"You're sure about this, Harry?" said Mrs Weasley, buttoning Harry's coat for him. She produced a comb from somewhere and began trying to do something about his hair, but gave it up as a bad job almost immediately. Harry had just washed it that morning, but he was fairly certain that no amount of shampoo would take out the sort of…stringy look it always seemed to have. Aunt Petunia had tried cutting it, once, but it grew back before the next morning, as stringy as ever.
"I'll be fine, Mrs Weasley. I'll meet you at the station tomorrow at nine-thirty."
"You have your trunk with you?"
"Right here."
"And you're sure you packed everything you need? You have your wand, and all your books, and your extra robes, and your toothbrush, and your spending money, and your clean underwear, and…?"
"Check, check, check, check, check, and check," said Harry.
"Remember, that's everything you'll need for the whole year…"
"Got it."
"And you'll be sure to remember to bring your trunk with you to the station tomorrow? I could send you a reminder…"
"I'll remember."
"Well, if you need anything, anything at all, send us a note through the Floo and we'll be there straightaway," she said for the seventeenth time.
"I'll be fine, Mrs Weasley," he said for the nine hundred and fourth.
He heaved the trunk up, took a handful of Floo powder from the pot she offered him, flung it into the fire, stepped in, and said, clearly and carefully, "Malfoy Manor."
The journey was every bit as unpleasant this time, except when he collapsed out this time he landed face-first not on a cold stone floor but on a rich carpet, and this time there were hands to help him up.
"Mr Snape! Right on time," said Mr Malfoy as he hoisted Harry to his feet. Mr Malfoy wore green this evening, and his tie was fastened with a little snake-shaped tie-pin, but other than that he looked just the same as he had in Knockturn Alley, down to the walking stick. This he pointed at Harry now, and the dust and ash from the fireplace burst off him in a cloud and flew back up the chimney.
"Thanks," said Harry.
"And we'll just have one of our house-elves take your trunk up to your room. I must apologise for the state of things," said Mr Malfoy, waving his hand airily around the room.
Harry had landed in some kind of a drawing room. The fireplace from which he had emerged was white marble, and surmounted with an elegant mirror that reminded Harry of the Mirror of Erised. The floor appeared to be marble as well—black, with fluffy white rugs in front of the fireplace and under every one of the many occasional tables. The sofas were covered in something Harry could have sworn was white dragon skin, which matched the white wallpaper. The real chandelier hanging from the ceiling was crystal and scattered rays of light and miniature oblong rainbows everywhere. A harp stood in one corner, on its own little table. Expensive-looking portraits and paintings hung on every wall except the one to Harry's left, which was draped in rich black and gold curtains. The whole arrangement was spotless and gleaming; even the newspaper Mr Malfoy had just set down had the look of a carefully arranged centrepiece.
"Erm," said Harry. "Why?"
"One of our house-elves has been behaving most erratically of late, so things might be a little topsy-turvy. We are punishing it, of course, but you understand how even so slight a thing can upset the delicate balance of a well-conducted household." The emphasis on well-conducted didn't escape Harry, and neither did its implication: At the Weasleys', everything is chaos already, so something like that wouldn't make a difference…
"Mrs Malfoy and Draco are dressing; they should be here shortly. Would you care to be seated?"
"Er, sure," said Harry. He perched on the edge of one of the dragon-skin armchairs—it turned out to be ridiculously squashy, and no matter how hard he tried he found himself sinking inexorably back into it, like a black hole made out of white dragon skin. Maybe this was the plan, he thought, as he struggled to stay upright: invite me over and then have the couch eat me. They'd never find the remains; the perfect crime…
Harry thought Mr Malfoy might pick up his newspaper again, but he simply settled back into his own chair, crossed his legs, and regarded Harry carefully. Harry gazed back and tried to blink as little as Mr Malfoy was apparently blinking.
"You do look very much like your father, Harry," said Mr Malfoy at length.
"So I've been told, sir."
"Except around the eyes, I think. Rather more of your…lovely mother, there."
"Yes, sir."
"I knew your father quite well at one time, you know."
This was news. Coach Potter was one thing, but Lucius Malfoy?
"How?" Harry asked.
Mr Malfoy's lips curled into another of his not-terribly-pleasant smiles. "I suppose you might say we shared certain interests. And then of course we were at school together for the space of two or three years. I always said Severus should have been in Slytherin; he was much too clever for Gryffindor. Oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot—Draco told me you were one. Still, I suppose the Sorting Hat may make mistakes?"
"I don't think so, sir. It did consider me for Slytherin, but I asked not to be."
"Indeed?" Mr Malfoy raised his eyebrows.
"I thought it wouldn't be the best match for me. On the whole, sir, I'd rather be brave than great."
"Another trait you inherited from your mother, then," said Mr Malfoy.
Now what did that mean?
The door behind Harry opened and he hopped to his feet, glad to escape the insidious chair, to which he had nearly succumbed. Mr Malfoy likewise rose.
In swept one of the handsomest women Harry had ever seen. That was just the word for her: she wasn't, strictly speaking, beautiful, or even pretty, but she was extremely good-looking in a haughty, aristocratic way—like a statue. She had a high forehead, a pointed nose with flared nostrils, dark lashes and brows, skin so fair it was almost white, and cold blue eyes. Something that glittered held her pale blonde hair away from her face. She wore green, like her husband, and the ring on her left hand had an emerald.
"Good evening," she said, and her voice matched her perfectly—low-pitched, well-bred, and cold. She crossed the room and held out her hand to her husband. He took it and brought it to his lips. Did I miss something? Harry wondered. Does the Floo network take you back in time? Should I be wearing a collar and knee breeches?
"Good evening, my dear," said Mr Malfoy. "Narcissa, may I present Master Harry Snape. Harry, my wife, Mrs Narcissa Black Malfoy."
Ah well, thought Harry. When in Rome…
And he bowed from the waist. "How do you do, Mrs Malfoy," he said.
Narcissa. Narcissus was a kind of flower. It was also that Greek character who fell in love with his own reflection. And then Black…Harry had noticed the use of the maiden name on the invitation. He supposed that anyone married to a Malfoy would have to be from an equally pure-blooded family, and she'd probably be pretty proud of that.
"How do you do, Harry," she replied, smiling coolly. "We are so pleased to have you in our home. Draco will be down shortly—I'm sure the two of you will enjoy spending some time together after so long."
"Sure," said Harry.
She looked him up and down briefly, and Harry was suddenly intensely conscious that he was wearing his school robes in front of this impressive lady. (Well, after all, all of his other clothes were Muggle ones and not really appropriate for evening wear, even after Mrs Weasley had attacked them with her needle and thread and wand and made them all fit—but the fact that he didn't have anything better almost made it worse.)
"Would you care for something to drink?" asked Mrs Malfoy, disengaging from her husband, who had not let her hand go after first taking it. She moved toward one of the occasional tables—this one had a glass decanter on it and a few glasses, though they were all empty.
"Erm, I'm not old enough," said Harry.
"Of course, I meant a soft drink."
"Do you have pumpkin juice?" Harry asked.
"Of course. Impleto Pumpkin Juice," she said, and a moment later Harry found himself with a large glass of his favourite drink.
As he sipped it Harry decided that, while he might not feel much affection for Mr Malfoy, he had no reason to dislike Mrs Malfoy yet. She was a little chilly, but at least Harry didn't get the feeling that she was watching his every move for something she could exploit, the way he did around Mr Malfoy or even Draco. And who knew, maybe icy politeness was just how she interacted with the world.
"Draco, darling!"
Well, the world except her son.
Draco slouched into the room looking bad-tempered and accepted her kiss with ill-concealed embarrassment, but from the way she hung over him you'd have thought he was a skinny pointy-faced cherub. She reminded Harry strongly of Aunt Petunia with her Duddykins—except, of course, much better-looking.
"Draco, say good evening to our guest," said Mrs Malfoy.
"Hi," said Draco.
"Hi," said Harry.
There was a pause.
"Well, now that the arduous task of greetings is over," said Mr Malfoy, shooting Draco a look, "I believe dinner is prepared in the dining room. If you'd care to follow me, Mr Snape?"
The dining room was, if possible, even more impressive than the drawing room. The oaken table seemed to stretch into the distant mists of infinity, covered with embroidered tablecloths and set with paper-thin china and bearing a lot more of those little ornaments that had made so many occasional tables necessary in the drawing room. The centrepiece, which was somewhere around the edge of Harry's range of vision, consisted of about a million live flowers and an actual statue. He couldn't tell exactly what it was supposed to be a statue of, but it was big and impressive and that was probably what counted. The whole room was black and white—even the flowers.
Draco slumped into a seat and glared at his plate, as if willing the food into existence. Harry perched hesitantly on the chair next to him. For some reason he felt that Mr and Mrs Malfoy would take seats at the head and foot of the table, which transportation, Harry thought, might be effected quite nicely by Floo powder, since there was a fireplace at either end of the room—but Mr Malfoy seated himself at the head, and Mrs Malfoy sat on his right.
Like at Hogwarts, the food appeared by magic on the table as soon as Mrs Malfoy, in her clear, cold voice, said "Appetisers". As Draco had chosen a seat about halfway between the head of the table and the centrepiece, she was almost too far away to be heard.
"I bet you spend a lot of time working out how far you can get without them telling you to come back," said Harry.
Draco speared something in his soup with a fork. After waiting a minute for Draco to stop chewing, Harry finally realised that no reply was forthcoming and turned to his own dinner.
"What am I supposed to eat with?" he asked blankly, staring at his silverware (really silver silverware, with pearls or something in the handles). There were three spoons and two knives on one side of his plate, and two forks on the other. Somehow he doubted he was supposed to be eating his soup with a fork, the way Draco was, but how was he supposed to know which not-fork was right?
Draco acted as though he hadn't heard him; he went on fishing out little—were they shrimps? Or maybe those squid things he'd read that some people ate in soups?—with his fork. If Mrs and Mr Malfoy noticed this, they didn't comment.
Harry shrugged. He picked up a spoon at random and splashed it in his soup, which turned out to be just about the best he'd ever tasted.
"This stuff isn't bad!" said Harry appreciatively to Draco, who, when there was nothing left to impale, picked up the bowl and drank the remainder. He still wasn't even looking at Harry.
"Now is the part where you make some addition to the conversation," Harry said. "I mean, I'm pretty bad at the whole 'small talk' thing anyway, but you could say something."
Still nothing. Harry was distinctly annoyed by now.
He heard, very faintly, Mrs Malfoy's voice saying "Salad", and Harry's half-finished soup vanished with a slight pop, replaced with a shallow bowl with one lettuce leaf and a slice of tomato artistically (and precariously) balanced on top.
Harry struck out at random again and picked up a fork, reasoning he had a fifty-fifty shot…
"Not that one," said Draco, looking utterly disgusted. "The short one for salad."
"How on earth am I supposed to know that?" Harry snapped.
"Honestly. Everyone knows."
"I don't, and since you're apparently ignoring me…"
Draco sat up properly and turned to glare at Harry, his piece of tomato suspended on his fork in midair. "Me, ignoring you?" he demanded. "Right. Like you ignored me all summer? Like you ignored all of my letters and invitations and everything until my parents decided to take matters into their own hands and sent you an invitation themselves, and even then it got sent to precious Weasley's house because you'd rather stay with him in his poky, overrun, vermin-infested blood-traitor house than with me?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down." Harry held up his hands. "Didn't you get my letter?"
"What letter?"
"I sent you one right after I escaped—I mean, left the Dursleys. I haven't been getting any mail, all summer!"
"What? Why not?"
"Well, there's this little mad bloke who had these crazy premonitions about something happening at Hogwarts, and he's been stopping all my mail to make me think I haven't got any friends left at Hogwarts, so I won't want to go back…I did say all this in the letter. Didn't you get it? Hedwig came back all right, and she never does unless she's got the letter where I told her to take it."
Draco frowned. "I didn't get any letter. Until Osiris brought your very untidy R.S.V.P. to Father's invitation, I was hoping…er, thinking…that maybe those Muggles had killed you. Father told me that you'd gone to stay with Weasley, but I didn't believe you'd want to go there—it's positively crawling with Muggle artefacts, Father says…"
"I think it's brilliant," said Harry coolly. "But I'd've come here too, or to Hermione's house, or to live with Neville's old gran—I mean, anything to get away from the Dursleys'."
"Wonderful to know that my parents' ancestral mansion is as appealing a prospect to you as a Mudblood's shack," said Draco.
"Actually, from what I can tell, the Grangers' house would be pretty nice. I mean, dentists make a bit, and Hermione always had a little spending money, so it's probably not so much a shack as just, you know, a house."
"You think Granger is wealthy?"
"Does it matter? Isn't she still a…you know, a Muggle-whatsit?"
"Of course it doesn't matter," said Draco. "You say you never got one of my letters?"
"Not one. Did you write an awful lot?"
"Of course not. Three or four, I think. Father kept insisting I write more, he thinks…" Draco lowered his voice, although the chances against Mr Malfoy being able to hear anything but an actual blood curdling shriek from their position were astronomical. "He thinks you're some bloody great windfall; he thinks if he can get people to think you're on our side—or his side—his publicity will go up. I mean, the Boy who Lived, capitals and everything! The Minister certainly likes him a lot more because of it."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So he's probably not going to poison my pumpkin juice?"
"Not yet. Speaking of…"
Draco picked up the glass in front of him, which was full to the brim with a thick yellowish drink, and cast a surreptitious glance at his parents.
"They always make me drink this when I'm home," he said. "Dragon milk—it's foul. They say it's good for my bones or something. I say blow that for a game of soldiers…Vinus Metamorphosis," he hissed, and the milk swirled, bubbled, and turned clear and red.
"Wine," he said in response to Harry's alarmed look. "Want some?"
"Not…really," said Harry. He too looked surreptitiously at Mr and Mrs Malfoy, but they appeared to be deep in conversation.
"You know," he whispered. "I got an expulsion warning because magic was used in my house, and it wasn't even me doing the magic! Are Malfoys just that special?"
Draco sneered. "Those rules only mean anything if you live with Muggles. The Ministry can't really tell, you know, who's doing the magic. Only that magic was done in your vicinity."
"Ah. So if you've got wizard parents who spoil you rotten…"
Draco took a smug drink of his wine.