Chapter 6: Stepping the Vexing Paces
Our Saint's Hall was a heritage site. Supposedly.
Personally, Draco saw no reason to consider it such. There was nothing particularly exceptional about the estate that sat on the outskirts of London. Or at least, nothing more exceptional than many of the other impressive old blood residences he'd been in. Less so, in fact, than that of the Greengrass Manor, which bordered on palace proportions and was at all times only minimally occupied.
Our Saint's Hall hadn't been lived in for at least a century, despite the fact that the Rivels – the owners of the estate – were still very much alive and prominent. It had instead become something of a venue for parties of the wealthy, ministry dos, and international meet and greets. It was relatively impressive, Draco could admit, but only relatively. And it certainly held no greater historical significance other than a history of such gathering beneath its roof.
Stepping through the foyer past yawning double doors and pristinely groomed ushers nearly invisible in their dark robes and unobtrusive manner, Draco led Pansy, Blaise and Greg after the trickle of ministry employees. The foyer itself was modest for such a sizeable manor, with the overhead chandelier devoid of particularly extravagant adornment and barely a twinkle of glass or jewel in sight. A single, wide staircase, steps edged in dulled bronze, led onto a darkened overhang that disappeared into the further darkness of the upper stories. Polished, white marble floors were draped in a wide, centrally spaced woven rug of vivid red that served as a directional pathway of sorts for those ushered through the front doors. Draco could already hear the chatter of conversation, the muted bursts of laughter, that rippled from the doors of the ballroom stationed beyond those doors
The urge to sigh was supressed only by Draco's knowledge that everyone – all ten people or so – in the foyer would hear him. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his friends, pausing in step before entering the ballroom. "Parkinson, Zabini, if you please I would cordially request you keep all displays of sadism and predation to a minimum this evening."
Pansy, outfitted in far too much make-up and a peacock-blue robe that matched the colour on her eyelids perfectly, quirked her lips and fluttered her feathered fan daintily in her face. "What do you take me for, Malfoy? Would you think so lowly of me?"
"I'm merely a realist."
"Not to worry, Malfoy. I'll keep her in line," Blaise said, flashing his dashing smile and sweeping a hand through slicked hair in an offhand manner that would have made most young women in the vicinity swoon.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Why does that not fill me with confidence?"
Greg stepped forwards, tugging at the collar of his high-necked robe. "Don't worry, Malfoy. I'll keep him in line."
"Are you considered forgoing drinking tonight, then?"
Greg frowned, confused. "What? No, of course not. Why?"
The urge to sigh was even stronger this time. "This is something of a lost cause. Remind me why I invited the two of you again?" His night seemed increasingly likely to end with his head in his hands. Turning resolutely from his friends, he took the lead once more into the ballroom.
That room was exceptional. It almost fit the grandeur the name 'Our Saint's Hall' suggested. As large as a quidditch pitch, the room was high ceilinged with every shadow and corner illuminated by the larger and more extravagant cousin of the foyer's chandelier. White walls were tinted gold in the orange light of the candles adorning every wall, from the magically glowing crystals of the crystals in the chandelier. A band outfitted in unforgiving white robes strummed and tooted mutedly on their instruments, adding a gentle melody to the buzzing chatter of several hundred people from their raised seats on the dais.
For there were hundreds, much to Draco's disgruntlement. Just about every person from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement must have been there, and it became apparent why many claimed it to be the largest department in the Ministry. It also explained why they had their own, exclusive Christmas party while most of the other departments banded together for such celebratory events. The guest list requested one accompaniment per person, something that Draco could have made use of to disallow Blaise's attendance except that, one, Greg didn't have a guest of his own so there was a spot to spare and two, he likely would have forced himself past the ushers regardless.
Once upon a time, Draco would have revelled in such a crowd. He'd been comfortable in its midst and even more comfortable at the centre of attention. Now, he could only look upon the masses, upon the milling employees all decked out in their finest dress robes chattering formally to one another as white-robed waiters waded amongst them carrying laden trays of sparkling champagne, and feel wearied. It was all an elaborate farce of which he had grown sorely tired of, and of which the reserved attendants would soon deteriorate into snorting laughter and exclamations that would be lost beneath those of their fellows.
Wading through the crowds and leading his trio of friends like a trail of ducklings, Draco headed for his customary station to the right of the band's dais, just beside the series of double doors leading onto the expansive, night-darkened balcony. He'd acquired his preferred position some years ago when he'd first become an attendant of the biannual department celebrations, and had coveted the spot jealously. It held just the right light to observe the room and its occupants at large, allowing him to engage in the amusing activity of people watching while deterring potential conversation partners with the noise of the band.
Pansy, who had been his accompaniment on more than one occasion to such parties – mostly because the rest of his friends were always 'otherwise engaged' or simply expressed a deterring distaste for the process entirely – barely even glared at him anymore for is self-imposed ostracism. She instead stood quietly, fluttering her fan in her face with gaze sweeping across the slowly swelling crowd with a distinctly predatory gleam in her eye. Draco wasn't particularly surprised that she saw fit to ignore his request; she had far too much fun with sucking dry the Aurors, ministers and working class individuals that attended such receptions.
Draco turned his own attention to the crowd, adopting a bored and detached expression to disguise any potential curiosity he may experience upon viewing a particularly interesting conversation. Like the confrontation between Jullian Marvough and Kenneth O'Connelly, the two of which had nearly come to blows at the mid-summer party six months prior and were now attempting and largely failing stilted, formal conversation. They'd likely nearly descend into blows again by the end of the evening.
Across to one side there was small clutch of women from the Investigators sub-department who were by and large referred to as Medusa's Children for the deterring glares they directed towards anyone who passed too closely to their silent group. They were some of only a handful of women in the room who were not fluttering ornate fans in their faces, a fact that Draco appreciated. The latest addition to formal attire – slowly adopted from Spain yet translated not half as well – was not one of Britain's finest choices in the national fashion department.
Over the other side of the room there was the awkward and largely amusing correspondence between Lurring's and Jos' deputies, Esquere and McFergusson, who everyone knew held nothing but condescension for one another's areas of expertise. To be a fly on the wall when a verbal dance was enacted between them was to learn some incompetently veiled secrets pertaining to both of their personal lives. Enough that Pansy would be left rubbing her hands together gleefully.
And then there was Harry Potter. Because there was always Harry Potter. Draco didn't even try to disguise the fact that his eyes scanned the crowds for an unkempt mop of black hair; it wasn't like anyone was paying the slightest bit of attention to him anyway. And like a magnet to a lodestone, Draco inevitably found himself staring.
How could he not? Even if he didn't let himself admit it aloud – he barely did so to himself – Draco was under no allusions that he was infatuated. And it didn't help his problem any that the latest style of men's dress robes was entirely too flattering upon Harry's frame. The Captain of the Elites stood across the other side of the room, Ginevra Weasley to one side of him and someone – Harkins? – to his other, but Draco had no difficulty pinpointing him. Nor in admiring the fitted cut of his robe's waistline, the tightness of rich fabric across his shoulders and the sweep of wide sleeves falling to mid fingers.
It was hardly Draco's fault, he rationalised. It wasn't like he was the only one staring, and not simply because Haryy was famous. He cut a sleek, trim figure that naturally drew the eye. Besides, such watching provided a favourable distraction to the following half an hour of waiting for the stragglers of the guest list to arrive. There was only so many times he could turn away the overeager waiters as they passed him and offered him a drink before he forcibly Apparated one of them from his sight.
Like clockwork, as the bell chimed eight o'clock, there was a moment of muted upheaval, a slight raising of voices and a scatter of figures vaguely central to the crowd, and Krax extracted himself from its midst. Heading towards the band's dais, he trotted up the steps and turned to face his employees and guests alike, champagne glass held aloft in one hand. Draco couldn't help but notice that the man's dress robes didn't fit him quite so well as Harry's did, nor that the slight flush to his cheeks suggested he'd partaken in perhaps a few too many glasses of champagne already. Not that Draco could blame him; he had it on good authority – from Pansy, largely – that Krax arrived for such events a full two hours before the first guest. It had to be boring.
A tinkling chime of a muttered charm drew the attention of any who hadn't already noticed Krax's obvious positioning. The Head of Department offered a broad, friendly smile to the sea of people below him, holding his glass aloft in a toast that Draco knew was at least another half an hour in coming.
"Welcome! Welcome, all, to Our Saint's Hall to celebrate once more the survival of another year."
There was a pause for applause that was coupled with enough hoots and cries of approval that Draco simply had to roll his eyes. Blaise snickered and muttered something to Pansy's obvious approval. Greg looked faintly confused when she swatted the Italian man teasingly with her fan.
"First and foremost, I would like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas this year. For the first time in nearly a decade, we have all our Field Aurors home and present on British soil to share in this holiday with their families. Congratulations to everyone for a job well done." Krax beamed like a proud parent to the repeated applause and even louder approval from the crowd. Draco rolled his eyes once more. It wasn't like it was any particular skill on part of the Law Enforcement Department that no international cache of dark witches and wizards had been unearthed to be dealt with at Christmas time. Sheer dumb luck was more to thank.
Krax continued with his speech that was, Draco recognised, much the same as it had been for the past four years. Saving that he had made good use of a thesaurus and supplanted the numbers when listing the achievements of various individuals and squads, yes, it was almost exactly the same. By the time he finished with a toast – and more applause from his audience – Draco was thoroughly sick of the sound of his superior's voice.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. There was a very good reason that Draco disliked such work parties. One in particular was the excessive number and of duration speeches.
Lurring of the Investigatory sub-department stalked up next, and nearly put the crowd to sleep with his dry, monotonous tone, thanking his fellows for their hard work. Only for them all to be reawakened once more when Head Auror Jos filled his place, laughing and cajoling his listeners into joviality with anecdotes of missions that held absolutely no relevance to the situation at hand. Draco didn't find it altogether amusing, though Greg chuckled on more than one occasion. Perhaps it was simply a 'had to be there' sort of situation?
Draco went back to people watching. And Harry watching, he would admit to himself, though darted his eyes away whenever Pansy leant into him to hiss nonsense into his ear or to point out a particularly appalling outfit. She wasn't listening any more than Draco was, and had developed her own method of entertainment for such instances. Something that Blaise – staring dull-eyed and almost scowling up at Jos – had not quite managed yet.
By the time Jos clambered down from the dais, Draco had submitted to accepting a glass of champagne from the silent, fluid waiters that had swept through the crowd throughout the speeches. He sipped at it idly as, by direction, the crowds parted and drew towards the walls of the room, allowing for white-draped dining tables and daintily carved chairs to be conjured into existence. He followed Pansy and Blaise as they led the way towards one such table, urging Greg to follow when he appeared momentarily distracted in the aftermath of his chuckles, and sunk into his seat before most other people had even realised the conjugation had been completed.
"Thank Salazar, I thought they were never going to end," Blaise sighed, shaking his head and crinkling his brow in mock sobriety. "I knew there was a reason I never came with you after the first time. Malfoy, if I ever make the mistake of asking you again –"
"I'll inform you that you are a fool and allow you to cede my superiority and better judgment," Draco supplied, turning his attention to the thin, laminated menu placed atop the array of his empty crockery and gleaming cutlery. "Yes, I will be sure to do that."
"How anyone could find such tiresome speeches entertaining is beyond me. I don't know how they didn't put themselves to sleep."
"I quite like Jos' one. He was funny," Greg said, frowning slightly at Blaise's words. He seemed more confused than affronted, however.
Pansy, seated between Blaise and Greg, patted his shoulder consolingly without even glancing towards him. "It's alright, Goyle, he's not around to hear you badmouth him. You're farce of loyalty towards your employer can be effectively dropped for the time being."
"What?"
"Honestly, Zabini, you're just so inexperienced in such situations," Pansy continued, ignoring Greg's redirected confusion entirely. "You've simply got to know where to look. Gather intelligence for future exploits. For instance, did you see Maghdeline Turnbull's face when Lurring mentioned Herper? That's something I intend to pursue post-haste."
"Please minimise the sadism, Parkinson," Draco intoned dutifully, though honestly he hardly cared. Maghdeline Turnbull had been a thorn in his side since his confrontation with her husband over his ineptitude a year ago.
"Yes, yes, of course. I'll keep a tether on my pleasure seeking," Pansy assured him. Draco wasn't convinced in the slightest but resolutely ignored his suspicions, returning to skimming the menu instead.
If there was one positive of the department's Christmas parties, it was the cuisine. Draco had long since discovered that, whether they were house elves or Wizarding master chefs, someone in the kitchens had talent. The arrival of a salty miso soup, steaming okonomiyaki and a delectably sweet anmitsu in quick succession – Draco had become partial to Japanese of late, so the inclusion of such dishes in the array of the menu was entirely to his satisfaction – left him in a far better mood than he had been prior to the meal.
It was enough that, when the last of the morsels disappeared from the plates of the rest of the diners and much of the crowd began to rise from their seats to mill once more, he didn't feel the inclination to protest when Pansy jumped to her feet with a wave of her fan and dove into the masses. Draco wouldn't be surprised if she'd stashed quill, ink and parchment up her sleeves to jot down the tastiest rumours she'd undoubtedly acquire that evening.
Blaise, smiling fondly at her afterimage, turned to Draco. "Are you going to go and get her?"
"Do I look like I'm inclined to drag Parkinson kicking and screaming from her latest prey?"
Blaise chuckled. "You make her enthusiasm sound like a bad thing."
"Isn't it?"
"Not in the slightest. And it's actually quite amusing so long as you're not the object of her obsessive focus."
"I thought you liked being the focus of Parkinson's attention, Zabini?" Greg unexpectedly spoke up. Draco felt himself struggle to contain a smirk at the incredulity that arose on Blaise's face; Greg might appear dim and more than a little slow on most occasions – mostly because he actually tended to be – but he could also demonstrate remarkable observation skills at unexpected times.
"I doubt it's that kind of attention Zabini is hoping for," Draco offered to Greg, who nodded understandingly in a way that assured Draco he didn't fully understand at all. Oh, to be innocent.
Shaking his head, Blaise rose to his feet. "Well, if you won't rescue her, then I will."
"She hardly needs rescuing, Zabini. If anyone does, it would be the unfortunate individuals she intends to trap in her webs."
"I was actually thinking more in terms of her likely need to flee from the aggressive masses after prodding one time too many," Blaise expanded.
"Ah. Yes, you may be right."
Draco nodded in farewell as Blaise shook his head long-sufferingly and disappeared after Pansy. He turned towards Greg after a moment of contemplation – how best to avoid associating with his friends for the rest of the evening? – and arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to stay at the table, Goyle?"
Greg, who had been curiously peering around himself and hadn't appeared to notice Blaise's disappearance, nodded slowly. He didn't glance towards Draco when he answered. "Yeah, I think I'll… I'll just wait here."
Draco sighed, fighting the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose. "You know, sitting here and peering around you for any glimpse of Yvonne isn't going to do you any favours."
"I'm not looking for Yvonne."
"Really?"
"I'm not," Greg assured him, though continued his very telling glancing. "I'm just looking…"
"For Le Vonde?" Draco suggested.
"Yeah. Wait, no –"
"Don't bother, Goyle," Draco said, rising to his feet. "Yvonne and Le Vonde broke up about a week ago."
"They did?"
"Don't get your hopes up. She's already moved onto Creevey," Draco continued. It was useless, however. Greg looked markedly brighter already, even smiling slightly as he continued his skimming scan. Draco wasn't sure if he disregarded Creevey as competition for Yvonne's very brief affections or if he simply hadn't heard him. It hardly mattered, though. All of Draco's friends had tried to urge Greg to move on. He wasn't taking it.
Pushing his chair back, Draco drifted away from the table and back towards his customary position beside the dais. It took little effort to assume a mildly appreciative expression, tilting his head slightly as though he was simply enjoying the music while he sipped at another glass of champagne offered at the courtesy of drifting waiter. He knew from experience that such an expression was a fairly effective deterrence for potential approaches.
That, and he'd made it his mission to ensure as much. Friendly though people may try to be, but there were only so many times they could reattempt a very one-sided conversation before they gave up.
The thrumming of the band was a throbbing undertone to the chatter of the Law Enforcement employees and their accompaniments. Draco returned to his people watching once more – because there was really little else he could do; it would be unseemly to leave before eleven o'clock – and actually found himself almost entertained on a number of occasions. Typically, Medusa's Children soon acquired a particularly wide berth around their table, and Esquere and McFergusson's conversation had at one point heightened to such intensity that Draco could hear it from across the room. What Anastasia Charlez had to do with Esquere's dog would remain a mystery – particularly given the internationally recognised fear of canines by the top model – but Draco would bare the titbit in mind.
Naturally, it took barely an hour before his attention was fixed solely upon Harry. He'd set himself a challenge to see how long it would take for such an inevitability to occur, but his attempt was waylaid by the cringeworthy sight of Pansy hovering over Minister Maynard, a quill held aloft over a parchment notepad and completely ignoring the very obvious discomfort on his face.
Harry's own situation seemed little better than Maynard's, and it didn't take a much to deduce wherein lay the source of his distress. Abandoned – or perhaps misplaced – at some point by Ginevra Weasley, he'd somehow landed himself in the clutches of Alfreda Reece. The waspish journalist was almost as bad as her widely known predecessor, with the only difference between she and Rita Skeeter being her tendency towards leopard print rather than crocodile skin. They even had the same abominable hairstyle.
Reece, funnily enough, appeared almost identical to Pansy in her persistent drilling of questions. Draco didn't miss the irony of that, especially given his lack of sympathy towards Maynard while it persistently arose in Harry's defence. For Harry definitely deserved the sympathy. Anyone even glancing at him would offer it in a moment; he embodied the word 'uncomfortable' to a T, from the thin pursing of his lips to the awkward shifting from foot to foot and the way he grazed his fingers through his hair in a raking gesture that Draco had slotted in his inventory of 'Harry Gestures of Awkwardness'.
Draco liked it when Harry did that. He did not like it when such a motion was induced by anyone but himself.
It was probably because Draco stared at him for so long that Harry eventually met his gaze, that is was simply inevitable that his shifting gaze would meet Draco's at some point. Draco, however, liked to think that he simply felt the weight of it resting upon him. Some might call him a romantic for thinking in such a way – and they'd be wrong – but it still gave him a faint thrill. He arched an eyebrow at Harry, who offered a one shouldered, helpless shrug in reply, apparently striving to ignore the most recent assault of Reece's questions. Withholding a smirk, Draco cocked his head to the side and gestured unobtrusively towards the doors leading to the balcony. The relief that flooded Harry's face at the proffered lifeline was telling enough that Draco didn't need to glance over his shoulder to ensure Harry followed before slipping through the glass doors and into the semi-darkness.
The brief seepage of sound, rising before it was stemmed once more by the closing door, indicated Harry's arrival onto the balcony moments later. Draco didn't glance from his gazing out across the silent, pristine and largely indiscernible gardens, and only offered his a sidelong stare when Harry stepped up to his side.
Harry deflated. There was no other word to describe the heavy sigh as he dropped his elbows onto the curved stone coping that capped the balustrade, chin propping onto one hand and gaze following the path of that which Draco had been pretending to focus upon. He seemed to be quite comfortable in the silence. Or perhaps he simply revelled in a break from Reece's drilling questions.
"Had enough?" Draco asked. Because although Harry might appreciate the silence, Draco was never one to be close-lipped save when around unlikeable companionship. Harry wasn't particularly unlikeable by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all.
"You have no idea."
"Why do you even come to these things if you so dislike them."
"I don't dislike them," Harry said, lips pursing once more in a telling indication of his falsehood. "They're just a little…"
"Dull? Overwhelming? Excessive?"
"Yeah, I'd say you nailed it."
"Mind-numbing? Exhausting? A complete waste of time and money for all involved."
"I wouldn't go that far," Harry laughed, pushing himself up to standing straight once more. Draco savoured the very fact that he'd caused Harry to laugh; one point to Malfoy.
"Perhaps you could put a word in to Krax for the rest of us. He dotes upon you; he'd listen if you asked."
Harry rolled his eyes as he tilted his head towards Draco. "He doesn't 'dote' on me –"
"He most certainly does. It's recognised department-wide."
"No, he doesn't. We just get along relatively well."
"Oh, so I'm sure he'd be prepared to offer an elitist position and a designated squad to just about anyone, then?"
Even in the darkness Harry had the grace to look embarrassed, cheeks flushing slightly. Two points to Malfoy. "Well, yeah, but… that's not because he dotes on me…"
"I'm sure," Draco falsely agreed, taking a sip from the dregs of his champagne.
It was relatively warm outside despite the softly falling snow and icy breeze that howled distantly down the far end of the acreage. Draco admired the spell work of those responsible for the Warming Charms that shrouded the balcony, providing the perfect atmosphere for a quiet and exclusive conversation between himself and Harry.
Removed entirely from onlooking eyes.
Alone.
And if it was a little bit awkward – because it was always awkward with Draco when it came to Harry. How could it not be? – then Draco could live with that. It was far better than missing the opportunity to talk.
For they actually could talk, as they rarely did in passing one another in the corridors of the ministry. Draco preferred this far more. Harry filled Draco in on the harpies that had bombarded him throughout the evening while Draco offered a run down of the incidents he'd witnessed from his bird's eye seat beside the band. He drew another succession of chuckles from Harry when regaling him of Pansy's fluttering exploits. Draco fathomed that he was at least up to fifteen points within half an hour.
It seemed so strange that they had once been rivals. So strange. Draco almost couldn't imagine it, and hardly cared to.
"I can almost pity Frey for catching Pansy's eye," Harry chuckled with a shake of his head. "I suppose it's simply a good thing she doesn't have a camera on her."
"I wouldn't pity him, not with his choice in headpieces. He deserves it." Draco took a sip of his champagne before balancing the empty glass upon the coping beside his first glass. The waiters, to their credit, had found their little niche and wordlessly offered the beverages like good little attendants. "And not to worry, I'm sure Zabini has the pictures covered."
"He's actually her designated cameraman these days?"
Draco shook his head, then shrugged. "No, not really. He's a bit of a contract worker, but that contract is inevitably filled with Parkinson when he's pursing her."
"And is he? Pursing her, I mean."
"At the moment it would seem so. We'll see how long this one lasts for."
Harry shook his head, smiling. "What does this make it, the third time they've gotten together?"
"It's never quite so uncomplicated as 'together' with those two," Draco corrected. "And this would be their eleventh."
"Eleventh? Jeez, why don't they just get married already?"
"Marriage? Between Zabini and Parkinson?" The shudder Draco gave wasn't entirely feigned. "I could hardly imagine anything more horrifying."
"Well, they're obviously meant for each other if they've returned to one another nearly a dozen times," Harry said. There was a faintly wistful expression on his face that left Draco nothing if not bemused.
"What about you, then?" The words slipped forth before Draco could quite stop them.
"Me?"
"You and Weasley." Stop, stop talking now, please. You're making a right fool of yourself.
Harry frowned for a moment. "What, Ron?"
That drew a snort from Draco, but he couldn't stop himself from continuing. "No, you idiot. The Weaslette."
"You shouldn't call her that," Harry chided, but a small smile touched his lips once more. "But what about her?"
"No wedding bells on the horizon?"
Merlin, be damned, please stop speaking! Draco would have clamped a hand across his mouth would it not have appeared so undignified.
Harry shook his head, seemingly unperturbed in the slightest. "Not for me, no."
"What, not yet?"
"Why the sudden interest, Malfoy? I would have been sure you'd heard the local gossip that we'd broken up. A whole year ago, in fact."
"Ah, but that was before her obnoxious presence appeared upon your arm tonight," Draco elaborated. He inwardly cringed; surely anyone would see straight through his flimsy attempt at concealing the truth. Even Harry wouldn't be so slow. Surely he'd finally realise –
"No, not for us. I appreciate your apparently heartfelt consideration for my romantic life, though, Draco." And damn him, Harry actually sounded sincere. How could anyone be so oblivious? Draco almost wanted him to realise.
Draco sniffed, attempting to reinstate his tattered composure. "No replacements, then?"
"Replacement is a harsh way of looking at it," Harry replied, his voice distant and thoughtful as he gazed across the dark gardens. He looked lost in thought, and Draco could only hope, irrational as such a hope was, that it wasn't with regret. He entirely blamed Theodore for urging his questioning of Harry's sexuality into his mind.
It was his fault entirely that Draco now felt something akin to, yet not entirely, a flicker of hope.
Not that he would ever pursue it.
"But no," Harry continued, and Draco's attention snapped back onto him. "I haven't. Not really looking for a girlfriend right now." He turned towards Draco curiously. "What about you, then? I'd have thought I'd hear any rumour on the grapevine of your potential trysts, but the Malfoy name is very much overlooked, it seems. Why is that?"
Draco shrugged, very deliberately stilling his fingers from fiddling with the stem of his champagne glass. "The DMLE grapevine is overrated; they're really not all that successful with their rumour-hunting. Although, even if they were they'd not have any fodder. I've sworn off relationships."
"That's a little sad," Harry said, and the sincerity once more resounded in his voice.
"Not really. Simply practical. We can't all be as perfectly and sickeningly made for one another as the Weasley's and Granger's of the world."
Harry chuckled again. "That's true. They are a bit of a match made in heaven."
"Sickeningly so," Draco repeated. "But speaking of, where is Weasley."
"Ron drew duty tonight. We've had to have a couple of people posted at Devon twenty-four seven at the moment."
"What, the Elites pulled that duty?"
"You bet."
"And Weasley drew the short straw?"
Harry hummed in dissent. "The long straw, more like. We were all fighting over the chance to miss out on tonight. Watch duty is a valid enough reason."
"You would consider freezing your bollocks off in Dartmoor preferable to attending a warm and comfortable though admittedly far too long Christmas do?"
"Of course. In a heartbeat," Harry grinned.
"Hm." Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose I can accept that. Is there anyone who actually enjoys these things?"
"Besides Krax? Unlikely."
"Krax and Parkinson," Draco corrected.
"And Reece," Harry added. Draco nodded in fervent agreement.
They chatted for a time longer, briefly discussing the supposedly very confidential Dartmoor case. Draco had little to do with the situation besides some rudimentary historical knowledge gathering on Devon and comparing the Hades Geiger readings, so it was interesting enough. And Harry, in what surely would have left his superiors and fellow Elites twitching nervously and frowning disapprovingly, was actually more than comfortable to relate the situation to him further.
Draco tried not to feel too smug with that fact.
They'd drifted onto Draco's current work – still pertaining to transfiguration – and Draco had unexpectedly felt the need to express to Harry his frustration with Yorkley and his minimalistic work habits when they were interrupted. Not by another waiter this time, but by a glowing white dog.
The Patronus leapt onto the balcony from nowhere with the muted echo of a bark and the swishing wag of a tail. The dog was one of those little ones, the yappy ones that nipped at the heels. The annoying ones that Draco disliked, though, admittedly, he didn't much like dogs in general. Tendrils of Patronus white veil undulated around it in stillness as it waited. Very pointedly waited, too, with an intelligent gaze fixed upon Harry.
Harry pushed himself up from leaning on the coping, a slight frown upon his head. He cast an apologetic glance to Draco before stepping past him towards the Patronus. "It's confidential. Sorry, Draco, I don't mean to –"
"It's fine," Draco assured him. Any discontent he may have felt over being excluded from the message was alleviated by the apology. Even his unsatisfied curiosity over the caster of the Patronus, of which he was unfamiliar with, didn't vex him too greatly. "I'll leave."
"No, don't worry about it, I'll just –"
"Really, Potter, it's no trouble at all." Draco lifted one of his glasses and air-toasted Harry condescendingly. "I'm feeling an urge for macaroons anyway, and I believe our wonderful servers are just beginning to make the rounds with the after-dinner sweets."
Harry smirked amusedly, shaking his head slightly. He obviously wasn't fooled, but didn't protest further. "Thanks, Draco."
Draco only spared him a raised hand of farewell, not even deigning to glance behind him however much he may have wished to, before slipping back indoors.
As soon as he was embraced by the warmth of bodies once more, Draco regretted his kindness in allowing Harry privacy. He hadn't realised how refreshing the brief respite was and sorely longed for open air once more. And, more importantly, pleasant company. But he made good his words to Harry, taking an offered macaroon when it passed despite its disgustingly pink and artfully decorated arrangement, and repositioned himself back beside the dais.
Unfortunately, boredom ensued. Perhaps it was the contrast of talking to Harry – actually talking to him, as they so rarely did outside of their infrequent and brief conversations in the Ministry – but even his people watching seemed suddenly uninteresting. It wasn't even that he'd spoken of anything of particular note with Harry; call it the effect of infatuation, but even small talk that he had to fight for casualness with throughout was preferable. Desirable, even. So it didn't surprise Draco in the slightest he found himself gazing purposefully around the Hall once more, eyes searching for Harry.
Nor did it really surprise him when his feet directed him to check out upon the balcony for Harry's presence. It was all to alleviate his heightening boredom, for sure, and it had been a full twenty minutes already. Well, fifteen, rally, but nearly sixteen.
Harry wasn't on the balcony. Nor did it seem that he was in the Hall. Draco checked, and his radar was particularly well-honed that night so he was under no allusions that he simply overlooked him. Good company was hard to find, and sorely lost.
That was how Pansy found him another ten minutes later, arms folded and scowling fiercely enough that one of Medusa's Children unfortunate enough to be in the direction of his gaze shifted uncomfortably.
"Malfoy, what are you so unhappy about?"
Draco shifted his glare towards Pansy instead. "Unhappy? I'm not unhappy. I'm in a wonderful mood. Bordering on ecstatic, even."
"Really? In that case, I shudder at the thought of how you appear when melancholic."
"Don't you have a Zabini's affections to abuse?" Draco grumbled.
Pansy cast a glance around herself with mild curiosity. "He was here a moment ago. But then I did mention how much I really would like a picture of Frey for my Monday column…"
"You didn't."
Pansy beamed in self-satisfaction. "I will always use every weapon in my arsenal."
"Weapon is certainly the correct term for it," Draco murmured in agreement. He almost felt sorry for the hapless Blaise. It was cyclical, this puppy love of his. Draco only hoped for his friend's sake that this bout would be short in lasting.
"Don't take out your frustration on me and Zabini," Pansy scolded him, frowning. "Just because Potter abandoned you –"
"Harry didn't abandon me. He got a Patronus message."
Pansy smirked. "So quick to rise to your own defence, Malfoy?"
Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "It's hardly defence when I'm merely correcting your misguided beliefs."
"It hardly bothers me that Potter abandoned you."
"He didn't abandon –"
"But I feel it my duty to draw you from your slump when it is so obviously effecting the good humour of those around you. Look, you've got yourself a little moat now; no one wants to be anywhere near you." And, following the guiding gesture of Pansy's hand, Draco realised that he had indeed distanced those nearest to him to a degree.
He shrugged. Good. He didn't really want to be suffocated by sweating, over-dressed bodies. "Maybe I like it like that."
"Oh, stop your moping. He'll be back and you can get on with your infatuation."
Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend. "It is not infatuation, Parkinson."
"So you maintain." Her smirk widened further.
"It is not."
"Yes, yes, of course not," Pansy chimed in a disgustingly sing-song voice. "So long as you keep telling yourself that. I have noticed something though, Draco. Something of particular interest."
"Have you really?" Draco very resolutely trained his gaze upon the back of a ridiculously tall witch's hat. Hadn't the pointed fashion died from the older generations yet?
"Mm, I have," Pansy persisted, as though she held Draco's rapt attention. "And I think you'd be curious to hear it actually spoke aloud."
"I wouldn't."
Pansy giggled her delight, which only caused Draco to train his glare upon her. She maintained her aloof disregard, however, continuing carefree. "Have you noticed, Malfoy, that you call Potter Harry?"
Slowly turning his head fully towards Pansy, Draco narrowed his eyes further. "As I recall, you took great pleasure in revisiting the revelation of my first-name basis with Harry for a solid month, Parkinson. Are you losing your touch? Is news so dull that you must revisit the past?"
Pansy didn't look deterred in the least. Her smile only widened, and Draco was disconcerted to realise it was the same predatory smile she'd worn earlier that night. He took an unconscious step back; her teeth looked worryingly sharp. "That's not what I meant, Draco. I mean that, if you haven't noticed, you've been calling me Parkinson all night."
"Of course. I always do –"
"But you call Potter Harry. What happened to last name basis when in a formally public context, hm?"
Draco opened his mouth to reply, only to find that no words were forthcoming. He struggled humiliatingly for a moment before snapping his jaw shut. The truth of Pansy's words resounded without him even having to think about it.
Damn. How had such a slip passed his notice?
Pansy looked far too pleased with herself, and all of a sudden Draco wished to be anywhere but surrounded by increasingly intoxicated colleagues and a self-satisfied ex-friend. "I think I'll take my leave for tonight."
Pansy chortled. "What, running away from the truth, Malfoy?"
"Hardly. It's," Draco pulled his fob watch from his breast pocket and was surprised to realise it had passed eleven o'clock without his notice. "Eleven twenty eight. I have done my duty in staying until past eleven and now feel no further obligation to remain in this sorry place."
"You're such a killjoy," Pansy sighed.
"That I am. Thank you for noticing." Draco slipped the watch back into his pocket and turned to leave. "Are you staying longer?" He asked, glancing over his shoulder towards Pansy once more.
For her part, Pansy's teasing mood seemed to have become distracted, her gaze fixed upon something across the room. "What, me? Don't be ridiculous, Draco, the night is still young. I have the tastiest morsels still to sample."
Draco pulled a face. "Yes, well, you have fun with your… tasting."
"I most certainly will."
"Make sure Goyle doesn't get too drunk. He was pining for Yvonne again."
"Pining seems to be a common theme this evening," Pansy smirked, taking a moment to spare him a condescending glance.
Draco ignored her. "And if Zabini winds up in custody again tonight for taking unwanted photographs, inform him that I've done my duty once before and I'm not bailing him out again."
"I'll be sure to mention it to him."
Nodding, Draco turned on his heel and strode away from Pansy. She didn't call after him, and he didn't really expect her to. He'd gotten her into the party, and she never felt any compunction to remain loyally at his side after that initial assistance. Quite the opposite, in fact; she had on more than one occasion explained that her retrieval of stories was very distinctly jeopardised by Draco's presence. Apparently he induced close-lip-ness.
If only Yorkley knew as much.
Striding through the front doors of Our Saint's Hall, Draco made for the Lumos-illuminated ring of the Apparation point down the steps. He spared only a passing thought, almost a regret, that he wouldn't be there should Harry resurface from his disappearance once more, but it was only passing.
There would always be another time. Wouldn't there?