Chapter 12: Draco

Neither Peace Nor Rest

"Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril." — Jack London,The Call of the Wild

Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Nimue's Tea Parlor, London

Draco was uncomfortable. His collared shirt and robe were constricting at the neck, and he pulled at it nervously in a way that would make his mother don one of her most disappointed glares.

The woman glaring at him from across the table was certainly not his mother, even though they were related. Aunt Andromeda's wide face more resembled that of Aunt Bellatrix, but Draco could never mistake anyone for Bellatrix. The frantic darkness that pulsed behind Bellatrix's eyes still haunted Draco's nightmares. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Draco could almost feel the sharp stab of her magic flash across his skin—before he remembered she was dead.

Andromeda's brown hair and warm eyes were very much unlike Bellatrix's and his mother's. Still, the way her upper lip became rail-thin when she frowned was precisely the appearance of his mother's upper lip during his childhood etiquette lessons. Draco momentarily forgot where he was.

He deliberately stilled his hands, dropped them from his collar, and reached for his china teacup. He took a sip. He coughed. He wondered when he could leave.

"How are you really doing, Draco?" Andromeda asked, quirking an eyebrow. "I feel it's my responsibility to ask, seeing as you can't be bothered to talk to your parents."

Ah, yes. Blackmail was the reason he was out in public, having tea with his formerly estranged aunt.

When he received Andromeda's first owl last week, he wondered whether a self-inking silver quill had been an inappropriate birthday gift for a nine-year-old. His mother had started his penmanship lessons at age four, so Draco thought it would be a good investment in the boy's future. Then he had read the letter.

It was another invitation to tea. This one was very adamant, using phrases such as I must insist and Really, dear, you have no choice. Draco sent his regrets with more trepidation than usual.

When the second owl came, Draco knew he was in trouble. This one asked him to "reconsider his rejection" and commented:

I just had an owl from Narcissa asking about the social scene this summer. She wonders whether it would be more appropriate for her to spend time around London soon. Of course, the European Quidditch Championships in France will make Paris the hub of the season, but she is interested in spending time closer to you. I haven't given her my opinion yet, but seeing as I cannot confirm your physical well-being, I'll let her know she should return to Britain as soon as possible.

My dear sister also mentioned a number of truly interesting witches of her acquaintance who are eager to see British magical society. Of course, they have no family here, so I'm sure Narcissa would be a wonderful hostess and offer one of the Manor's wings for them to use.

Anyway, please let me know if you'd like to have tea soon.

Warmly,
Aunt Andromeda

Translation: Have tea with me, or else I'll make sure your mother moves back into the Manor with no less than five eligible French witches by the end of the week.

And so, this tea.

"I am doing well, thank you. And yourself?" Draco replied, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders, pretending to know nothing about Andromeda's comment regarding his parents.

He had already received six other owls from his mother, all of which he had ignored, seeing as they addressed either one of two things or both: his statement in the Prophet, which Narcissa referred to as an "uncouth passive-aggressive jab at your Father," or his lack of potential brides.

Lucius had also sent a letter, but Draco hadn't bothered to open it.

Andromeda sighed and gave Draco a small smile. "I hope you'll forgive my manipulations to get you here, Draco. I needed to speak to you in person, and a little push never hurt anyone. Don't mind your mother. She won't be back in Britain this summer. There's just too much going on in Nice at the moment."

Draco didn't know what to say to that, and he would never admit to having been manipulated, so he nodded and sipped his tea again. He eyed the parlor in which they were seated. It was a Wednesday and a bit early for tea, so the place was not crowded. Only a few other patrons sat in the large airy room, none of whom Draco recognized.

"What I wanted to say," Andromeda said, folding her hands in her lap and gazing at Draco directly, "was thank you. I don't know why you decided to write what you did in the Prophet, but it meant a lot to me, and it certainly meant a lot to Teddy. I saw him sneak the paper from my desk the other day after his party, and he's been asking about you. Thank you also for the quill, by the way. It's quite elegant."

Draco felt his stomach drop, and his mouth went dry. He remembered that Andromeda's grandson was also the son of Remus Lupin, but he somehow did not make the connection between his desire to undercut his own father and how it would affect others.

Despite having begun a relationship with his aunt very late in life, Draco knew Andromeda to be a cunning witch rivaling his mother, who was the most cunning witch he knew. He was under no illusions that Andromeda suspected the true reasons for why he had written what he did.

"You have your suspicions regarding my motivations for writing that piece, I'm sure," Draco replied, his fingers fidgeting in their hidden position under the tablecloth. "If it makes a difference to you, I certainly do not agree with my father." He looked across at Andromeda's kind expression and wondered whether he should have written more, even though it had been hard enough to write what he did.

"Lucius is a lost soul," said Andromeda. "I always thought so. He is my age, you know, so we were in all classes together at Hogwarts. I don't think he ever found a true passion. I thought maybe Narcissa could be that passion for him. It was after my parents had cast me out that they married, though, so I had no idea how she or Lucius were together. At least, I thought that the desire for a legacy would drive him—that's how it always has been for men of means." She scrutinized Draco from across the table. "Youknow that wasn't the case, obviously. I think it's just catching up to Lucius, all these years later, how many opportunities he missed while you were a child, so he's trying to…reframe his mistakes, I suppose."

Draco scoffed. It was an apt characterization of his father, if a bit too kind. Andromeda would never outright condemn Lucius to Draco, though, for fear it would harm her relationship with Narcissa.

Andromeda narrowed her eyes and took a delicate sip of her own tea.

"You're head of the family now," she said.

Draco blinked. "So I've been told."

"It's a privilege to be in your own power."

Draco ducked his chin and admitted, "I am very fortunate." Especially if one liked being trapped by a legacy that spanned millennia.

"It must be a lot of responsibility," Andromeda replied.

Draco shrugged. "The vaults run themselves." If Draco did precisely nothing for the rest of his life, the Malfoys' wealth would continue to increase. If he decided to buy a home in every country in the world, the Malfoys' wealth would still continue to grow.

"I am going to ask a favor of you, Draco," said Andromeda with a sly look in her eyes that Draco did not like.

"Anything for my favorite aunt, of course," he hedged, expression blank.

Andromeda smiled. Not good.

"With all of the hateful anti-werewolf sentiments running about, I feel it's my responsibility to make a showing at the Victory Ball this year for Nymphadora, Remus, and Teddy, all of their sakes."

"That is very…altruistic of you," Draco responded. What did this have to do with him?

"Yes, thank you," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Unfortunately, being the old widowed grandmother that I am, I simply could not attend alone—"

No.

"—and considering that you are not just head of the Malfoy family—"

No. No. No.

"—but also the inheriting heir of the Black family, it would technically fall unto you—"

He could move. Change his name. Leave everything to Muffy and bloody Bob, too, if it pleases him, and disappear.

"—to escort me. So, would you please escort me?"

Draco kept his composure only due to his years of advanced Occlumency. He cleared his throat.

"Aunt Andromeda," he began carefully, "Familial responsibilities aside, I'm sure you would notwantme to escort you."

"But I do," she replied with a small smile.

Drat. Another strategy, then. "What I mean is, you would not enjoy my escorting you. I would only make a challenging evening even more difficult."

"And why is that?"

"Well," he started, searching for the right words. "With my current reputation—"

Andromeda interjected, "What reputation exactly?"

He took a breath, "I am not currently in favor at the Ministry or elsewhere."

"I wouldn't mind that even if it were true."

"I am a former Death Eater, you see, and to attend a celebration of the demise of the Death Eaters would hardly be appropriate." Yes, that should do it.

"You were exonerated, Draco, and you can't hide forever."

Draco thought he rather could hide forever if it pleased him, which it did. "People would stare," he tried.

"A perfect opportunity to buy new robes, in my opinion."

He needed to get out of this. "I'm not very good company, I'm afraid. Terrible conversationalist, two left feet, etcetera."

"Don't be silly, Draco. I have it on good authority that you are an excellent dancer."

Bloody Mother and her insistence on training him in traditional ballroom dancing. Perhaps Draco could offer an alternative.

"Someone else would be more suitable. How about Harry Potter—Teddy's godfather, is he not?"

"He is, but I'm afraid that would not do," she dismissed him with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. "Harry is always accosted at these things, as I'm sure you can guess, and I'd much rather avoid all that pomp."

Draco forced a smile. "Have I ever introduced you to my friend Theodore?"

One week later—
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Atrium, The Ministry of Magic

Draco was still uncomfortable. In fact, he had been in a perpetual state of discomfort since Andromeda finagled him into attending the accursed ball.

The set of dress robes he selected were brand new. Draco hadn't had any formal occasions to attend outside of the last several Christmas dinners with only his parents to impress. The cuffs were itchy, the material was too thick for the Spring, and the cape running down his back felt like an anchor pulling him down through the depths of hell.

On balance, it had actually surprised Draco how easy it was to slip into the Pureblood aristocratic mindset. Shoulders down and back, chin up, expression neutral yet approachable. It was like riding a broom, ingrained into his memory, into his very genetic makeup. His small act of rebellion had been to let his hair hang loose around his ears. Standing in front of his bathroom mirror earlier that evening, Draco didn't have the stomach to slick it back as he had done in his youth to match Lucius's style. He simply charmed his coif so that it would not become an unruly mess over the course of the evening.

Andromeda's delicate hand clung to the inside of his right elbow as she smiled and waved at passersby. Draco felt as though everyone wanted to curse him, though he could have been projecting. No one was overtly hostile, at the least. Every few minutes, Andromeda would whisper into his ear, "You're doing great, darling."

Being at the event was admittedly tolerable with Andromeda on his arm, and he let her take the lead from the moment they arrived.

It was the night of the full moon, and the ball had begun after moonrise to ensure no werewolves could access the Ministry. The only means of entry had been Floo or Apparition, and Aurors had emptied and locked down the entire facility since midday.

Draco had never attended the Victory Balls of past years, but he knew from pictures in the press and his mother's anecdotes that the event was usually held on the Hogwarts grounds. He had to admit their redesigned indoor event was quite a spectacle. Glowing orbs floated in the air up to the apex of the Atrium like stars, and all the decor was black and gold to match the polished marble floors.

He and Andromeda walked near the Atrium's fountain. It had once been the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Then it has been the significantly more hideous Magic is Might monstrosity. However, Draco thought its current iteration was the worst of them all, aesthetically speaking.

He had heard it referred to as the Monument to the Magical World or the Equality Statue. Kingsley Shacklebolt had spearheaded the project, and Draco was reasonably sure the Malfoy vaults had funded much of its creation.

Like its oldest predecessor, the fountain featured a Centaur, a Goblin, a House Elf, and a wizard. Unlike its predecessor, the new statue also included a fairy, a dwarf, and a vampire. All of the magical beings stood on a raised platform inside a pool of water, and above them, a stream of water flowed over the group from the left to the right like a rainbow. They all looked upward at the stream, which glowed like crystal.

Draco supposed it was a nice enough sentiment, but the aspect he found most offensive was the wizard. If the Ministry wanted to erect a monument to Saint Potter, they should have done so directly rather than projecting his image as the paradigm of all wizards.

The wizard in the statue wore round glasses and had a shaggy haircut. His robes were the spitting image of Hogwarts school robes, and it was only the absence of a scar on the figure's forehead that would make someone question his identity. It was obscene.

"It's hideous, isn't it?" Andromeda commented.

"The Ministry has never had an eye for art, and I don't think it ever will," Draco sneered.

Andromeda chuckled. "You sound just like your mother. Oh, look! There's Harry—let's say hello, shall we?"

Draco did not have time to process her statement nor to provide his most vociferous objection before he was whisked away by Andromeda's iron grip. He cast his eyes in their forward direction, and only a few yards away, mobbed by admirers, was Potter.

He wore dress robes of deep maroon with golden filigrees on the cuffs and lapels. Of course, Golden Boy Potter would be the consummate Gryffindor. Other than the fact that his robes were obviously new, Potter looked like the rumpled mess he always was, smiling politely at the witches and wizards around him.

In fact, Draco had seen Potter just a few days ago. He had hoped to avoid an in-person meeting, but the Wolfsbane Draco brewed was too volatile for transport via owl, and so for the third time in as many months, Draco found himself face-to-bespectacled-face with one of his least favorite people on Earth.

Three Days Earlier—
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The Gates of Malfoy Manor

"Three doses," Draco said, handing over the liter-sized silver carafe. "One portion each day for the next three days. There is enough for three people in this vessel, but no more. Do I need to write this down, Potter, or can you do basic arithmetic?"

Potter glared at Draco but nodded. "I think I got it, Malfoy. Thank you again for doing this, even though you won't tell me where you acquired the aconite."

Draco huffed and looked down his nose at Potter, who Draco was happy to notice was still several inches shorter. He sneered.

Potter had the audacity to roll his eyes. He cleared his throat and asked, "Can you tell me about the supply? Will there be enough?"

Aconite for Wolfsbane for fifty was a large ask. He certainly had enough at the moment, but the issue was sustainability over time. Draco had been working in his greenhouse, and he believed there would be enough growth by July to continually sustain such a supply—but only just. Potter didn't need to know that, though.

"It's a very difficultfavoryou have asked of me. I can't promise anything yet, but…I have contacts that can help. I'lllet you know."

Draco's "contacts" were actually a single contact, and it was Bob, who, despite being half-blind and a shit cook, had a phenomenal green thumb. Draco convinced Theo to lend Bob to the Manor's greenhouses once per week to help with his secret project. Draco could cultivate the aconite on his own, but with Bob's help, it was more of a sure thing. Theo, the ponce, was absolutely delighted at the fact that Draco finally had "A Secret" and that it required Bob to be away from Nott Manor.

Potter had simply looked back at Draco blankly and nodded. "Thanks." His pallid face wrestled for a moment, then he added, "Listen, Malfoy. I just wanted to say we—I, well…a lot of us appreciated your piece in the Prophet the other day."

Draco glowered. That blasted statement had been decidedly more trouble than it was worth.

"Goodbye, Potter." Draco turned toward the door and started up the stairs.

"But you could have left my name out of it!" Potter called after him. "My owl post has been a nightmare!"

Draco smirked and did not look back.

Present Moment—
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Victory Ball

And now, standing in the crowded Atrium on the ninth anniversary of one of the worst days of Draco's life, Draco prepared himself for a fourth—Fourth!—encounter with Potter. What Fates had Draco upset recently to make his life exist so decidedly outside of the circle of privacy he had cultivated over the the last near-decade?

"Harry, dear!" Andromeda called with a wave of the fingers on her free hand. Draco stood stoically and watched as Potter looked over at them in surprise.

Potter slowly extricated himself from the group that surrounded him with what looked like polite excuses and approached them.

"Andromeda, hello," he said brightly, and Andromeda let go of Draco's arm to caress Potter's shoulders and kiss him on the cheek.

"Hello, Harry. You clean up so nicely! And you know Draco, of course," she greeted, placing her hand delicately on Draco's elbow.

"I do," nodded Potter, and Draco was horrified to see him reach one of his knobby hands out toward him. "Hello, Malfoy."

Draco held back the disgust he wanted to express to Potter and instead replied, "Evening." He shook Potter's hand.

Potter released his grip and turned toward Andromeda. Draco discretely wiped his hand on his trousers.

"You look beautiful tonight, Andromeda. What is Teddy up to?" he said.

Andromeda smiled warmly. "He is with Molly and Arthur. I believe they have most of the pack tonight."

"That'll be a riot, I'm sure."

Draco tuned out Potter and his aunt as they chatted aimlessly about the horrifically large Weasley brood. Honestly, how did they keep track? And did they all have red hair? Draco didn't care to know.

He turned his attention out to the large ballroom. An orchestra made of enchanted instruments played a lighthearted tune in the distance, and a dozen or so couples swayed on an expanse of dance floor. Next to that, an area of tables stood beside an ever-replenishing buffet. Draco had his eye on a roasted side of beef in the distance, and he planned on angling Andromeda over toward the food soon.

The way they were standing, Draco and Andromeda had their backs to the Floos and Apparition points. Draco felt fairly exposed in this position, and he forced himself to be aware of any movements behind him. He had been cursed from behind several times while out in public but never at an official event, and he doubted anyone would try something while Potter was speaking to him.

The chatter stopped, and Draco was startled. Did someone address him?

"Sorry?" he asked.

"I asked how you were enjoying the evening," Potter repeated with a smirk.

Draco glared, "Fine." Andromeda squeezed his arm sharply, and Draco begrudgingly added, "Thank you, and yourself?"

"Can't believe they're having this on a Wednesday, even if it's the actual date," Potter remarked. "It's been hellish this week. Every Ministry is on high alert for the full moon tonight, and I'm just waiting for news from France of another attack."

"I bet there's a lot of pressure on you and your department for the security this evening," Andromeda commented with sympathy.

"Most of the squad swept every level just before sunset to ensure the building was cleared out. Had to pick up a few stragglers at their desks and get them to the Floo. I'd rather be down in the pit, but Kingsley always scolds me if I don't make the rounds at these things."

"I have to say I'm a bit on edge myself tonight," replied Andromeda. "I'll be relieved in the morning."

"We all will." Potter suddenly looked at something beyond Draco's back. "Oh, Hermione's finally arrived. I have to ask her how it—ask her about a work thing. Please excuse me." He kissed Andromeda on the cheek, gave Draco an indifferent nod, and parted.

Draco and Andromeda turned around to follow his movements, and Draco saw Potter worm his way next to a witch who was as surrounded as Potter had been earlier. It took Draco a few long moments to connect Potter's statement to what he was actually seeing in front of him, and it was only when Potter's red-clad figure gave the witch a hug that Draco realized the witch was Granger.

She looked … different. The last time Draco had seen her, she was covered in twigs and bits of forest, so perhaps that was why he was utterly gobsmacked at her appearance.

Yes, that must be it.

Granger pinned her hair half-up and away from her face. She must have used a potion of enchantment on the locks because they flowed down to her waist in silky spirals. From his distance, Draco could spot tiny glints of gold interspersed through the curls, flickering in the dim light.

Her dress robes were what caught his eye that evening, though, and without realizing what was happening, he angled his and Andromeda's position closer to get a better look.

Black and gold.

Black and gold, like sunlight piercing through pitch darkness, Granger's skirt was full and heavy with black tulle, but the way she moved was so effortless that it appeared light as air. The fabric cinched in at the waist and fit snugly against her torso, with long sheer sleeves covering her arms. The neckline scooped low under her collarbone. At the base of her neck, a clasp held a long cape, which flowed out behind her.

The remarkable details were points of gold that dotted the fabric, dense at her waist, hips, and forearms but fading toward her feet and shoulders. They floated in the expanse of the fabric's layers and may have been enchanted to move of their own accord. Draco wanted to get a closer look. He wondered whether the gold matched the flecks he had noticed in her eyes.

But that was an absolutely ridiculous thought for Draco to have, of course. Which is why he was definitely not thinking about it.

Andromeda nudged him softly. "Do you know Hermione very well?"

Draco was brought immediately back into reality. Did he know Hermione Granger well? It was a difficult question. Yes, and no. He knew her. He knew about her. They had known each other for most of their lives. But could he say he knew Granger in the way Andromeda was implying? Draco abruptly remembered who he was and shook his head.

"Aunt Bella tortured her on my drawing room floor in front of me and my parents. So we're certainly not strangers."

"Oh," she said softly, caressing his wrist. "Draco, I didn't—"

"It's nothing." It was everything. "I think I need to find a restroom. Can I escort you to a table?"

Andromeda sighed. "Of course."

They turned away from Potter and Granger, who were conversing quietly together as a mob of partygoers waited nearby. Draco walked Andromeda over to the food section and left her at an empty table before fetching a glass of Champagne for her, bowing appropriately, and walking away.

He made his way toward the temporary restrooms set up by the lifts. Without Andromeda with him, he felt claustrophobic and utterly out of place. The string quartet was off-pitch, and he longed for his music box, steamy lab, and quiet dungeon. He loosened his tie, only a centimeter. Anything more would be unseemly.

Draco splashed water on his face in the private bathroom stall and took a moment to breathe.

He would return to Andromeda and ask if they could leave. A glance at his watch told Draco it was near to eleven. They had been there for almost two hours. That was a good enough showing, and he was sure his aunt would understand. He dried the damp collar of his shirt with a charm, straightened his robes, and went back into the throng.

Something at the corner of Draco's eye caught his attention. He stopped in his tracks, and sure enough, over the top of a group of giggling Ministry witches, he spotted Blaise across the hall. He was usually dressed flamboyantly, favoring magical fashion trends, recently including turquoise, mauve, and lemon yellow fabrics. Tonight, however, Blaise wore a set of muted navy blue robes. It was a wonder that Draco had noticed him.

Then, again—his company was very noticeable. Vampires.

There was no mistaking it. Their dark, sleek clothes seemed to absorb the light around them. It wasn't just the pallor of their skin or their unnaturally still posture; it was how they drained the atmosphere of warmth, leaving a creeping chill and dank odor in their wake. They had always reminded Draco of dementors, but somehow more sinister in their keen human intelligence, at least some of them.

The more Draco watched, the more his unease deepened. Something disturbingly familiar about them tugged at the edges of his memory.

He stared hard at the tallest figure in the group, a woman with striking white hair cascading down her back. Her skin was almost translucent, stretched tight over her sharp cheekbones. She stood slightly ahead of the others as though she were their leader. Her posture was impeccable, every inch of her exuding a predatory grace.

Draco felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He had seen her before. Her name came to him in a flash of unwelcome recognition: Ersilia. She had visited the Manor years ago, during the height of the war. He remembered her standing in the drawing room, speaking quietly with his father while the Dark Lord had loomed in the background, pacing, making plans. Ersilia and her coven had been brought in by the Dark Lord himself, invited from France to join the ranks of his growing army.

Draco shuddered at the memory. Their partnership had never fully materialized—the Dark Lord had fallen before the vampires could be integrated into his forces—but the intent had been clear. These were not the reclusive, neutral vampires who kept to themselves, far from wizard affairs. These were the ones who had sympathized with the Dark Lord's vision of supremacy, drawn to his promises of power, darkness, and bloodshed.

Ersilia's cold, black eyes swept the room lazily as if she were above everything around her. Blaise stood in the group's center engaged in conversation but looked uncharacteristically tense.

Draco shuddered again, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for his wand. He caught himself, forcing his hands to stay at his sides. This wasn't a duel, and it certainly wasn't Malfoy Manor. This was a public place, far removed from the war. But the chill in the air and the weight of those memories made it hard to believe that.

Ersilia turned slightly, murmuring something to the vampire beside her, her lips barely moving. Draco tensed as he realized she was slowly shifting her gaze in his direction. His heart pounded in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. And then her eyes found him.

There was no shock, no flicker of surprise—just a slow, deliberate recognition. A faint smile touched her lips, cold and predatory, as though she had known all along that he was there, watching.

Draco wanted to flee but found himself frozen. Luckily, the tense moment broke soon after. A wizard in black robes adorned with the lilac sash of the Wizengamot approached Blaise and the group. Soon thereafter, the Vampires followed the warlock across the dance floor and out of the Atrium. As they walked, all wizards and witches dispersed to give them a wide berth.

Ersilia glanced behind her once, precisely toward Draco, as she exited the room.

Blaise, now alone, was making his way toward a tower of champagne glasses. Draco adjusted the angle of his path so that they would intercept each other and quickened his pace.

They converged at the champagne tower, and when Draco greeted, "Blaise," the other wizard blinked in shock.

"Draco," he replied, reaching out to clasp Draco's proffered hand. "Draco Malfoy at a Ministry function—the victory ball, no less." He smirked and grabbed two flutes from the magically reinforced tower, handing one to Draco. "Cheers, mate! What bet did you lose that got you out of the Manor this fine evening?"

Draco clinked his glass against Blaise's and took a long sip of the bubbly drink. "Blackmailed."

"Classic," replied Blaise. "To whom shall I address my Thank You note?"

"My aunt Andromeda," said Draco.

Blaise's brows raised. "Your formerly estranged aunt Andromeda?"

"We haven't been estranged for more than five years."

"You haven't been chummy either," Blaise retorted.

Draco nodded. "Apparently, my foray into editorial writing … moved her."

"Indeed? Do you mean the editorial that directly undercut my policy proposals, published the very day after my promotion? That one?" Blaise took a long sip from his Champagne as he met Draco's eyes.

Draco's stomach sank. Had he negatively affected Blaise's career with a short statement in the Prophet? It was true it had been somewhat of an impulsive decision to send it out, and perhaps a better friend would have checked in with Blaise before doing anything. But also, maybe a better friend would have owled Draco if they felt a certain way after it had been published.

He cleared his throat. "I … could have run it by you."

Blaise snorted. "You should have. Well written, as always, but I would have discouraged you from throwing your lot in with the pro-werewolf crowd."

"My lot isn't with anyone," Draco said, confused. "It was only meant to piss off my father a bit."

"Did it work?"

"I haven't read any of his dozen letters, but the fact that the letters exist tells me yes." Draco took a long drink from his glass. He looked at his friend directly and asked, "Did I cause problems for you?"

"Certainly not," Blaise laughed, and Draco wondered if he should feel offended. "Don't mistake me. I am sure it impacted certain people, but your two paragraphs below the fold didn't merit a conference in my department."

Draco shrugged, and part of him felt relieved that he didn't garner much attention, a large part of him, in fact.

"Do you actually feel that way?" Blaise asked.

"Feel what?"

"Do you agree with what you wrote?"

Draco thought for a moment. The truth was that the public rhetoric comparing Fenrir Greyback to werewolves at large made him uneasy. He had witnessed and experienced too much from Greyback to want to punish the world for what he did. It was enough that the bastard was dead. He wasn't sure Blaise would understand his lack of desire to seize public opinion in his favor, though.

Eventually, he responded. "That Greyback was fucking sick? Yes. But like I said, it was just to piss off my father."

"Congratulations then, Lord Malfoy." Blaise bowed playfully. "I'm sure Lucius is foaming at the mouth."

A crude metaphor, but Draco smirked anyway. "No hard feelings?"

"Only good feelings tonight," Blaise said, smiling wide. "It's a party!"

Draco hesitated before broaching the subject but felt he needed to bring it up. His heart was still racing from meeting Ersilia's eyes.

"What were you doing with those vampires?"

Blaise raised his eyebrows. "Just babysitting for a bit until Warlock Cadwallader could escort them out."

Draco leaned in toward his friend, grip tightening on his glass. "What are they doing here?" He kept his tone casual.

"The DIMC is helping to broker a deal between some French covens and the French Ministry to help track down the rogue werewolves from last month. Vampires aren't affected by lycanthropy."

He said it casually as if it were not the most dangerous and ridiculous thing Draco had heard in quite some time. Draco's eyes widened when he replied. "Ersilia'scoven? That's fucking stupid."

"What iswithyou?" Blaise replied quietly, looking around as if to check if they were being watched.

"Ersilia has a taste for magical blood," Draco replied. "The Dark Lord was close to securing an alliance before he died. I saw … they're not the type of vampires to have an alliance with."

Blaise sighed wearily and drained his glass, turning back toward the tower of Champagne. "Draco, you need to wake up. The war is over." He carefully selected another glass as if they were not all the same. "Ersilia's coven is well connected, and they never actually made an alliance with the Dark Lord, did they? It's been nine years, and it's not like they've gone on a killing spree."

"That we know of," Draco muttered.

"Listen," Blaise said, turning back toward Draco to clap a hand on Draco's shoulder. "I have a dinner tonight with some Russian importers. I'm hoping to plan a nice business trip out of it. How about St. Petersburg in August, eh? You need to get out of the Manor more often."

"Maybe," Draco relented, giving Blaise a weak smile; he had conceivably overreacted. It's possible his memory had warped over the last decade. But it was hard to forget those black eyes. "I'm supposed to visit my mother in France."

A gruff voice sounded out next to them, and Draco spun in his heels to face it. "Mr. Zabini, may we have a word?"

The man speaking was thin and significantly shorter than Draco and Blaise. He wore unremarkable black robes, and his face had more visible hair than skin with a big, dark, bushy mustache and beard. His voice was thickly accented in what Draco thought might be German or Russian, perhaps, but he hadn't spoken enough for Draco to tell.

"Ah, Mr. Malevich, good to see you again," Blaise responded diplomatically. "This is an old school friend of mine, Draco Malfoy."

The man turned toward Draco with dark eyes inscrutable beneath his heavy brows. He nodded but said nothing. Blaise said, "Draco, this is Mr. Malevich, a representative from the Russian Ministry."

"Good to meet you, sir," Draco said, offering out his hand. He wondered if this man knew of Draco's reputation.

The wizard looked at him blankly but then shook Draco's hand. He turned back to Blaise. "Mr. Zabini, the others, and I have some questions about the new trade agreements." He had to search for the word.

"Is that so? Well, let's go sort that out, shall we? Draco, see you later," Blaise nodded to him, and then he and Mr. Malevich walked out into the crowd.

With that, Draco was more than ready to take his leave. Perhaps another champagne on his way out would soften the sting of solitude waiting for him at home. He grabbed two flutes from the tower on the chance that Andromeda would like another glass and then turned toward the seating area.

Upon seeing that Draco would have to traverse the entire makeshift ballroom to get over there, he decided against a direct route instead of sneaking his way around the edges of the Atrium. He angled toward the wall, carefully keeping the glasses level—and walked straight into a lurking figure behind the champagne tower.

The flutes smashed directly into Draco's chest, soaking the front of his robes with Champagne.

"What the—" Draco faltered, and a whispered, frantic voice cut in.

"Oh no, I amsosorry. Let me just—oh, Merlin,Malfoy?"

Of course. Of course, it was Hermione Granger.

Up Next: Hermione's night at the ball.