The first thing Draco did after stepping out of the floo into the familiarity of his manor was to chuckle gleefully and take off toward the South wing. He heard his parents laughing at him, but Draco felt like he couldn't stop until he reached his bed, and he only did then because he'd full out jumped and landed flat on his belly with a whoosh, his face and limbs stretching out and tangling themselves in the fluffy softness he hadn't felt in so long. Draco realized he was breathing hard, and knew his mother would throw a fit and have a potion down Draco's throat in seconds if she saw how hard, but he stuck his face even further into the bed and breathed deeply anyway. It smelled so right and perfect and clean and nice, and it was his bed, and Draco realized he'd been a little worried nothing would be the same when he returned.
Draco felt the smile on his face and rolled over. Luckily, the new air flow had Draco's lungs calming down to a point where he wouldn't need a potion or risk passing out. He found that he could roll four times back and forth across his bed before hitting either edge and started to laugh hysterically. How had he even slept on that tiny old bunk? Draco wondered.
He still couldn't believe it. Draco was home.
It had taken a lot of effort, but Draco managed to avoid Snape for nearly a week after he'd ran shouting out of their lesson. It had been worth all the effort though, Draco thought, when he'd seen Snape's face last Friday morning.
After his revelation, Draco realized Snape had been making things a lot harder than they needed to be. He'd spent the next week locked up in his tiny chambers whenever he could, practicing what his book of Meditation had called the 'loci-method.' Pansy was furious at losing her beauty time with Linky, and proceeded to camp outside his curtain for hours at time, prattling on uselessly which she knew Draco hated. Draco didn't give in though, just had Linky spell the curtains silent from both sides and went back to his work.
By the time double potions had rolled around, Draco had been able to show up with nothing in his mind but the image of the nude redheaded woman from Snape's memory. After seeing the look of horror on his professor's face, Draco decided that this was one of the best things he had ever done. Of course, Draco had carefully taken the image of his almost-nude mother and tucked it far into his mind-dungeons where it would never be found. That was the last thing Draco wanted anyone seeing, let alone his own father.
The double potions class had been a first experience that left Draco beaming with pride. Draco had felt Snape's eyes on him throughout the whole lesson, but managed to keep everything besides potions locked inside his own head. Even as Draco had stolen glances at Potter and new memories of the other boy streamed in, Draco had never faltered, tucking each thought away in its place before Snape had even realized they'd been there. Well, Draco had assumed by Snape's pinched frown that he hadn't let anything through.
After class, Draco had been asked to stay behind and, with a sneer in the direction of Potter's stupid, stupid absolutely unfortunate-looking dumbfounded expression, he'd huffed a great huff and rolled his eyes, staying put as the others filed out. Snape had told Draco that it wasn't a bad first try, but Draco was ignorant if he thought that anyone who actually knew him would believe the only thing on Draco's mind during potions class had been potions. Even though he'd realized Snape was right, Draco's mood hadn't soured any. It had been an easy fix.
Draco wanted absolutely nothing to ruin the next two weeks he'd be spending in the manor and, if it weren't for his new Occlumency skills, then Harry Potter surely would have.
Draco found it was much easier to forget about Potter when he was at the manor. After calling Linky out of his coin purse, Draco had left her to unpack their things and, after an hour long bath, he spent the day being reacquainted with all his possessions. He spent three hours in the large room above his own, which his parents had remodeled as a secret room for him to use as he pleased. Both of his parents had secret rooms above their rooms, too, and Draco was pretty sure that Snape didn't even know about them. Draco spent a while flying, but soon found himself getting angry that he wouldn't be able to bring a broom back with him to Hogwarts and promptly put the stick back in its place on the wall. This was when Draco saw what was hanging up next to it. His slippers.
Draco eyed the things for all of two seconds before grabbing them and dashing to his changing stalls in the corner of the room. There Draco found a pair of clean stockings and long vest already laid out for him. Draco smiled, Linky knew him so well.
After striding to the bar and stretching, Draco spent the rest of his time in there dancing and watching himself in the mirror. His image never messed about when Draco danced. He took this as the highest compliment.
Then he went to the reptile room and fed his dragon some crickets. The little lizard had probably grown four inches since Draco last saw it, and this made him a bit wary of sticking his hands in the cage. He had just gathered the strength to reach in and stroke its bumpy head when a crack of someone apparating startled him and he stumbled off the stool he'd been standing on. Luckily, it wasn't Linky or another one of his mother's elves. It was Wayne, his father's elf, who merely grimaced a bit, helped Draco up, and brushed him off all without touching him.
"Dinner is serving itself in a quarter hour, young master," he announced and then was gone. Draco's father had started having the house elves tutored in speech when he first found out about Draco's impediment. When his mother heard of the ploy, she refused to let any of the Black elves participate in such nonsense. Of course, Linky being his mother's favorite elf basically made his father's plan irrelevant, but this didn't stop his father from going through with it.
Like his mother, Draco found it ominous.
Draco needlessly brushed himself off and exited the room. His family usually took dinner in the blue dining hall, and all the blue rooms were in the South wing. Draco's room had been a blue room, but upon request his mother had spelled it purple when Draco was four. In the blue corridor, Draco caught sight of something that made him pause. It was a portrait he'd seen a thousand times before, but this time something was different.
The subject, Owen, was sleeping, but he usually was. Draco had known Owen since he could remember. The man's portrait was spelled up all over the manor in random places, but instead of his name under them like all the other portraits, Owen's titles were either blank or said 'blood-traitor.' When Draco asked his father about it, he had told Draco that the portraits of Owen had been cursed to never come down, and this was the only reason they hadn't been burnt to non-existence.
Draco figured that he wasn't supposed to like Owen, but had never found a reason not to. Though he never let his parents catch him in the act of chatting with Owen's portrait.
This time, however, Draco felt like it was the first time he'd ever seen the man, and couldn't quite stop himself from gaping.
"Owen!" hissed Draco, and the man in the portrait woke with a start, his spectacles nearly falling off his face in his haste to right himself.
Owen blinked a few times then seemed to register who it was shouting at him. "Draco!" he beamed. "Long time, no see! I thought I told you to look for me at Hogwarts!"
Draco had completely forgotten, but couldn't really feel guilty . . . not when he was still so confused.
"You look like the Boy Who Lived!" Draco exclaimed, dumbly. "I mean, you could be his twin!"
"Maybe I am the defeater of your family's most recent terrible choice in all powerful Dark Lords," drawled Owen, smirking. "You hardly know my life, child."
"Too bad you're like 800 years old."
Owen scoffed. "I am not a day over twenty-five, thank you very much."
"Owen."
"Fine," the portrait sighed. "If you must know . . . I was a Potter."
"Was?" Draco frowned. Portraits didn't speak in past tense even if their subjects had died.
"Before I became a Malfoy."
Draco frowned harder. "But that makes no sense. How did you become a Malfoy?"
"Through marriage, of course."
"But . . . you're a wizard," Draco felt the need to point this out. "Your name wouldn't have changed."
Owen let out a small laugh. "Even though Narcissus had been the 'witch' in our relationship, he was still a Malfoy. Besides Narcissus Potter?" the portrait mused. "He would have eventually murdered me in my sleep had I insisted he took my surname."
The information left Draco dazed as he strolled toward the blue dining hall, he was still mulling everything over when he reached the threshold, and hadn't been thinking about much else. It was only when he looked up to find his parents staring back at him did Draco realize that Occlumency was the last thing on his mind.
Draco froze and opened his mouth, but figured that whatever was going to fall out of it would make things even more awkward, and he opted to dash back to his room as quick as possible without a word. Luckily, Draco was known for such nonsense, and his parents laughter was all that followed him.
It didn't take long to sort himself out, but this did not mean that his absence was disregarded. As soon as Draco sat down, his father asked him what he'd been doing.
"Forgot something," Draco said quickly and took a huge gulp of water, he hated lying. Draco had never told too many lies, and he didn't dare lie to his father. The only time he'd lied to his mother was when his father had asked him to and, even then, Draco had been on edge for months, waiting for something bad to happen because of their lie. It never had, but Draco wasn't fooled. The anxious feeling deep inside of him that wouldn't go away was enough to have Draco believing all the tales he'd heard as a child. Bad things even happened to little fluffy woodland creatures who were liars.
His father raised a brow, but then dinner was served. Draco always wondered if he had Linky to thank for these kind of saves. He could picture her up in the kitchen now, claiming her self made title as elf in charge, and snapping her fingers if she heard things becoming particularly awkward. Draco loved his elf.
This was every thought that Draco let his father see, and he somehow just knew his father was seeing them.
Despite Linky's possible attempts at making the dinner pleasant, it quickly turned anything but that when his father looked to Draco with a calm face and announced, "so . . . your mother and I have been discussing your request to have Parkinson's daughter over for the New Year."
Draco blinked and sat his fork down, his bite of mashed potatoes still on it. He looked between his parents, their expressions were much too flat, which meant one of them hadn't been happy about Draco's request . . . but which one, was the question.
"We are very happy you have been making new friends, son," his father continued, but Draco felt the need to cut him off there, and since his father had paused to take a drink it wouldn't be considered that rude to do so.
"She's a pureblood," Draco pointed out, not quite sure where he was even going with this argument himself. "I mean, I'm not sure, but I thought-"
His father cut back in. "The Parkinsons are purebloods, son . . . they are just-"
"Poor," his mother finished. Of course, nothing was ever rude when one of his parents did it.
"What your mother is trying to say, Draco, is that no matter how much money we have to spare, you will not be marrying or making any babies with a witch like Ms. Pansy Parkinson. As long as you understand this, then we have no problems welcoming her into our home."
Draco couldn't help it, he laughed, but a moment later resentment hit him like a bludger. "Not that I would ever want to marry Pansy, but . . ."
Draco trailed off, realizing his mouth had gotten ahead of him again. The last thing he wanted to do was start an argument on his first night back.
"But?" his father asked, face still calm. Draco hated his father's calm face more than anything in this world. Besides maybe Harry Potter as a whole.
Suddenly both his father's eyebrows raised and, after quickly filtering all thoughts of Potter back out again, Draco privately let himself acknowledge the realization that his father was surprised at the status of his relationship with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Also knowing that all previous thoughts and emotions over Potter had remained sealed tight-for his father's silvery white brows surely would have shot completely off his head-Draco had to wonder over just what it was that his father had to be surprised about. He had to have known that Draco would hate Harry Potter the moment he'd laid eyes on the other boy . . . only Draco hadn't hated Potter at first sight, had he?
His father was definitely hiding something, then. Draco didn't need to fake the rage he was feeling suddenly to cover up his true thoughts.
"She has nice hair, and clothes . . . for being broke, I mean," Draco finally answered, his father hopefully believing that he was still sour about not knowing what was going on and more rules being placed upon him.
"Of course she does, dear," his mother said pleasantly. "They would never have been invited to our parties had they not been able to keep appearances. Your father's family is a good sort, but even the Malfoys aren't saints. They would probably consider anything less than the Parkinsons standing to be just plain rude."
This information did not surprise Draco one bit. His relatives were rather . . . over bearing, on his father's side at least.
Dinner was rather pleasant after that.
However, Draco's life was completely ruined the next morning when he went to spell his hair back into place and ended up frying half of it off again.
Draco had put himself out and shouted random nothings until all the house elves were gathered outside his door, and his mother was softly knocking.
"Go away!" Draco screamed and she did. Not five minutes later was his father strolling into the room.
He pulled the covers off of Draco's head and began to laugh, completely unconcerned and purely iniquitous. Then he called Wayne and asked him to fetch a potion while Draco moaned pathetically, the story falling out of him along with a river of tears. Draco grabbed around his father's waist, forehead pressed hard into his firm belly, and explained over and over again that it had worked at Hogwarts every time.
When the house elf reappeared, Draco wasn't even sure what he'd been crying about in the first place, but barely could stop. Draco drank the potion and his hair began to grow back instantly. Draco looked at himself in the mirror and scowled. "How come you didn't give me this stuff last time?" Draco hissed. "I had to walk around for months looking like a clotpole!"
"I thought you said the look was modish?" his father questioned and Draco hissed at him until he relented and continued. "You were not old enough to be trying such advanced spells last time this happened," his father pointed out. "And it isn't like I let you go out in public . . . much."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Is this your way of telling me we've got company?"
"Mrs. Beck will be here at noon."
Draco groaned and hid back under the covers. His father chuckled and called on his way out, "I have arranged for Jean to apparate straight here from France the day after Christmas."
"Really?" Draco asked, but his father was already gone.
His father had been serious, but he'd failed to mention that Draco had a lesson with Mrs. Beck every other day for the rest of the break.
Draco hated Mrs. Beck. She was worse than Draco's Great Aunt Malfoy and all of the portraits of his grandmothers combined. She would fuss until Draco was perfectly rigid, his hands sturdy but loose on the keys, only the tips of his fingers touching them, and he better stay that way lest he have a desire to be stabbed in the palms with the floating black quill that followed her everywhere.
Gods, Draco hated Mrs. Beck. Or maybe he just hated playing the piano.
Either way, Draco always had the best, and Mrs. Beck was considered the best in the Wizarding World.
On Christmas Eve, all the Malfoys not in the direct line of succession came from France to visit Malfoy Manor. There was Great Aunt Malfoy, her two children, and their families. Every year it went the same. Draco's mother spent the morning in the kitchen, watching over the elves with her sixth sense that seemed tuned to even the smallest vibrations, and his father spent the morning with two elves following his every step as he roamed the halls pointing out items which needed a better cleaning. Draco spent his morning in his slippers, burning off nervous energy by dancing. For the past few years Draco couldn't help but be nervous for these get togethers.
The first to was arrive was Aunt Malfoy's youngest daughter, her husband, and their two rammy but well-behaved kids, Ace and Alba. Like always, Draco shouldn't have worried. Next to arrive was Cass' family, and the boy looked just as happy to see Draco as ever. Even if his older brothers did not.
Lastly came Great Aunt Malfoy herself, in all her glory, an array of gifts trailing behind her. She glided in, thin and frail and short, at least a foot shorter than every other adult gathered in the pale entryway; she looked gaudy as ever, wearing blinding silver and fur that made one start sweating to even look at. Her hair was white and thin, and literally dusted the floor.
She had always spoiled Draco rotten, so he loved the old witch, he truly did, but . . . Draco was beginning to see what his father meant when he'd said she was the most infuriating lifeform in the universe as she pinched his cheek and proceeded to cover him in red lipstick.
They still had a good while before dinner and the women convened in one of their many galleries while the men and Cass' two older brothers sipped some of his father's best fire whisky in the green lounge. Ace, a little boy of the age of four, decided to stay with his mother which left Draco and Cass all alone, if they could figure how to shake off Alba, who was a six year old witch that insisted on clinging to them every chance she got.
A lady after his own heart, Draco was able to lose her in front of his wall-length mirror.
"We'll be right down these stairs okay, Alba? Juste crier si vous besoin de quelque chose," Draco said and she waved him away. He wasted no time rushing back down to his bedroom where he found Cass spread out on his bed, going through a Quidditch magazine. The other boy had on black robes that were trimmed in blood red, they looked really new, and his hair was as long as Draco had ever seen it, curling around his ears. Cass was the only one out of his brothers who'd failed to pop out with the Malfoy hair, and had black hair like his mother. His eyes were as grey as Draco's eyes were though, and his skin was just as pale and fair.
Draco may have what he needed, Cass all alone, but this didn't make saying what he had to say any easier so he let their conversation drift to Chasers and Falcons and Snitches for a while. Cass loved Quidditch. Draco liked it, but not like he enjoyed some of the other things he'd tried. Though he didn't dare tell Cass this.
Somehow they started talking about Madam Malkin and German chocolate and their respective schools. Cass was in his third year at Beauxbatons, so Draco was thrilled to finally have more in common with the other boy. Eventually they fell into comfortable silence and Draco couldn't hold it in anymore.
"You know how . . . well, when my father . . . you know," Draco blurted and felt his cheeks heating. Maybe he should try saying what he had to say in French, he thought, might be easier.
Cass nodded, his eyes went wide.
"Did your father ever find out about-er-that?"
Cass shrugged but shook his head, no.
"Good . . . that means . . . well, of course . . . it depends?"
Cass raised an eyebrow.
"I just meant . . . you know, we stopped because he would have known . . . and you know?"
Slowly, Cass nodded again, but he still looked unsure. Draco's heart felt as uncertain as Cass' face.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . I can keep my father from finding out this time."
"Vous êtes sûr?" Cass asked, surprised.
"I'm sure," assured Draco, even though his sweaty hands indicated he wasn't sure, at all.
"Que devrions -nous faire?" Cass' eyes were wide and he was breathing hard. Draco felt like his heart was pounding in his throat.
"You remember what we did the last time? Ce qui a fait mon père fou."
Cass nodded jerkily.
"Let's do that." Cass blinked at him, like he wasn't sure what Draco said and, even though he probably didn't have to, Draco repeated the phrase in French.
Cass was nothing but eager after that. Draco had known he would be, but he couldn't shake his nerves. They decided the best area would be on the floor next to the bed. That way they would be covered from the doorway and the stairs, unless the intruder walked about five paces into the room before the boys noticed.
Draco laid down first with his backside on display, a pillow shoved underneath his hips, and his legs bent up and spread wide so he could thrust against the softness. Draco had his robe hiked up, the only item covering him was his thin black underthings. Draco felt cool skin against the backs of his legs and knew Cas had chose to do the same before covering Draco with his own body. They wriggled until they found a spot that worked for both of them, and Cass began thrusting, his hardness pressing fabric into the line of Draco's arse.
It was huge. Draco was sure it hadn't felt so big the last time. Then again, they hadn't done this for three years, and Cass was considered a teenager now. Draco had grown a lot in three years himself. Maybe they really shouldn't be trying this again.
Yet . . . Draco could tell Cass liked it, he gripped tighter and thrust harder and faster, until he was panting.
"These . . . ees . . . wow," he breathed against Draco's neck, and Draco shivered. For some reason he loved the fact that Cass was trying for English in this intense moment. "Does eet . . . do you . . . ees eet . . . ear you heard?" he finally asked, panting, and Draco violently started to twitch as the most intense pleasure he'd ever felt overcame him. When he came to, Cass was a dead weight on top of him and there was wetness on his arse.
"Avez- vous venez aussi? Je veux dire obtenir toute substance blanche sur . . ?" Cass asked a few minutes later, still not removing his body at all.
"It's called semen," Draco replied, even though he was pretty sure he hadn't made any himself. Cass would never know this.
"Oh Merlin! Je vais dire à ma maman vous les garçons se battaient nue en face de moi!" shrieked a voice, right when Draco had thought about pushing the other boy off and straightening himself out.
"Damn!" hissed Cass as he shot up and pulled out his wand, training it on the little girl.
Alba's eyes widened but, like a true Malfoy, she soon turned up her nose and brandished, what looked to be, a fourteen inch wand made of larch.
"Where in Salazar's name did you get that?" Draco asked her, gaping. Cass, he noticed, was speechless, yet still had his wand out and ready. Draco rushed to mimic his cousins.
She smirked. "Eet was a seexth birthday present from your maman, actually. Do you like eet-"
"Obleeviate," hissed Cass, suddenly, and the girl fell silent with a blank look on her face.
"Merlin. Merlin. Merlin!" Draco hissed, not quite believing his own eyes. "What did you go and do that for?!"
They then proceeded to argue for a full minute until Alba cut in, saying, "yes, you are both eediots . . . est le dîner encore prêt?"
They both paused and blinked at her. Then Draco slowly shook his head, no, dinner wasn't ready. She shrugged and ran back up the steps. Draco turned back to Cass and together they began to smile then laugh. Cass came close and kissed him on the mouth. Draco was shocked, because this was something they hadn't ever done. Though Draco liked it more than he probably ever liked most things.
Draco suddenly had a very bad realization and pushed Cass away. "Oh . . . Merlin . . . we messed up." Draco walked over and sat on the bed, not quite believing how stupid he'd been.
"Eet ees fine, Dreco. That ees actually not ze first time I 'av had to use-"
"No, you fool, not Alba. My father. He's going to know about this . . . if he looks in your head, which he will. I didn't think about it. I'm sorry."
Cass only chuckled, "you think that I would have done zis eef I had not mastered a leetle beet of Occlumency myself over ze years, Dreco? Woat? Pensez-vous que je veux juste que personne ne sache que je reçois plaisir en baisant mon bébé cousine?"
"I'm not a baby." Draco scowled and punched him on the arm as hard as he could. "And we are second cousins, anyway."
"Yees, well . . . you are steel a bébé compared to me . . . même si vous pouvez venir maintenant, aussi, et je ne aurais jamais vous laisser seul nouveau, Dreco."
Draco was sure he had never been more happy. He didn't even have to lie and Cass thought he could make semen. "It isn't like my father beats me," sneered Draco, despite said happiness, and Cass shot him a look. "So he spanked me like one time," relented Draco, huffing. "Big deal."
"Steel, I should not 'av left you zat team."
Draco smiled again.
After that, dinner went rather pleasantly and Draco got a lot of presents. There were no lessons on quality over quantity on Christmas Eve.
The next morning Draco woke early, but instead of adventuring with Auror Pendragon for an hour or two like he had everyday so far, Draco had Linky spell him clean and left the room without a glance at the series resting on his nightstand.
He opened a new broom that he would barely ever use (of course), enough new clothing to fill out a wardrobe, and twenty four books. When there was none left and Draco was about to insist that his parents open their own gifts, his father floated in one last present.
It was a small rectangular box that was wrapped in green with a black silk ribbon around it, letting Draco know it was from both of his parents. His father paused before handing the gift to him, looking more uncertain than Draco had ever seen him.
Draco unwrapped it carefully, and could only stare when he saw what was inside.
"Draco?" his mother's voice said.
Draco looked up at her and felt the huge grin begin to take form on his face. He clutched the items to his chest and ran to his mother first, then his father, hugging them and asking if they were really serious.
"Try them on, son," his father chuckled, long fingers carding through Draco's hair, and he realized he was about to cry so he took his father's advice and slid to the floor. He dusted off his bare feet and flexed his toes before carefully sliding each slipper on and tying them up. As soon as he finished, they magically molded to the perfect fit and Draco did start crying.
"I never thought . . ." Draco trailed off. He never thought he'd ever be old enough. He never thought his father would let him. He never thought he would have what it takes.
Draco stood, a bit shakily, not used to the strain it took for pointe slippers, and went through the positions until he got them perfect. His parents cheered.
Draco was so happy that he didn't even get too mad when his father banished all the boxes before Draco could have Linky sneak them off to his room.
Draco still glared at his father. "Are you serious?" he asked. "Bring those back, please, father."
"No."
Draco tried to look very angry, knowing if he pouted his father definitely wouldn't give them back. "Fine. I don't even want them that much anyway," he spat.
Mr. Malfoy sighed and waved his wand, two of the boxes appearing back in the air between them. "You need some kind of therapy," his father claimed, looking extremely unpleased.
He could deal with this compromise. Draco just beamed at him, grabbing the boxes out of the air before running up back to his room.
Snape came over for Christmas dinner and Draco was finally able to claim his revenge. After eating, presents were exchanged, and Draco was a bit miffed, thinking that his father had forgotten about him. This, of course, was when everything took an interesting twist.
Draco went first, receiving more bloody potions ingredients from his godfather, and some new robes from his parents. Snape got his mother some kind of stupid flower that Draco would have to look up later, considering what the man's deepest desire had been. Snape gave Draco's father one single blood-flavored lollipop. Draco presented Snape with a potion for shaping hair, which Snape immediately banished while sneering in Draco's direction. When Snape received the same exact thing from Draco's father, he fried the bottle into non existence with a roll of his eyes. Draco was pleased, thinking that was it. It wasn't. His mother had apparently heard and decided to get in on things as well.
His mother went last, handing over a small, flat box wrapped in midnight blue silk. Snape opened it carefully and blinked, hard, for a few long minutes at what had been inside before slamming the thing on the ground and disapparating.
"Well . . ." Draco chuckled gleefully, running over to pick up the item. "I've got to see that."
He scooped the item up and paused, making sure all his thoughts were in order before he acknowledged what he was thinking. The man staring back at him through the busted frame looked just like a Potter. He sneered back up at Draco, arms across his chest.
This was how Draco found out that James Potter, Harry's father, had been Snape's worst enemy . . . and here Draco had been thinking his godfather was being extra petty and rude to Potter just for Draco's sake. The selfish bastard.
The next morning Jean arrived, and Draco was still too excited to feel disappointed when she announced he was not to practice pointe more than ten minutes a day for the next six months.
Draco loved Jean, she was a gift from the Gods. She may not be the best dancer in all the Wizarding World anymore, but she was still the best instructor, which was why wizards and witches alike were dying to get a lesson with her even though she was going on one hundred and seventy-five and usually sat in a chair the whole time. By the end of their first lesson though, Draco was silently cursing the witch.
"It is your own fault, Draco, for letting yourself get so out of shape," she commented, not seeming concerned in the least. "I only see three holes."
"What!" Draco shrieked, stopping in place and checking for himself. Sure enough when his legs were pressed together, there were only three gaps and four touching areas. "It isn't my fault my wizard package keeps getting bigger!" Draco announced, not even blushing. It was just Jean after all.
"Tuck better." She shrugged. "Now, I want to see twenty fouettes in a row before we break . . ."
She spent two hours the next day showing Draco how to heal his own feet without removing the important calluses needed for pointe, and Draco remembered why he loved her all over again.
The day before New Years Eve, Pansy arrived by floo, an overnight bag over her shoulder. She would be staying until New Years day after the Malfoys' annual party.
Draco spent the morning showing Pansy around, but eventually a house elf came to remind Draco that his lesson with Jean was growing nearer. The elf asked if Pansy would like to go and meet the Misses Malfoy until Draco was finished, but he was wary of leaving Pansy and his mother alone together without seeing how they interacted with each other first. Draco also knew Jean would not go for him missing over the next couple days, not when he'd gone so many months without any practice, but Draco didn't quite know if he trusted Pansy enough to let her watch him dance.
Draco normally loved showing off, but this was probably the hobby Draco held closest to his heart and he didn't want anyone to try and ruin it for him with their big mouth.
Draco decided to take a chance. "Didn't you know, Pansy, I am quite talented in the fine art that is ballet - no, no, hush now or I will have to kill you . . ."
Pansy was actually quite speechless by the end of his lesson. Draco took this as the highest compliment.
"You were beautiful, Draco . . ." the girl muttered at last. "Damn. That is messed up!"
Draco only grinned. That night, Pansy snuck to his room after the lumos went out, nearly giving Draco a heart attack, and proceeded to announce they were having a sleepover. They stayed up nearly half the night talking and laughing, not at each other, but with each other. Draco wanted to tell her about Cass, but knew he couldn't while she was staying at the manor. Instead he settled for something else.
"I think I know what you meant now," Draco admitted. "When you asked if I liked boys."
He'd expected her to cheer and declare her wisdom, but she looked at him seriously and said, "I'm broker than the Weasleys, I think."
"The important thing is that you don't act like a Weasley," Draco pointed out, and Pansy punched him on the arm, but it wasn't hard.
After that, Draco and Pansy were best friends forever, the kind who knew everything about one another.