Before Fourth-Year

The velvet carpet guiding their way up to the highest point in the stands might have been some indication of the grandeur that awaited them. In truth though, nothing could have prepared them for the breathtaking view stretching out before the Top Box.

The smooth, golden evening light drenched everything in a magical glow that made it seem as though the stadium itself was shimmering. They were surrounded by the humming and buzzing of a packed stadium vibrating with excitement, the tens of thousands of witches and wizards below merging with the team colours they were clad in, and their movements made it seem like waves of red and green were swaying through the arena.

For the first time that day, Hermione's heartbeat quickened in anticipation.

Ron and Harry occupied two of the velvet and gilded chairs in the front and took out their Omnioculars. They scanned the stadium, chuckling at the advertisements flashing across the giant blackboard positioned directly opposite them. Ginny was leaning across the barrier, eager to take in as much as possible before the game started.

Hermione took the empty seat next to Ron and unpacked her camera. She snapped a couple of pictures, thinking about what her parents would be interested in most, when Harry started talking to someone sitting in the row behind them.

'Dobby?'

Hermione turned around. It was a house-elf. Though Hermione had never seen a real house-elf before, she immediately recognised the bat-like ears and the nose and the spindly hands. She also realised that it couldn't be Dobby because it was obviously female.

Except—that wasn't quite right, was it?

She had met a house-elf before, hadn't she; in Oz, two years ago. Fictitious though they might have been, they had been real house-elves, and yet none of them had looked as miserable as this poor thing who seemed to be scared out of her wits.

'My name is Winky, Sir,' said the house-elf, who happened to be a friend of Dobby's. She explained that she was saving her master, Mr Crouch, a seat—despite being afraid of heights.

Hermione bristled.

Percy's boss whom they had all met earlier at the tent hadn't seemed like the most sympathetic person in the world, but this put him in a different light indeed!

Unwittingly, she remembered something her mum liked to say whenever they encountered someone who seemed nice at first, but turned out to be a monumental twat—like St Bartholomew's Mr Whitaker. A charming man, obliging and courteous, except one day, he humiliated his secretary in front of mum.

If you want to know what a person's like, take a good look at how they treat their inferiors, not their equals.

Her mum had despised him ever since.

Hermione frowned at the table cloth which was wrapped around Winky like a toga. Compared to what Harry had told her about Dobby's state when he was still serving the Malfoys, Winky seemed healthy and well-dressed. Though "dressed" was still overstating the matter; she looked nothing like the extravagant elves she, Hermione, had encountered in Oz. In any case, her orderly appearance was resoundingly unimportant considering how Winky was obviously suffering.

Outrage burned in Hermione's chest. This was no way to treat a loyal employee! No; this was how you treated a slave!

Hermione swallowed her anger and listened intently as Winky told them about Dobby, and how he was having trouble finding a paid position — a scandal in and of itself. Hermione felt some type of satisfaction that he'd be a good example for her at least, even if she didn't see it that way yet.

'Weird things, aren't they,' Ron said when they turned around again.

Hermione would have liked nothing better than to smack him upside the head.

'Dobby was weirder,' Harry said, looking a little sheepish.

Not wanting to start an argument, Hermione breathed deeply and pulled out the velvet-tasselled programme she'd got all of them earlier. She thumbed through it, searching for anything that would change the conversation.

'"A display from the team mascots will precede the match",' she read aloud and glanced carefully over the railing to catch a glimpse of whatever the teams had brought with them. Hermione felt her stomach swoop. They were very far up. She sat back down again.

'Oh, that's always worth watching,' said Mr Weasley, who occupied the seat next to her. 'National teams bring creatures from their native lands. You know, to put on a bit of a show.'

Hermione pressed her lips together. How undignified to parade around magical creatures as mascots. Angry, she snapped her programme shut again and focused instead on the box that kept filling up. Every other minute, Mr Weasley had to stand and greet another colleague, and Hermione was glad for it. So far she'd got to know a great deal of the Ministry elite, amongst them Amelia Bones, a serious-looking witch who turned out to be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who greeted Mr Weasley kindly, as well as Pertinax Stump, the head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He frowned at Winky who was still shivering and hiding behind her hands, but he didn't say anything and led his wife to an empty seat in the first row.

In the meantime, Cornelius Fudge and his Bulgarian counterpart had arrived as well. Hermione had to bite back the laughter bubbling up in her chest when Percy bowed so low and abruptly that his horn-rimmed glasses slid from his nose, smashing on the ground. Of course, Fudge ignored all of that and directed his attention straight to poor Harry who was, as usual, supremely uncomfortable with the extra treatment.

Not for the first time, Hermione pondered the nature of good relationships and influence. Her parents had never given her any illusions about the importance of connections, but seeing the old boys club up close was a new experience.

A commotion from the entry ripped her out of her musings. Hermione turned— and grimaced.

In walked Draco Malfoy, nose in the air, the sneer she knew so well distorting his handsome features. He was followed by the arrogant and imperious figure of his father, Lucius, and the snooty woman Hermione knew to be his mother.

Was there no summer to be had without him ?

The tension arising between the Weasleys and Malfoys was instantaneous and palpable. Everyone vividly remembered their last meeting in Flourish & Blotts—and not just that. The dramatic events that had unfolded in the months following were clearly on everyone's minds as well.

Harry and Ron were staring daggers at Draco; Mr Weasley's face had paled; and the twins were watching with their eyes narrowed into slits. Ginny had stiffened in her seat. She was shaking slightly, her hands forming into fists as Lucius Malfoy, smarmy as ever, introduced his family to Fudge. Hermione moved over to put a comforting arm around her friend. She caught Draco's eye. He was his usual pale self, though the tips of his ears reddened just slightly.

However apparent the animosity between these two families, it completely eluded Minister Fudge, who also missed Lucius Malfoy's snide remark at Mr Weasley.

Hermione didn't know much about the Minister, aside from what the occasional interview in the Prophet revealed and what little Harry had told her about their meeting after his running away from Privet Drive last summer. He had painted him as a sort of well-meaning uncle. That image, however, was heavily at odds with the tiny man rattling away in a jovial manner that bordered on being patronising. The way he overlooked the faults in his associates —presumably because of money and ancestry— did not bode well for his character at all.

Hermione glanced over to the other ministry workers. Judging by the way Amelia Bones kept a watchful eye on Lucius Malfoy, not everyone was as easily hoodwinked.

Lucius Malfoy nodded to one of two of the ministry workers, and finally, his sight fell on her. Immediately, his expression hardened. Hermione tightened her arm around Ginny, and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on.

She stubbornly thought about all the times she had accidentally run into Draco. All the things he had unwittingly revealed about himself and his family. She thought about how she had saved Draco's life.

Hermione smirked. How Lucius Malfoy would hate it that a Mudblood had secured his bloodline.

Malfoy frowned, and it dawned on Hermione that his eyes looked nothing like Draco's. They, too, were grey, but dull somehow, less vibrant.

Stony.

Her heart thumped in her chest as they kept staring at each other, the tension between them stretching. Then he abruptly looked away and shepherded his family into the only free seats in the second row, right behind her, Mr Weasley and Ginny.

Hermione turned back around again, her thoughts still savagely attacking Lucius Malfoy.

If he only knew that she had been something of a summer secret. Wouldn't that be a scandal. She couldn't imagine Draco having told Lucius about their adventures. Draco running around with Mudblood. How he would hate that. Hermione grinned grimly, the presence of that family searing into her back.

Hermione was only distracted when Ludo Bagman burst into the Top Box and prepared to start the match. She leaned back in her seat, satisfied with herself, suddenly giddy for what was about to happen.

Of course, she would be there. Draco almost felt silly for not having anticipated the possibility.

Every summer, for four years.

He was starting to think he was cursed.

He glanced at his father as Fudge announced them and was surprised to see him angrier than before—and he had been spectacularly cross all day. Not that normal people would notice it, and not that he could blame him. He, too, had been looking forward to bragging about their seats, later, when he met Nott, Crabbe and Goyle for their post-match party. Now he'd have to think long and hard about whether or not he could hide that Potter, Weasley and—worst of all— Granger had been here, too.

Draco ground his teeth.

It probably was to be expected that Potter would be here, paraded around by the Ministry as usual. And through Potty, the Weasleys would inevitably weasel their way into it as well. It was the smart thing to do, as loathe as he was to admit it. But Granger? She didn't even like Quidditch, did she?

There were the usual pleasantries. His father introduced him and his mother to the Minister, who introduced them to his Bulgarian counterpart. Draco had to school his features as not to grin triumphantly at them. 'Keep up appearances,' his father had said earlier. 'Be polite, and keep quiet.'

And then—Draco's heart almost stopped—his father and Granger entered a staring match.

The Minister who, just as father said, was the most oblivious, blithering idiot, had continued his introductions, which inevitably led father to notice her. Draco knew in an instant that he was livid— the glint in his eyes, the whitening of his knuckles—so much for keeping appearances! But to make matters worse—Granger didn't bow down!

Draco heart jumped into his throat, anxious that she might say something dangerous, comment on their meeting last year for example, or worse, the year before. You never knew with her. Always calm, composed, a cheeky comeback on her lips—until she slapped you.

By a stroke of luck, the moment passed, and his father led him and his mother to the last three empty seats, fortunately, a few seats from Potty and the Weasel. Unfortunately, Granger was sitting almost in front of him, just one seat to the left, right in front of his mother. Thank Merlin for small mercies; that way, her enormous hair wouldn't obstruct his view of the pitch.

He straightened his back and glanced around the room, away from them. He recognised a handful of ministry officials from dinner parties, though none of them had been at their pre-match luncheon, not that it was a surprise. Father always said that few who held onto the old ways were in high Ministry positions, which is why their family was so important.

But now, Potter's Mudblood was sitting right in front of them.

On his left, his mother was rattling on about something he didn't care about, and he nodded along, using the opportunity to covertly shift in his seat.

If he sat perfectly straight — he shifted a little more—he'd barely see her. He just had to look straight ahead and move as little as possible, like so —he moved his legs to form a perfect right angle—now she was virtually absent.

'I must have lost it on my way up the stairs. I could've sworn I put it in my pocket—' His mother was still rummaging through her purse.

'I'm sure it's somewhere,' Draco said distractedly.

Granger moved just then, huffing and flipping the monstrosity she called hair over her shoulder.

It made him suddenly all too aware of his limbs. He folded his hands in his lap and sat up a little straighter, not quite able to prevent an embarrassed flush from creeping up his neck.

As loathe as he was to admit it, there was something about summer-Granger that… she set him on edge. He managed to ignore her well enough for most of the year—it was only because teachers played favourites that he noticed her at all— but there was… something about her summer incarnation that was profoundly unsettling.

Draco frowned, reflecting on why that was.

Maybe it was that she looked different. Usually, she'd drag around that ridiculously overstuffed schoolbag that perpetually seemed on the brink of exploding. Without it, she didn't look the intolerable know-it-all. Or maybe it was because she wasn't in her school robes. Without that frumpy jumper swallowing her, and the meticulously knotted tie strangling her neck, and the skirt, neat and tidy, hiding her legs, she didn't look like Potter's Mudblood.

'Are you sure, darling?'

'No,' he said automatically. He froze, feeling caught. 'Um... what was it?'

Granger moved again, crossing her legs. The way she twisted her body made him acutely aware of how her T-shirt was not at all frumpy. To make matters worse, she seemed to have grown over the summer. Hot and cold flashes ran up and down his spine. Draco dug his nails into his hand.

'Oh, where's your mind, darling. I was asking you whether you had got my programme.'

'Oh. Sorry, mummy, I haven't.'

Granger turned to Weasel, uncrossing her legs again. Draco narrowed his eyes, willing the heat in his face to dissipate. She wore jeans. She always wore these Muggle things during the summer, jeans and dresses, so he had been wrong. She definitely always looked the Mudblood.

Maybe she behaved differently?

Draco angled his head ever so slightly and squinted. Now for example. Even talking with Potty and the Weasel, smiling and laughing, she looked proud. The two idiots picked up their Omnioculars again, and Granger leafed through the programme. She sat there perfectly straight, holding her head up high, nose lifted in the air.

It almost made Draco grin.

Always the stubborn witch. She rather resembled Pansy or Daphne doing that. It was precisely what they did whenever they wanted to impress on Crabbe and Goyle just how unimpressed they were with them.

Carefully, Draco glanced around, wondering who might be the recipient for her attitude. Next to him, his father, still talking to Fudge, was sitting rigid, but every now and again, he glared at Granger's head.

Ah.

His father was "displeased" with the Ministry's decision to work with the Muggles. Lunch had been the backdrop to a long-winding rant that the country was going to the werewolves.

'Not even at the most important Wizarding event of the year can we be ourselves!'

Draco was not surprised to see so many of father's friends agree. Some were even angrier. There were calls to "do something," to "show them their place". Though it was a little surprising that his father bet all his gold against the Irish. Not that he, Draco, didn't think Krum was the best seeker in the world, but betting against the Irish did seem a little unpatriotic to him. Obviously, his father disagreed.

'Here's to the team of respectable Wizards annihilating the blood-traitors and Mudbloods!'

And now there she was. The walking, talking reminder that even at school, the Mudbloods outperformed the pure-bloods.

It was a good thing that Fudge was such an idiot. His father hadn't been exactly subtle, and of course, Granger had noticed his behaviour.

Just thinking about how she had lifted an eyebrow and quirked her lips, her cheeks glowing, made him shudder in indignation. She had looked his father straight in the eye—and then raised an eyebrow, as though she was chiding him.

He could practically hear her. Don't be such a child.

His face got unbearably hot again.

His mother turned in her seat and Draco snapped his head back around, fixing his gaze straight ahead.

The huge blackboard directly across the stadium changed its message. Sleekeasy's Hair Potion was being advertised in shining letters.

Some of that would do her a world of good, Draco thought viciously and ground his teeth.

'Would you hand me yours, darling,' his mother said, snapping her purse shut with a click.

He almost jumped in his seat. 'Pardon?'

'The programme, silly. May I borrow it for a second?'

'Oh. Right.'

Draco fished around in his pocket, trying to go about it as discreetly as possible. With the Minister for Magic sitting just a couple of seats over, he didn't want to attract attention to the fact that his suit pockets had been enhanced. He frowned when, aside from the programme, he found a collection of things in there. One seemed to be a stone, cold and smooth, and then there were two oddly shaped objects he had trouble identifying.

His fingertips slid along edges and surfaces, feeling, sensing, utterly mystified what the items might be. They were tiny, almost the size of his thumb, and shaped sort of ovally, hollow in the middle, with a square ridge or wedge on what felt like the bottom sides. Curious, he retracted his hand. Only at the last second, it hit him like a bludger to the head—he knew what it was; what he himself had put there months ago, planning to get rid of, and then completely forgotten about.

His mouth ran dry as he sat there, trying his hardest to appear as though nothing was amiss. His fingers were stiff as he fumbled around the shrunken ruby slippers and finally got hold of the programme.

'Thank you, darling,' his mother said sweetly as he handed it to her. She flitted through the booklet. 'Oh dear. Vee—'

Draco's eyes were burning as he stared ahead, caught up in old memories he'd prefer to forget. The more he tried to ignore her, the more aware of her he got. It made him angry. That stupid house-elf should have never snooped around in his drawers. They had been perfectly hidden, until that idiotic creature had put his long nose where it had no business being!

Draco made a final attempt at getting comfortable, pushing what distracted him to the back of his mind. The trinkets rattled in his pocket, so he smoothed his jacket. Granger's hair obstructed his view, so he shifted around in his seat. His view didn't improve much though.

Why did she always have to be in the way?

Even now, with her back to them, he knew perfectly well that she sat there in defiance of his father. Her stubbornness seemed to vibrate off her; it was etched in the way she held her shoulders and translated into how she flipped her hair back every now and again. It was the sort of careless whip of her hand that seemed innocent, while actually, she was literally dismissing them.

He peered at his parents. His father had enveloped Fudge in a conversation, and they were continuing on in low voices. Draco imagined they'd be talking about a potential donation here, a private dinner there. On the other side, his mother was sitting still as a statue, hands folded in her lap, listening to father and Fudge.

There was a commotion from the entry. Draco whirled around and recognised Ludo Bagman who was supposed to be tonight's commentator.

Bagman's voice boomed through the Top Box, calling everyone to order. Fudge, his father and his mother leaned back into their seats and Draco was glad for it. It annoyed him that they'd always choose topics where he had nothing to contribute. He always was to "sit still" and " be quiet," and "think of our reputation." Totally different from Granger's parents. She was always the centre of their attention, even if they did ridiculous things like throwing stones into the sea.

His pocked burned, and Draco resolved to find a better hiding place as soon as he got home. He knew just the place for it, his favourite place. Nobody but him bothered to visit the temple anyway, so it was perfect. He briefly wondered whether he should just chuck all of it out. But no. Nobody knew about it anyway, and it didn't seem like a good idea to destroy the remnants of powerful magic. For all he knew, the shoes might be dangerous. His mother had once said, saving a wizard's life forges a magical bond like no other. Granger didn't actually save his life, but it was definitely more prudent not to risk anything, just in case.

Brown, bushy hair protruded into his peripheral vision again, and Draco wanted to groan in annoyance. She was leaning over to Potter and Weasley; they were whispering conspiratorially—Draco snapped his head forward and ground his jaw, fighting the impulse to listen in on them.

Then again, why not listen in?

He leaned forward just slightly, but they had already stopped chatting, so he found himself confronted with an eyeful of chestnut brown curls. Abruptly, Draco leaned back, the faintest hint of apples and honey on his tongue. An orchard and poppy fields were flashing before his eyes— and then, there was music drifting up…

Draco coughed and leaned back into his seat, staring blankly into the stadium that was glinting white and gold.

His father would lose his mind if he knew that he kept meeting a Mudblood. Not that it was his fault! It was an accident that he had stumbled across Granger in Stonehenge. How was he to know who she was back then?

And he bloody well hadn't asked to get stuck in that damned book with her either.

And most of all, who could've planned to run into her in fucking France of all places?

He shifted on his seat. For top seats, these were ridiculously uncomfortable. He pulled out his wand to enhance the comfort level but stopped when his mother raised an eyebrow at him.

'Is everything all right, darling?'

'Of course, mummy. It's the seats, they're ridiculously uncomfortable. Haven't the slightest why they call it Top Box.' He scoffed.

His mother's eyes swept over him, and Draco was helpless against the blush creeping up his neck again, acutely aware of the reason he had been fidgeting in his seat.

'Harry, what are you doing?'

The sound of Granger's voice made Draco's head snap around. Her tone was utterly flabbergasted, and he immediately saw why. Potter was leaning half-way across the railing, as though the plonker was about to throw himself into the stadium. Next to him, Weasley was acting even more foolishly than usual, shredding his Ireland paraphernalia.

Idiots.

He laughed at them, but all around them, there were loud, angry howls filling the stadium. Draco was wholly mystified at what had the people so upset. Was it because the music had stopped playing? He turned to ask his mother about it and was surprised to find her still watching him.

'What—'

Next to him, his father snorted derisively. 'Getting riled up by Veela'—he said it sneeringly, as though that was the worst marker of a character—'pathetic! Weak!'

His father crossed his arms and legs, and Draco exhaled slowly, jolly glad that he hadn't failed that test, even though he didn't have a clue what sort of test it had been that he had passed.

On his other side, his mother was still staring at him. Draco scooted to the edge of his seat, annoyed at himself for having missed a bit of the game already. The mascots of the Irish team burst into the stadium in an explosion of green, and Draco resolved to sit still and concentrate on the game, and not let her distract him again.

Their way back to the tent was silent and uncomfortable which was only enhanced by the jubilant cheers of Ireland supporters enveloping them. Draco was well aware that his father's mood was just partially due to him losing a stunning amount of galleons. He'd seen the way a scowl had darkened his face as they'd passed the tent of the Muggle manager, Mr Roberts. Father had expected the pure-bloods to prevail. Instead, the Mudbloods and blood-traitors had, once again, carried away the win.

His mother was acting almost as strangely. She kept glancing at Draco as though something was wrong with him. He had no idea why that was, and it put him on edge.

The atmosphere didn't improve by the time they arrived at their tent. An angry spell sent the striped silken doors flying wide open, and one of the peacocks barely managed to flutter out of the way as Lucius stormed inside, immediately locking himself in the Cigar Room.

Draco grimaced as the door slammed shut. He had planned to nick some of father's vintage Firewhisky before the boys came over. He approached the room a couple of times, listening closely to see if he could slip inside unnoticed. By the fourth time, he'd almost resolved to simply ask for the bottle, when he overheard the murmur of angry voices other than his father's from inside. At that moment, his mother rounded the corner, her eyes widening when she saw him standing there. She immediately shooed him away.

Scowling, whisky-less, and now absolutely positive that something was up, Draco skulked back to his room. He threw himself onto the sofa, waiting for the others to arrive. It was pretty unusual for his father to be that tight-lipped about anything. One way or another, he tended to inform Draco about the goings-on. 'Knowledge is power,' he used to say, and so Lucius Malfoy regarded it as paramount that his heir was informed as well.

Draco whole-heartedly agreed. He'd hate to hear anything noteworthy from Theo, or worse, Crabbe or — heaven forbid!— Goyle.

Oh, wait. Now, if Weasley knew about something he didn't, that would be the absolute worst.

Even though—Draco grinned to himself as he twisted to lie on his back— there was nothing in the world better than knowing something that Granger didn't. Draco's entire body warmed at one of the fondest memories he had of her.

'What's the Chamber of Secrets?'

He folded his hands behind his head, smirking contentedly. Outside his room, fireworks exploded into the dark sky, giving a pretty emerald glow to the night.

It dawned on him that it had been during second-year when his father had last been uncharacteristically hush-hush; when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. His parents had never fully explained what had been going on, not during and not after. In fact, by the end of the school year, his father had been moodier than Draco had ever seen him before, and it had taken well into their holiday until it got any better. At the time, losing the seat on the Board of Governors seemed a pretty reasonable explanation, but looking back on it now—

Draco heard footsteps approaching and the murmur of voices nearing. There was a sharp rap on the door, and his mother entered.

'Hello, dear. It's Theo, Vincent, and Gregory for you.' Her eyes, clear as the sky, sized him up. Draco sat up so quickly as though he had done something forbidden.

'Thanks, mummy.'

Crabbe and Goyle awkwardly ambled into the room, grinning impishly. Only Theo, looking weedier than ever, managed not to completely flub his manners.

'Don't stay up too long.' She raised an eyebrow, looking from one to the other. 'Your fathers asked me to impress upon all of you the importance of being in your own beds no later than one o'clock!'

The four of them mumbled their agreement, and his mother frowned. 'Draco?'

'Yes, of course, mummy.'

'All right. I'll be back to get you for supper.'

The second the door had closed behind her, Goyle produced a large bottle out of the depths of his robes. He triumphantly held up the cheapest brand of Firewhisky. Draco had to bite back a groan.

'Look what I got! Nicked it from the old man!' He smirked, and Crabbe laughed loudly. They both flung each other onto the sofa. Only Theo looked as bored as ever as he sank into the winged chair opposite them. Draco passed around their fifth-best set of crystal tumblers, hoping the Firewhisky could at least numb the strange taste that had settled in his mouth.

Crabbe and Goyle disappeared a lot earlier than Draco would have liked. They didn't stomach the Whisky half as well as they had boasted. Theo, too, scarpered off around Midnight, saying he'd rather be home early tonight. Draco frowned, but since Theo had a tendency to behave oddly, he didn't think much of it. Thus, he ended up alone with his mother eating supper. His father still hadn't reemerged. Instead, he had picked up that, aside from the seniors Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott, more "old friends of the family" had accumulated in the Cigar Room. Draco had been able to hear raucous laughter from the inside, until someone cast a Silencing Charm . Now there was not a peep to be heard.

'Draco, dear—you're not seeing anyone, are you?'

Draco almost spluttered into his chicken consommé.

'Mummy!' He nervously glanced in the direction of the Cigar Room. Of course, he'd had his share of fleeting fancies just like anyone. But that was nobody's business, even if none of the girls had managed to keep his attention for longer than a couple of weeks. 'Why on earth would you ask such a thing?'

His mother considered him for a long moment and then delicately brushed her napkin against her lips.

'Didn't you notice how the Potter boy reacted to the Veela?'

'Of course not,' he lied. 'I have better things to do than watching Potter's every move. Why do you ask?'

'Ah. Well, so I'm assuming you also didn't see how the Weasley boys were acting during their performance?' his mother pressed on.

'I didn't even notice their performance,' Draco shot back irritably.

'Hm.' His mother raised an eyebrow, the ice-blue of her eyes digging into his skull. Draco shifted uncomfortably and averted his gaze. 'If you had paid attention, you might have seen your classmates ridiculous displays of masculinity.'

'Then I'm sorry to have missed it. But it's still eluding me why we're talking about it now.' He swallowed. His throat felt a little dry and his ears hot. 'If you're trying to have that talk with me, father beat you to it for about two years. I'm already fourteen.'

His mother daintily folded her napkin and gestured for the house-elf to bring the next course.

'It is natural for Veela to appeal to men,' she said casually. Draco flinched, heat creeping up his neck again. He did not like where the conversation was going. 'Especially unattached , emotionally unstable men—or teenagers.' She paused and her bright eyes swept over him again, making Draco want to flee the room. 'These men—boys—would then display their sexual prowess, acting in any such way that might impress the Veela. Anything to get her attention. However. Men who are attached or, more precisely, who are in love don't fall for their allure. Love renders their magic ineffective.'

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over Draco. He was not emotionally unstable. He was not weak , as his father had put it. But then the deeper meaning hit him.

'I'm not in love!' Draco said it with such force that he surprised himself. 'There's—there's no one,' he added a little more evenly, although his heart thudded in his chest. 'There must be another explanation. Maybe I'm just emotionally stable.'

His mother continued to watch him closely with infuriating patience.

'Really, I'm not!' He almost shouted it. 'I was just—' Draco bit his tongue. He couldn't very well tell his mother that it was thoughts of a Muggle family on a beach in Normandy that had kept him occupied during that time. 'Distracted. That's why I missed it.'

Their main course appeared in front of them, and only then did his mother's intense gaze turn into the sweet, adoring look Draco would never admit to a living soul he loved dearly.

'You're right, darling,' she conceded and reached for her goblet. She smiled at him over the rim. 'Of course. Everyone can be distracted.'

Draco nodded and cut into his filet mignon with gusto, his knife scraping loudly over the porcelain of the plate. He didn't care too much for his father's rants but right now, he would have liked nothing better than a long-winding speech about why Mudbloods were the disease of wizardkind.

Draco was struggling to concentrate on the book he was trying to read before bed.

When his father had eventually emerged after supper, his mood had changed. Instead of anger, resolve had settled into the lines of his face , but he still ordered Draco to stay home tonight, before shouting for the house-elf. He snatched the bundle the creature had brought him, before he vanished into the Cigar Room again, door slamming into place, muting the drunken laughter that had drifted out of it.

From his room, Draco could hear more people coming and going. With every time that someone opened the door, the laughter drifting out sounded more and raucous. Unable to fight his curiosity any longer, he tiptoed out, just in time to catch a glimpse of a stranger in a black cloak carrying a silvery mask under his arm, before disappearing into the room. Unfortunately, his mother spotted him and admonished him again, with a grave expression, that it was paramount for his own safety not to be seen outside. 'And for our name, Draco,' she said seriously.

Death Eaters, Draco realised as he settled on his bed again, excitement and apprehension battling within him.

He scowled through the window. Leprechauns were still shooting all over the campsite like emerald stars, lighting up the night sky and underlining the joyful singing and chanting from the Ireland supporters that made him resent his current situation.

Stuck in his room like a child.

No.

He did what was expected. What was proper.

He threw himself onto his bed and imagined the calming murmur of waves rolling over a pebble beach.

Soon after, he drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, Draco awoke from a dream of golden sunsets over the blue sea. The celebratory noises had ebbed away; instead, terrified screams and panicked yells carried over to their tent— despite the silencing and protective charms his father had applied.

He jumped up and ran over to the window. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out what was happening.

The first thing he saw was the crowd of Death Eaters. They were easily recognisable with the silver masks glinting out of dark robes. They were moving towards the edge of the woods, entirely focused on five or six people suspended above their heads.

The campsite manager and his family.

The Roberts.

The Death Eaters were cackling with drunken glee, making the Muggles spin in mid-air. Someone pointed his wand and Mrs Roberts turned upside-down, screeching as gravity pulled down her nightgown, struggling to cover herself. The Death Eaters roared with laughter, and a chill ran down Draco's spine.

Something exploded in the night sky and temporarily lit a crowd of panicked people on the other side of the field, rushing towards the woods. As fate would have it, he instantly recognised an all too familiar trio amongst them.

Of course.

Granger and her boys would not stay put. Bloody Gryffindors. The mere thought of Potter taunting him as a coward, because he stayed in his bed like a good little boy, burned in his chest.

He squinted, following their movements and with horror, he realised that they were moving towards the Death Eaters, not away from them.

Without so much as a second thought, Draco opened the window and jumped out, running across the field, cursing the idiots who never knew when to fucking stay out of it.

He reached the edge of the woods a lot faster than he had thought he would. Behind him, he could make out the Death Eaters moving towards him. He turned around towards the direction they were coming from, just in time to witness Weasley falling over like a complete plonker.

'Tripped over a tree-root,' said Weasley.

Draco was overwhelmed by a sense of relief at the normalcy of the situation.

Now.

How to best convey to them to turn around?

'Well,' he sneered and casually leaned against a tree, feigning disinterest. 'With feet that size, hard not to.'

The three of them whirled around and Draco was caught in Granger's furious glare. It was the sort of glare that always shook him to the core, and made him feel like that eleven-year-old boy again.

'You bloody fucking wanker,' Weasley snarled through gritted teeth.

'Language, Weasley,' he replied loftily, utterly delighted at Weasley's anger. Wasn't it just delightfully easy to goad that berk.

Not Granger though. She raised an eyebrow, and Draco remembered why he had come here in the first place. 'Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?' He nodded at Granger whose eyes widened. An explosion at the campsite behind them made them all wince.

'What's that supposed to mean?' Granger demanded, not seeming intimidated in the least. Hands on her hips, she once again assumed a posture of authority.

'Granger, they're after Muggles,' he said, growing slightly annoyed at her stubbornness. Didn't she have an ounce of self-preservation? 'D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air?' Draco laughed lightly, forcing the image of Granger's knickers into the deepest recesses of his mind. 'Because if you do, hang around… they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.' Draco leered at her. Maybe being crass would shake them into action.

He couldn't really see her in the wand-light, but he knew that she was blushing. Unfortunately, so was he. The image of Granger in nothing but knickers had reappeared with a vengeance.

'Hermione's a witch,' Potter snarled.

'Have it your own way, Potter,' he said, crossing his arms behind his back. The vision of Granger in nothing but knickers slowly transformed into an image of Granger crying, suspended in mid-air, tortured by a horde of Death Eaters. He forced a grin. 'If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are.'

Potter scowled at him, hands formed into fists at his side, but he was glancing around Draco and worry settled into his face. As usual Weasley, the idiot, was considerably slower on the uptake. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something pathetically chivalrous — as though that would save her.

Luckily, Granger seemed to get the gist. Frowning at him, she grabbed Weasley's arm and pulled him behind her — and not a moment too soon. Draco could hear them coming closer.

There was a bang—then screaming.

But—something was wrong. Granger was not moving. She kept staring at him, as though something was wrong with him.

Why weren't they running? What else did he have to do?

'Scare easily, don't they?' he said, goading them. 'I suppose your daddy told you all to hide?' Draco felt a sense of panic bubbling up in his chest. If they didn't move soon, he'd be discovered alongside them. And that would be a catastrophe for him as well.

'What's he up to — trying to rescue the Muggles?'

'Where're your parents?' Potter retorted hotly. 'Out there wearing masks?'

Not the point, Potty. Not the point at all.

'Well... if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?' he said with as much casualness as he could muster.

Why were they insisting on being so dim? He had all but given them detailed instructions. He shot Granger a meaningful glance. She was still sizing him up as though he was a riddle she could solve. His heart thumped in his chest as he studied her too, even though it was far too dark to see much.

The white-golden light of her wand made her face glow, like a fairy almost. Not quite real. Her hair was swallowed by the darkness but every angle of her face was exposed. Draco was struck by the realisation that she was actually pretty. There was something about her eyes especially that made Draco feel... bared. A familiar heat crept up his neck and settled over his ears— and yet he found himself unable to look away.

An eternity passed between them— then she angled her head ever so slightly. It was a motion that, with a lot of goodwill, might have been interpreted as a nod.

Fucking finally.

'Oh, come on,' Granger said and pulled Weasley and Potter into the other direction. Good boys. 'Let's go and find the others.' She shot him a last suspicious look, narrowing her eyes, and something in his stomach twisted.

'Oh, no trouble at all,' Draco muttered bitterly under his breath. 'Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,' he called out after them, hoping to provoke at least the tiniest acknowledgement. But she ignored him, instead dragging Potter and Weasley with her like glorified pets, the light of her wand guiding them. Eventually, the darkness swallowed them.

Back at the tent, Draco couldn't believe his luck. His mother seemed to have gone to bed, not realising that he had been out and about. He quietly slipped back into his room and went straight to bed. He was hoping to fall asleep quickly but with the ruckus outside, and the events of the day, sleep eluded him for some time.

His thoughts kept jumping from his father amongst the Death Eaters, to the Death Eaters following Granger, to Granger who was wearing nothing but knickers.

Draco sighed irritably and shifted onto his back.

Mudblood or not, Granger was approximating a grown witch, and his fickle mind couldn't help but note her forming chest and her curving hips. With her sitting right in front of him during the match, he could hardly help it, could he.

Oh yes, a vicious voice at the back of his mind whispered, he could have. He could have ignored her, and gone wild at the sight of the Veela.

Draco punched his cushion in a new form.

It was because of those Muggle clothes. Because of his mother and her nosiness. Because—

He sat up, and rearranged his sheets, twisting this way and that way, before throwing himself into his bed again.

Draco pinched his eyes closed and concentrated on his breath, willing his traitorous body to calm. A bang sounded outside, but he pushed it away. There was a sound from the door, but he ignored that too. Instead, he visualised the calming sound of waves dancing around his ankles, drifting over a pebble stone beach, and slowly, ever so slowly, he drifted away.

A/N: The first part of the chapter features quotes from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire "Chapter 8: The Quidditch World Cup" and from "Chapter 9: The Dark Mark" in the latter part of the chapter.

There's a tiny scene from Narcissa's POV that unfortunately didn't make the cut for narrative reasons. If you're curious, I've posted it on my tumblr. Come say hi on thelastlynx dot tumblr dot com.