Draco re-formed at the north edge of Malfoy Manor, gasping for breath. The cool brick soothed his mind as he rested his forehead against the wall, fighting the fear gripping him. He had not fallen apart in front of Astoria, and he allowed himself only a moment of fear now. His fucking father, once his absolute hero, was putting them all at risk once more. The dark mark on his arm tingled, as it always did when his mind ventured too closely back to the horrors of Voldemort's power. The way his mother had shielded him…

Did she know? Surely, she must. Draco recalled the hushed whispers, the way she'd been avoiding his questions. Did she know if they were being hunted, primed for the torture or slaughter, right this second?

"Not again," he said aloud, gritting his teeth. "Not fucking again."

He pulled himself together. This changed things with Nott. There was no backing out, not now. If his father was passing information on to the ministry, he risked being a traitor either way. He'd need to prove his loyalty, feign ignorance to the whole ordeal. Nobody would know. Except for Tori.

She wouldn't turn on you, the small part of his mind said. Draco silenced it with an anguished bellow into the wind, releasing some of his pent up frustration. He couldn't just wait here for her to finish playing bloody Quidditch, as though that were of greater importance. And Macmillan's party! He had half a mind to curse Ernie this very moment, rendering him unable to host so much as a chat in the park. But he needed to keep a low profile. At least, until he could see who had been in that fucking confederation hall.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to go to the sodding match, or trials, or whatever this stupid thing was. Keep an eye on her. Because while a part of his mind seemed to think the world of her — he had now decided that part must be ruled by his dick — the rational part, the Malfoy part, knew she could not be trusted. She'd just as soon go flying off into the sunset for the better part of a week, leaving him unable to sleep for fear of a silent wand in the dark.

He recalled Zabini's words the night of the meeting, when he'd gone to his house and prayed he was finished with the Carrow twins. Thankfully, Blaise hadn't even mentioned them.

"If you're out, I'm out," he'd said. "Something feels off."

"It could be horse-shit," Draco had said, almost hopefully. "Something Nott's dad's made up to keep from losing his mind in there."

"No," Zabini'd said. "Not with Astoria's confirmation."

Draco apparated to the Somerset pitch, thankful he hadn't splinched himself in the journey. He'd never been here before, and knew the risks were greater with an unfamiliar location. The last thing he needed was for a chunk of his leg to go missing.

Most of the players were already up in the air on broomstick, with a small group still on the ground. Astoria was among them, watching the flash of different coloured robes above with her lips pressed together in determination.

Draco strode to the stands, fighting the anxiety still threatening to overpower him. Not here, he decided. Not now. And, as if to reaffirm this message, he emerged at the top seats to find none other than Potter and Weasley.

Harry always served as a painful reminder of Draco's own behaviour, embarrassing and petty at the best of times. His identity was confusing enough without the reminder of his teenage years, of his dark and tricky path, of his failures. Of the war. Of the hero Potter, who had to do no more than stand and look pretty, while Draco could claw away for years and make no more of a dent in somebody's mind than a dead ferret.

It was a tense moment as their eyes locked, with Weasley's hand moving to his wand.

"Don't bother, Weasel," Draco said. "I'm not staying long."

Ron flushed red. "I happen to be an auror, so watch your tongue, you git."

Draco might have responded in kind, but from the corner of his eye he saw Astoria kick off from the ground, and begin flitting around the pitch.

"What, uh, what are they doing?" he asked, seemingly into thin air.

"Seeker tryouts," Harry answered, staring ahead as though also addressing nobody in particular. "There's a few trying to make the team."

Draco watched as Tori angled to the right, slightly too far, just as he'd said. "What happens to the ones who don't make it?"

"Reserves," Harry answered.

Fuck's sake. He couldn't afford Tori to get benched… It would ruin her mood, and therefore his chances at getting the damn memory from her. That was the only reason why, he told himself. Not because he particularly cared about her feelings. Not because his own stomach sank at the thought.

He took a deep breath, the idea forming in his mind. It would be unethical, to say the least. Potentially harmful if she fell from her broom. Not to mention, it would likely see him arrested if Potter and the Weasel were paying attention. He made his way to the back of the stands, and sent a silent prayer. He had only good intentions, after all.

"Legilimens," he whispered.

As he predicted, Tori swung sideways on her broom in shock, but managed to hold on. Draco focused intently on her eyes, on her mind, but before he could convey his message, a flood of thoughts came rushing his way.

He saw himself, beneath the Greengrass lights, with glitter on his face and a warmth in his eyes. Warmth like he had never seen on himself before, so unlike him it was unnerving. He felt Astoria's own nerves, excitement pooling in his stomach, as his face drew closer and their lips touched…

You're angling to the right, he said, loudly as his mind dared, wiping the image away clean. You'll miss the snitch.

Astoria must have learned some form of Occlumency, even if her reaction was clumsy and delayed. She slammed down the walls to her mind, so quickly and violently Draco physically jerked back in surprise. He saw her scowl from the other side of the pitch but, sure enough, she corrected her stance and caught the snitch in less than a minute.

"She's not bad," Potter remarked from the front of the stands.

Draco smirked. Damn right, she's not.

Finally, when Draco thought he couldn't bear another minute of waiting, the players all converged into a huddle on the pitch.

"What are they saying?" he asked, scrambling to the front of the box once more. "Who made the team?"

"Why do you care?" Weasley asked. "In fact, why are you even here, Malfoy?"

"She got in," Harry said. "Greengrass is seeker."

Draco's stomach swooped in excitement, exhilaration. He saw the feeling mirrored as Tori hugged the people closest around her. He was… proud. No, he chastised himself. Just relieved there'll be no distractions. But still, the smile didn't leave his face the entire time as he walked down the stairs of the stands, and onto the pitch to see her.

"I'll just need to go home and change," she said brightly, as he drew closer. "I don't really want to be-

Surprising even himself, Draco wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. They pulled away, both looking startled at the gesture.

"Well done," Draco said, stepping back.

It must have been the team energy, the nostalgia from his own Quidditch days, and the embraces after a match.

"I had a little help," she said, shyly, but then squaring her shoulders and meeting his eyes. "And about that. What on earth gives you the right to invade my mind?"

"Nothing," he said, honestly. "I shouldn't have done it."

"So why did you?" she asked, clearly not satisfied with his answer.

Draco sighed. "I had no other way of telling you on broomstick, did I? Look, forget it," he scowled. He barely understood his motivations himself. "We need to go."

"Okay. Well I'll go shower, and meet you at Ernie's."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Draco said seriously. "Where you go, I go."

"Right. Come on, then."

He didn't quite wait with his chest pressed against the bathroom door, though it was tempting. Even with just a few walls between them, as the splattering water sounds reached his ears, he felt uneasy.

"Why can't we do it now?" he called out.

"I'm already late!" she replied, muffled by the shower stream. "I'm almost done."

The water shut off and Draco rolled his eyes. He gazed around her bedroom. Of all the people he knew, Tori seemed to take the least pride in her house. There was no sign of Ravenclaw anywhere, though plenty of Slytherin green in the drapes and banners. Her sheets and bedding were white, her desk mahogany. Ruffled pieces of parchment and editions of the Prophet were everywhere, organised into haphazard piles. Several books were piled beside her bed, including such titles as Photography: the novice guide and Contemporary Wizarding World Politics in the Modern Age.

"You ready to go?" she asked, entering the room.

She'd tucked an oversized jumper into a small, high waisted skirt, and wore ankle boots and silver necklaces. Her face shone when it caught the light, and her lashes appeared even longer and darker. Looking like this, Draco couldn't work out why she'd been placed in Ravenclaw and not Slytherin. In fact, the sight of her in green sent blood rushing down below his abdomen, though he'd never admit to it.

He cleared his throat. "Took you long enough."

They walked quietly, and somewhat awkwardly. Things changed when she dressed up for him — no, not for you, idiot — and Malfoy found himself wishing he could add a quick spray of cologne, check his hair hadn't ruffled out of place.

When they came to the end of the driveway, Astoria held out a hand, fingers outstretched and palm bare. Draco looked at it for a moment, puzzled.

"Do you know where to apparate to?" she asked.

"No," he admitted.

"Come on, then."

He took her hand in the way a child might, fingers pressed together and definitely unlinked. Still, there was something thrilling in the gesture, and Draco's abdomen throbbed once more as they disappeared into nothing.