Chapter 10: Draco

Rational Creatures

"My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone." — Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Women

"Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart." ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Theodore,

I left my book on your kitchen table when I left yesterday morning. I can only assume that your proximity is toxic to my mental faculties, and I humbly request its return at the earliest opportunity.

D.M.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Dearest Draco,

It is interesting that you say you "left" when I would characterize your actions more like "fleeing the scene." Honestly, it's as if you've never cuddled with a wizard before.

Unfortunately, I cannot comply with your request, as I find this book completely riveting. Since when have you been interested in experimental transfiguration? Are you holding out on me during our dinner conversations?

In lieu of your property, please accept the enclosed mark of my affection.

With the burning love of a thousand suns,
Theo

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Why the fuck do you have lipstick? Never mind—just send the book back.

D.M.

Friday, April 6, 2007

Dear Draco,

How are you doing? I'm unsure if young men keep track of these things, but I haven't seen you since we had tea with Cissa in October.

I would still love to see you and catch up even though your mother is in France.

My grandson Teddy is having a small party for his ninth birthday, and I would love for you to come. It's at my home next Sunday at eleven o'clock, and you can use the Floo—Tonks House.

I'd still love to have tea if you can't make it. Please do let me know.

Warm wishes,
Aunt Andromeda

Friday, April 6, 2007

Dear Aunt Andromeda,

I won't be able to attend Teddy's birthday party. Please let him know I'm sorry. I'll be sure to send a gift.

All best,
Draco

Saturday, April 7, 2007

To: Flourish and Blott's Magical Booksellers

From: Anonymous

If it suits you, please find enclosed two galleons to purchase a copy of Zhaou and Fa's Applications of Arithmetic Principles to Complex Transfigurative Stratagems. My owl will return with the book directly if it is available. Thank you.

Saturday, April 7, 2007

Theodore,

You are, in a word, awful. Truly the worst. I have purchased a replacement book, so you can just KEEP IT. I don't know why I am friends with you.

D.M.

Sunday, April 8, 2007

Dear Greg,

It has been a while since I've heard from you. How is New York? Are you still at the same restaurant?

There was a werewolf rampage in France earlier this week. It's caused a bit of a stir around here, filling the whole of the media. I don't know whether it's a big story in America.

Other than that, things are the same.

All best,
Draco Malfoy

Sunday, April 8, 2007

To: The Exquisite Lord Draco Malfoy

From: His Beloved Lord Theodore Nott

[Package Enclosed]

Monday, April 9, 2007

Fine. Thank you for the Muggle biscuits, even though they were NOT MY BOOK.

D.M.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Draco,

New York is the same. I am still at the restaurant. They're teaching me to make desserts in the dragon fire oven now.

I hadn't heard about the werewolves. Sounds bad.

Greg

Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The Daily Prophet

OPINION: I FEAR THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Lucius Malfoy
Special Guest Contributor

Many of you will recognize my name—and not for any reason that would signify virtue or respect. To have been swept up twice in the vicious wake of the Dark Lord Voldemort's power has been the greatest shame of my life, and the horrors I witnessed shall never leave my mind's eye.

It is these horrors that I must write of today.

Like all in Europe and many within the broader magical world, I read of the heinous attack upon the French town of Montauroux this week, and I was shocked and appalled. As someone who has called the beautiful country of France home for three years now, I am devastated by the psychological effect this attack has had upon the community of witches and wizards I have grown to love.

For many, the Montauroux Attack is their first example of the raw powers and violent capabilities of werewolves. The light of the full moon unleashes the monsters within these creatures. The wolf takes over—and the wolf wants blood.

During the Second Wizarding War, the Dark Lord kept my family under his direct control. He lived and ruled his depraved and forbidding empire from my ancestral home in Wiltshire. He desecrated everything that countless generations of my family had worked so hard to build. He brought every type of dark witch, wizard, and beast into the gates of Malfoy Manor, putting me, my wife Narcissa, and my beloved son Draco in constant danger.

The worst of these—the most sickening creature I have had the misfortune to encounter in my lifetime—was the werewolf known as Fenrir Greyback.

For those who knew Greyback, I have pity.

For those who did not, I offer this account in the hope that the Montauroux Attack shouldn't be dismissed as an aberration.

Many consider the former followers of the Dark Lord Voldemort as evildoers who tortured without mercy and killed without a second thought. This characterization was accurate for many of the so-called Death Eaters. But no Death Eater was as bloodthirsty, ruthless, and disgusting as Greyback. I witnessed such perversion and turpitude as to render me irrevocably changed. I write not of simple torture and death—that would have been a mercy.

I write of the rape of women and men. Of physical maiming. Of the consumption of human flesh. And perhaps the worst of all, I write of transformation into a werewolf. Yes—those who did not eventually meet death were infected, their human selves lost, and the remaining vestiges of personhood thus indoctrinated into Greyback's rabid creed. The Dementor's Kiss has been considered the worst of fate for centuries, but I ask you to reconsider. What could be worse than to consciously become the very beast that caused your own suffering and the death of your past self?

Greyback was not a lone actor. His fanatics were many, extending beyond his own pack and beyond Britain. Though Greyback died in the Battle of Hogwarts, his beliefs did not die with him. Many have lived these past nine years waiting for the opportunity to grow ranks and strike at the heart of our hard-won peace and peace of mind.

I fear it is these very unknown fanatics who attacked Montauroux. And if that is indeed true, I fear once again for my family. I fear for us all.

I write today neither for sympathy nor as an attempt to attain forgiveness for those events that my family enabled through the Dark Lord's unmerciful hold upon us. I write today only as a warning. I see the images of terror and destruction caused by the werewolves in Montauroux and recognize them from my own past. History is repeating itself.

What will they do next? How many more are there? And how many currently docile werewolves will appreciate this display of power and join them?

I am afraid, and so should we all be.

That Morning—
Malfoy Manor

Draco dropped his buttered toast. His grip on the edge of the Daily Prophet was tight enough that the nail of his thumb ripped through the front page—the very page that held a glittering recent headshot of his father next to the most disgusting piece of writing he had ever read.

"Muffy!" He called.

A pink-clad and unusually harried house elf appeared beside him on the terrace where he ate breakfast.

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"Just Draco, Muffy. When did my father leave the Manor last week?"

"The old master Lucius is taking breakfast on his veranda," she said brightly as if that was not the most infuriating statement Draco had ever heard.

"He's taking—He—My father is here?" Draco queried, working hard to control his voice's tenor.

"The old master Lucius has been sleeping in the old master Lucius's quarters in the East Wing," Muffy replied tremulously. "Did Muffy make a mistake? Muffy is so sorry—"

"No," Draco cut in quickly before Muffy could work herself up into a cry. "No, Muffy, you did not make a mistake." Draco rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

What in the bloody hell was his father doing here? And even more importantly, why had he not said anything to Draco last week? Draco felt a sharp pulsing at his temples that indicated the beginnings of a raging headache, and he slowly stood up from his breakfast table.

"Muffy." He turned to the left to look down upon his house elf directly. "I am going to have a talk with my father. Please do not disturb us. Only come if I call you specifically. Alright?"

Muffy agreed and nodded sheepishly.

He left the terrace without additional hesitation, the Prophet still clutched in his hand, and stormed through the Manor, not paying any attention to the empty corridors in the periphery of his vision. He took the steps up the double staircase two at a time and continued to the East Wing. Unfortunately, that meant passing the portrait gallery—the most reviling part of the Manor.

The portraits and busts began speaking the moment they spotted him.

"So, the prodigal son has returned—"

"You're alive, are you? What a—"

"Disgraceful heir leaving this home to rot—"

"Shameful dereliction of duty—"

Draco growled, snatched his wand from his pocket, and hissed, "Silencio!" He swept his wand in a wide arc about his head, and the din of his disgruntled ancestors fell silent. He did not pause his stride as he continued to the end of the long corridor to the double doors that he knew led to his parents' former suite.

Draco realized the doors were locked when he reached for the handles, and anger flooded his head, hot and throbbing. Another two flicks of his wand, and the doors burst open. His gaze whipped around the sitting room, but he did not take in any detail except that the space looked lived in. The French doors to the veranda were open.

Lucius Malfoy was seated at the black wrought iron table, clad in a gold brocade dressing gown. His long hair was undone down his back.

"What are you doing here?" Draco snarled, moving so he stood facing his father near the balcony ledge. "And what is this?" he tossed the Prophet on top of his father's crumb-laden breakfast set, although there was no need. Lucius was holding another copy of the paper in his lap.

"Good morning, Draco. I see that you've read the Prophet," Lucius drawled calmly. He picked up the crumpled Prophet off the table with his thumb and forefinger and dropped it onto the floor. "Sit. Would you like some tea?" He gestured to the table.

"Cut the shit," snapped Draco. "Why did you do this?"

"Why?" Lucius asked, leaning back and crossing his legs, much too relaxed. "I thought the piece was self-explanatory. I felt deeply compelled by this terrible situation with the werewolves to share some of my own experience."

"I don't want your lies. I want the truth," replied Draco, voice low and gravelly.

"There is no lie," Lucius replied brusquely. "I am extremely concerned."

Draco scowled, and his hands contorted into fists. "Yes, it is so touching how afraid you are for your family. Here you are hiding from your only child. Meanwhile, your wife is in France alone," he took a breath, "and living a stone's throw from where the attack occurred!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco, it's fifty kilometers from the Chateau to Montauroux, and three weeks until the next full moon."

Draco flung his arms out, gesturing to the general veranda. "Why are you here, and why did you not bother to tell me you changed your mind about staying in England?"

"Well, when news arrived of the attack, I couldn't find you," said Lucius, who took a delicate sip from his teacup. He set it down on the saucer and continued, "And then I supposed you would notice on your own. After all, a Lord regnant should be generally apprised of what happens in his own home."

Draco consciously pressed his lips together to avoid snapping back. He would not have this fight with his father—not again, for what might be the hundredth time since the end of their trials.

"Do you know what that pile of dragon dung is going to do? You've dragged our name into the press again! It's taken me years to—"

"To what? Fade into obscurity?" Lucius snapped, his facade of calm breaking. "You have done precisely nothing since your forced premature inheritance. Someone needs to step up and rehabilitate this family among good society, and if it must be me, then I. Shall. Do it."

"By fear-mongering?" Draco spat. "Are you so oppressed by your French Chateau and unlimited allowance that you feel the need to exploit a fluke pack of werewolves?"

Lucius stood up, and Draco was struck again by his gray eyes, which stared back at him, reflecting the same anger and disgust that Draco felt. Lucius snarled, "I am sick of your bottomless pool of shame and self-pity. That piece of writing has shown the public our humanity."

Draco growled softly, "That piece of writing is sick and shameful. You don't belong among good society."

Lucius's eyes widened. "How dare you—"

"How dare I?" Draco could feel his heartbeat thrumming behind his eyes. "How dare you write about Greyback when it was you who let him stalk these halls. It was you who did nothing when he would corner Mother in the corridors, threatening her with blood still dripping from his teeth." Lucius did not have any immediate reply to that, Draco noticed happily, so he continued, "I was going to poison him, you know. After Potter escaped and we were all tortured within an inch of our lives—Greyback got a little too close to Mother with his threats. He licked the side of her neck one day. ... I brewed a pretty good poison, too. Undetectable. Just the right amount of dried aconite leaves dissolved into a tincture of moonstone. I thought, maybe, if I could get Mother to put a drop," Draco motioned from his jaw down the side of his neck to his shoulder, "just there, then the next time he licked her like that, we would be rid of him. Luckily, the Battle of Hogwarts took care of him before I got the chance. … And you did nothing."

Lucius blinked, then. "Draco—"

"I want you out of here," Draco interrupted. "Today. Or perhaps I will feel the need to speak out myself."

Draco stormed out, taking heed to slam a foot down on the discarded Prophet on the floor.

His father did not call after him.

Draco did not pause until he had made it safely to the cellar, slamming his sitting room door closed behind him. He sat on his sofa and breathed heavily, willing his heart to slow down.

The entire article was a perverted attempt to regain social standing, and it wasn't even clever. It was disgustingly transparent, and people would see through it. Draco groaned and put his head in his hands. It had been years since anyone had mentioned the Malfoy name, not since a small article reporting that Lucius and Narcissa's probations had ended.

Life had been calm. It had been fine, even with spineless fools like that hag at Westbrook's dragging up ancient history for no good reason other than self-satisfaction.

Draco thought of potentially having to "deal with this" as Lord Malfoy and of people actually reaching out to him for an "official response."

"Merlin, Morgana, and Circe help me," Draco muttered. He squared his shoulders and called out, "Muffy!"

His house elf popped into the room. "Yes, sir?" Draco noticed she was wearing a tutu made of pink taffeta, which he had bought her last month. He smiled sadly.

"Muffy, my father will be leaving the Manor today. Please ensure he gets all packed up, and let me know if he does not leave by tomorrow morning." He sighed and knelt to meet her eye level. "In the future, let me know daily if anyone who is not myself stays in the Manor. Oh—and please hold any mail for me until I ask for it."

Muffy nodded contritely and said, "Muffy will! Muffy will! Is … Draco … good?"

Draco nodded. "Yes, just some bad news in the paper. I've also got a raging headache now."

"Muffy will get the potion!" The elf exclaimed, excited. She disappeared and reappeared just as quickly, this time with a familiar pink potion in her tiny hands. She held it out to him, the expression so open and beseeching that Draco forgot momentarily why he needed a headache cure.

"Thank you."

Draco drank the potion in one gulp, and Muffy excused herself. The cool feeling around his temples was instantaneous, and he moaned in relief.

Maybe the situation was better than he suspected. By tomorrow, his father's opinion would be yesterday's news, and Draco could return to the hard work of fading into obscurity once again.

By that evening, it became clear that fading away would be significantly more difficult than Draco had anticipated.

Laying prostrate on his sofa, Draco was on the fifth chapter of Zhaou and Fa's book—and quite enjoying their freestyle approach to arithmancy that he just knew would piss off Granger to no end—when Muffy appeared. Her tutu was disheveled, and her eyes were wide and unblinking.

"Would Draco like to see the post now, sir?" She asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like a dance.

"Oh," said Draco. He sat up and marked his place in the book. "Is there much of it?"

"There is more post than on other days," said Muffy, still fidgeting.

"All right then," Draco nodded. "Let's see." He gestured to the empty coffee table in front of him.

Muffy squeaked and snapped her fingers, and then the surface of the coffee table was covered with a small mountain of parchments and scrolls. Draco groaned.

"This all came today?" He exclaimed, and Muffy nodded.

He set his book at the other end of the couch and scooted forward in his seat. The best place to start was at the top, he supposed.

The letter with a familiar script at the mountain's peak was a short missive from Theo.

Draco,

Saw your dad's still a self-aggrandizing prick. Come by one evening if you need a shout—or a cuddle.

Yours,
Theo

[Magical drawing of Lucius Malfoy's head exploding]

Draco rolled his eyes and set this aside before cracking his knuckles. And then he really dove in.

The vast majority was hate mail. Draco even recognized some of the writers' names from hate mail of years passed. Draco enjoyed crumpling these letters into balls and flinging them straight into the roaring fireplace. As he worked his way through the pile, he kept an eye out for the crimson envelopes of Howlers, but none appeared, and for that, he was grateful. He didn't mind sitting through a meaningless shout. Still, Muffy had kept close to him through the pretense of dusting his already spotless bookshelves, and Howlers always made her cry.

Some of the mail was poorly addressed and was actually meant for his father. These Draco delightfully set aside to forward on to Lucius himself. It simply would not do for him to miss out on this part of his grab for notoriety.

Draco was shocked when he noticed some letters were not hate mail. He didn't read anything through entirely, but snippets passed through his comprehension.

…and I just thought, you poor thing…

…the horrors you must have seen…

…I saw Fenrir Greyback once, and I've never forgotten…

…it was lovely to read how your father truly cares…

He threw these in the fire, as well, because meaningless platitudes from strangers had never sat well with him—not in the weeks after his trial and not now, for even less of a reason. Lucius Malfoy cared for no one and nothing except his legacy. As far as Draco was concerned via his role as the regnant Lord Malfoy, his dethroned father had nothing left to concern himself with.

There were three requests from three separate editors at the Daily Prophet and one from Witch Weekly written on a horrifyingly pink piece of parchment. Straight to the fire for all.

And then there was one letter enclosed with a Ministry seal that Draco would have tossed straight into the fire had he not known the seal was charmed to protect the letter, and thus it would have come flying back directly at Draco's face.

He cracked the seal and the enclosed stationary, and to Draco's growing dismay, it read From the Desk of Senior Auror Harry James Potter, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic.

Why on Earth was Potter writing him a letter on official stationery? This very situation was a recurring nightmare Draco had at one point in his life. He groaned and started to read.

Malfoy—

Draco nearly gagged at the sight of Potter's illegible handwriting. He clearly learned penmanship from a flobberworm. He suppressed the urge to set the parchment ablaze without reading and glanced at the first line:

I realize you want to toss this letter in the bin without reading it.

Draco scowled. Stupid Potter. He didn't know what Draco wanted or not. The good-for-nothing half-blind fwooper with the manners of a banshee.

Don't.

The nerve—Harry Potter couldn't tell Draco Malfoy what to do. But since Potter would never know, Draco decided to continue reading out of curiosity.

I need to talk to you about something. Please meet me at Poor John's Pub tomorrow night at ten. It's in Muggle London, just three blocks east of the Leaky Cauldron. Let me know if a different date or time is better for you, but this meeting is time-sensitive.

Draco laughed. Potter had some nerve to assume that his time-sensitive issue was more pressing than any hypothetical time-sensitive issue Draco might have had—did have, in fact, now that Draco thought about it. He had planned on brewing some high-efficacy bruise paste for the hospital since the national Gobstones championship was being held in Devon next week. The professional players used some violently underhanded tactics. Yes, Draco had very pressing issues indeed. In any case, Draco would rather jump in the Black Lake than meet with Potter for anything. He looked down at the rest of the letter just for posterity's sake.

I realize that by now, you have dismissed my request as something laughable and that you would rather jump in the Black Lake than meet with me. But I hope you realize I could have summoned you to the Ministry of Magic directly. I am personally sending this request and setting this meeting off-hours to make you more comfortable.

See you tomorrow.

Harry Potter

Draco cursed under his breath. What, for the love of Salazar, did Potter want with him? Was this about his father's bloody article? If it was, Draco would never forgive his father even more fervently than he had already planned on never forgiving him.

No. There was no way Draco was meeting Potter anywhere, especially in the Muggle world, for Merlin's sake. Draco marveled at Potter's self-satisfied assumptions, as if Draco should thank him for the misguided and incorrect and thus unwelcome consideration of his feelings.

He scowled and tossed the letter on the table. The motion blew the parchment face-down, and Draco noticed a script on the back.

P.S. Malfoy—if I don't receive an owl from you and you do not show up, I will send a formal summons by the end of the week.

"Bollocks."

The next day—
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Poor John's Pub, London

It turned out that shady Muggle pubs put shady Wizard pubs to shame, and upon setting foot in Poor John's, Draco longed inexplicably for the White Wyvern.

The place was a sty. A den of filth and indecency. Every exposed surface was covered in strange Muggle paper with images and text that did not move and in headache-inducing colors. Draco made the mistake of touching the bar top near the entryway and the paper was sticky. The entire bar was sticky, in fact, and besides that, there were so many signs and bottles everywhere that he did not even know where to look. Some noises were playing that Draco soon realized, to his horror, was music.

Draco's only Muggle clothing was a charcoal gray suit coat and matching trousers, which he had pulled from the back of his wardrobe and put on with a white oxford. It only took a few moments for Draco to realize that putting on his Muggle clothing to go to the Muggle pub was an ironic mistake, because he stood out like a sore thumb. The people in the pub were the most strangely dressed beings he had seen in many years. Their clothes were as filthy as the bar top. Their hair was either shaved completely off or long and wild about their shoulders. There was a young woman at the bar that Draco suspected was wearing nothing but a dozen or so carefully draped scarves.

He couldn't hold back a faint sneer of disgust as he looked around the establishment for Potter. At least at the White Wyvern, there was a distinguished sort of air to the filth and an openness about the depravity of its customers. Here, noise, lights, and colors all distracted and overwhelmed the senses.

"Oi, Posh Man—you gonna drink something?"

The bald barkeep was eyeing Draco skeptically, and Draco wondered whether one could break the Statute of Secrecy by simply feeling out of place.

"He'll have a whiskey," a stupid all-too-familiar voice said from behind him.

Draco turned around, and just as he suspected, there was Potter, sporting an expression that was much too amused.

"Hi, Malfoy, thanks for coming," said Potter.

Draco scowled.

Potter shook his head lightly and addressed the barkeep again. "He'll have a whiskey, and I'll have another of these," he said, then he thumped an empty glass pint on the bar.

The man grunted in acknowledgment and began to move about behind the bar. Potter turned back toward Draco and looked at him again. "No fire whiskey, I'm afraid, but the Muggle stuff does the trick."

"Why am I here, Potter?" Draco sneered while smoothing the lapels of his jacket.

"We'll get to that," replied Potter, who then had the audacity to chuckle. "Are those the only Muggle clothes you own?"

Draco gaped for a moment but returned to his scowl quick enough. He looked at Potter and noticed his own attire. He was wearing some ridiculous coarse blue Muggle pants, a red cotton shirt, and a black jacket made of some type of leather. The same round black glasses Potter had worn since they were children adorned his face, and his hair, as always, was a complete disaster. He quite fit in at Poor John's, in point of fact.

"You're lucky I had anything to put on at the last minute, Potter, and it's polite to give people more than a day's notice for a mandatory invitation.

"Your drinks," the barkeep said, sliding Potter's now-full pint and a smaller round glass filled with an amber liquid toward them.

"Thanks. Please put it on my tab," replied Potter, who took his drink in one hand and Draco's in the other. "Follow me."

Potter set off down the narrow passage to the back of the pub, and Draco walked a few steps behind him, keeping a wary eye out. The pub was relatively quiet, as it was so late and a weekday. They walked all the way to the pub's rear wall and sat down at a booth made of a mustard-colored synthetic material that Draco found extremely distasteful.

Potter sat on one side, put down their drinks, gestured across for Draco to sit, and the blonde begrudgingly complied.

Potter slid the whiskey across the table and then drank from his pint. Draco took a sip.

He coughed. "Tastes awful." But he was grateful for the burn of the alcohol to distract him from the overall situation, so he took another drink.

"Cheers," replied Potter, who smirked.

Draco scowled for the millionth time since receiving Potter's letter yesterday. That made him think of the entire ordeal with his father, who had finally vacated the Manor that morning—Draco had Muffy confirm personally—and Draco scowled all the deeper.

"Would you just get on with whatever this is?" Draco said. It had been a difficult day, and adding Harry Potter to the situation was Draco's idea of a Worst-Case Scenario.

He received another letter from the Daily Prophet that morning, and then another—and then one every two hours for the rest of the day. They wanted a statement from him; they offered space for his own opinion; for his own personal account of Fenrir Greyback; they asked whether his lack of reply meant he agreed with Lucius's opinion; they asked if Draco himself was a werewolf, and was that the reason he had not been seen with his father in so many years?

By the sixth letter, Draco had sent them straight to the fire in increasingly creative ways.

The notes made Draco's blood boil, and he briefly considered taking more extreme measures. He would not write his own self-indulgent essay—just the idea of it made Draco nauseous. He could threaten his father by cutting off funds, but doing that would only provoke his father further, and his mother would not leave Lucius penniless in any case.

So, for the time being, it was unsolicited owls and sequestration as Draco waited for the media to give up and move on.

"Just so you know, I'm not here to talk about your father's attempt to reenter British society," Potter said. He was frowning deeply.

That surprised Draco. "Then what?"

"What do you know about the Wolfsbane potion?" Potter looked into Draco's eyes unflinchingly, and Draco was too confused to react to the question.

What did he know of Wolfsbane? He knew quite a lot, considering he learned about it by assisting Severus Snape with the brew directly. It had been a covert operation during the months after that night on the Astronomy Tower. Greyback had famously reviled Wolfsbane, but that did not prevent the Dark Lord from insisting Greyback control his wolf for a month of well-directed terror in Wizarding villages and at particular targets. The assignments required complete mental control.

Greyback's pack had muzzled themselves temporarily in exchange for free rein over their transformations under the Dark Lord's regime—and they had taken advantage of that to a wild degree. Greyback had seen fit to devastate all of the natural aconite blooms in Britain before inserting himself into the Snatching efforts. Severus had been silent on the matter, which Draco had taken to mean that he vehemently opposed the arrangement.

So yes, Draco knew of the Wolfsbane potion quite profoundly, though he had not brewed it himself in a decade.

"I'm not a buffoon, Potter," Draco replied.

Potter pursed his lips, then continued, "Are you aware that there is currently a devastating shortage of aconite in Great Britain and apparently very few avenues for importation?"

Draco drew back, fingering the rim of his glass absentmindedly. He did not know that. Draco figured the blooms would have returned in some way by this point. He never needed to worry about supplies of aconite since he had never personally brewed with the ingredient aside from his single, unfulfilled foray into poisoning. On top of that, he had a substantial supply at the Manor. The Malfoys had very limited greenhouses, but aconite was one of the more specialized plants that his grandfather Abraxas had taken an interest in.

Again, for poisons.

An image of coarse, hairy hands on his mother's delicate arm flashed in his mind, and Draco ground his teeth.

He forced himself out of his head and drained the remainder of his Muggle whiskey in one gulp.

Draco spluttered, ignored Potter's alarmed face, and spoke. "What of it?"

"I'm looking for assistance in procuring either aconite or fully brewed Wolfsbane, preferably both," replied Potter. He was looking dubiously at Draco. "Do you know how to access a relatively stable supply of aconite?"

"Are you asking if I illegally import a controlled substance, Auror Potter?" Draco retorted. He was not an idiot. Though Potter might have kept quiet about his secret potion endeavors, he did not put it past any Gryffindor to lure him into admitting criminality.

"I'm asking if you have aconite," Potter said sternly. "This isn't—" he faltered. "Look, Malfoy, this isn't exactly a formal Ministry request. There are good people—werewolves—who are struggling. The attack in France and your father's article are not making things easier. … I don't know how or why you supply St. Mungo's with so many of its potions, but I guess I'm asking whether you might expand your operation until Her—until the Ministry can work something else out for them. The werewolves, that is."

Draco glared and blurted, "Did you tell Granger I brew for the hospital?"

Potter drew back. "No, I haven't told anyone. Auror Gibbs and I were the only people who ever knew, and Gibbs retired last year."

Draco eyed Potter skeptically but accepted the response. So, the great Chosen One needed help, then. No—that wasn't exactly correct. The Ministry needed help for the werewolves, but that wasn't truly accurate either, was it? The Ministry didn't give a shit about werewolves needing important and rare supplies.

But Hermione Granger gave a shit, and she worked for the Ministry, so was that not the same thing? Potter must be here on her behalf—and she must be desperate indeed for Potter to ask Draco.

Helping Potter even peripherally was not something in which Draco had any interest. Helping Granger, on the other hand … perhaps this could be payback for her insipid purchase of that vial of Demiguise solution—a vial that Draco had stubbornly left sitting untouched in his lab. She would certainly be irked to know that Draco was helping her werewolf friends—not that Draco would ever allow her to know he was "helping," but it was an intriguing thought.

Another pro: What would his father think if the Malfoy fortune, and Draco himself to boot, supplied the werewolves of Great Britain with Wolfsbane? Draco smiled internally.

"What exactly do you need, Potter?" Draco asked with a neutral expression on his face.

Potter appraised Draco with brows raised, and then he smiled. Draco scowled at the sight. After tonight, he would endeavor never to make Potter smile again.

"Three doses of Wolfsbane each month starting at the next full moon, and aconite enough to brew at least seventy doses starting in June or July."

"Seventy?" Draco asked in alarm. That must be most of the registered werewolves in the country.

"Yes," said Potter, and his earnest expression made Draco sick. How did people go about the world carrying so much profound ardor? It was unseemly.

There was enough aconite in his stores at the Manor for Draco to start working on a triple dose of Wolfsbane. That additional amount of pure aconite, however, might be tricky. He would need to check on the greenhouse and expand the structure to accommodate more blooms over the next month. It took weeks for aconite to fully mature.

Draco replied, "I can do the Wolfsbane, but I need to check on that amount of aconite. It … might be possible."

Potter grinned, and Draco glowered. It just wasn't right, all of this Gryffindor joy around him.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Potter said. "Oh, and there isn't any financial compensation available at the moment."

Draco sniffed, "I don't need money, obviously."

Potter chuckled and then took a deep draft from his pint. He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand—no manners whatsoever, but that was hardly a surprise—and then Potter's expression sobered.

"You know," the black-haired wizard ventured, "it would do a lot if you responded to that Prophet piece—" At the disgusted look on Draco's face, he asserted, "I know, I hate the press more than anyone, but it might do a lot for, er… The Cause, if—if the Malfoy Estate, I guess, responded. If you happen to feel a certain type of way about it, that is."

"I've worked years for anonymity that has just been thrown in the bin by my father, Potter, and I'm not about to make it worse," Draco responded. He had the sudden urge to leave and go home. Were they done?

Potter nodded. "I get that, but you're not exactly an anonymous figure. The magical public knows your family, and now you're at the forefront of people's attention. What's the harm of one more statement?"

Harry Bloody Potter was giving him advice on the media. How the fuck had they gotten here?

"The harm is that I. Don't. Want to," Draco enunciated slowly, giving his tone a menacing tilt. "I don't want more attention, and I won't seek it out. I'll help with potions, Potter, but I'm not part of your Cause, so don't push it."

"Just a suggestion," Potter said, holding his hands up. "And really, thank you, Malfoy—I mean it."

Sincere gratitude. Disgusting.

Soon after, Draco left Potter in that ridiculous, sticky, mustard-colored booth and apparated straight back to the Manor from a deserted alleyway. He appeared in his rear gardens, which had a gravel path leading down a small hill to the greenhouses.

It was close to midnight, and the sky was cloudless. A bright light shone down from the stars, and Draco looked up to see that the moon was crescent-shaped. He took a deep breath of the clean, clear air through his nose and descended the path.

There were three greenhouses in total, and relatively small ones compared to those at Hogwarts. One held entirely flowers that Narcissa had cultivated personally when she lived at the Manor. Draco supposed they must all be dead since he hadn't thought to keep it up. The other two greenhouses grew potion ingredients, including nightshade, bitter root, fluxweed, knotgrass, hellebore, mallowsweet, starthistle, mistletoe, valerian—and aconite.

Draco entered the third greenhouse, which held only a few types of plants—finicky ones that he rarely had a need for—and walked to the rear of the structure, which was curved out from the straight-edged walls and stretched up into a dome. He had to hack down quite a lot of sneezewort, which had seriously overgrown its bed, but once he cut through the extremities with his wand, Draco was very pleased.

The hooded purple flowers were flourishing. They stretched out to fill the entire soiled ground under the dome, and some had even grown up to his shoulders against the paned wall of the greenhouse. There was certainly enough aconite blooming here for sixty doses of Wolfsbane. There was enough for three hundred doses, in fact, but Draco still worried about sustainability.

Tomorrow, he would move the sneezewort beds completely out of the third greenhouse, as well as the dead mandrake bulbs and a single silver magnolia tree that hadn't bloomed in years. This entire greenhouse would be given over for the aconite to bloom and grow.

Draco would send Potter a letter tomorrow, and he was already annoyed at the thought of having to relay good news. Perhaps something out of Draco's control would ruin Potter's day. His mother always said the universe sought balance.

The next day—
Friday, April 13, 2007
Malfoy Manor

The Prophet the next day was as infuriating as it had been on Wednesday. Draco discovered that removing Lucius Malfoy from the Manor did not prevent him from communicating with the British media.

Some of the articles were just ridiculous.

FENRIR GREYBACK: THE MAN, THE MYTH, AND THE MONSTER

WARLOCK ALLARD PREPARES LEGISLATION TO DEFEND AGAINST POTENTIAL WEREWOLF ATTACKS IN BRITAIN

'ARE WE NEXT?' WITCHES AND WIZARDS CONTINUE TO SPEAK OUT AGAINST ATTACK ON MONTAUROUX

LUCIUS MALFOY: 'PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN NOW'

Draco could barely stomach the headlines, so he did not even attempt to read the articles appended to them. He worked his frustration out in the morning by hacking through the rest of the overgrown sneezewort and moving the plant beds into a spare corner of the second greenhouse. By the afternoon, he had worked himself into quite the rage and decided to take a break since moving the silver magnolia would require delicacy that he didn't currently possess.

He ended up taking out his old Nimbus 2001 and flying over the estate grounds. It was a cloudy day, but mild, and the light breeze invigorated him. He swirled up and down along with the winds, diving and rolling in a way he had not allowed himself to do for some time. After about an hour, he found himself on the north side of the property, hovering for a few minutes over the rolling green hills. In the distance, Draco could see the enchanted woodland that had caused Granger so much strife last week.

The hill that led down to Theo's home was visible on the horizon. Draco figured a short flight over to see what his wily friend was up to was a decent enough distraction. He set off to the West.

Draco could feel the wave of magic as he left his property and entered Theo's. Had he not been welcome on the Nott estate, the barrier would have sent him careening to the ground. Draco floated around to the front drive and landed gently on the front steps of Nott Manor.

Draco kept the length of the broom gripped in his right hand after he dismounted and reached up with his left to bang the large iron knocker. After a long minute, the double doors cracked open. Draco looked down to see Bob standing bleary-eyed in the opening.

"Draco Malfoy to see Theodore," Draco announced with an amused tilt to his mouth.

Bob grumbled incomprehensibly and moved back into the building, leaving Draco to follow him and close the doors. In moments like these, Draco truly appreciated having Muffy, but part of him also appreciated Bob for making Theo's life slightly more complicated. The man needed some humility.

When Draco turned around from closing the doors, Bob had disappeared. Without direction, Draco moved down the corridor leading to Theo's kitchen, figuring that was the most likely place to find some activity.

As he moved deeper into the dim manor, Draco began to hear voices—multiple ones, in fact. He paused a few paces from the open doorway to the kitchen.

"And you feel good about this?" asked Theo, in one of his rare serious tones.

"Why wouldn't I? This is fantastic!" It was Blaise, Draco noted, surprised.

"Seems sudden, is all. … No, you're right, I'm happy for you."

Draco announced himself while knocking on the cracked door. "Theo, you there?"

A moment later, the door opened wide, and a neutral-faced Theo appeared. "Hey mate," he said.

He stepped back, and Draco followed him into the room. Blaise was sitting on the kitchen table with his feet up on the bench facing them.

"Draco, you have arrived at the most opportune moment," Blaise greeted him with a smile, which made Draco feel better about the snippet of conversation he had overheard. "We are about to break out the Champagne."

"Really," responded Draco as he leaned his broom against the side of the brick hearth. "What's the occasion?"

"I've been promoted!" Blaise exclaimed, raising his arms in the air. "You are looking at the new Junior Deputy Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation."

That caused Draco's eyebrows to shoot up. "Is that so? Congratulations." He walked over and clapped Blaise on the shoulder. "Deputy Head. That's a fairly substantial title."

"I think it suits me," Blaise preened. "Youngest in the modern memory of the department."

"But not quite as young as Hermione Granger was at the time of her promotion," Theo commented wryly. He stood a few paces away, and Draco sat on the bench adjacent to Blaise's feet.

"No," Blaise scowled. "But youngest on their own merit, certainly. I'm not coasting on a decade-old Order of Merlin."

"You're the first to accuse Granger of coasting," Theo said with his arms crossed. "If anything, they promoted her to stop her from trying to excel so much."

"Yes, well, she can coast as she likes on her way up the magical mongrel's totem pole," retorted Blaise. "I, meanwhile, shall coast my way around the Mediterranean basin."

Theo uncrossed his arms, sighed, and said, "Your success deserves a toast. I'm going to get that Champagne. Bob can't see a bloody thing anymore in the wine cellar." He gave them a half smile and left the room.

Draco wasn't sure where the tension was coming from, but he thought it best not to comment on anything and spoil the moment further. He pressed forward without lingering. "Did you know this promotion was a possibility?"

Blaise was still frowning at the door where Theo had disappeared when he answered Draco's question. "I've been angling around the department for a while, but the French and Italian Ministers for Magic were happy with my proposal for dealing with this werewolf problem, even if Shacklebolt wasn't. In the end, Davies had no choice but to put me in charge and avoid an international incident." He was referring to Holbrook Davies, the head of his department.

"And what is this revelatory proposal, then?" Draco inquired. He was curious about what could pit Shacklebolt against his closest allies.

Blaise turned slightly to face Draco's direction. "A complete shutdown of international magical and Muggle travel for all werewolves, and a mandatory curfew on full moon nights for witches and wizards until the Montaroux attackers are apprehended."

"Sounds…thorough," Draco replied, though he thought it sounded extreme.

"It's the only way. People are afraid, and the European governments need to band together in the interest of public safety," Blaise said, voice fervent. He smiled slightly and added, "Lucius understands that."

"Don't tell me you're buying into my father's rubbish," Draco scowled. "He is doing more to instigate public fear than to ease it. And playing up his love for me and my mother is utter shite, and you know it."

"If it wasn't Lucius talking about Greyback, it would have been someone else. Good on your father for getting into the mix."

"Yes, cunning, ambition, Slytherin, very well for Lucius," Draco muttered. "Good on him for exploiting our family name for respect he doesn't deserve."

Blaise's eyes widened. "Touchy subject, I see."

"I'm not good enough of a Lord, apparently, though he doesn't write about his disappointment in the papers." Draco believed Lucius left out all the important details about Greyback from his writing, but that was not something he wanted to get into with Blaise.

"You are the Lord of my heart, Draco dear," Theo said as he entered the room with a bottle and three glasses, which he placed on the table next to them. "I shall not hear a word against you."

Theo popped the bottle with an elegant flourish of the cork and poured them each drink. After handing out the flutes, he raised his own and announced, "Here is to Blaise's meteoric rise in the swamp of international magical politics," a nod to Blaise, "and to all of our continued successes."

They drank, and Draco relished the sharp tingle of the bubbles on his tongue. In the back of his mind, a feeling of doubt lingered. Did he have any successes to continue? It seemed Blaise was on his way to becoming Minister for Magic in the next twenty years. Theo had his secret workshop, wall of academic accolades, and undisclosed business ventures, however shady they might be. What did Draco have?

To be fair, he did have a large bank vault and a long list of lucrative investments. But he also had a dark and haunted manor house and no prospects for future success in any type of traditional career, charitable potion brewing aside.

Theo had downed his glass of very expensive Champagne in one go, and he made a performance of it by setting it down on the table and sweeping Blaise into a poor imitation of a waltz. The taller wizard's drink sloshed out of the glass and down both of their shirts, and Blaise was spluttering in protest, but Theo was holding him too closely to escape. Eventually, Blaise gave in, and their dance evolved into something of a polka. Champagne dribbled down their wrists where their hands were clasped together.

Draco took a seat at the kitchen table and poured himself another glass. He was happy for Blaise. He knew that despite how laughable he believed the actual job requirements were in Blaise's department, Blaise worked hard at political maneuvering. With resentments from the war still high in some places, Blaise had to work twice as hard for people to actually like and trust him. If Draco felt that Blaise's promotion may have been the result of fear mongering, well … that wasn't Draco's place to say.

Blaise had had enough of the dance. He gave Theo a good shove away and inverted his glass to let the last remaining drops dribble into his mouth. Turning back to the table where Draco sat, Blaise grinned as he refilled his and Theo's glasses.

"I have a great feeling, gentlemen," he pronounced. "This is our year. Even you, my Lord." He pointed to Draco and gave a low bow.

Draco scoffed, rolled his eyes, and took another sip. He did not need pity from his only friends.

Blaise sat down beside Draco and turned to face the blonde directly. "Things are on the rise, Draco. The Dark Lord is a distant memory, and everyone is more interested in the society we are currently becoming. Despite what you might think, there isn't any 'Ex-Death Eaters Forbidden' sign on the entrance to the world at large."

Draco could not remember Blaise ever talking to him so directly or seriously. His hazel eyes bore deep into Draco's grey. Draco wondered what it might mean to allow himself to believe Blaise's words, even for a moment. What would he do if he considered the magical world once again as a place of opportunity rather than a place where he was unwanted? What did Draco want?

Blaise quirked an eyebrow and raised his glass between them. Draco realized something must have been showing on his face, so he schooled his expression and clinked his own glass against Blaise's.

He cleared his throat. "So tell us more about your proposal, then." Evasion was always the best course of action.

"It currently encompasses Britain, France, and Italy, but we have high hopes to get Spain and Germany on board. At that point, Switzerland and Portugal are all but guaranteed to join in, and Belgium and the Netherlands may be negotiable. The Eastern block still denies that they have anything to do with it, but what goes on over the next full moons will say a lot." Blaise leaned his left elbow on the table and lounged back.

"What I don't get," chimed in Theo, "is why Britain's all in a huff. It's not like we're geographically close to southern France, especially for a pack of wolves to navigate."

"Not wolves," Blaise responded, turning to face Theo, who had sat across from Draco and Blaise at the table. "Werewolves, and it's likely wizard werewolves, too, considering they vanished without a trace. We have to assume that they could be anywhere."

Draco understood the thinking affecting the European ministries a bit better. He remarked, "The next full moon—when is it?"

"May the second, in fact, right on the anniversary of the battle," responded Blaise. "That's a whole other kerfuffle."

"The poor party planning committee," Theo said wryly. "Is the ball canceled then?"

What rotten luck for the full moon to coincide with the anniversary of the Dark Lord's defeat in the very year that some rogue werewolves chose violence. Draco hadn't attended the Victory Ball since the first anniversary, though his family was guaranteed invitations due to his mother's carefully calculated charitable donations.

"Not canceled, but it'll move indoors, I think," said Blaise. "Not my department."

"How would that work with your curfew?" Draco asked. It seemed ill-advised to continue plans for a ball on the eve of a full moon when a postponement of even one day would make more sense.

"Something about Floo access and only allowing visitors after sundown," Blaise waved his hand vaguely. "It's a demonstration of faith in the British citizenry or some tosh like that, Shacklebolt said. Anyway, it will guarantee no actual werewolves will be there, at least."

"Saint Potter must have something to say about all of this," Draco mused. "Was Lupin not one of his favorites?"

Blaise chuckled, "This situation is far beyond the influence of Potter's meager band of hero worshippers. I'm sure he and Granger will make a big stink of it."

That Draco did believe. He wondered what Blaise would think of his involvement with Potter's Wolfsbane project but decided against telling them about it.

Blaise continued speaking, unprompted, "Potter should tread carefully if he wants to keep his fans. If there's one thing normal wizards will all get behind, it's fear of werewolves. You can't defeat an infectious monster with kindness." He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment as if debating whether or not to divulge something. Blaise shrugged and added, "A couple of warlocks were throwing about the idea of mandatory government detention of werewolves."

Draco's brows shot up. "Really?"

"Why risk even the slightest possibility of someone else getting bitten?" Blaise fingered the rim of his cup. "That's what they were asking, at least."

"What of Wolfsbane then? Wouldn't that be logistically easier to accomplish than locking up hundreds of people each month?"

Blaise shrugged. "It's about the public's perception of their own safety."

Draco shrugged and took a long sip of his Champagne.

"Plus," Blaise added, "Wolfsbane's been around for over thirty years, and it hasn't accomplished much, has it?"

"Seems strange for non-werewolves to say so," Draco said, perhaps a bit sharply. Or non-potioneers, he thought. The Wolfsbane potion was a breakthrough for using poisonous ingredients in non-poisonous applications.

Blaise blinked. "The public doesn't have a lot of faith in it, is all I'm saying."

"Sure," Draco conceded, though the public as an abstract concept was fickle. His father would always tell Draco when he was younger that people believed what you told them to believe. He sighed. "Sorry, I don't mean anything by it. My father just set me off this week. I had to kick him out of the Manor."

"Lucius was staying with you?" Theo asked, evidently surprised.

Draco glowered. "Without my knowledge, yes. Doing two of his favorite things, ordering Muffy around and insulting me."

Theo whistled. "Sorry, mate."

Blaise took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips. "You'd do well to think about what Lucius said in the Prophet, Draco. Not saying I agree with him," he added hastily at the look on Draco's face, "but he's taking the opportunity where he sees it."

"I am so sick of dragging our history into the present," said Draco, drumming his fingers on the tabletop in his nervous energy. "When will people think of the Malfoy name not in conjunction with the Dark Lord? He is gaining sympathy, yes, I'll give him that, but if he keeps going on, the public will only ever know us as former Death Eaters."

"You could promote your own narrative, Draco. Rather than waiting until people forget all about it," Theo ventured cautiously. "You are head of the family, technically."

Draco blanched at Theo's words. Is this what his friends really thought about him? They called him hermit, yes, which Draco understood, but what did they really think of him? All this time, they might have been tiptoeing around him, trying to protect his feelings as if he were a bleeding Hufflepuff.

He was not hiding from the world. He liked his life. He enjoyed brewing. He couldn't find a way to do so in a professional setting, which had stung, admittedly, but then he made his own way. He worked anonymously of his own accord. Part of him did fear rejection if he attached his name to anything, but he did not need money or notoriety—he truly had enough of both in his lifetime, even if his father hadn't.

"I see," Draco said, guarded.

"I support you no matter what," Theo said urgently. "I do. It's your own life. If you're unhappy, do something about it."

Draco looked at Theo's wide blue eyes and then at Blaise, who continued stoically caressing the rim of his glass.

He cleared his throat. "Enough about me. We're celebrating Blaise, aren't we?" Draco forced a smile onto his face, trying to tamper down on his extreme discomfort. He added, "How about a spot of food? I'll offer Muffy's services since this castle is a culinary wasteland."

Blaise smirked. Theo grinned and said, "Yes, I accept! Can Muffy make her Yorkshire pudding?"

They Flooed over to Draco's and ate on the west-facing terrace. They talked happily of past romances, the trials of traveling via sailing yacht, and Quidditch. Blaise and Draco got into such a battle over whether Ireland or Germany would win the European championship over the summer that Theo generously offered to hold their bets. Draco and Blaise each handed over thirty galleons, and it wasn't until the next morning that Draco realized he would likely never see that money again.

Later that evening, long after the sun had set and Theo and Blaise each took their leave, Draco still sat on the terrace enjoying the early spring breeze and the scent of his mother's white roses as it floated through the air. He noticed the buzz of alcohol in his veins, but Draco was thinking completely clearly and for himself for the first time in a long time.

He would later attribute his actions to being drunk and left alone by his alleged best friends.

Still, Draco knew what he was doing when he wrote his missive and sent it off with an owl at nearly midnight. As he wrote, he remembered his father's sneer, the dank stench of Greyback that could fill the entirety of the dining room and not dissipate for days; he thought of Severus brewing Wolfsbane in the dungeons and inviting Draco to watch, but only if he kept his trap shut; he thought of his greenhouses and Potter's filthy Muggle pub, and if he also thought briefly of a diminutive witch in sky-blue linen robes—well, there was no one around to read his mind that could prove it so.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

LORD DRACO MALFOY SPEAKS OUT

The Daily Prophet is pleased to print the following exclusive statement from Lord Draco Malfoy:

Fenrir Greyback was an evil monster, and the world is better without him.

I sincerely hope that the recent attack in France is not the result of any equally perverted minds, but I write today troubled by the hyperbolic rhetoric recently circulating in the press.

Witches, wizards, and Muggles infected with lycanthropy are not inherently monsters and should not be judged by Greyback's actions. Comparing Greyback to the average werewolf would be like comparing the Dark Lord Voldemort to Harry Potter simply because they both held wands.

As the presiding Lord of the Malfoy Estates, I urge the Ministry of Magic to enact sensible legislation to help werewolves manage their disease safely while protecting their human rights.

— Lord Draco Malfoy

Up Next: Hermione tries to figure out Draco's motivations.