too much butterbeer." He paused, giving a heavy look to each member sat around him. "We have received information regarding a new chapter of death eaters. Their numbers are growing. As of right now, we have not identified a distinguished leader, but mark my words — there will be one."
Despite the default respect that surrounded Shacklebolt, witches and wizards throughout the room all burst into questions. Some were shouting, others sat staring in gloomy silence. Silent tears dropped down one witch's face. My own head puzzled and burned, torn between my instincts as a journalist and the dread forming in my gut.
"Mr Shacklebolt?" I called out, joining the din. "Exactly how many members are in this chapter?"
He acknowledged me, and spoke again. "As of right now, we estimate fifteen in total." Booming to be heard over the racket that ensued his words, he continued, "In this moment, we have little to fear. Their only aims seem to be to overthrow our progress since the defeat of Voldemort, rather than murdering or destroying. But still, they need to be silenced, and we are in the current process of gathering evidence. As head auror, Potter is overseeing several of our efforts. Including a rather unorthodox method of gathering information." Kingsley glanced in my direction once more, but his eyes landed on the row of benches behind me. "Mr Malfoy, if you would join me?"
Malfoy. My heart thundered in my ears. I stared deliberately forward, my hands clenched into fists so tight my fingernails drew blood. His face appeared in my mind, the way he had looked, tasted… Ignoring the crescent pools of crimson beginning to form, I dared a glance in Malfoy's direction, and almost sighed in relief. The bigger frame, the long hair — it was Lucius.
He strode to Shacklebolt's side, his chest puffed before him. Only the sporadic twitch of his fingers to his wand pocket betrayed nerves.
"As part of his immunity deal with regards to the war, Mr Malfoy has infiltrated the group of death eaters and continues to provide the ministry with information," Kingsley said.
I wondered if Draco knew.
The man beside me, short with a goatee, turned to murmur a question. "Does Kingsley really think it wise, parading about this fact? Most wizards in this room would sacrifice their first born to take down the Malfoys."
The statement did not shock me. It was true, after all. There had been outrage at the perceived injustice when the Malfoys escaped sentencing for their crimes. Twice now Lucius had wiggled out of trouble, they said. All because he had a manor stuffed to the brim with galleons.
"Kingsley wants to make an example of him," I replied quietly. "Look at the man. Forced to do the ministry's dirty work… it's hardly a lifetime of freedom."
The man snorted. "Should have known better than to ask you."
I flinched, instinctively. No. Grow up, Astoria. "Why? Because you fear a truthful answer?"
"Because you're one of them, aren't you?"
None of the responses in my mind seemed appropriate, so I kept quiet. Fuck him. My hand twitched to my quill, knowing I could deal a harsh blow to his reputation in seconds with just a few well chosen words…
"Ms Greengrass?"
My head snapped to Kingsley, addressing me once more.
"I said, you can begin now. We'll be moving on to item two, regarding taxation of Quidditch supplies."
Any thrill and excitement I'd felt at the start of the meeting had considerably waned by the time I left the hall, more than four hours later. Even Kingsley's voice could not command complete attention for so long, and for the last half hour, I'd lazily tapped my quill to transcribe the meeting, allowing me to incorporate it later. To make things worse, I was short on parchment, and late for the Holyhead Harpies interview. I disapparated with a crack.
Specks of rain dotted my face when I appeared beside the muddy pitch. Thunder ripped through the clouds, shaking the stands before me. I ducked into the main hall, just as the heavens themselves seemed to open and unleash a sheet of rain, racketing on the tin roof.
"Astoria Greengrass?"
I turned, as a redhead in brilliant green robes approached, her face unsmiling without being rude. I knew her immediately on sight: Ginny Weasley.
"Yes," I said. "I'm expecting Gwenog Jones?"
"She's not here today. Her son's caught dragonpox." She folded her arms, eyeing me up and down. "I'll be standing in."
"Right, okay." I shuffled through my bag, feeling entirely foolish and unprepared. "I, um, I'm just running a little short on parchment-
"We've got plenty. Come through, we'll do this in the office."
She led me through to a small room, cluttered with boxes spilling spare robes and bottles of broom polish. Ginny cleared a path with a lazy wave of her wand, revealing a small, cramped desk. I conjured my own chair, saving her the trouble. Still, she eyed me with something bordering on distaste.
"So, how can I help you? We usually deal with Mecking, being the quidditch correspondent."
"It's sort of a background piece we're doing, on some of the new changes and legislation coming through," I explained, retrieving the information parchment and handing it across to her. "We're interviewing public figures, getting their on-record opinions and endorsements."
Her eyes scanned the parchment. "You sure you don't want to wait for Gwenog, then?"
"My schedule's pretty tight at the moment," I said. "If you'd be happy to just answer a few questions, I think it could turn out great."
She chewed on her tongue, stalling. I knew the signs well; I saw them almost everyday in my line of work.
"I remember you, you know," she said. "Ravenclaw?"
I nodded. "I was a year below you."
"Luna mentioned you a couple of times. She said you were always nice to her, stopped the others stealing her things."
I blinked. "Yeah, I guess. I never really gave it much thought."
"She said you were something of an outcast too," Ginny continued. "Never had many friends."
"I'm sorry, exactly how much time did Luna spend discussing the details of my life?"
This earned a laugh. "She just notices things. That's all. Normally I'd forget, but I think dad said we're related to the Greengrasses."
"Aren't we all," I muttered, but Ginny had softened enough to give an interview.
And she was likeable. Beyond likeable, she was charming. It wasn't hard to see why she was so adored, even without Harry Potter factored in. Chatting with her felt like chatting with an old friend, creating an empty nostalgia inside of me. An inkling of this sadness must have seeped through, as by the end of the interview, in the awkward time of final photos and packing things away, she regarded me with something close to pity.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked.
I hesitated, checking the time on my watch. "I'd better be off. I'll need to get this all edited and ready for tomorrow's print."
"Okay. Another time then," she said. "You're more than welcome to stop by my place when you're free. I've been thinking about corresponding in the future. Quidditch players don't have a long shelf life," she laughed. "I'd love to pick your brain."
I paused for a moment, shaking my head sadly. "I'd love that, Ginny. I would, but… I don't think our crowds would quite… mix."
She stared for a moment, slightly too long. "What do you mean?"
"You know." I sighed. "You're the golden girl. You're the face of everything good since Voldemort's defeat, and I… well, I come from a long breeding stock of Slytherins."
"Gwenog's a Slytherin," Ginny said, still staring as though she couldn't comprehend my point. "And you're not a death eater, are you?"
"No, I'm not, but-
"Saturday," she insisted, picking up the last of my parchment and pushing it into my arms. "I've got practice at two, so anytime before that. I'll have Luna round, too. You can discuss publishing secrets and god knows what else."
I couldn't fight a laugh at that, and so I gave in. "Okay. Saturday."
"No. No fucking way." Draco shook his head, his lips pressed together in defiance. "Sort your shit out, Zabini."
Blaise groaned. "Come on! Do you know how rare it is I get a second date with a girl?"
"Only because you refuse to see them after the first night."
"Exactly my point, mate! Look, apparently, Flora won't shut up about you, and-
"Flora! That's her name."
Zabini scrunched up his parchment and threw it, hitting Draco on the shoulder. "Please just don't fuck this up for me! Do what you have to do. If you need to let her down, so be it, just… be nice."
Draco snorted. "Do you not think you should be chasing someone a bit… older? They're back at school next week anyway, aren't they?"
"Yeah, well, Hestia's got big plans," Blaise retorted. "She wants to go into the minister's office, so she needs to finish seventh year."
"Potter will brand himself with a dark mark before a Slytherin's allowed in the minister's office," Draco said.
A tense moment followed as the weight of his words sunk in, and Zabini's gaze landed on Draco's forearm. With pink spots appearing on his cheeks, Draco fussed at his sleeve, jerking Zabini back into the present.
"I'm just asking you to come along, tell Flora nicely that you're not interested, and-
"Is there a nice way to tell someone that?" Malfoy's memory flashed back to Astoria, stood in his drawing room, her chest rising and falling with each angered breath.
"You better find one, or I'll imperio it out of you," Zabini warned.
"Fine," Malfoy sighed. "Only because I've got nothing else to do tonight."
"What, you're running low on stupid books about gold and metal?"
"Gold is a metal," Draco frowned. "And I'm leaving early."
"Fine by me, mate. Wouldn't want you hanging around after dark, anyway."
The Carrows' house might have been the smallest Draco had ever seen for a pureblood family. The brick burned orange to match the falling sun at dusk, semi-attached to the neighbours. The entire thing looked smaller than Draco's kitchen. He turned to Zabini, who was already giving a warning glare.
"Bloody hell, Zabini. Even the Weasleys have more space than this."
"Don't." His cheeks pinkened. "They lost everything, their family. Had to pay half their aunt and uncle's debts, as they'd bankrupted themselves working at Hogwarts."
"Don't tell me they're muggles living next door," Malfoy said in disgust.
"Of course not. Don't think it's even allowed."
But still, Blaise pocketed his wand as they approached the front door, and glanced nervously to the neighbouring windows while they waited. Draco tapped his foot impatiently, keen to get out and return home. His mother would have a lamb stew waiting, just how he liked with the currants and plums.
A giggle met his ears as the twins opened the door, both dressed to the nines in short, tight skirts and heels. In truth, Draco could barely tell them apart. He supposed Flora must be the one staring intently, giggling for no reason.
"Er—are we going somewhere?" he asked.
"No," Hestia said. "Our parents are out for the night, though. Thought we could party." She wiggled two vials of Euphoria, supposedly leftover from the night at Daphne's. Fuck's sake.
"I actually need to get home," Draco said, ignoring Blaise's warning glare. "Something I forgot to-
"Don't be a dick," Zabini grumbled, pushing him in and closing the door shut behind them all.
"I'm serious," Draco muttered, as the twins sauntered past the cramped staircase and into the next room. "I had a shit sleep last time, it fucked me up for days."
"Take a sleeping potion then," Zabini hissed. "Stop being a prat!"
Reluctantly, Draco stepped into what was supposed to be a sitting room, though the room was so small you had to squeeze past the sofa. He stood awkwardly for a moment, hands in his pockets, then turned his attention to the bookcase. Nothing of interest in there, either.
"Come on, then," Hestia said, retrieving two more vials and making eyes at Blaise. "Let's make things interesting."
Flora nudged up the sofa, almost pressed to Blaise's back to make room for Draco, but he pretended not to see and remained standing. Something about her was distinctly off putting. Maybe her protruding eyes, or maybe just the fact they'd already fucked, leaving nothing but a sick feeling in his stomach. Still, with Zabini's hand on his wand, Draco had no choice but to clink his vial against the others and down the contents. Merlin help me.
He shuddered this time, a sensation he could not recall from his previous experience with Euphoria, nor the couple of times before that. Nobody laughed, though Hestia and Zabini stared deeply into each other's eyes. Draco stumbled, sinking down to sit after all. Flora snuggled up against him, wrapping herself around his arm, while he stayed limp, staring into nothing. The tingling coursing through his body only numbed him. It took away the pain, the anxiety for the night to come, the recollections of Voldemort's wrath — but did little else. The bliss that overcame him wasn't euphoric. It was simply a mild sedation.
"Do you love her?" Flora mumbled into his arm.
Draco turned a fraction, to see her rigid with nerves and staring into nothing. "What are you on about?"
She smiled sadly. "Astoria. Hestia said-
"Hestia doesn't know a thing about it." Draco sighed. "There's nothing between me and Astoria. I barely know her." Flora remained silent and, as Zabini and Hestia wordlessly left the room with fingers interlinked, Draco braced himself to deliver the blow. "You're a nice girl, Flora, and I had fun the other night. I just… I can't be with anyone right now. I'm too fucked up still."
After a few moments, she pulled away, shuffling to create space between the pair. "Because of what he did?"
With the necessary distance from the emotions, the pain, Draco found his thoughts could inch a little closer to the recollections of what had happened. He couldn't venture too deeply — but to dip a toe in the waters, to actually speak about the ordeal, however vaguely, was a welcome comfort. A step forward.
"It's more what I did," he whispered into the darkening room. "I loved it at first. Power, glory… He knew exactly how to draw me in. He knew exactly how despicable I am, and he used it."
The words lingered after he spoke them. Draco allowed his mind to quiet, his emotions to cease, as he sat in the silence. At some point, Flora left the room, mumbling that she was going to bed. Only the sharp, rhythmic knocks of bed frame against wall shook Draco from his stupor. With a grimace to the ceiling above, he left to disapparate home. Still too high to feel his face, and too full for the stew, he retreated to bed cold and alone. As he drifted to sleep, he only prayed for a sleep free of nightmares. Those, he could deal with in the morning.
