"It's been quite some time, Blaise," Narcissa greeted as the wizard stepped forward from the fireplace. He set down his suitcase, where it was immediately collected by Jondey.

After brushing a miniscule speck of soot off his robes, Zabini reached for his hostess' hand, kissing it. "Yet somehow, your beauty is unaltered. Except perhaps to strengthen."

Draco rolled his eyes at the display. Prick.

"Flatterer," Narcissa accused, but did not pull her hand away.

"If the two of you are quite finished…"

"Don't be rude, Draco," his mother admonished. "You may have spent the last few years touring the world with Mr Zabini, but I have not had such a handsome house guest in a long time."

"Now who's the flatterer?" Blaise purred, his eyes rooted to Narcissa.

Draco recognized that voice, having heard his friend use it on many, many people in the past. But it was the small giggle it elicited from his mother that really threw his hackles up. "Give it a rest, Blaise. Jondey, please show our guest where he can find his room. The gong will be rung in an hour for dinner."

"Yes, sir," the house elf piped up. "If you follows me, sir, please."

Clenching his teeth, Draco was filled with dread for the coming weeks. If this was what his friend and mother were like upon meeting again, he really did not want to think about what it meant for the near future.

Following an awkwardly charged dinner full of flirting—most of which Narcissa initiated—Draco pulled Blaise aside and explicitly stated, "I don't want to know about a single thing that happens between you and my mother. Got it?"

Grinning, Blaise lazily replied, "I'll do my best."

Draco supposed he could not have expected much more than that lukewarm promise. It would have to do.

He barely slept on the first night. It was the first time he had slept at the Manor since that night he had been released from Azkaban, seven years ago, and it felt too weird. Worse was the flood of memories that poured in at twilight, of the nights he had spent in this very bed as a teenager, unable to sleep for fear that someone would try to break into his mind when his guard was lowered. Dark tendrils of evil crept up around the sides of his bed to get at him, just like the nightmares of his youth, almost ever-present.

Those times are gone. It was always good to remind himself.

.

.

Less than 24 hours after his arrival back in England, both the agent of the estate and its lawyer caught wind that the master had returned to Malfoy Manor. Draco suspected his mother had owled them both behind his back.

The lawyer caught him first, when Draco made the mistake of lingering in the library. Ignatius Waverell, Esq. had served both Lucius and Draco's grandfather, Abraxas. He was quite old, well over a hundred, and wearing full traditional wizarding robes as if it were the 1890s—but he was still spry.

"Mr Malfoy, you are… remarkably difficult to get hold of."

There was a calm blankness in his eyes that put Draco on his guard. He suddenly felt underdressed in his dark trousers and button-up.

"The estate is still being run as it was during the war," said Waverell. He set down his briefcase on the nearby table, unlatching it and summoning—as if from a great depth within—a single piece of parchment. "In fact, many are pre-war. Your lady mother has not been able to keep up with all of the estate's needs, as she is not the heir. With your father imprisoned, he is also unable to act."

"Yes, I understand," Draco interjected, annoyed and wishing to move the conversation along. "I have neglected the estate."

"I might be old as salt, Mr Malfoy, but I know this estate if I know anything." Waverell tapped the single piece of parchment with his wand and it floated across to Draco, coming to a rest right in front of him. "We are in crisis."

It took a couple of seconds for Draco to really process what Mr Waverell had just said. He looked down at the parchment in front of him. It was a monetary ledger, made as simple as possible. "Show me. Where is the capital coming from, and where are the bulk of the expenses going?"

"There is no capital these days, I'm afraid. There has not been for many years now. Your father made a series of large investments just before the war. As you may well imagine, none of those are still valid today."

Death Eater business, Draco inferred.

"But," Waverell continued, "arrangements were never made to insure the safety of that money, if the investment went sour." There was a weighty judgment in his voice when he concluded, "Which it obviously did."

Draco paused. "What are you saying?"

The lawyer stared directly into his eyes. "Most of it is lost."

A beat. "Are you really telling me there is no money?"

The old man looked at him frankly, adjusting his huge glasses that magnified his eyes. This effect, plus his long, thin limbs and his wispy, white hair, made him look oddly like some kind of decrepit praying mantis. "Not no money."

"But not much?"

"Put it this way. Without any money coming in, both you and your mother have been living off the savings for the past eight years. That savings, while vast, also underwent a huge drain during the war for the fallen regime—"

Draco held up his hand. "Don't remind me of those days."

"Of course." The man waved Draco's objection away as if it were an annoying insect, but nevertheless obliged. "You have lived a very expensive lifestyle for the past few years… sir."

Draco felt his cheeks heating up. He had known, really, all those years bouncing from place to place, that he was neglecting the estate's finances. Not to mention, his own future. But it had always been easier to quash down his guilt and continue on pretending that the entire United Kingdom did not exist. Now Waverell was giving him a verbal smacking that reeked of his father. But most humiliatingly, Draco knew he was reaping what he had sown.

Finally, he asked, "What needs to be done?"

"There needs to be some kind of income from somewhere."

"Such as? What options are there?"

"Not many left. At the end of the war, even after the investments went sour, there was still enough capital left in the accounts to have made a comeback. Investments could have been made, and much could have been regained. However, most of that is also now gone."

Gritting his teeth against the continued reprimand, Draco growled, "I understand that this is largely my fault, Waverell, and I'm now interested in moving on. Will you be joining me there?"

It was a trying meeting with high tension. Once Waverell had departed, promising that he would be back later that evening, to move forward with many things which Draco needed to sign right away.

He had no sooner escaped the library, when he was bombarded by Nathan Goyle, the agent. He was broad and thick, like most Goyles, and his coat fit a little too tightly across his middle. Most of his sandy hair had gone. "Welcome back, Mr Malfoy."

He stuck out his hand. Draco shook it twice. "Thank you."

"Will this be a long stay?"

"For the foreseeable future."

"Really?" Mr Goyle looked surprised. "Well, let me tell you, we currently have an unprecedented number of land disputes, including between one of the big farms and a small herd of rogue centaurs."

First Waverell, now this. Then again, he supposed he had brought it on himself.

It took even longer for Goyle to be satisfied than it did for Waverell. The man had a little notepad and quill, and enchanted the quill to write as he dictated notes of scenarios to it, which he posed to Draco, and demanded his verdict on. He also questioned nearly all of Draco's answers, often playing devil's advocate. No final decisions were made, as Goyle recommended Draco take until tomorrow to mull over the consequences of the actions he would need to take.

It struck Draco later how different Nathan Goyle was from Gregory, Draco's old Hogwarts companion.

"How is your nephew?"

Mr Goyle's eyebrows raised. "Greg?"

Draco nodded.

"He's married now, to Rhea Carrow, with two boys, Joseph and Tobias." Nathan gave him a look. "I'm sure he'd like to hear from you."

That was news to Draco. Would Goyle like to hear from him? He was not sure of that at all. The last time he had seen Greg Goyle had been just after their harrowing escape from the inferno that had consumed Crabbe, and destroyed the Room of Hidden Things.

Draco thought back to the look on Goyle's face in that hallway where they had nearly just died. He had stared at that blank expanse of wall, wheezing with exertion and smoke inhalation, before turning away from Draco. Goyle had silently disappeared without a backward look as soon as he was able to stand.

"We'll see," was all he said to the elder Goyle before him now.

Once the agent finally departed, Draco was again bombarded by Mr Waverell, back with the documents he had promised to bring with him, and the binding ink.

"Fine," Draco conceded, "but I need something to eat." He had missed luncheon entirely and it was now well past tea time.

It was lucky he had forced the issue and had a tray delivered, because Waverell kept him from dinner as well. Draco quickly learned that it was with good reason. Many of the things he was signing were very important. Checks for the death pensions of estate workers, for example, some of them years old.

"Why isn't there some legal way that you could have taken care of these, or my mother, in my absence?"

"No such a system was ever set up. Your father in particular liked to review them personally."

His already-guilty conscience notched up to an even more horrible degree. Draco had always known that his father preferred to privately take an active interest in the estate. How many vital things, like a five-years-overdue widow's dole, had he ignored?

Between the sleepless night prior and his tiring day, Draco was too exhausted even to smoke a cigarette by the time night came again. He desperately craved one, and would have loved a cup of hot tea as well.

As he collapsed onto the mattress, he began to feel the beginning of a Sense. If he was not mistaken, it was tea with honey—just as he usually took it. He had noticed previously that she usually drank her tea with milk… So why the departure? Was it sheer happenstance? Had she known he was craving it somehow?

The answer almost did not matter. He smiled into his pillow just before his eyes shut.

.

.

On the third day, Draco's morning was commandeered by a woman representing the St Mungo's Research Center. She introduced herself as, "Julianne Chen. I'm not sure if you remember me, Mr Malfoy. We attended Hogwarts together."

Eyebrows raised, he tried to recall the petite, bespeckled witch before him, but could not place her at all. "What classes did we have together?"

With a little smile, she corrected, "Actually, I was only a second year when you were a seventh."

Well, that made Draco feel as old as Merlin. Cringing inwardly, he tried to move on as quickly as possible. "My mistake. It's nice to see you again, Ms Chen. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?"

"Well this is the thing. I received notice yesterday that you've decided to cease your monthly donation to St Mungo's. I just came to ask you why?" Her dark eyes were big, imploring behind her spectacles.

A teenaged Draco would have retorted with a snide comeback or a sneering laugh, but a twenty-six-year-old Draco had lived quite a different life since then. Still, he knew it would be a poor business move to reveal that he had no money. "My reasons are my own."

"It's just, I've come to ask you to reconsider. We have been using those funds, as you know, to pay for much of our research team's resources into many avenues of cure for—"

"Ms Chen," Draco interrupted.

She stopped for a moment and looked at him. She looks so young. What must it have been like to be a second year during Snape's regime over Hogwarts? A sudden understanding of his father's iciness to people like this washed over Draco; Lucius might have failed the family, but he was still his father. Draco had looked up to him since he was a young boy up until he was a teenager. He had once tried to emulate that hard exterior, but now he saw the necessity of it.

Yesterday, he had signed some cease payment papers for Waverell. The man had looked so relieved when he said, "Just in time for another payment—a considerable number of galleons. We have not been able to afford this for a long time."

There was a pause, and Draco already felt like an asshole. "None of that is really my concern any more. I no longer wish to support the hospital at this time. It is not up for discussion."

"But, if you only knew how close we were to a few real breakthroughs—!"

"Again, that is not really my concern. Please do not force me to be unkind." His guilt was incredible. But he had seen the numbers himself; Waverell was right, the estate had not been able to afford the monthly drain for a long time.

"But, sir, please. Please just listen to how close—"

"Ms Chen."

"No!" she cried, flinging herself closer to him. "W-We only need a small amount of time more for a potential cure for Lycanthropy!"

Draco scoffed. "There is no cure for Lycanthropy, everyone knows that."

"Until now! That is, until six weeks from now. That's when our trial ends. But though it's too early to confirm, it's looking likely that we have found a real, bonafide cure."

Draco was silent. He looked at the little witch before him. She had courage, he would give her that. "I bet you were in Gryffindor."

Julianne blinked. "I… yes. I was."

Smirking, he muttered, "That explains it."

Now she was frowning at him.

"You say the monthly Malfoy contribution paid for many projects. But you seem the most passionate about this supposed 'cure'."

"It needs to be saved," she insisted. "For the good of the whole world, even beyond wizarding Britain. This could save many from suffering and more from being killed. It would be a wrench to lose funding for the other projects as well, but this one is crucial."

Draco considered a moment. He had seen the ledgers himself, but could not make heads or tails of them, as they seemed very convoluted. One trend he had certainly noticed however, was his reckless spending while having been abroad. The receipts had been numerous enough to make him blush, especially compared with his mother's receipts—and she had remodeled parts of the Manor in his absence.

"How much do you need?" he asked.

She blinked at him. "8,440 galleons."

Looking unimpressed for a moment, he remarked, "Just a number you happen to know off the top of your head?"

For once, she said nothing and only looked at him.

Waverell is going to kill me, he knew. But he had spent so frivolously on selfish things for so long, he figured he might as well spend frivolously one last time for a good cause.

"Done," he agreed. "I will give you the first half now, and you'll have the rest in three weeks if you can convince me you have used it to my satisfaction."

Julianne got a glint in her eye and swore, "You won't be disappointed."

Somehow he did not think he would be, farfetched as it sounded. As he reached for his checkbook, that was when his soulmate began to have her breakfast, reminding him that he had missed his.

She was eating bacon and French toast. The bacon was crispy and not too salty; the French toast tasted like she had sprinkled powdered sugar on top. Draco and his growling stomach decided right then and there that enough was enough. It was only the third day of his return home and it seemed there were to be endless demands on his time and attention. So much so that he had not been able to spare a single moment for his soulmate—despite that she was the reason he had returned to England in the first place.

As he wrote out his promised note of payment for Julianne Chen to take to Gringotts, he thought of his soulmate in the dark hours of her nightmare. Of her whispered thanks. She had felt so close, almost near enough to touch. He needed to find her.

"You will not regret this, Mr Malfoy," Julianne repeated in real time, snapping Draco from his thoughts. He looked down at the note and found he had blotted it so badly he would need to start again.

"Sorry," he murmured, crumpling up the note and starting fresh, making sure to concentrate this time, despite the sweet, distracting flavors currently dancing across the tongue of his soulmate, and through her, to him.

Before Julianne left, Jondey popped into the library to find him. "Sorry to interrupt you, sir. Mr Waverell just arrived. Jondey puts him in the small drawing room."

"Thank you, Jondey. I'll be right there."

Once the witch from St Mungo's had departed, but before Draco headed down to see Waverell, he decided that if he were going to be so busy, he was going to prioritize his meals on his new schedule. Starting today with luncheon.

"Tipple," he summoned.

After a few moments, Tipple popped into existence beside him. She was stirring something in a pot that was floating beside her in midair. "How can Tipple help, sir?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, eyeing the bubbling pot currently emitting delicious scents into the library. "I'll make it quick. I'd like to make a request please."

The little elf eyed him, unsure. "What kind of request?"

"I'd like to eat some traditional English foods for a little while, for every meal." I may as well start by letting her know I'm here.

Tipple seemed delighted, and clapped her hands. The stirring spoon paused for a moment, resuming once she had finished. "Tipple is happy to cook your request, sir! Tipple can do it."

"Good." He smiled, then added, "Thank you."

After that, he had to break the news to Waverell that he had just promised a partial donation to St Mungo's. The lawyer took it very poorly, and Draco was left feeling humiliated and no longer sure if he had done the right thing.

When it came time for luncheon, Draco excused himself from the man and went to eat. He found his mother there, alone.

"Ah, so you are still here," she remarked. "I wondered."

"I haven't been happy about missing my mealtimes, either, mother."

"To leave me all alone." She sniffed. "But I am used to that, I suppose…"

"Mother, please don't try to guilt-trip me. I am sorry I've missed so many meals. I'm going to do my best to be here going forward."

Seeming momentarily mollified by this, Narcissa primly turned her attention to Tipple, who had entered the dining room with a cart with covered dishes on top.

Despite Draco's many misgivings about returning to Malfoy Manor, his diet certainly did not suffer for it. Luncheon was a spread of roast chicken and cheese pudding. Narcissa raised her eyebrows.

"I've made a request to Tipple to cook English food for a week or so, and she has graciously obliged," Draco explained as Tipple laid the table.

The burly little elf smiled at him as she busied about. "Tipple has done as sir requested."

"It looks—and smells—very good, thank you."

After Tipple left again with the now-empty cart, Narcissa turned to look searchingly at her son but did not comment on his interaction with their chef, no matter how much Draco could tell she wanted to. "Is there a reason for the English food?"

Draco picked up his fork as he decided how much he wanted to tell her. In the end, he decided it would not hurt to be honest. "I'm letting my soulmate know that I'm here."

At first, his mother said nothing. He took the opportunity to try his first bite of the cheesy pudding. As he savored it, rich and velvety, he reached out to the link between himself and his soulmate and said, Hello. I've come all this way, but I am here now.

There was no reply, as expected. Narcissa broke the moment by asking, "Are you having a Sense right now?"

Draco blinked. "Yes."

"After all this time…" she mused, almost more to herself than to him. "I wonder why now?"

He shrugged. Draco had wondered that himself, many times.

After lunch, he met Nathan Goyle again. The man took him further in depth into the history of the biggest current issue he had, which was the large land dispute between one of the big farms on estate lands, and a small herd of eight centaurs.

They were in the library, and Tipple had served a high tea with scones, clotted cream, and marmalade. She seemed to be taking Draco's request as law, or at least an interesting challenge. Goyle was currently enjoying a scone with cream that looked too dainty in his meaty hand.

"They're close to the border, which is a shame because if they'd encroached into Muggle territories, the Ministry would have stepped in to relocate them." He had brought a map with him and had spread it over the drawing room table, gesturing to it as he spoke. "Here you see the estate lands. Over in this northwest area—that's where they're at. Usually, old Wilson uses those lands for collecting potions ingredients and pasture for his herds, but the centaurs have claimed territory from here—" he gestured with his finger, "—to here. Wilson also claims the border has been creeping in on him too, and that he noticed the herd had young ones now. They seem to be expanding, setting up for long-term occupation."

Draco's eyes looked at the map. It did seem like an expansive area of Mr Wilson's tenanted land.

Goyle seemed to guess what he was thinking because he supplied, "The Wilsons have farmed Four Oak Farm for more than three centuries. They farm sheep to the Muggles, but also provide a respectable stock of potions ingredients to various apothecaries."

Draco thought again. "Has anyone spoken to the centaurs? Asked them explicitly what they want?"

Nathan stared at him.

"Ask to speak with the leader of the herd. Then we can discuss terms."

Goyle's beady eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You want to give them land?"

"I did not say that," Draco replied tactfully. "I just want to know if they're amenable to negotiation."

Later, after Nathan Goyle left (having eaten six scones and sneaking another into his pocket), Draco reflected that it was frankly odd that no one had once spoken to the squatting centaurs in the three years they had been there, except to try to drive them out.

Draco and Blaise had one time spent a week in Turkey with a herd of centaurs. They had spent nearly the entire time stargazing and sleeping during the day, eating only fruits, oaten cakes, and leafy greens, plus drinking copious amounts of wine. Draco was well aware by now that centaurs were of equal intelligence to most humans, if not more in some ways. Perhaps there was a simple solution to Goyle's big problem.

.

.

Tipple was an excellent chef. She made pie and mash with steak and mushrooms, and filled them with delicious gravy. For dessert, there were fresh, juicy strawberries with sugary whipped cream, of which even Narcissa approved.

Draco continued to enjoy traditional English foods. Tipple, who grew more and more determined to please the more he praised her, really outdid herself. Her sticky toffee pudding was oozing with melty sugar but still spongy. The cornish pasties had flaky dough with soft vegetables inside, the meat, potatoes and turnips perfectly seasoned.

During that first week, Draco received quite a lot of feedback from his soulmate through his Sense. She seemed to get the message loud and clear that he was in England, because she began exclusively eating English food for a time as well. He recognized cottage pie, pumpkin pasties, and what he thought might have been toad-in-the-hole through his Sense. It made him smile how adventurous she had grown.

On Draco's eighth evening back at the manor, he began to dig into a Beef Wellington at nearly the same time as his soulmate. Apparently, they had both chosen to eat the same English dish that evening. He felt a surge of affection for her. It was as if she were on the opposite side of a closed curtain and they were mutually agreeing, "Yes, England. We are both here."

After that, he told Tipple she could stop exclusively cooking English food. It seemed to be understood by both parties where they were, and Draco's palate was ready to move on.

Around this time, Blaise actually began to be somewhat more present at the manor. Despite technically being a guest, the wizard had spent much of his time back in the country paying visits to old friends. Draco had barely seen him.

"I've seen Pansy, she sends you her love," Blaise relayed, leaning against the balcony door frame of his guest suite. Jondey had alerted Draco that their guest had returned soon after dinner, and he had gone to visit him. He offered Blaise a cigarette, which he took. Draco lit the end of his with his wand; Blaise used his lighter. "She's pregnant with her fourth kid, can you believe that?"

For a moment, Draco was thrown by this news. The Pansy he remembered as a teenager had denounced large families, going so far as to say that part of why the Weasley family was so disgusting was because of their many children. It was hard to picture her now as a mother with a large brood of her own.

"I didn't even know she was married," he said quietly.

"To Adrian Pucey."

"Huh."

There was a moment of companionable silence where the two men stood out by the balcony to Blaise's guest suite, the tall doors thrown open to let fresh air in. Twin clouds of smoke rose into the night air from their cigarettes.

"Do you remember," Blaise began, looking up at the stars almost wistfully, "that week we spent in Puerto Rico, and Milagros brought us both to a family dinner at her house?"

"Her grandmother had all those plantains stockpiled in their basement pantry," Draco recalled, remembering it well. Many of those plantains were so ripe, they were black. But the old woman had insisted that was what made them so good.

"She fried us up a patch of those plátanos maduros fritos—"

"And then made that pastelón. Yeah. I remember." Now Draco, too, was wistful, reminiscing on the memory of ground beef simmered in sofrito, olives and pimentos, all layered between layers of fried, caramelized plantains. His mouth was practically watering.

"I could go for some of that now."

Draco grinned. "I suppose that would depend partly on how you left things with Mila."

Finishing his cigarette, Blaise did not respond to his friend's ribbing, and asked, "Still no word from your soulmate?"

"I've barely had time to take a piss. So, outside of meals, we have not communicated. But we have both confirmed that we are in England."

"Oh? How did you do that?"

Gossip, Draco inwardly huffed. "We've both been eating British food for the past few weeks."

"No wonder you remembered the pastelón. You must be suffering."

He let out a small laugh, finishing his cigarette and stomping it out before vanishing the butt. The stars twinkled innocently above.

.

.

For the first month after his return home, life was not simple for Draco. He had trouble sleeping in the Manor. The old drawing room, which his mother had remodeled completely, was still the same room in its bones. Draco did not like to go in there—not when he could still picture the way the blood had spread through the creases in the grain of the wood floors like so many small, crimson estuaries.

But there were other problems too.

"I've mentioned before," said Waverell, one day when they met, "that there needs to be some kind of income from somewhere. I've taken the liberty of drafting up some potential ideas for some immediate relief." The elderly wizard tapped his briefcase with his wand, opening it. He summoned some parchment from within and brandished it toward Draco.

It turned out, Waverell did have plans: selling off land, selling one or both of the other two Malfoy properties in Ireland and Italy, selling shares in stocks. The list went on. Draco noticed that nearly all of Waverell's suggestions ended with the Malfoy estate shelling out assets without the possibility of regaining them.

"I'll think about it, Waverell, thank you." He had thought about it a great deal since then, and the lawyer had now been badgering him about it almost daily for a fortnight without an answer.

Throughout that time, he had begun negotiating with the centaurs, who insisted they were refugees. A second donation had been scheduled to Julianne Chen at St. Mungo's after a successful tour of their research areas. He had dealt with Narcissa and Blaise's flirting. Draco had even jealously enjoyed a night where his soulmate had three kinds of milkshakes for supper instead of real food. Chocolate, mint, and one that tasted like strawberry with peanut butter, if he was not mistaken. That last one had been a little zany, but he had thought it fun. On particularly trying days, he claimed fatigue and had a tray brought to his rooms—but overall, he was tackling the tangle that the Malfoy estate had become, and was so far winning more than losing.

It was an unremarkable Monday when Draco sat across from his mother in front of a full English breakfast. Blaise had not yet appeared that morning; he often didn't.

All in all, Draco thought breakfasts were his favorite time of day with his soulmate. It was different somehow, almost like them greeting one another in the mornings, the beginning to a new day. But in addition to that, he had so many demands on his time that breakfast was the only time of day he could have any peace. His appointments and obligations always seemed to take up the rest of his time.

This morning, black pudding, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomato, and baked beans had all been laid out beautifully by Tipple, along with a couple of hearty slices of rosemary bread. Draco was just about to happily dive into the delicious meal, when Narcissa tutted at the newspaper in front of her. Most mornings, if it was just the two of them, she read the Daily Prophet in peace while they breakfasted.

But this morning she said, "Have you seen this?" and levitated it over to his side of the table with a twist of her finger.

Draco took the newspaper, which was open on the society pages. There had been a gala on Saturday, so there were numerous photographs of formally dressed people, clinking glasses and shaking hands. In one, he was amused to find a stolen moment of his second cousin, Calliope Rosier, adjusting her brassiere. To save himself the trouble of searching, he queried, "What am I looking for?"

"The Prophet seems to believe Galeron Fawley can do no wrong," Narcissa complained.

Draco did not know Galeron Fawley beyond being the name of some distant relative his mother had once attended Hogwarts with. He said nothing.

Undeterred, his mother simpered, "I wonder what they'd say if they knew he doesn't even employ a proper chef. He has a cook—a cook, mind you—that does not even live on property with him, and only comes six days a week! I went to a dinner party he hosted three years ago, and I'm sure I haven't recovered from the shock of learning that."

"Perhaps Galeron Fawley simply does not mind cooking for himself one day of the week."

"And for all his breakfasts, apparently," she concluded snidely. With no more to be said, Narcissa had moved on to enjoying her breakfast.

Feeling satisfied the matter was now closed, Draco returned his attention to his breakfast, breaking his eggs with his fork and watching the yellow-orange yolk seep into the mushrooms and tomato. Twirling them with his fork into a single bite, he sent his first Sense of the day.

Good morning, he thought at her as he took his second bite. She had never replied yet, but it had not stopped him.

With a curl of curiosity, he picked the Prophet back up. He had not bothered much with the news since returning back, except for an occasional glance at the front page headlines. Draco had received so much bad news regarding the estate lately, he really did not want to read about more bad news (and newspapers rarely printed anything else) over his breakfasts. But this morning, he opened it up to peruse the inner pages.

There was not much of interest to read about—Potter still occupied much of the news, even to this day. Resigning himself to a lifetime of news involving Potter, he turned the page again. He had now flipped through nearly half without reading any subject of interest, and was about to close it and give up… when he saw it.

There, beside a small, smiling photograph of Hermione Granger, was a column; his eyes had landed on the words "Beef Wellington" and "milkshakes" and he had to pause. His stomach made a swooping sensation, and his surroundings suddenly became horribly fuzzy. The few bites he had taken of his breakfast felt like lead in his gut.

Folding the newspaper hastily, he stood from his place at the table and stuffed it into the pocket of his robes. "Excuse me, mother. I'm feeling a little unwell."

Narcissa barely had time to register her surprise at his announcement, when he was already out the door and on his way swiftly back to his suite. Once within his receiving rooms, he wrenched off his outer robes and deposited them unceremoniously on the settee before summoning the newspaper. It had been folded open to the article, and his eyes drank in the words.

"Jondey," he called.

The house elf appeared with a crack. "You is needing Jondey, sir?"

"Are there any more copies of the Daily Prophet around?" He glanced down at the article, which stated that it appeared twice-weekly. Idly, he noticed his fingers were shaking. "Specifically, I'd like ones printed on Mondays and Fridays."

"Jondey will look," the elf promised, disappearing again. Draco only had to wait a few agitated minutes before Jondey reappeared with a small stack of newspapers. "We has twelve of them in the kitchen still, sir."

"Thank you."

The elf bowed low and disappeared again, but Draco hardly noticed because he was already opening the most recent edition he had been given, and was turning to the page that featured Granger's article. There, she spoke of lamb tajine and waffles with fruit, stuffed portabella mushrooms, and a proper tiramisu.

He had eaten tiramisu for dessert two weeks ago. Now that he thought about it, he was reasonably convinced that the Monday before that was the day he had tasted waffles with fruit through his Sense. For a few seconds, he was delighted that he had found her—at last—after all this time! There were nearly four full weeks' worth of the article out. It was more than enough proof.

Except… no. Reality quickly sunk in. It couldn't be.

Because that would mean…

A/N: Lovely readers, this chapter underwent so many rewrites, you would have been astonished to read the original version. But I would not subject you to that, I would only do that to the lovely sarenia, who graciously endured that torture. After that, iwasbotwp kindly pointed out that half the chapter was still missing and made me write a whole ton of that stuff you just read above. I can only offer them both my thanks (although I still think there was an argument for Greek olives).

Thank you, too, for stopping by. Can you believe this is the halfway point?