He walked in to the muggle club, looking around trying to figure out if he was already caught. His father would have a hernia if he saw him here, but Draco for the first time didn't care.
It had been about a year since the Battle of Hogwarts, and everything reminded him of how the best moment of his life was when he and his family went against everything they'd collectively stood for. Sitting together, by that great hall, which he loved so much but would never have admitted earlier. And after that. When his father, at his behest, made an 'anonymous' donation to the Rebuilding Hogwarts Scheme. The largest donation of all. How he'd quit his ministry position. His mother had started a baking businesses headquartered at Malfoy Manor, called Sugar&Silver, not just luxury magical creations like truffle-cream macaroon with silver dust, but also simple, homely stuff like ginger cake and apple pie. He didn't like to admit it, but that's when she reminded him most of Molly Weasley.
She'd also mobilized the house elves of other pure-blood families, convincing them that they'll be suitably 'used' in Malfoy Manor. Not even his father knew of the silver sickles she slipped into their aprons. It made him proud, made his eyes fill up.
She was also the one who understood why he needed to go out more. He hated to think of it, but he was lonely. Most of the time. Anytime, whether it was in ministry events or reunions or even just shopping at Diagon Alley, anytime he saw his old classmates, especially the couples, it made his blood go cold. Granger with Weasley. The Weasley girl with of course, Potter. He was happy for them; in a detached, envious way. The only solution seemed to be to get out more. He'd tried to get in touch with a few of his fellow Slytherins, but only Pansy sent him a letter, which he burnt at the fireplace, feeling sick to his stomach. He needed someone, something. And he thought maybe a new identity, a new persona was exactly what he needed to achieve that.
He was Thomas Gilbert, at least for the night. Tommy to friends. He wore what muggles called a T-shirt; with something called 'jeans'. It was actually comfortable, but a lot less fabric then what he was used to. He'd left his pale blonde hair alone though; and tucked his wand under his T-shirt. A watch was on his wrist, but what it was for heaven knew. His only comfort was that he could try Muggle alcohol; because when it came to women none had caught his eye yet.
They just didn't click. Several of them were pretty, some were even stunningly attractive. They were in tight dresses, some not too different from witching fashion. Gold hair. Painted faces. To him, they seemed like too-real portraits. He could only see them; not connect.
All around him people were dancing; pressed up against each other, smoke above their heads. He grimaced; maybe he was old-fashioned, but where had ball dances gone? This was so…unrefined. So crude. He'd almost changed his mind, turned on his heel, when a flash of something caught his eye.
Dragon-hide boots. He was sure of it. The most expensive ones too. His eyes followed the tall, pale legs wearing the dragon-hide boots, and he felt his heart flutter.
A wraparound green-silk skirt hitched above the knees. A spaghetti top (right?) and luscious dark hair billowing down her shoulders like a raincloud. He could only see her back. Suddenly he wanted to see all of her. Could there actually be a witch amidst? Was he just hoping too much?
But the dragon hide had been real enough, and anyone wearing it would have had to visit Diagon Alley. Even if she was a muggle, she was the kind of muggle he wanted to talk to. The kind of muggle to buy boots from Diagon Alley.
He followed her to the bar, realising that even by muggle standards his outfit was perhaps too casual. He felt self-conscious, cursing himself inwardly for not wearing his pressed tuxedo. She took a bar stool, and half-turned with a moon-like smile. A knowing smile. He froze, wondering how ridiculously pathetic he looked.
His eyes were pulled towards a pendant on her chest; it was jade in the shape of an apple. A green apple. She cleared her throat. "Looking somewhere?" He reddened, and took a bar stool to steady himself. "That's a pretty jade," he said, trying not to sound or seem like a pervert, averting his eyes, "My mother has a similar pendant, but a ring."
She laughed, most unexpectedly. But it wasn't derisive. It was appreciative, positive. A tinkling musical sound. The flutters seemed to have returned to his heart. He felt himself settle on the chair. "That's very good…I suppose she has better sense of style than you."
Who was this lady?
He felt embarrassed, and shaking his head said, "I don't usually look like this." Her pretty eyes glinted as if she knew that. "Ashley," she said, and Draco detected a laugh underneath her calm voice. Was she playing it like that? He was sure he could see the outline of a wand against the ridge of her hip; he was getting enchanted by the second.
"Thomas," he said, hiding his laugh as a cough, "Tommy for friends." "Ah," she said, nodding, "May I buy you a drink, Tommy?"
He felt himself go warm as he shook his head, and gestured towards the bartender to give him a pitcher of beer. He took a swig and grimaced, at which she laughed, sipping something from her own flask.
"May I offer you some?" she asked, inclining it towards him. Draco suspiciously took it, thinking how ridiculously he was behaving. Even if she was a witch, what he was doing was irresponsible and downright dangerous. But that made him feel like his father, and like a snake shedding its old skin, he wanted to shed his past from him.
He took a sip, and it was surprisingly good. A little sharp, burning down his throat, with a green edge to it, and something vaguely sweet. He liked it, and with a smirk, took another swig. And then he remembered where he'd seen her before.
Slytherin common room. Greengrass, one of the quieter Slytherins. He helped Draco in transfiguration. He was quiet but absorbed everything, like a sponge. He was in the bed beside Draco's. Draco remembered a grainy family photo over the headboard of his bed. A dark-haired woman, a light-haired man. A younger girl, with a rush of dark hair. That handsome nose.
Greengrass. That had to be her surname. But what was her name?
He felt like he had to know that much before the night ends.
Suddenly he started guffawing like a fool, and with a flash of panic, he wondered if he'd finally lost it. Then he realised something. "You've—spiked—ha-ha—this—hehe—with—hic—Gigglewater haven't you?" She giggled at him. "It helps keep merry in non-magical spaces." And there. It was out.
In front of him, she seemed to be like an exotic creature. But for all of her ruggedness and raciness, he could imagine her in magnificent robes, a pearl necklace resting on her collarbone. Her beauty had nothing to do with her demeanour. He lunged for it.
"They say the grass is greener on the other side," he said as the Gigglewater's effects slowly wore out. She smiled. "I've heard the motto of Hogwarts is Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titilandus," and he could only gape like a fool.
"Astoria Greengrass," she said at last, extending her hand, and he shook it, spellbound. Astoria.
Ashley had turned his head.
Astoria could turn his heart.
He swallowed that thought and said, "Draco Malfoy." She smiled. "I've had your mother's cookies. Bakes, doesn't she?"
And an angry flush started from his neck, colouring his face. He was taken back to all the times he'd made fun of the Weasley woman, of all the times he'd sneered at that. Like a house-elf, he almost heard his old friends snicker.
"Well—I mean, it's really a hobby—she only supplies to purebloods," he'd hoped that this would make sense to her, a gorgeous pureblood heiress herself, but that had evidently been the wrong thing to say. She bit her lip and raised her eyebrows, taking a swig from her flask. He waited for her to say something, feeling thicker than a block of wood.
"Is it because other pureblood women are bad bakers?" she said at last, and he was relieved to see her chuckling, a bubble of laughter breaking out of his mouth too. She was addictive. She was the best thing to happen to him. He knew it already.
"Say," he said, comfort seeping into him, "If you're a bad baker too, how does that Gigglewater taste so unearthly?" She laughed and said, "Vodka. And a little bit of green apple essence. You needn't know baking for that," And then she winked at him.
He felt his insides go electric. It had never been like this. Not even with Pansy, who at best looked pretty. But even then, she hadn't captivated him. When he looked at her, he only heard the nasty things she said about everyone. He closed his eyes and his whole world seemed to be made out of her giggles and the flavour of green apple.
He offered his hand to her, wondering where in his sequestered life had he picked up these gestures. She took it, Draco was pleased to see, blushing, and together they swayed elegantly on the dance floor. Looking out of place, but both of them flushed. He couldn't believe his luck. The best person he'd ever met was in his arms. Maybe they call this love.
Now he understood why Potter looked like that when Weasley was with him. Now he understood why Weasley could choose Granger, and she chose him back. They danced the longest, and stopped only after a round of applause. They walked out of the pub, arms linked, after she helped him pay for his awful beer with his muggle money.
"Is it the Gigglewater," he breathed into her ear, his fingers on her waist, "Is that why I'm feeling like this?" She laughed that magical laugh which seemed to light everything up, and said, "Maybe."
He couldn't get enough of her. He clutched at her the way a drowning man might clutch a raft.
"When can I see you again?" he asked, wondering if he sounded that desperate. "Oh I think we'll see each other again," she said, her voice mischievous with knowledge that he didn't have, "But until then." She pressed a small piece of parchment into his hands, and then grinning at him, apparated.
He smiled at the parchment; her address. And then he wondered if it was maybe too late in the night to buy an owl.