Chapter Three: Keeping Up Appearances

Daphne Greengrass, pureblood by birth and heiress to the Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass stood in front of the full length mirror critiquing her reflection. Her dress, a dark green to match her eyes, was elegant and weightless. It hugged to her figure where needed and showed off just enough of her natural assets to be appealing but not too suggestive. Old men plied with Ogden's finest tended to get too overconfident and forgetful about things like marriage and their wives.

Daphne's blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, falling in curls that had been painstakingly crafted hours before. Usually her hair was far straighter but the ball demanded she do something different. It was the way things were. Everyone presented the 'best' version of themselves, whether they wanted to or not. There was nothing Daphne could do now, she knew that, but she continued to check her reflection anyway. Best to make sure before the big event. She knew that she wasn't beautiful, not in the way that would make men stare and jaws drop. But Daphne liked to think she was pretty thanks to her fair skin, small nose and large green eyes. She was not Pansy Parkinson after all. Nothing could help that one, even Merlin would have his work cut out.

There was a knock at the door and her sister walked in. Astoria looked nothing like Daphne. Astoria's hair was a dark brown, while Daphne's was a light shade of blonde. Daphne was also shorter than her sister, who was tall and far thinner than Daphne could ever hope to be. Even their eyes were different, Astoria having inherited their mother's pale blue eyes while Daphne shared her father's. But Daphne liked that. Astoria was forever being compared to their mother, being almost a carbon copy.

"Daph, you ready?" Astoria asked, grinning happily. "Draco will be here soon."

Ah yes, the lovely Draco. Reformed ever since dear Daddy had gone to jail and Narcissa had only been kept out due to the intervention of the Boy-Who-Lived. That still made Daphne feel warm inside. Draco hated Potter. The fact his mother still walked free was a constant reminder that he owed Harry Potter. He deserved it too. Constantly being reminded the man he hated had power over him. It made him feel weak, pathetic, all the things he was deep down. Astoria hadn't had to share a common room for seven years with him. Merlin that boy liked the sound of his own voice.

"Can't be late for dear, darling Draco, can we?" Daphne said turning to her sister only to be met with a slight glare. It was the only bone between the two sisters. One hated Draco, the other adored him but Astoria had been in Ravenclaw. She hadn't seen what he was like, what lay beneath the now more calm, polite and restrained exterior. The Malfoy name wasn't what it had once been and he couldn't order people about anymore.

"At least I have a date," Astoria snapped, glowering before stalking out of the room. That much was true. Daphne had turned away any other suitor mainly because they wanted the gold she would inherit far more than they were interested in her. Draco had tried years before he had moved onto Astoria. It hadn't ended well for him. Besides, she didn't need a date for a ball. It was far more interesting to be uncommitted than have to stay with one boring and arrogant Pureblood lord in waiting for the evening.

Daphne took her time getting ready, knowing that it would annoy the newest head of the House of Malfoy. She could have left when her sister had done, but where was the fun in that? As she expected when she finally headed downstairs Draco was glaring at her. Although, he spent most of his time glaring at her. It was one of his favourite hobbies and took minimal effort, which was probably why he enjoyed it so much. She suspected he was hoping to feel important or intimidating or something. Whatever he was going for never worked. Daphne, instead of being scared or embarrassed, found it highly amusing. It was always fun to annoy Draco.

Draco was wearing black dress robes, complete with a white shirt and black tie. Exquisitely made the robes fitted him perfectly and clearly showed that no matter what everyone else believed the Malfoy's were not completely broke. Daphne restrained a sigh. Every high ranking Ministry official and Pureblood Lord would be going through the exact same pretence. It was expected. The clothes you wore reflected just how rich and therefore important you were. A man in cheap robes would be avoided at all costs. Daphne was wearing a set of elegant dress robes, true enough, but she had worn them on several occasions before not seeing the point of wasting expensive clothes. Draco would never wear his again.

"Hope I haven't kept you waiting," Daphne said not bothering to look apologetic. She had to hide the grin that wanted to pull at her lips as Draco's fingers twitched. That temper really would get him into trouble one day. For his sake she hoped not with her. There were lines he never wanted to cross. Daphne was more than a little protective of Astoria.

"Not at all," Draco replied stiffly. "Shall we?"

He didn't wait for a reply instead turning away from Daphne, Astoria on his arm, into the sitting room. The glare Daphne got from her sister seemed almost genuine. But she would calm down soon enough, Astoria was definitely the forgiving one among them. Although, Daphne mused as she followed her sister, it could be because she had more to being forgiving about. Part of Daphne really did want to like Draco, but she couldn't help it. He was ugly to the bone. Selfish, arrogant, rude and nowhere near as clever as he thought he was. Daphne had tried once to actually talk to him, for Astoria's sake, but after half an hour had seriously considered a killing curse and a one-way trip to Azkaban.

She followed them out of the hall and stepped into the other room just as Draco was throwing floo powder onto the roaring fire. There was a flash of emerald green and without a word he walked into the flames. Astoria waited for him to say his destination and for the fire to consume him before speaking.

"You could try to be nicer to him." Astoria said, heading for the jar in which they kept the powder. "Would it you kill you?"

"No," Daphne replied, taking the jar from her sister. "But I might kill him."

"He wants to make the effort, you know that?"

"No, he just says he does." Draco Malfoy would say anything to get what he wanted. His type would. But it was strange how he would almost never deliver on his words. "There's a difference."

Astoria looked like she wanted to snap at her sister, but instead settled for a glower that would make any man fear for his life. Daphne just waved as she stepped into the fire and watched as the flames burned bright once more. In the silence Daphne sighed. She had no idea what her sister saw in Draco. She doubted that she ever really would. To her Draco Malfoy would always be a spineless, self-regarding fool.

Daphne waited a good few minutes before taking her turn to use the floo network. By that time Draco and Astoria would have gotten into numerous conversations with influential and probably dull people. They wouldn't even noticed she had arrived. Just the way she liked it. She gently sprinkled the powder into the fire and with a deep breath stepped inside. She hated closed spaces. It was the feeling of being trapped, powerless and out of control that she loathed. It made her skin crawl. She wanted to lash out. But it was the only way to get into the Ministry these days, security had been tightened up ever since the war.

There was the familiar rushing of grates, the dizziness and confusion and then she was stepping out into the huge atrium of the Ministry of Magic. All around her people were talking and laughing. Drinks and food floated about on trays, waiting politely by people before moving onto the next guest. Hitching on a smile, Daphne stepped forwards. Almost instantly, as if from thin air, a slight man with grey hair and lips so thin they almost looked as if they had vanished from his face, appeared.

"Good evening, Lady Greengrass." He said with the faintest trace of a smile. "May I offer you a drink?"

A silver tray floated towards them after an almost unnoticeable gesture from the tall man. Politely and on social automatic pilot Daphne took the offered drink. She thanked the man, offering a forced smile before he nodded and headed off to greet another guest who had appeared from the grate next to her.

She sidestepped the cloud of dust as the man sprawled on the floor, only to be helped up by the drink proffering staff member whose dress robes, Daphne noticed, were far more expensive than those of the young man who had tumbled out of the grate. Sighing she headed off, not wanting to catch the attention of the clearly new and desperate man.

The party was just like any of these things. People talked politely in small, inclusive circles and occasionally would be joined by other dull looking people carrying fine wines and champagnes. For something to do Daphne idly wandered between the clusters of people, occasionally sharing a joke and offering a smile when someone spoke, all the while mentally making a list of all the people she would try to avoid later.

It was only when she was talking to, or rather being talked at by Lord Bulstrode, near the statue at the centre of the atrium, which had been made in the honour of those who had died during the war, that someone caught her eye. Standing, one hand holding a glass of water, the other twitching slightly as the man he was talking to laughed loudly in his face, was none other than Harry Potter. Unlike all the other people in the room he had forgone the traditional dress robes, and instead was wearing a muggle suit, much to the annoyance of most of the onlookers.

Daphne had never seen Potter at one of these things before, as he tended to avoid them despite being the Boy-Who-Lived and an up and coming talent in the Magical Law Enforcement Department. Although his reputation had been somewhat tarred by Ginny Weasley's public hate campaign against him. Daphne, who knew the Prophet's habit to inflate a story all too well, had remained undecided about the tale of woe that the Weasley girl had told them. It all seemed far too good to be true. The perfect story. It was funny too how Potter himself was never quoted. The blanks were just filled in for him.

Intrigued, she walked over, ignoring the protest of Lord Bulstrode who sounded offended and moderately drunk. Potter didn't notice her, his attention instead focused on Lord Selby. Selby, however, almost immediately lost interest in Potter and instead turned to Daphne pulling out his most, or so he believed, charming smile.

"Lady Greengrass," he said pompously. "A pleasure to see you again."

"I'm sure," Daphne nodded, eliciting a small smirk from Potter who had turned to her now and was glancing at her with a look that suggested he couldn't quite place her but was sure he knew her. "Good evening, Mister Potter, or should I say Lord Potter-Black?"

"You really shouldn't." Potter told her bitterly. So, he hated his title then. What a surprise. The one consistency with all the stories over the years about Harry Potter, was that he rarely, if at all, ever said anything. Everyone else did that for him. It wasn't much of a leap to realise that he didn't like being famous. It stood to reason, therefore, that he wasn't going to be especially happy being the head of two very important and influential bloodlines. It was just another reason for people to try and suck up to him.

"But it is your title after all, Lord Potter-Black." Selby said looking appalled. Potter's fingers twitched. "It would be a disservice to refer to you by any other name."

"Not all of us follow tradition, Lord Selby." Daphne pointed out, before Potter's clearly short temper got the better of him. "Now, if you will excuse us, Mister Potter and I have some urgent business to discuss."

Without waiting for his response she slipped her hand gently onto Potter's arm and guided him away from Selby, who gaped at the pair of them for a moment for being side-tracked by a woman with too much hair and a bosom the size of a small fleet.

"Thanks," Potter muttered as Daphne guided them towards a far quieter corner of the party. "Who was that guy?"

"Lord Selby," Daphne informed him. "He owns a large portion of the Daily Prophet. I suspect that was the reason he seemed so keen to talk to you."

"But he's a moron."

"A rich one too," Daphne agreed, setting down her now empty glass on a hovering tray. "Money can breed stupidity, look at the Malfoy's. But sometimes there is the occasional exception."

"Like you I suppose," Potter said dryly.

"Nice of you to say," Daphne grinned, enjoying twisting his sarcastic response. "I prefer to think of myself as materially gifted rather than rich. Besides, money isn't everything. Look at you, all the money and riches a man could dream of sitting in the Potter and Black vaults and yet you're an auror."

"Not at the moment," Potter added bitterly.

"But you will be," Daphne told him. "Michael Davis is a close family friend, his daughter Tracey and I went to Hogwarts together. He wants you back as much as you want to be."

"So you're that Greengrass," Potter said, completely ignoring her comment. There was a directness about him that Daphne couldn't help but admire. In a world of Pureblood politics and manoeuvring there was little need for men like him. "Daphne, right? Used to hang around with Tracey Davis. Hermione told me about you two once, you were in her Ancient Runes class."

"How is Granger?" Daphne asked fondly. She had always enjoyed trying and sometimes succeeding in beating Granger in their exams. A healthy rivalry was good for the soul, besides she always enjoyed wiping the smug smile off Granger's face every once in a while.

"Fine, she's around somewhere, busy playing international relations I think."

"With Ambassador Delacour and Minister Trimbole?" The two big invitations to this little gathering. The primary reason for the ball, behind the self-serving display of power and authority, was to establish connections. France and Australia, who had been just as partisan as the rest of the world during Voldemort's reign of terror, were some of the only nations willing to help Britain restore its reputation. But people, Daphne knew, never did anything for nothing. The fun part was trying to figure out just what they wanted to gain from all this.

"She said Fleur's dad would be here."

Ah yes, Daphne thought idly, the Weasley's. She had forgotten about that particular link. Not that it had exactly been publicised. There had been the small matter of the death of the Minister of Magic and the war with Voldemort to contend with. Marriages really didn't make the cut where news was concerned then, shame really.

"Politics bring all sorts of people together," Daphne mused.

"No it doesn't. It brings all the same sort of people together. Just from different places." Potter said, taking a sip from his water, as a he looked out the mingling crowd all fake smiles and emotionless laughs.

Idly Daphne wondered just why Potter was drinking water. At these things everyone drank the same fine drinks but here he was, in his muggle suit, sticking to water. He'd come the one year that people would hate him. Any other time people would have flocked to see the Boy-Who-Lived, shake his hand and ask for his autograph but now. Now the same people looked at him with thinly veiled contempt. Perhaps the most intriguing fact was that he didn't seem to care. Unlike everyone else standing around the Atrium, Potter didn't seem to be bothering to impress. In fact, quite the opposite. So why come at all?

"And yet," Daphne said, "here you are."

"I'm just here for the free food."

"Aren't we all?" she smiled, for the first time perhaps that night the gentle grin she knew reached her eyes.

"So," Potter started finishing off the glass in his hand before setting it on a conveniently floating silver tray. "What is it you actually do? Other than talk to strangers at parties."

"I'm an unspeakable," she told him. She suppressed a grin as she watched his eyebrows knot slightly. It wasn't something that people expected her to be. A lady of the manor, living the life of luxury with no cares in the world, that was what people thought she should be. Ladies didn't become unspeakables, it didn't happen. Or, at least, it didn't very often. But people tended to avoid that, stilling to their beloved stereotypes. "You thought I'd be lazing about in a manor somewhere?"

"No," Potter answered. "Just not poking things with sticks that's all."

"There's a little more to it than that."

"You poke them without the stick too?"

"For your information I haven't poked anything for at least six months," she replied grinning slightly. "Instead we're trying to redesign and develop prototypes for a new batch of time-turners, ever since someone broke all the old ones."

"We were being chased by a bunch of Death Eater's at the time." Potter pointed out. "Besides we broke a lot more of the stupid prophesies than we did time-turners."

"Something that Luidhard hasn't forgiven you for," Daphne told him. Luke Luidhard, who had joined the British Ministry from France almost sixty years previously, had made it his life's work collecting, storing and cataloguing the prophecies within the depths of the Department of Mysteries. To say that he had taken it badly when he had discovered many of the precious artefacts broken was more than an understatement.

"I apologised. Twice."

"Maybe third time is the charm," Daphne suggested. "Though I think he just hates you."

"I'm starting to get that, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Potter opened his mouth to say something else, but whatever it was Daphne never found out what he was going to say. His emerald eyes shifted behind her, widening in the shock of recognition. Frowning Daphne turned, wanting to see what it was that Potter had seen. The crowd behind them had parted for a moment, as a tall woman in a blue dress stepped out of their midst. The last woman that Potter would ever want to see.

Ginny Weasley.