Chapter Nine
When I arrive at Hogsmeade the sky is already darkening, and the wind is fussing my hair. The bog-standard carriages are waiting to take the gathering crowd to the castle. I note without interest that I can now see the creatures that are pulling them, but the Care of Magical Creatures lesson feels like such a distant memory that I can't remember what they're called. Around me I see people of all ages: old patrons of the school; retired teachers; young hopefuls; even people my age. I don't get any overtly hostile looks, but people jostle away from me and I end up in a carriage by myself.
In the entrance hall of Hogwarts, McGonagall emerges from a side door, still limping and leaning heavily on a cane. Her eyes, sharp as ever, flick over the faces in the room before she speaks.
"I'd like to offer great thanks to everyone here tonight. The response to our call for help has been truly astounding. We will be providing a feast made by volunteer Elves for the occasion, and the hour glasses at the end of the hall will be accepting your donations - however little or large."
When I walk into the Great Hall, it's crumbling and cavernous with floating candles highlighting the damage, and I stop in my tracks. Someone bumps into the back of me, and mumbles in annoyance at having to walk around. I barely hear them - my heart and head have simultaneously started thudding. A deep well of hurt comes rushing up from my stomach and I have to spin around and stumble back to the Entrance Hall, feeling a rush of panic, guilt, fear, and all the other horrible memories of being in this place. The magical flashes and bangs from the photographers definitely don't help, and I feel like time has slowed down, or even reversed, back to just a few weeks ago, when all our lives were in peril.
I try to calm my breathing, and wonder if I can slip away without being noticed. McGonagall probably didn't even see me. And certainly no one will miss me if I leave. I start heading back towards the double-doors, hoping one of those carriages can be persuaded to return me to Hogsmeade. I struggle past the crowd in the Entrance Hall once more and start breathing a little easier once I get outside. I go down the steps that lead up to the castle and onto the grass away from the bustling crowd.
"Malfoy?" Says a voice behind me, causing me to jump spectacularly.
"Bloody hell, Potter." I pant, clutching my chest while he smirks.
"Sorry," he says, not looking like he means it. "But you deserve that after everything you've put me through."
"What are you talking about?" I draw a blank. "I haven't even—"
I stop myself before admitting I've been inside for going on six weeks, and finish lamely. "—done anything."
"Oh, so you've forgotten all about your chat with Skeeter? You've forgotten about being in the papers every single day since, with the stories getting worse and worse?"
"I thought we agreed that wasn't my fault." I draw myself up to my full height, which I note with pleasure is a tiny bit taller than Potter.
"You agreed." He eyes me up and down. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"If you hadn't quite noticed, there's a Charity Ball happening right over there, and I was invited." I say as scathingly as possible.
"I had quite noticed, thanks, but something tells me you're just here to cause trouble. You weren't even going inside, it looked as if you were leaving."
"Just getting some air." I lie defensively. "If that's a crime, then the whole inside of your cavernous head would be in trouble."
Potter bites his bottom lip, either to stop himself laughing or hitting me, I can't tell. Perhaps both. In either case, I feel I should move away as soon as possible, and the only direction to go is back towards the castle. "Right, now if you don't mind, this huge bag of Galleons isn't going to donate itself." I say blithely, and turn away.
I clutch onto the small, familiar feeling of victory against Potter, and it actually helps me when I'm back in the Great Hall. I strut in as though I'm a fourth-year again, back when I thought I owned the school. I even manage to make a show of donating my Galleons, making sure to put them into what used to be the Slytherins' hourglass. I get a few gasps and small round of applause when my magically-shrunken sack of Galleons grows to its full size, and it takes two of us to lift it to pour it into the top. The Gold showers down and fills the glass higher than all the other Houses, despite starting out empty. I even see the occasional flash and cloud of smoke, so I hope tomorrow's newspaper will please Mother.
Instead of the four House tables that are usually lining the Hall, there's one large table at one side of the hall, and a dancefloor on the other side. Presumably for the sake of unity. I go to sit down in my seat – labelled with my name – and it's only when I sit down and my wine goblet fills itself that the muttering starts.
"… paid his way in here…"
"… heard he weaselled his way out of Azkaban…"
"… knew Potter's weakness in trusting people…"
I try to ignore it as best as I can, though the bubble of confidence I had a moment ago has burst. Right. I'll focus on my food. The table is full of meat pies and piles of roast potatoes and gravy boats; carved meats and vegetables and Yorkshire puddings. I try to remember what Mother was telling me about how much I should eat, but before I've remembered that she said only one plate and "no picking around", I'm already on my third helping. I even stuff myself with pudding: cheesecake, apple tart and ice cream.
"… can't believe the nerve of some people…"
After my third goblet of wine, I'm feeling decidedly more confident. So what if people think I did the nasty with Potter? Father doesn't care, Potter doesn't seem to care – sure, he might have shouted at me but I didn't detect much hostility or aggression in it. And if people think I only did it to redeem my family, who cares?
But then, if it was true, and I did stoop so low, it would have worked at first, I realise, but then Potter would have rejected me... and why would he have done that? As I sip my fourth goblet, I begin to wish I'd read all those stupid articles. I'd like to see what Skeeter came up with as a good enough reason for Potter to dump me. I'm a catch! Good looks, charm, wealth, great dancer...
When the music starts, I jump up happily and cross the Hall for the dance floor. The crushing feeling I had in crowds a couple of hours ago has gone, and I find the room quite pleasant and warm. Oh, and what did Mother say about dancing? Was it to not dance? No… that can't be it… I have great rhythm, why not show it off? Then I remember something about Hufflepuffs, so I head to their corner of the Hall. They might all like to pretend to have done away with House divisions, but you can spot a Hufflepuff a mile off. Something in their posture, I think. I strut confidently past them, ignoring some puzzled glances, and remember to look for the homeliest looking one. After spotting her, a short, chubby thing with what looks like either bad acne or a mild case of the bubonic plague, I sleek my hair back and offer her my hand with a short bow.
"Care to dance?" I say with all the charm I can muster. Eyes wide, and with a sort of squeaky noise, she takes my hand and I pull her onto the dancefloor. One hand on her love handles, and the other clasping her own hand, I wheel her around in circles, hoping everyone else around me is getting a good view of how much of a leaf I've turned over.
"So what's your name?" I shout to her, over the din of music.
"Pat." She shouts back, almost hesitantly.
"I'm Draco." I inform her.
"I know!" She replies, and I can't help grinning with satisfaction. This whole 'social graces' thing might not be so bad after all. I knew I had it in me.
When the music changes to a slower tune, Pat seems to snuggle into me and… squeeze me, in places. I realise she's let go of my hand and cupped my rear end, and I jump back in semi-horror.
"Uh… bathroom." I squeak, and rush off.
In the bathroom I splash some cold water on my face, which reduces my buzz a little bit, and helps me think clearer. Which just enhances the mental image of Pat's pustule-ridden face touching my robes.
Oh for Merlin's sake, Draco, I tell myself. You're supposed to be out there winning popularity back for all Malfoys, and instead you're hiding in a bathroom like a little girl!
I take a deep breath and stride back into the Hall, and Pat rushes up to me as I enter. "Draco," she says, in that voice of hers that's slightly weird. "This is my favourite song, want another dance?"
"Of-of course, darling." I say, trying to sound smooth but also speaking loudly enough that people milling around the drinks table can hear me. Why are they tittering?
I don't have time to wonder, because Pat's surprising strength has pulled me onto the dancefloor for a fast, hip-shaking number. I suppose I can see why she likes this song, I think as I whirl around to the music. One doesn't need to be drinking to enjoy this kind of music, unlike the slow songs…
As if on cue, the music slows down, and Pat's vice grip pulls me towards her again. She squeezes herself against me and we rotate awkwardly, with me trying not to inhale.
When I'm tapped on the shoulder, I almost sigh with relief, until I turn and see Potter again.
"May I cut in?" He asks, and I get a vision of tomorrow's paper with the headline that we're both vying for the love of the same ugly Hufflepuff. Let him have her, it seems my work here is done.
"Go ahead." I gesture to her.
"I meant with you." Potter says, and I suppose he's had too much wine too, because he grabs me and Pat slinks away, sulking.
"Wh-what the hell are you doing, Potter?" I say in horror after I've had time to gather my wits about me.
"I would be dancing if you got off my feet, Malfoy." He says, not catching my eye but looking all around us.
"This isn't helping us not look gay, you know." I point out, trying to keep in step. I'm not going to be the one that backs out of this first. The flashes and puffs of smoke from the paparazzi start going crazy for a moment, then die down again.
"Right, like groping all over Patrick was helping your case."
Pat—Patrick? "Patrick? Patrick? But she had boobs!"
Potter lets out a laugh, which he quickly stifles. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. That's hilarious, did you really think he was a girl?"
"She could have been anything under all that acne." I say dryly, making Potter laugh even more. "I need a drink."
"Me too. You're a terrible dancer." He says, nodding his head towards the drinks table.
We both make our way over, and I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to be walking with Potter, or if we just happen to be going the same way. I start to lose him in the crowd, not quite by accident, and it's only when I see his head tip-toeing above the crowd to find me that I suppose he actually wanted to go with me to have drinks. Fine. I pick up a wine goblet and Potter grabs a firewhiskey and points it towards the exit.
Once we're outside again, Potter leans against the wall of the castle and raises a silent toast before throwing back his drink in one shot. I sip mine, and give him a look. His outline is getting slightly fuzzy. "What are we out here for?"
"I thought I was rescuing you from Patrick." He replied. "The Prophet got some nice shots of you both, though."
"At least that'll take the attention off you for a while. You should be glad." I say. "And I didn't need rescuing."
Potter shrugs, apparently at a loss as to where to put his empty glass, so he settles for waving it around as he speaks. "So you say, but you always manage to find yourself in situations like that."
I almost choke on my wine, and have to take another gulp just to clear my throat. "Let's not compare a lifetime in Azkaban with being fondled by Patrick. One of them is infinitely more horrible."
Potter laughs again, then cocks his head at me. "When did your evil bastard schtick become funny?"
I put a hand to my chest, mock-offended. "It always was."
"Right, I suppose I just forgot to find it funny when you were joking about Voldemort."
I hear the tinkling of glass and it takes me a second to realise I dropped my glass as I flinched.
"Huh." I look down with vague interest.
"Sorry about that." Potter shrugs. "I always forget."
"You owe me more wine." I say. "And I'm going back inside. I have a job to do."
Back inside, the dancefloor has cleared slightly, and thankfully there's no Pat in sight. We pick up another set of drinks, and I nudge Potter in the arm. "Point out which one of these people is female – I need to at least be seen as bisexual in the Prophet."
"Oh my, Malfoy, I had no idea your social graces were so premeditated."
"Thank my mother. She wanted to curl my eyelashes for this."
Potter looks at me, again, with mild alarm, then nods his head to the side. "Try her, over there. With the ringlets."
He pushes me in the direction of what I hope is a girl standing by the wall, and I face her and put out my hand with another small bow. "Care to dance?"
She gives me an apprehensive look, but slaps her hand on mine. "Oh, alright then. No straight men are asking."
I wait until we're on the dancefloor before I point out that I am straight.
"You could have fooled me with that show you put on with that young fellow. And I've read all about you and Harry Potter in the papers."
"Harry and I have an arrangement." I say, becoming quite attached to the lie. It's like namedropping. "And it's dark, and Pat has boobs."
The girl laughs, and it's horribly raucous. "I'm Verity."
The first name doesn't ring a bell, and something tells me it wouldn't go down well if I asked her surname. "I'm Draco."
"So Draco, how's it feel to kiss Harry Potter? Everyone in the wizarding world is dying to know."
"I taught him everything he knows." I say distractedly as I search him out in the crowd. He's in the corner, throwing back more firewhiskey. I vaguely wonder where Weasley and Granger are, before I'm engaged in conversation and forget all about them.
"And why would he have dumped me anyway? I mean, if the whole thing was true, which it isn't. But IF I was a master manipulator with all that sex appeal and charm, not that I'm not, because I am, then what possible reason could there be? Am I right?" A few drinks later, I feel I've reached the peak of my eloquence, though Verity seems perpetually confused by me. Maybe she's not drunk enough.
Before I know it, it's nearing midnight, and my stomach hurts. I overstuffed myself with food, then poured almost a gallon of drinks into it, and it's starting to protest. Though I don't have to wait long before this Verity girl is snogging my face off – I never realised how potent a combination of being drop-dead gorgeous and gay would be to a woman's libido. I get into the snogging with gusto, and despite it being only my second or third attempt I reckon I'm getting rather good at it. This will give the Daily Prophet something to prophesise about.
Then, suddenly, I feel a watering of my mouth that has nothing to do with snogging. I step back just in time to lurch forwards and heave all over Verity's shoes with a sickening splatter.
"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Verity says crossly, as I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. She storms off, squelching with each step, mumbling something about 'just her luck' and 'never going to be anyone's beard again'.
I use the shoulders of a nearby paparazzo to steady myself, not caring at this point about the flashes of his camera and his incessant questions. I feel a rushing darkness enclosing on my vision, and I can even hear it in my ears. Perhaps I should lie down.