In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...
This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.
Draco 20
September 1st. Fan-bloody-tastic. He had tried to make it a day like any other, listening in on proposal after proposal, deciding what to invest in, what to shun… The proposals for new laws, for grants had been interesting enough, he supposed. Granger even stood up, continuously pushing her damn House Elf Welfare bill, and he had to listen to her drone on and on with her nervous stammering and cracking voice. Every single word she spoke made the whiskey in his office sound more and more tempting. The clock struck three.
"Mr. Malfoy, there's someone here to see you," announced Mrs. Hudson nervously.
"Tell them I'm busy," said Draco, loosening his tie as he walked towards his office.
"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but they just barged in—"
Draco shot her a rather unfriendly look. "—Mrs. Hudson, what is the point of having you as my secretary if you're just going to let people barge in?"
"Forgive me, sir—there was nothing I could do, sir!"
Draco swung the door to his office open, a sneer on his face; it quickly fell away to see a raven-haired hourglass wearing a green dress standing there, gazing out his window. Her red lips smiled when her brown eyes met his gaze. He felt himself tense. She looked like the sound of silence, everything wonderful and powerful and familiar, all at once. He'd dreamed of the day she might show up in his path again, coming of her own accord instead of him catching her or him begging. Their timing, however, seemed to be eternally cursed to be wrong since the Battle of Hogwarts.
"That's alright, Mrs. Hudson," he then said. "Nobody says 'no' to Ella Zamora." He shut the door. She was wearing a boat-necked cotton dress that was green and black; the black part appeared to be a lace print, as he came closer. Her green slippers sparkled when she took a step into the light of the window.
"I've come to apologize," she said. He gulped, his chest tightening. "I treated you like a bad person when I know that you're not."
"You don't have to apologize," he said, neutral, almost too quickly.
She nodded. "Yes, I do. So…" She shrugged. "I'm sorry." There was so much sincerity in her voice; Draco's knees buckled. "I was stupid and ill-tempered when you were just trying to be nice to me. Please forgive me." Ella smiled again. He wasn't sure of what to say next, if there was anything to say next. He was suddenly very aware of the ring, still in his desk drawer. He then feared that Ella's grandmother would come swooping in. They were standing there for a very long time before she looked down and took in a staggered breath. Ella smiled and waved her hand dismissively, the light from the windows highlighting a line of welling tears in her eyes.
"I'm a stupid woman, I shouldn't have come—" She moved to walk out; Draco dropped his briefcase on the floor and caught her with both hands by the shoulders, moving quickly to stand in front of her. She was clearly shocked for a moment, but then smiled politely.
There was so much there, it almost seemed to choke. There they were, standing in the heart of his father's old office, where Draco had taken up his governance role at the Ministry of Magic. Father had been banished to his home, forbidden to work in the Ministry under the good rule of Minister Shacklebolt, and now Draco headed up his stead. The Malfoy name had to mean something again, and the weight of it was all on Draco's shoulders. Things were going well; his position, their investments all around the country paying off again, and his engagement to Astoria Greengrass…and, now, Ella Zamora, in his office.
"Don't." He looked up at her; she was grinning. "I know that look. Don't even think of trying to kiss me." A beat. "You're a married man, now."
"I'm not married," said Draco with a gulp.
Ella grinned. "No, but you will be soon."
"Not until next year," he said. "I think."
Her nose crinkled up when she smiled. "That doesn't change the fact that Ella Zamora is not 'the other woman.'"
"I'll leave her," he said, his own words coming before his brain could tell him whether to speak or not. Her face didn't show any approval or disapproval; she simply seemed to be waiting. "I'll leave her today."
She quickly shook her head, and closed her eyes. "Don't leave her for my sake," she said, her words like water tripping over stones.
"You don't believe I would?" he asked.
"It's more like I don't believe that you should," she replied, still avoiding his gaze.
"I meant what I said the other day," he said, his voice cracking. "I wish it were you." Ella's chest visibly heaved, and her eyes brimmed with tears. "Ella..." She tensed, still avoiding his eyes. "I mean it. Say the word and it's over. The Daily Prophet's office isn't far. I'll go there now and announce it to the world that it's you that I want to be with."
"And then what?" she snapped, now facing him with a frown. "We'll gallivant off, happily ever after? Like it's that simple? Like it's right?"
"It could be," he answered.
"Not for me," she retorted. "I've already got enough targets on my back from ex-Death Eaters."
"I could protect you," he argued. "Nobody would ever touch you if you were mine. Ella, listen to me—you'd be a Malfoy. No Death Eater would come near you, ex- or not."
"What are you honestly suggesting?" she whispered, incredulous. "You can't leave Astoria like this. I could survive you leaving, but she couldn't." The way she said that was…odd. She must have realized it, for she sighed through her nose and shook her head. Ella put her hands atop his. "Please, Draco. You know you can't." He gripped her shoulders, almost afraid he might sink into the carpet and drown if he were to let go. "Your father wouldn't allow it. You'd be disowned. You would have nothing."
A pang hit his heart; she was still as sensible as ever. He nodded quickly and let go of her shoulders. He bent his head and ran a hand through his hair, taking in and letting out a long breath. He looked to her, again; she smiled, again.
"How are you?" she asked, as if the last two minutes hadn't happened. Draco said nothing. "I see." She turned and meandered around his office absentmindedly. "I guess I should confess that I'm not solely here to apologize."
Draco put his hands in his pockets and frowned in question. Ella pirouetted to face him.
"I want you to push Hermione Granger's House Elf proposal forward."
"What?" Draco balked. "You can't be serious."
She smiled. "I couldn't be more sincere."
He put his hands in his pockets and shifted. "I suppose you're going to use the fact that I threw you to Death Eaters as leverage?"
Ella scoffed. "Well, there is that…" She paced around the office, and circled to his father's leather chair. She sat, slipped off her sparkling shoes and put her stocking feet on his desk. "But I purposefully screwed with your medicine for the sake of my own stupid, stubborn curiosity, and therefore exposed your secret to others as well as endangering the lives of everyone involved, including yours…not to mention breaking the Potioneer's sacred vow in doing so." She looked a little thoughtful, a little sad. She quickly brushed it off with a smile. "As far as I'm concerned, we're even." He inwardly balked; had Brazil taught her some brand of forgiveness?
"Then why do you presume that you may simply barge in here, unannounced, and ask this of me?" he sneered, crossing his arms.
She put her feet down and sat up straight. "It's like I said earlier: I know you're not a bad person."
Draco was taken aback. "And you mean to tell me that you truly care for this House Elf Welfare law?"
"House Elves have had their liberation in America for quite some time now," she commented. "They may hold jobs, own and run businesses of their own, et cetera."
"Ah, yes, America—the paramount of democracy, land of opportunity—"
"—I can't speak for No-Maj America, but Magical America is still able to maintain its democratic ideals." She sighed a bit through her nose. "My point is that the fact that Great Britain is so far behind us in this simple humanitarian law—"
"—They aren't human—"
She stood quickly, as if she had been slapped. "—No, but we are." She didn't falter, or break eye contact. She never did before, he supposed, and she likely never would. Draco was reminded of with whom he was dealing. "I'll be the first to admit that I deeply dislike looking at House Elves, if only for aesthetic purposes…but that doesn't mean they deserve to be crammed to the shadows." A beat. "You and I have been born to privilege. With that privilege comes the responsibility of making sure that nobody else gets brushed aside unfairly."
"Life isn't fair," he simply stated. "Fairness? Justice? It's all some rotten lie."
"That doesn't mean we can't make it a little less unfair along the way," Ella argued. "Of course, it's a lie, and one that we tell ourselves, and everyone else, that life can be fair. There's an author I love, they say: If one were to take the Universe and grind it in a mortar and pestle and sift it through every sieve we could find, one wouldn't find a shred of fairness, or a hair of justice. But you believe in those lies, that they're there—because otherwise who would move forward? Who would ever want to learn? Or change? Or discover? Who would ever want to reach out? For the sake of adventure? Or would it be for the sake that their favorite lie, that the world is wonderful and full of goodness and that we can be the ones to bring that glorious discovery to light?"
Draco's anger flared beneath his exterior. "You speak of goodness and wonder and morality and light as if you know these things, which I suspect that you might have in your blessed little life. You speak of fairness and justice as if you have ever received any—"
"—My life is not up for debate—"
"—Is it not, madam—?"
"—My name is Ella—!"
"—I don't give a frog's fat arse what your name is—your name is Mud for all I care—and I'll tell you one more thing—" He took a rather menacing step towards her, the kind that might make any other shake "—you have no idea what it is like to be in my position. NONE. All of your high ideals of morality and empathy and whatever other rubbish you like to preach about means absolutely nothing to me. Would you like to know why? I'll tell you: No matter how much of that goodness or wonder you'd like to see in the world, there is certainly none of that in me, at least not for your sake. There is no 'heart of gold' beating in my chest, and I am not going to be the one to pass that ridiculous proposal to law, certainly not for the likes – of – you."
There was an extremely tense silence; her jaw was tight. She then smiled, her shoulders relaxed. "I never thought you had a heart of gold," she stated sweetly. "Not once. Not when we first met. Not when you bought me ice cream, or my wand, or when you asked me for help, or when your patronus found mine." He tensed, everything in his mind going quiet and loud all at once. "I always pictured your heart as coal; mountains of it, in fact." His anger flared; a sharp pang in his chest caused his breath to falter. "I guess I just hoped that all of that pressure would create a diamond." She slipped her shoes back on and strode towards the door.
"What?" asked Draco before she could reach it, now utterly confused.
Ella pirouetted to face him, a neutral expression on her face. "That's how diamonds are made," she said again. "Did you know that? Diamonds are made out of coal."
"That's impossible," he argued.
"Said the wizard," Ella replied. "It's what they say, though. Well, they're made from carbon…which is, from what I understand, coal." She shrugged. "The point is, if you take enough of it, and put it under enough heat and pressure—and I'm talking extreme pressure—it's transformed, into diamonds." She sighed through her nose, glancing down. "Maybe it was a silly hope. I suppose that I just thought that you might want to be on the right side of history for once."
Before he knew it, his hand was on the door, holding it shut as her hand was on the handle. His breath stifled, catching a whiff of her hair, which smelled a bit like a glassy lake on a foggy day, with hints of freshly peeled apples; his mouth watered. Ella turned around, doe-eyed and unsure. She didn't look angry.
"Draco…" His own name was like a knife in his heart when spoken by her. "What are you doing?" she whispered. He felt her breath on his lips, and a fire he once thought was dead came back to life, all at once. It was as if a pile of embers caught fire on a wind. His own thoughts seemed somewhat foreign, unfamiliar, almost like they were from a part of him he had long forgotten. It was the part of him that was happy.
"Kiss me," he whispered, partly unaware that he was actually saying it out loud.
"I can't," she whispered back, her voice cracking. "I want to—" Draco's heart skipped. "—but I can't."
"Say the word, Ella," he begged. "Say for me to leave Astoria."
She chewed her bottom lip, her eyebrows tilted up. "Please, Draco," she said. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"We can be together," he said, leaning his forehead against hers. "We can do it right this time."
She shook her head. "I don't think I can..."
"Tell me why, then."
He heard her gulp. He felt her stifled breath against his lips. He could hear the bricks in her mind, building itself up around her heart and soul, never allowing anybody in. He understood that she had been hurt by him too much. Perhaps it truly was unfair of him to ask her to trust his words? She put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them down to his chest. A memory flashed in his mind's eye of when they were sixteen; her hands would come up to his chest and she would re-pin his Prefect pin or smooth the collar on his shirt. If her hand came up to his tie, she would always be pulling him towards her for a kiss.
"I broke your heart," she finally said. He pulled away, shocked. Her eyes were closed, her brow knit in sadness. He saw her swallow away a tear. He wanted so much to pull her into his arms and hold her so tight that any insecurities of how he felt for her would crack away and fall to the floor. Ella looked at him, her eyebrows tilted up in question. "Haven't you had enough?" she half-laughed through her pained expression.
Draco gulped. The air was too stiff; he had to get out of there. But what would happen if Ella Zamora was just left in his office? What would happen if Mrs. Hudson saw them leaving together? He wasn't about to ask her to just walk out with him. She seemed willing enough to listen...he just wanted to talk with her. He wanted an opportunity to... "Do you want to come somewhere with me?" He could never read her like she could read him, but after a long time, she silently nodded. He smiled, his chest tight. He held out his hand.
"I thought you couldn't apparate inside the Ministry?"
"We're not apparating," he said. He nodded pointedly to the fireplace and mantle in his father's office. "Trust me?"
She tensed, but slowly put her hand in his. He held on tight; they were soft as ever. Draco locked eyes with her and slowly walked backwards; she followed, her eyes not breaking away from his. He looked to the fireplace, and then looked back at Ella, who then visibly understood. She took in a big breath as he came to stand next to her, his fingers lacing tight with hers. They squeezed each other's hands, and took in a deep breath, and jumped, their bodies engulfed into green flames...
They arrived in an old church's fireplace, in a garden of statues that were covered in linens. Ella frowned, but didn't let go of his hand. She looked to him in question, and he silently said with his eyes 'trust me.' He led her through the statues, through the dusty hall, columns of light coming through half-painted-over windows. They arrived at a heavy door, and he pushed it open with his free hand. The smell of damp chestnut trees came and hit them both; he looked to his right to see her beautiful face, bathed in sunlight, her hair combed back with the beautiful autumn breeze. A smile grew on her lips, and her teeth were glowing bright as the sun.
"Paris," she whispered. "You brought me to Paris." She looked at him, seeming conflicted. "Why did you bring me here? Truth."
Truth. "I've been wanting to bring you here for years," Draco confessed. "This may be my only chance."
"I..." Ella then gulped with a smile. Her eyes told a story of restrained joy. "Well... So long as we're just friends while we're here. Okay?" He nodded with a smile, his insides aching and chest growing tight. "Okay. Where to?"
"Anywhere you like," he answered. "The Champs-Élysées, perhaps?"
"You're really willing to go to No-Maj Paris?" He shrugged. "Well, perhaps you're right to think so..." The unspoken reality of them sneaking about was laid thick in her voice. Ever the adventurer, she shrugged. "Oh well." Ella leaned her head back and took in a long breath of the Parisian air, and sighed through her open mouth. "Let's go to Montmartre," she suggested. "Know how to get there from here? There's a bookshop there that I love."
"Don't let go of my hand," he replied, and they disapparated.
Montmartre was beautiful on this oddly clear day. The afternoon sun made it look so appealing he forgot he wasn't in a magical part of Paris. Truth be told, it was too risky to be in a magical part of anywhere, for the two of them would be recognized. In Muggle Paris, they were just an Englishman and an American, being tourists, completely anonymous. The way Ella was browsing through the cookbooks was simply fascinating; poised and yet enthusiastic, he couldn't help but smile. His eyes went back to the books. He was admittedly curious, as he'd never been in a muggle bookstore before.
His fingers browsed the tomes, some young and some old. Draco loved the smell of old books; it reminded him of home. When he was a child, he would lose himself in the endless bookshelves in the Malfoy library, pulling down piles of them and building up forts of them, then reading his way from inside out. He wouldn't have discovered his love for flying or climbing trees had his father not put him on a broomstick. Draco guessed that his mother would have preferred him to be the quiet bookish type, for she thought Quidditch to be far too brutish. He was just then oddly reminded of...something, a faint scent—or perhaps the memory of a scent—in the back of his mind. It somehow reminded him of the wind and the earth all at once, but was unable to place it. The memory of broomstick handle polish came to mind as he breathed in the scent of the books, and then something sort of fruity and sweet, oddly dancing with the smell of ice and snow. Where did he smell that before? A book caught his eye: L'art de L'amour.
Draco plucked the book from the shelf; it was well-read and dog-eared. He opened it and immediately shut it, his face flushing red at the very graphic drawings on the inside. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure nobody was nearby, and then gingerly opened it again. His eyebrow quirked, then his brow furrowed in fascination. Was this a kind of...handbook for lovemaking? That's foul! How vile! How absolutely uncivilized! Look at these drawings—some poor unfortunate woman had to sit there with her legs spread wide open for some sick pervert to sketch a diagram of her— And these positions? Pages and pages of these truly perverse positions and techniques of— Well... Nobody should own this...
"Diminuendo," whispered Draco to the book as he tapped it with his wand, and it shrunk to the size of a knut in his palm. He quickly shut his hand and stuffed his wand back into his pocket and looked over to Ella, who was coming up to a salesgirl with an extremely thick book in her hand.
"Pardon. S'il vous plaît, madame, vous avez des livres de cuisine française en anglaise?"
The salesgirl rolled her eyes and walked away back to the counter, where she busied herself with a pile of invoices. Ella looked surprised, but she didn't look terribly offended or crestfallen; with her grandmother, Draco guessed she was used to how famously grouchy the French could be. He came up next to her.
"Are you really telling me," began Draco, tucking the shrunken pilfered tome in his pocket, "that you still can't speak French after all this time?"
"Of course not," Ella protested, thumbing the book's spine. "I speak French fine enough, I just...can't read it." Draco laughed so hard that everyone stared. He then shook his head and took the thick tome from her hands, titled Gastronomique, and opened it to a random page.
"If you can read Spanish, you can read French," he teased. She rolled her eyes. He pointed with his finger at a paragraph, beneath a photograph of a chef stuffing a hen. "Come, Ella. Give it a try. What's that say?" He caught a whiff of her perfume—or was it her shampoo?—and a memory jogged in his mind, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what that memory was.
"Ugh," she sighed. "Be— bay—" Ella snorted through her throat. "Ahm... Baigner...luh—er, les cuisses...wash— wash the thighs—?"
"No, bathe the thighs—"
"—Okay, bathe the thighs, en beurre—uh, in butter..." She blinked hard, shaking her head. "I hate reading in French, it makes me so cross-eyed..."
He smiled and handed her the book, which she took with both hands. He put his hand on the small of her back and pointed to the next sentence with the other hand. "You're doing fine. Go on, keep going. What's this word here?"
"Farcez...'stuff'... Uh... 'Pow— uh, poulet...the hen. Stuff the hen...until..." She frowned.
"'Until,'" he read, "'until she just — can't — take it — anymore'..." A beat. Ella closed her eyes and wheezed through her teeth, burying her forehead in the folds of the book.
"It so doesn't say that," she laughed, closing the volume.
"Does so! Open it again," he chortled. "I'll go through the whole chapter with you."
"Alright, alright, I've had it..." She turned around and went to the counter, putting the book down. "Je veux acheter cela, s'il vous plaît," she said to the salesgirl.
"Ce livre n'est pas en anglais," deadpanned she.
"Alors. Je vais apprende," Ella replied with an adorable amount of resolve. She then held up a square sort of thing that looked like a thick playing card, and handed it over. The salesgirl made a face and then put the card in a mechanical type of contraption, which spit out a long, thin scroll of snow white parchment, which Ella signed with a featherless quill. The salesgirl then handed the card back, wrapped up the book in parchment, and put it in a bag and handed it over. "Merci! Bonne journée." The French salesgirl faked a smile then rolled her eyes the moment Ella's back was turned. They exited the book shop.
"What was that?" asked Draco once they were outside.
She handed him the card, which was rather thin but had a series of numbers and then her name, Ella X Zamora, embossed on it. It had a thick black stripe on the underside, and it felt rather smooth in his hand.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's money!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. "It's really neat. You swipe this thingy as many times as you want, and then No-Majs just give you stuff. And it never gets any smaller! Then, about a month later, a letter comes to your house and tells you how much you spent. All you do then is just go to Gringott's and they pay it for you, right out of your account! No more needing to carry around a coin purse, no more heavy jingles in your pockets, just a simple little card in your clutch."
"That sounds...suspicious," he said with a frown.
"But it's not!" she argued. "Seriously, you can take these things anywhere and spend as much as you want, no matter what! And you just pay it off later. I think it's a breakthrough, personally. We should have our own version, I think. Maybe a magic purse that somehow connects to your vault, so when you reach into it, you can just...pluck out the money as you need it?"
Draco examined the card. "It sounds...odd." Ella shrugged. "You're really okay with this?" She nodded.
"Of course. What better way to blend in?"
"Why in the world would you want to blend in when you're born to stand out?"
"Because standing out is how you get murdered?" She was trying to joke, but Draco could hear that hidden pain in her voice, which was perhaps invisible to everyone else. Ella, like many, joked when she was in pain. He supposed one never truly recovered from a parent being murdered, especially senselessly. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked, and she, in turn, put her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. Draco felt a warm glow in his chest, like sunlight, like flowers blooming.
"Well..." He began, holding up the money card. "Shall we try to find somewhere to eat?"
She took her card back with her free hand. "Up for an adventure?" she asked. She then squirmed playfully from his arms and turned the corner to an alley and held out her hand with a mischievous grin from the shadows. Draco smiled, crept into the shadows and took her hand. Their fingers laced. He blinked; they disapparated and found themselves at the Eiffel tower.
Muggles all around were taking photographs, kissing on picnic blankets, playing with their dogs and children. The sheen of silvery water on the pavement had confirmed Draco's earlier suspicion that they had come just after a rain. It was the damp chestnut trees that made Paris smell the best. Ella smiled and kept her fingers laced with his, guiding him towards the base of the tower.
"I thought we were avoiding magical Paris?" he whispered to her.
"Which is why we're going to the No-Maj side." He tensed, a little, but then convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with eating near Muggles. He'd been through far worse in his life; a single dinner prepared by a muggle chef wasn't going to be the thing that did him in.
The elevator was rung up for them, and they got the entire thing to themselves. Ella took out her wand, when they were alone, and waved it over her pretty green froc, which sparkled and changed into a short black one-shouldered cocktail dress that fell at mid thigh. Playful tendrils of chiffon, a bit reminiscent of graceful jellyfish tentacles, hung down here and there off the skirt and down the back to form a train, all down to her ankles. She pulled out her clutch and refreshed her red lipstick. Draco smoothed back his hair and adjusted his tie.
"You look beautiful," he said, watching her rub lipstick off her teeth. She laughed a little, and twirled her wand to pull her hair half up and away from her pretty face. She combed her fingers through her bangs to smooth them to hang just above her left eye.
"Thanks," she said, avoiding his eyes, which reminded him that they were only friends, having dinner. There was a bit of a wait, once they got to the top, but before they knew it they were sitting at a table for two, watching the sun set over the Seine. Paris's rooftops were shining like copper in the golden light, and the entire city seemed to be singing the songs of joy. He opened the menu and realized that many of was comparable to the cuisine of the wizarding world. Draco's eyes found themselves towards Ella, who was doing a very good job at pretending to read the menu. The garçon oddly only addressed Draco when asking about their wine selections, but Ella's look suggested this was normal. Feeling adventurous, Draco ordered them a bottle of champagne.
"Are we celebrating something?" she asked as the sommelier poured.
Draco raised his flute. "To friendship," he suggested. Ella smirked, then raised her own flute.
"To friendship," she agreed. They somehow avoided the cliche of being in the most-romantic place in the world by visiting it together as friends. He wasn't certain how he ultimately felt about it. He supposed, however, he could be happy enough that she was talking to him. My God, she was gorgeous, though, in the light of the setting sun. "I love champagne," she commented.
"I thought you would have liked it," he said, sipping.
"Well, you know me—" I do know you... "—Every chance to celebrate, I do." She folded the menu open, and then sighed through her nose. "I think that every day is a gift, you know? Celebrate the big victories. Celebrate the small victories. Those things, or...looking forward to those things are sometimes the things that get you through..." She trailed off.
"...The hard things?" Ella smiled, a real one. "Shall I order for us?" he teased. Ella rolled her eyes with a toothy grin and snapped the menu shut and handed it to him. "No olives, right?" She frowned and smiled all at once. He refreshed her champagne flute.
"You trying to get me drunk?" He snickered through his nose. "You'll go broke."
He quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you were buying this one, Miss Muggle-money."
She looked as if she were going to knock back the champagne, but sipped it delicately instead. "Just as well. You couldn't out-drink me if you tried."
"Oh please," he laughed. He almost immediately regretted it, for Ella got that look in her eye. It was the same look she got in her eye she always got when faced with a challenge. Ella Zamora was terribly frightening in her own way, but frankly it was the part of her that Draco always had admired the most. It was scary, yet exciting, to think that he might see it, one last time, firsthand.
"Ten galleons says I can drink you under the table."
He looked up at her and smiled. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"Twenty, then."
Draco laughed, incredulous. "Make it a hundred, but not here. I'm not letting you be the loud drunk American tourist atop the Eiffel tower."
Ella's jaw went tight, her eyes went wide and bright, and she leaned forward. "One-hundred galleons to the last one standing at midnight, starting the second we leave this bistro." Dammit.
Draco looked up at her. It was a Friday evening, so it wasn't as if he needed to be anywhere the next morning. But what would happen if he had never made it home that night? He hadn't made any plans with his parents or Astoria. It wasn't as if he had a curfew or anything. He could go out if he wanted to... But it was with Ella. This wasn't just a binge drinking night with Theo, whom he wouldn't—he hoped to God—accidentally end up inside of after one too many firewhiskies. Perhaps, however, in light of the circumstances, Draco could look at this as...saying goodbye to the one person he ever truly loved, and—perhaps—loved him back.
Perhaps it was truly time to close this chapter in his life. Perhaps this was his chance to gain some closure and say farewell to his first love. Perhaps it was a sign that now was the time to grow up and carry on. Astoria was pure of heart and he owed her a clean start of some sort, didn't he? His past with Ella was far too messy. He could love Astoria someday, now that he knew he was capable of loving someone else. He smiled at her.
Draco raised his glass. "You're on." The glasses clinked gently, and he summoned the garçon, who bowed. "Commençons avec les huîtres..."
Oh yeah. Gonna leave it off there.
Emotions are running high. Is Ella acting a little weird? Do we know what's going on inside her head? We're sort of getting back to where the story began, right after she got back to Brazil. We know that she was dating Neville before she left, and spent about two years there. She's just gotten back, and lots of things have happened between her graduating and her coming back to the UK. We have no idea what her mental state is until we see her POV chapter while she's dating Percy. Don't worry, my angels, all will be revealed soon...even if Draco's acting like an emotional mess, which we all know he's capable of being. (Geminis, amirite ladies?)
Oh, and yes. Draco TOTALLY stole a copy of a Kama sutra-esque book. Perv.