Best Behaviour

White Wedding

Harry

"Be on your best behaviour, alright?" Ron said, waving his hand to interrupt the beginning of Harry's sputtered response, "yeah, yeah, I know, but Stori would have my head if I didn't at least say something. We care about you mate, just don't wanna see things go bad again, yeah?"

"Ron, it's fine. I'm fine. It'll be fine," Harry responded, caught somewhere between being frustrated and amused.

"Yeah, just…" Ron trailed off, trying, then failing to find the words to be subtle. "It's Ginny, y'know? We don't really know how that affects you."

"It's been years, mate," Harry said, "I'm gonna be fine. Really."

He was a bit surprised to realize that he actually meant it. As Ron stumbled through his remaining warnings and reminders that everyone still loved Harry and cared about him, Harry found himself thinking back on the last several years of his life, reminiscing about the events which had led to the wedding being held later that day.

If anything, Harry thought, It's practically my fault. Befriending Draco fucking Malfoy, who would have thought?

In the days, weeks, and then months following the Battle of Hogwarts, things had come to a mostly-stable equilibrium – both sides had buried their dead, those more flagrant Death Eaters were sent off to Azkaban or to receive the Dementor's Kiss, and life had moved on.

It had been one of the many, many trials held for former Death Eaters where Harry had spoken in favour of leniency for Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, arguing that their attempts to deceive Voldemort had turned the tide of the war, and that neither had actually directly committed any of the worse crimes that others had been charged with. Lucius, of course, had not been so "lucky", having a few cases of Cruciatus or Imperius pinned to him, though no actual murders. Draco and his mother had been among the various "Death Eater associates" placed on a probationary period, allowed to remain free of Azkaban, and it may well have been Harry's testimony of the truth behind Dumbledore's death which had saved Draco from the Kiss.

Imagine his surprise when, months later, Draco had shuffled up to Harry's table at one of the insufferable ministry socials after the war, and proceeded to (of all things) attempt to swear a Life Debt to Harry.

He'd turned Draco down, of course, not wishing to take responsibility for the rest of the Slytherin's life. Harry, already rather on his way to drunkenness, had suggested that a bottle of expensive whisky would be a fine substitute if Draco still felt indebted to him somehow. After all, all he'd done was tell the truth, nothing worth commending when others had given up so much more.

The blond had returned with an unpronounceable bottle of something very expensive indeed, and Harry had not missed the gesture while considering that the Malfoy vaults had been mostly emptied. As the head of the Malfoy house (following Lucius' lifetime sentence, of course) had turned to depart, Harry had found himself seized with, perhaps, drunken magnanimity, and had called to him to at least have a drink or two of the bottle Draco had purchased.

That's where it began, really, he thought, as Harry made the usual efforts to calm Ron down and ensure him that everything was going to be alright, sending him on his way with a grin and a solid slap to the back. On that night years ago, drunk and already fed up with the Ministry of Magic's utter insistence that the war had been nothing but a temporary political struggle, that the underpinnings of Wizarding society were still stable and safe, he'd found himself engaged in conversation with Malfoy.

Draco had been quiet, reserved, clearly afraid that Harry was going to turn on him, that he might take revenge for the years of school bullying that Draco had enacted. Harry, in his own opinion, couldn't possibly have given less of a shit about what had happened when they were children. They'd fought a war, and Draco had wound up choosing the same side as Harry after Voldemort himself had graced the Malfoys with his protracted presence.

By the time that half the bottle was gone, Harry was good-and-proper drunk, with Malfoy not far behind him. The Ministry's party had drawn to a close by then, leaving only the younger wizards and witches (or more committed drinkers) behind when Harry had finally spoken the question sticking in his thoughts:

"You're not nearly as much of a prat as you were in school, Malfoy," He'd said, or something close enough to the same meaning, "So why were you such a good little snake for so long?"

The mood had chilled with this sentence, Draco (who had begun – barely – to converse openly with Harry) flinching and looking over his shoulder. He stumbled over the words a couple times, the combination of expensive and dangerously potent whisky serving to both loosen his tongue and to make these revelations more difficult, before finally blurting out his answer.

"I was nine the first time I felt the Cruciatus curse, Potter." He'd explained.

Harry found himself – again, who would have thought? – empathizing with Malfoy as they'd discussed the various traumas and tortures which made up each of their childhoods. Where Harry's upbringing had been marked with neglect, the elder Malfoy had been strictly insistent on being involved in Draco's life. The first time Draco was tortured, he'd explained, wasn't done out of anger or even as a punishment, but because he was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy would be resilient, dutiful, and above all a proper Pure-blood man. Pain was merely another form of weakness, which would not be shown to anyone.

His opinion had only solidified when, as Malfoy was leaving the ballroom, throwing his robes back over his shirt, Harry had caught the briefest glimpse of a red, angry scar on Draco's left forearm. The next month, when the ministry insisted, once more, to demonstrate how nice it was that everyone was on the same side, Harry had called across the room to the lost-looking Draco, inviting Malfoy to join him and his friends at their table.

It wasn't smooth at first, Ron had been particularly opposed (of course), but Harry's opinion carried weight among the gathered Gryffindors (and some from other houses – excepting Slytherin) which went beyond his social role as the "Man-Who-Won". Hermione had taken to Draco more quickly than the others once he had sufficiently apologized for his past insults, finding they shared a keen interest in alchemical history. Draco had proved to maintain his love of Quidditch (something that had become more of an idle pastime than anything to Harry) which slowly brought Ron around, and from that point onwards he was fully accepted into the gathered survivors of the last eight years.

That was when things were the easiest, really, Harry recollected.

He and Ginny had moved in together, of course, as that was what Harry expected couples should do after they left school, but things had not turned out nearly as idyllic as he'd hoped for. Gin, bless her, had been patient, had tolerated his moments of doubt and self-loathing, but he hadn't been limited to mere angst.

By the point that she had attained a backup position on the Harpies' roster, Harry had become what he thought of, then, as "slightly reclusive." He'd regularly tell himself that he wasn't actually feeling sorry for himself, that he just needed a bit more time, but as the months dragged on where he steadfastly refused to leave Grimmauld Place (unless it was to go get drunk) and found himself less and less interested in doing much but sleeping, he came to realize then (and definitely understood now) that he was on a path of utter self-destruction.

As it turned out, going straight from under the Dursley's stairs into the middle of a clandestine, magical war and not picking up several deep-seated traumas was a challenge that was beyond even Harry Potter.

The end of him and Ginny had come not with any dramatic blow-out fight or betrayal, but with the slow death that came from the realization that a schoolyard crush and a deep involvement with her family were not, in themselves, sufficient to maintain a healthy relationship. When she had come home one day, excited to announce that she had been promoted to the Harpies' starting roster, he'd reacted not with excitement, but by asking "So you'll be away more now, then?"

Looking back on it, he couldn't even understand why he'd asked that. At that time, he'd been growing to enjoy his solitude far too much, as it seemed that a boy who grew up under the stairs came to enjoy large, empty, and most importantly lonely places as a man. They had talked, cried, and reassured each other, but by the end of the conversation Harry and Ginny had broken up.

It was then that he began to put more effort into his bad habits, spending entire nights at bars across the Wizard and Muggle worlds both, blowing through galleons as if they would never run out, showing up to his friends' events either hungover beyond function or (more likely) hours late and still a little drunk.

Once again in a situation where he'd never imagined finding himself, it was Draco who had first showed up to push past his doorway, to force himself into Harry's lair. Those former members of Slytherin house seemed unanimously observant of social dynamics as a rule, but Draco's concern was one borne of genuine friendship. When Hermione, then Ron, then Neville all made their appearances, it was to reiterate that Harry was their friend, and not one of them was willing to see him slowly retreat into a bottle.

They'd all helped in their own ways; Draco sat with Harry, even drank with him, and they discussed how the war had very nearly ruined their entire generation. Draco had rolled up his sleeve, showing Harry the ugly scar (the one he'd barely caught sight of that first night at the party) where Draco had burned off his own Dark Mark, as if a physical reminder of the ways that they'd been used as children to fight a war they never asked for.

Hermione, meanwhile, came over to insist that Harry cleaned up the place, that he would actually be productive, and forced him to talk to a Muggle-born psychologist. Ron had been gentle, understanding, listening to Harry bitch, complain, and rant without judgment. When Harry had found out that Ron and Hermione had broken up months ago, he was shocked to find himself looking to Ronald Weasley as the one who, between Harry and himself, had been mature and rational. Neville had been simpler, the subtle strength that he'd cultivated over the years plainly evident when he'd bluntly told Harry "if you keep this up, then that means that Voldemort won after all."

He'd figured his own shit out at this point, spending many hours with Hermione's psychologist, getting himself back into shape both physically and otherwise, and consulting with the Aurors when their cases weren't too familiar for him. When he came out the other side of his fugue, he realized that he was in his twenties, single, rich, and famous, and spent some time enjoying the benefits of this status – there were witches that came and went (more than once, if he could help it), he traveled Europe, slew a dragon, and generally felt that he'd managed to make a mostly-decent man out of himself by the time he returned to England.

At first, he'd found it strange that his friends seemed to have become hesitant around him, before Draco had pulled him aside, told Harry that he had something important to tell him, and then seemingly steeled himself to be attacked.

Draco and Ginny had a "thing" going on, he remembered. For the briefest of moments, he'd considered punching Draco as his worst impulses told him to, before realizing that he was actually, genuinely happy for them.

He spent time around the now-expanded social circles his friends traveled in, including more Slytherins who'd come to hold views similar to the rest of "modern Magical society" (as Hermione put it). He saw the way that Draco and Ginny lit up around each other, even as they took their own romance cautiously and slowly, especially when compared to Ron and Astoria Greengrass, who had both dived right into the sappiest ends of romance in their own (brief) courtship leading up to their wedding.

As Harry began dressing himself for the ceremony, he mused that there seemed to be two distinct groups within those survivors of the last war: those, like Ron and Astoria, who had immediately found their partner and paired off, and those, like himself, who seemed to be taking a long, long road to ever settling down.

Daphne

"I expect you to be on your best behaviour, okay? I don't want to see any of your… scenes."

Daphne rolled her eyes, turning to face her younger sister.

"Astoria," She firmly stated, "Why on earth would I cause a scene at Draco's wedding? What, do you expect me to jump up and shag the bride right there on the altar?"

Astoria sighed, rolling her own eyes in return.

"Daph, I'm not going to say that the way father treated you was right, but you have to admit, you have been known to act somewhat… erratic. All I ask is that I can get through this wedding without having to apologize to anyone on your behalf."

Daphne snorted, though she had to admit that Astoria wasn't entirely wrong. Since her sister was one of the bridesmaids for Ginny Weasley, she certainly had enough on her plate to concern herself with without Daphne causing one of her so-called "scenes".

"Yes, yes, fine," Daphne replied, "I promise, I will be the picture of a perfect pureblood princess."

Astoria giggled lightly at the reference to one of their childhood jokes, one of the means by which they'd dealt with the expectations that their parents had placed on them.

"That's all I'd expect. I love you, Daph. You can still have a good time. Mom and dad will be there, but I've already spoken to them."

"Of course," Daphne answered, imagining how that conversation had gone. Her sister was, perhaps, one of the most fearsome and stubborn women she knew of. "I expect I can find some kind of amusement. Maybe one of those French Veelas…"

Astoria pinched her shoulder, though playfully.

"Alright. I'd best be off. I'll see you soon, but I'll be watching you, Daph."

"Ta," Daphne replied, turning back to her easel. As Astoria let herself out of Daphne's flat, Daphne idly considered the strokes and lines before her, the painting less than complete and, were she to be honest about it, not turning out the way she had planned. "Reminiscence", she had titled it, the sort of pretentious fluff that those who passed as art critics in the Magical world still adored.

Not that the past few years had provided much to reminisce over. After the war against the Dark Lord, she – and by extension, her family – had been positioned above nearly the rest of the entire pureblood community, thanks partly to her father's carefully-maintained neutrality during the war, and due in significant portion to her own actions during the Battle of Hogwarts, attacking a Death Eater from behind when he'd threatened a group of students.

That credit was in itself largely due to the fact that Astoria was one of the students threatened, among a group of her own friends who came from different houses and not just Slytherin, but this detail didn't make it to the press.

This left Daphne Greengrass, eldest daughter to one of the houses of the sacred twenty-eight, on the correct side of the war, and by extension the most desirable marriage match for any of the pureblood houses wishing to repair their own reputations.

She'd scuttled her father's hopes when the fucking Daily Prophet had uncovered her ongoing fling with Millicent Bulstrode, who was neither pure-blooded nor, critically, an eligible male heir. At first, her father hadn't truly cared, explaining that she was welcome to her "dalliances", but that they simply must be kept from the public eye. It was "unladylike" for a witch of her status to be caught "engaging in sapphism", which her father certainly thought was a fair and generous stance.

Daphne, of course, had not responded well. Before she'd ever heard the term "bisexual", she had still understood that some people liked witches, some liked wizards, and others such as herself liked both, and she was infuriated by the Prophet's article implying that she was doing something wrong, by her father's insistence that he would decide her marriage, and by the general everything of it all.

The former "Slytherin Ice Queen" had always possessed a somewhat mercurial nature, her schoolyard reputation coming from her ongoing efforts to reign in these tendencies (at the behest of her family and Head of House alike). She'd chosen to throw this reputation aside in an admittedly dramatic fashion, proposing publicly – and rather dramatically, were she to be honest – to Millicent the very next day.

Millicent, of course, had turned her down in equally-public fashion. "Daph." She'd said, "you and I both know that what we're doing isn't like that. You aren't even asking me because I'm who you want to be with, you're just saying this because you're scared."

Millie had always been sharper than she'd been given credit for, and she'd seen right through Daphne's motivations behind the gesture. Their sort-of relationship had come to a conclusive end at that point, and if her father's previous reaction had been "nonchalant", his next reaction had been absolutely apoplectic. She'd embarrassed their house (he insisted), embarrassed him (good, she thought), and had behaved in a manner most unsuited to a Pure-blood lady.

When she'd replied "Fuck being a 'pureblood lady', honestly" to him, he'd followed it up by semi-officially disowning her, stopping just short of stripping her family name, but going ahead and casting her from his household. She hadn't particularly minded, taking the opportunity to visit Tracey and Theo in New York City, returning to England in time to link back up with Draco and his newfound group of mixed-house friends. She had generally found herself idly enjoying her time outside of pureblood society, and dabbling in interests here and there as they came up.

One of the interests that she had seemed to develop was a hobby of finding herself in relationships which landed just short of "mutually assured destruction": primarily engaging in short-lived flings that burned far too brightly to be sustainable. Draco had been one of them, though at least neither of them had found much to be upset about after that one-time event.

Presumably, that extremely limited-time fling was what Astoria was concerned about, though Daphne wished that she'd at least earned enough credit that she wouldn't be assumed to fly into a rage over the marriage of a past partner of a sloppy snogging session (that turned into some drunken fumbling below the belt) when they were teens, for Merlin's sake.

Nevertheless. She stood from her easel, stretching, strolling over to her record player to pick something of an appropriate mood to match her own. Smirking, she selected Billy Idol, setting it to play as she strode to her wardrobe. I'll find some kind of amusement, alright, she thought, as she selected her outfit.

Pansy

"Be on your best behaviour tonight, alright love?"

Pansy snorted, looking in her mirror at the perfectly manicured eyebrow arched high above one of Blaise's eyes.

"Of course, lover, I'll make sure to only start a few fights before I inevitably get thrown out, maybe threaten to kill an Auror or two, yeah?" She answered, the sarcasm practically dripping from her voice.

Blaise chuckled in that rich, warm tone that he remorselessly exploited to get what he wanted, taking a sip of his wine.

"But really, though," he continued, "you are my plus-one, after all. Any of your outbursts would reflect poorly upon me."

"Oh, I am in your everlasting debt," Pansy sneered, "to think that you bestowed the honour of your invitation on me, the World's Worst Witch, when there's any number of naïve boys that would have literally sucked your cock to be in my place."

"Always the charmer," her flatmate answered, unoffended. It was true, after all. "The Malfoy-Weasley wedding, can you imagine? The social event of the year. Still, good for Draco, he's managed to slither his way into the good graces of society once again."

"As I recall, Blaise," Pansy paused to take a sip – okay, several sips – of her own wine. "You were slithering directly behind him, crawling along the same path into his friendship with Potter and his gang."

"We are snakes, love," Pansy watched Blaise's eyes drop to her bare back in the mirror, where they lingered briefly despite his own avid disinterest in the female form. "Speaking of which, you'll be wearing something halfway decent, yes?"

"Oh, I figured that this gives the correct impression," She replied, turning to him and cupping her breasts. He chuckled, no stranger to her more outgoing moments. "If I didn't dress well, I may as well just hang myself," She continued, turning back to her vanity, pulling a cigarette from her pack. This statement was actually somewhat closer to genuine, since she had recently purchased her merchant's license for her shop - Serpentine - which she intended to see become the foremost fashion house of the Magical world.

Not, she knew, that this was as grand an achievement as she'd have liked. Wizarding fashion was depressingly medieval in its style, and wearing the more daring fashions of McQueen or Westwood to this wedding would have sent shockwaves through society in ways which would be distinctly harmful to what remained of her reputation.

After Voldemort's defeat, Pansy had crashed to the lowest point imaginable in Wizard society outside of Azkaban itself, being seen as the absolute guiltiest witch who hadn't actually committed any crimes that she could be sentenced for. In the public eye, her panicked call to "grab him" was a mark against her reputation nearly as black as one of the literal Dark Marks. Her parents had publicly distanced themselves (not that she noticed the difference), and she was among the number who the Ministry of Magic had barred from magic for years.

It was one of the greatest ironies, she thought, that those Slytherins who had been particularly fervent pure-blood followers had wound up immersing themselves most deeply in the Muggle world following the restrictions which had been enforced after the war. She'd latched on to fashion and design as her new passions, and her eventual return to magical society revealed the utter void just waiting to be filled.

With time, her reputation had been somewhat rehabilitated, but she held no illusions that she was actually well-liked among many people. She'd spent some time in the company of Potter and his merry band of worshippers, now that they seemed all too happy to accept Slytherins among them, and the fact that Potter had accepted her apology (what's a little "I tried to hand you over to the Dark Lord" between acquaintances, after all) granted her entrance to these circles, if not acceptance.

Though she'd scoff out loud if anyone tried to suggest that she and Potter were "friends", she had to admit that she did enjoy the verbal war they continued to wage against each other, the man's positively venomous talent with insults making her question whether he might have fit in Slytherin, in another world.

Still, it wouldn't be perceived well if she were to overtly insult the saviour of the Magical World in front of all his friends, at the wedding of his ex-girlfriend and former enemy, at that. Perhaps that was what concerned Blaise, as he oh-so-subtly tried to imply that he didn't care how she behaved, but also cared so very much.

"You want me to keep my mouth shut, yeah?" She asked, blowing smoke against her own reflection.

"Not shut, darling," Blaise answered, turning to walk out of her room, "Merlin himself couldn't manage that. Just keep the teeth away tonight, love."

Pansy made a noncommittal noise, staring into her reflection, looking to her own mouth. If the teeth stay hidden, she thought, then I'll have to use my lips, as she fished for a particularly striking shade of lipstick.