Chapter 4: Draco
Like It or Not
"All alone! Whether you like it or not, alone is something you'll be quite a lot!" — Dr. Seuss, The Lorax
Earlier that day—
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Ministry of Magic
Draco did not wait for Theo when he stormed out of the DMLE. He set a brutal pace down the corridor and did not pause until he reached the lifts and was forced to wait for one to arrive. When it opened, he shoved his way to the back of the carriage to the annoyance of several Ministry employees. As the doors were about to close, though, Theo rushed in.
"Thanks for waiting," Theo chirped, sidling up to Draco. "That was fun."
"You are impossible," Draco hissed under his breath. "That was horrible, and I am never speaking to you again."
"Understandable," Theo replied solemnly. The lift arrived at the Atrium, and they followed the mass of people out of the lift. As they made their way to the Floo, Theo continued. "Shall I grab that expensive wine and head over to yours? An hour good?"
"Yes, alright," Draco mumbled.
"Perfect, see you soon." Theo cut in front of Draco at the nearest fireplace and disappeared after calling out "Nott Manor!"
Scowling at the retreating form of his friend, Draco then approached the fireplace himself and vanished in a burst of green flames. He appeared in his sitting room at the Manor. He immediately collapsed on the largest couch, throwing an arm over his eyes.
A verbal altercation with that Hufflepuff ponce, a—What could he possibly call it? Negotiation?—with bloody Harry Potter, and to top it all off, that insufferable swot Granger. An actual disaster of an afternoon if he ever had one. Although it was pretty remarkable to see Granger lit up like a Christmas tree, he would never have believed it had he not been there.
Granger was different. Besides the state of her skin, that is. It had been long since Draco had seen her in person. Of course, she was all over the Prophet occasionally. Still, they hadn't met face-to-face since that unendurable eighth year of Hogwarts.
She carried herself more assuredly, even hiding under those ridiculous Dementor robes. Granger probably felt like she owned the place and felt entitled to the free rein of the Ministry. Did she even work at the DMLE? Fairies…that meant she was still involved with Magical Creatures. In fact—that was right. Draco remembered reading an article in the Daily Prophet many months ago about Granger being promoted to Deputy Head, the youngest witch to achieve such a position in more than eighty years or some dragon dung like that.
He rolled his eyes beneath his lids and groaned, recalling the House Elf legislation Granger single-handedly pushed through the Wizengamot with her "war heroine" clout several years ago. All wizards who owned House Elves were now required to provide unlimited fabric to the elves to make their own clothing as they saw fit, and wizards must now insist on the elves taking one day off per month. They were also required to offer payment, but Muffy refused to accept any. She loved her pink satins and silks, though.
Draco got to his feet, took off his thick robes, and draped them over the side of the couch. Since Theo would be taking his time—whenever he said "an hour," it meant at least two and likely several—Draco would use the time to be productive. He walked over to the writing desk in the corner of his lab. He penned a short letter to Blaise, letting him know that Theo would be coming over that evening and providing sufficiently expensive libations.
Draco called for Muffy and asked her to have his beautiful burrowing owl, Ermengard, deliver the letter. Ever enthusiastic, she jumped up and down in agreement as she popped away. His elf was thus distracted, so Draco took the opportunity to finish where he had left off that morning and test the latest batch of his potion undisturbed.
The vial he had decanted earlier rested on the table next to the cauldron under stasis. Draco walked over to the mirror Muffy had brought and repeated the same glamour charms over his face and skin. Dark hair, blue eyes—they were not green, he thought bitterly—and tanned skin.
"Well," Draco said to his reflection. "Off we go."
He unstoppered the vial and raised the clear liquid to his eyes. The liquid was not precisely clear but had the faintest light blue tint. This was unusual since he did not know any of the ingredients to react in such a way, but it was still an improvement from his last metallic-looking batch.
Steeling himself, he tipped the vial and poured several drops on his head.
Draco felt it immediately when the potion touched his skin. A cool sensation emanated from the apex of his skull down to his waist, fading to nothing by the time it reached his toes. Observing his reflection closely, Draco gasped.
The tanned tone of his skin began to lighten to his natural paleness. The darkness of his hair faded to a honey brown and continued to lighten. Blue gave way to his natural grey as he blinked his eyes.
"Yes!" He hissed. It was working.
His hair was now almost precisely his shade of platinum blonde. But suddenly, it began to change color again. It was black, then blonde, then brown, and to Draco's horror, it settled on a bright shade of red.
"Gah!" He cried.
Draco slammed the half-empty vial down on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair, shoving his face mere inches from the mirror's surface to examine his horrifically ginger roots. He grabbed his wand from his pocket and cast several Finites over his skull.
By the power of Merlin, Morgana, and Circe the charm worked to restore his natural coloring. Draco let out a loud sigh of relief at the sight of the blonde because there was no punishment worse than being forced to resemble a Weasley.
He cursed. Another failure. He had been researching and attempting a topical solution to ending concealment and glamour charms for nearly four years. His previous attempt had turned his skin a putrid shade of green that didn't fade for three days, though, so this variation with powdered bicorn horn combined with the shaved beeswax was heading in the right direction. There was something about hair that resisted the complete dissolution of the enchantments. Perhaps a solution of Demiguise saliva would work without compromising the base? He would have to do some more research.
He bit his cheek as he grabbed the vial and walked over to his desk. Carefully, he labeled this batch of potion and added notes on the effect of his testing underneath his detailed ingredients list and procedure. He made a note in his planner to visit the apothecary in Diagon Alley that weekend to look into alternative ingredients and restock his supplies. Underneath that, he added a trip to the apothecary in Knockturn Alley for after he was inevitably asked to leave—when more upstanding customers recognized him and complained.
Draco decanted the rest of his cauldron into eleven additional vials. The batch was compelling enough that he didn't want to dump the entire thing, so he stoppered them and placed them on a marked shelf in one of his cabinets.
The cleanup was done, and Draco snuffed out the lights with a flick of his wand and headed through his sitting room and into his bedroom quarters.
Unlike his childhood bedroom, which was decked out with Slytherin paraphernalia (even to this day, despite its disuse in the Manor's East Wing), Draco opted for a more neutral palette in his adult space. The walls were a soft cream, the floors and wardrobes a dark wood, the draperies and bed dressings charcoal gray, the sheets a starched white. There were no windows, but large torches and candles around the room provided a warm glow that Draco found relaxing.
He hung up his robes and changed into more comfortable clothes—green silk trousers, a black collarless shirt, and a dark gray cashmere sweater. Through the open doorway, he heard the Floo come to life.
"Anyone home?" The voice was deep and smooth.
Draco moved back into the sitting room, closing the door behind him. "Hey, Blaise."
"Ah, my favorite dungeon-dweller." Blaise Zabini was tall and suave and sprawled out on the leather sofa as if it were his personal throne.
"Nice of you to finally come by," Draco said, quirking one eyebrow and laying himself on an armchair.
"Extreme offense taken at your tone," Blaise said with a point of his finger. "I am a man of my word."
"Yes, but I hardly ever hear from you," Draco retorted. Where have you been?"
"To the heavens and back, my friend," Blaise replied, luxuriating on the tufted armrest. "Spent some time in the Cyclades with an incredible witch, who also happens to be the contact for griffin feathers in this hemisphere." He let out a reminiscent sigh. "Then a week in Prague affirming some diplomatic relationships."
Draco let out an exasperated sigh. Blaise worked in the Ministry of Magic, though "worked" was inaccurate. He was an employee of the Department for International Magical Cooperation. He was sent on whirlwind trips to various foreign ministries and exporters to have luxurious dinners and attend parties on the government's payroll. Blaise's mother was still a European socialite, opening many doors the Ministry would not have otherwise had access to.
"And then, since I was on the continent, I simply could not resist an illuminating visit with your paterfamilias," Blaise continued.
"I'm sorry. Did you say you've just arrived after visiting my father?"
"He sends his love," Blaise nodded. "Or rather, I said I would see you, " he grunted. Narcissa definitely sends her love, though."
"Weirdly, you've seen my parents more than I have, you know," Draco said, rubbing his temples.
"Yes, they said the same," Blaise agreed. "Odd that no one cares enough to do something about it."
Draco scowled. "I am required to live here as the presiding Lord of the Malfoy Estates. It's not my problem that my parents can't bear to touch English soil."
"You mean it's not your problem that Lucius is still bitter because he does not control the bank vaults," Blaise countered. "And you're still bitter that he's still bitter."
"That—" Draco faltered. "That's not true."
"Lies do not become you, Draco. It's why you were a shit Death Eater."
Draco's mouth gaped. "I think I liked you better when you were not here."
"On that, we agree." Blaise leaned his head back and sighed. "Iphigenia made me a better man. The sunsets over the Aegean cleansed the lethargy from my soul."
"Congratulations, I wasn't aware you had one," Draco teased. Blaise flung a pillow at Draco's head, but he caught it before impact. "Hey!" Draco called, indignant. He threw it back, and it hit Blaise directly in the face. "Ha!"
"Oh, you're on."
Blaise jumped up, grabbed three throw pillows in one hand, and pelted. Draco held his hands up at the level of his eyes and lunged at Blaise's torso.
When the fire flared green several minutes later, Draco had pinned Blaise down on the couch and was hitting him repeatedly with a blue-tasseled throw.
"Gentlemen, I mean this with the greatest sincerity," Theo announced, "that is bloody hot."
Blaise and Draco paused, met eyes, and simultaneously targeted Theo with a ferocious barrage.
"Oy!" Theo cried, ducking the soft missiles. "Watch the merchandise!" He held two bottles out in his hands, and the fighting stopped.
Peeking out from his eyelids, Theo sighed and smiled. "Shall we start with the good stuff?" he held up a dark bottle of red wine. Or the hard stuff?" He held out a comically large bottle of fire whiskey.
Blaise walked over and took the wine from Theo's hands. "1943 Chateaux Enchanteresse," he whistled. Thank you, Nott Senior. May your cell in Azkaban keep you warm tonight."
Draco noticed when Theo straightened up and took half a step away from Blaise, and the image struck him. Draco hadn't seen them both together for quite some time. He knew they spent time together, though, from hints that each wizard let slip in conversation.
"Blaise," Theo nodded slowly.
"Theodore," Blaise smiled. "What is the occasion for such quality libations?"
"An apology for putting me through the worst afternoon of my adult life," Draco declared, standing up and taking the wine from Blaise's hand. "Shall we take this on the terrace?"
"The hermit would like to leave the dungeon. I say, 'Yea,'" Theo replied.
"Indeed," Blaise agreed. "And I would like to hear about what wrongs have led to such an evening."
"Muffy!" Draco called. She popped in. "Would you mind decanting this for us, please? We'll be going out to the West-facing terrace."
"And bring some food, too," Blaise added. "I'm starving."
Muffy jutted out her chin at Blaise. "Would Draco like some food?"
Blaise huffed indignantly, and Draco chuckled. He said, "Please."
"Yes, sir!" Muffy smiled, took the bottle, which was the size of her torso, and popped away.
"Come on then," Draco led them to a door that opened onto a staircase. As they made their way up toward the exit to the Manor's well-maintained back gardens, Theo filled Blaise in on what had occurred earlier that day. He left out almost all of the details on the illegal artifacts, instead focusing on the interaction with Potter and Granger.
"She was literally glowing—emanating light like a shooting star," Theo said as he sat on a cushioned wrought iron chair. "And she had these tiny little flowers woven into her hair like a nymph. Spectacular and hilarious. It would almost have been worth getting arrested to ensure I witnessed that sight."
"It would not," Draco scolded as he and Blaise sat with him. "They'd make you share a cell with your father."
Theo jerked back, horrified. "Would they really? I'd rather receive the Kiss!"
"Would you want to risk it?" Draco asked defiantly.
Theo shuddered.
The wine and an impressive charcuterie platter appeared on the large glass table before them.
"Thank you, Muffy!" Draco called into the air, even though she wasn't present.
With a ceremonial flourish of his arms, Theo began to pour wine for each of them. As he filled Draco's glass, the blonde said, "Speaking of your natural criminality, what the bloody hell is up with those—ummph."
Theo kicked Draco underneath the table, hiding it as a stumble. He shook his head once, quickly, all the while covering the entire interaction by speaking. "Watch it, Draco, this stuff is as valuable as Acromantula venom. Anyway, if the Ministry wants to arrest me, they will find a way. It won't matter what enchanted teapot or unlicensed flobberworm mucus they find—they'll pin it on me if it's convenient for them." He finished pouring his own glass and sat down. "I bet their so-called anonymous informant was that hag Alma who keeps hitting on me at the White Wyvern. I keep telling her she's not my type—in more ways than one."
Blaise did not notice the altercation and asked, "Is she actually a hag, or does she just look like a hag?"
"Unfortunately, I can't actually tell," Theo pronounced gravely.
Discretely rubbing his shin with one of his feet, Draco said, "Well, maybe it's best if you stayed away from Knockturn for a while until that whole situation has died down."
"No can do," Theo replied with a smile. "I have pressing business."
Draco rolled his eyes. "And what is that?"
"An intriguing venture with some partners, the details of which I am currently unwilling to divulge. You'll be informed when you've finally earned my full respect"—an offended huff from Blaise and Draco—"or when the time is right. Whichever comes first."
"That sounds not at all suspicious," Draco nodded. "I reiterate that I am retired from legal matters."
Theo raised his glass, and Draco and Blaise followed suit. "To incarcerated asshole fathers and the greatest first showing—"
"Last showing," Draco interjected.
"—of Great Britain's most eminent representative of magical law."
Blaise chuckled, Draco glowered, and then all three of them sipped.
"Wow."
"This is—"
"Wow."
"Sweet Salazar," Draco uttered, eyes fixated on his glass as if it were made of gold. "Theodore, you are completely forgiven for all the ways you have wronged me."
"Can I hire you as my legal representative to get that in writing?"
Hours later, the fine wine was gone, and the three Slytherins had made a hefty dent in the fire whiskey bottle. Theo was transfiguring a spare chair into various luxuriant couches, trying to attain a level of comfort he proclaimed did not exist in his friends' presence. Draco was more than a little drunk and walked to the edge of the terrace where the climate charms ended. Standing on the top step of the stone pavement, he looked out over the gardens, closed his eyes, and briefly relished the feel of the last gasps of winter wind on his face.
"Draco—Dra—hey, okay, hey, Draco," Blaise rambled as he came to join his friend. "Shit, it's cold—anyway, I just told Theo, but maybe you actually have an opinion. I was thinking," he chuckled, sliding a bit closer. "Do you think Granger was glowing everywhere?"
Draco jerked to face him. "What?"
"You know," a waggle of the eyebrows, "everywhere."
"I would not deign to think about it," Draco said. He was thinking about it.
"I bet she was," Blaise went on, unfazed. "All over her body. You know, I see her now and then at the Ministry. She looks fit these days…wouldn't mind the opportunity to find out."
"I—that—" Draco was having trouble forming a response. "Really?"
"The bookish ones are always the most adventurous. Eventually, they snap and get tired of reading about things," Blaise said with a malicious glint. "I bet she likes—"
"I do not need the image of you dirty-talking witches in my mind," Draco cut him off, inexplicably bewildered.
"It's not like you've never thought about it." Blaise winked, stretched his arms up over his head, and shuddered. "It's bloody cold, mate. Come back over where it's warm." He returned to join Theo without waiting for a reply.
Draco felt a little dizzy, so he took a long, bracing breath through his nostrils to clear his head.
He had thought about Granger before, more often than even Blaise's perverted mind would think. Something about the fire in her eyes when she had slapped him as a teenager had always compelled him. He had hated so profoundly back then that any desire was buried beneath a dark mist of expectation. Hate for whomever his father told him to hate, hate for his father, hate for himself.
After the Battle of Hogwarts and his trial, he was too tired to hate anymore. He was too exhausted to do anything other than go through the motions of his NEWTs, eat, sleep, and wake up each day. Watching one of his best friends fall into a fiery inferno and seeing his classmates' bloody bodies strewn down the Great Hall had broken him.
It had been so long since those dark times—had it been almost nine years since the Dark Lord fell? Sometimes, Draco woke up frantically in fear that He was still there, torturing people in the dining room. Other times, Draco had a hard time recalling details from those months, as if they were part of a parallel universe or a past life.
One thing Draco did know was that he was grateful for not having to live with that hate and fear any longer. He didn't hate anyone anymore. Not even Potter, though Draco found his "Chosen One" holier-than-thou attitude completely unendurable. Draco would be happy to never encounter that bespectacled menace again.
Granger was different. Being around her made his distant memories feel visceral again. Draco was reasonably sure he didn't hate her, but it wasn't as if he liked her. And seeing her again…
Draco was definitely drunk, thinking about these things. He shook away the thoughts and turned around back toward his friends.
Theo ultimately decided upon an emerald green velvet chaise lounge, which he was currently sprawled. Blaise was perched in the middle of the chaise, half-sitting on Theo's lap. Just as Draco began to walk toward them, Blaise leaned down toward Theo's face and stroked his cheek softly. He murmured something Draco couldn't hear into Theo's ear, and the pale wizard froze. Theo leaned back, away from Blaise's hand, and looked toward the ground.
Draco paused mid-stride.
For a long time after they left Hogwarts, Draco was suspicious of the relationship between Theo and Blaise. He knew Theo was gay—he had known that for almost his entire life. But Blaise was more puzzling. He had the looks and charm to seduce nearly anyone. Still, Draco didn't realize he was interested in both witches and wizards until witnessing him in a very uncomfortable position with a male Italian Quidditch player during a post-Hogwarts holiday trip.
Blaise murmured something else, and Theo looked back up at him. There was an alien softness in his dark eyes.
Suddenly feeling out of place in his own home, Draco coughed. "Alright, I'm off to bed. You can show yourselves out."
His two friends turned toward him in unison. "What? Not inviting us to stay the night?" Theo asked with exaggerated indignation. "For the second time this day—Narcissa would be ashamed."
"Yes, well, you live five kilometers away," Draco looked around, determining the northeastern direction, "that way. Have a nice jaunt."
With that, Draco walked into the Manor. Before he turned the corridor leading down to his quarters, he looked back over his shoulder.
Blaise was leaning down over Theo, his elbows on the armrest on either side of Theo's head. Theo's right hand was resting on Blaise's thigh.
Draco turned away, feeling a sudden twist in his gut. It had been a long day. He descended into the cellar alone.
Up Next: The most difficult two weeks of Hermione's professional life.