Chapter 14: Draco

Sharp Needles

"But even so, every now and then, I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning." ― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Ministry of Magic

"I will!" Granger snapped harshly, and Draco froze in the middle of the dance floor. A moment later, she was gone, disappearing into the throng.

Draco clenched his fists and stalked off in the opposite direction, forcing several annoyed couples to scatter out of his path.

It was, frankly, incomprehensible that someone as tiny and wild and bloody outrageous as Hermione fucking Granger existed in the world. One minute, she was on the verge of tears for the plight of centuries-dead werewolves, and the next, she was tearing her clothes off and strapping herself with knives.

It was also, frankly, a miracle that he survived more than ten minutes in her presence. Such close proximity to do-gooder fanaticism was exhausting. It was probably contagious, considering how Granger's passion appeared to ooze out of her pores like a disease. Draco swore he had noticed the ends of her hair spark at one point.

Her hair was different, though. It was unnaturally smooth and had little flecks of gold. The way the champagne-filtered light shone on her gilded curls was enchanting.

Draco himself was not enchanted, of course; he merely noticed the potential effect of such things.

But that was beside the point. Granger was so done up. She did not look like herself. He remembered the dirt-smeared, forest-covered version of Granger who had appeared in Theo's kitchen those weeks ago. That had been much better. Expected. Hermione fucking Granger was closer to a forest demon than a gold-flecked enchantress whose brown eyes transformed into fiery amber under the effect of twinkle lights and champagne. Speaking of, Draco could not remember how many glasses of champagne he had consumed.

Too many.

And what exactly was her plan, anyway? To stab her way through a rabid pack of wolves on the night of the full moon?

Draco swallowed nervously. It was the night of the full moon, and Granger was off to face an unknown number of werewolves with an unknown number of actual, real Aurors for help. He might identify the twinge in his chest as something like worry, but that would be ridiculous. Granger did not need Draco to be concerned. She had the entire rest of the world to be worried for her. The magical world was wrapped around her finger.

He scoffed, remembering their conversation. There was no way that Granger would be patient with the political climate. She was incapable of it. Plus, with the fallout from whatever attack was currently underway to deal with, it would be impossible for her to contain herself. Draco expected at least ten statements in the press by week's end.

Because there was no doubt in Draco's mind that Granger would truss up the criminal werewolves by their tails and be home by midnight without a scratch. Without a bite.

Surely, without a bite.

Without realizing it, Draco had returned to the tower of champagne, the exact point at which his evening had taken an unexpected turn. The massive tower stood on a banquet table with a black tablecloth and extending far over Draco's head. From this vantage point, he understood how they had been undisturbed for so long. The glasses were so densely stacked that he could not distinguish details besides liquid and bubbles.

He peaked around the back of the tower and was instantly furious. Granger's fucking skirt was still there, lying on the floor in a dark gauzy heap surrounded by beads and sequins.

By Merlin, there were sequins everywhere.

The long and short of it was that Granger was a litterer. A vandal. Some unsuspecting partygoer could have slipped on these beads and perished, and it would have been Granger's fault.

Draco clenched his teeth and picked up the severed skirt, clutching the fabric in his fist. To his horror, little gold things were still spilling off of the now-homeless edge. He furiously folded the frayed seam into the rest of the fabric to prevent any further destruction. He summoned the rest of the sequins and beads into his constructed makeshift wrap. After folding everything into a neat rectangle, he stabilized it with a temporary sticking charm and shrunk the lot. It fit into his trouser pocket.

The average wizard would not know that a violent crisis was occurring in Hogsmeade. The Victory Ball continued uninterrupted, if a bit subdued.

Draco did not notice anything alarming, but he did notice the lack of pomp. He had prepared himself for speeches, ceremonies, testimonials, and perhaps a public pillorying of former Death Eaters like himself. Yet all seemed quiet, except for the dozen couples still swaying on the dance floor to a gentle tune from the enchanted orchestra.

Draco spotted Blaise alone across the Atrium by the hideous fountain, facing in the direction of the lifts to the inner Ministry offices, his back to the Floos.

After a second of consideration, Draco acknowledged that he owed Blaise for his lack of communication regarding his editorial in the Daily Prophet. Perhaps a slightly advanced warning of an international magical incident would help.

"I just had an interesting conversation," said Draco when he arrived beside his friend. Blaise was startled at the sound of his voice, and Draco saw him clutching a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other buried in the folds of his robes.

Blaise recovered quickly, hardly a tic in his mask of boredom and contentment, continuing to gaze at the ball. "Really? Do tell."

"There's a werewolf attack occurring in Hogsmeade as we speak," Draco revealed in a low tone. "And it must be quite bad because they've called in all the auror reserves. Even fucking Granger."

Blaise quirked an eyebrow but otherwise hardly noted Draco's statement. "Cozying up to Granger for the latest secrets?"

"Right place, right time. Thought you might be interested."

"I am," said Blaise. "Much appreciated." And then Blaise pulled a silver pocket watch from his pocket, checked the time, flipped it closed, put it away, and nodded.

"Better be off," he continued, glancing at the lifts and the Floo in quick succession. "You may want to clear out, not sure how much longer this calm will last.

"Right," replied Draco, who could not help the furrow from forming in his brows. "Maybe you, Theo, and I can get together for a Falcons game this month."

"Sounds great. See you, Draco." Blaise rushed for the lifts with a flourish of his cloak.

Draco found that knowing what was happening—or rather, what could be happening since he was very much out of the loop despite having accidentally been near Granger at the right time—made the entire evening unbearable. He sought out Andromeda, intending to let her in on the secret and escort her back home or obtain permission to leave alone.

He found his aunt at the opposite end of the ballroom talking to someone he vaguely recognized but could not place. The man was as tall as Draco but stockier. He could have been a beater, if Draco were to guess. But he carried himself in designer robes like an aristocrat, and Draco recognized something kindred in the practiced drawl of his voice when he got into earshot.

"…and really, Andromeda, you must know that this is not exactly the night for it."

"Oh, I don't agree, Lawrence," his aunt replied, and Draco could sense in her tone that the use of given names was a tactic rather than a sign of familiarity. "Tonight is the perfect night. There's nothing like a party to stir up some camaraderie."

"I have my entire staff on standby monitoring a dozen international floo connections from here to Samarkand, and it's simply out of the question."

"Busy night for a party. I wonder why no one insisted on rescheduling." Draco's aunt had never reminded him more of his mother, Narcissa. The deferent bow of her chin and open body language projected comfort, allowing the wizard to ease up on his defensiveness.

"That was not my department, I'm afraid," he replied, visibly annoyed. "You can bring it up with the Minister's office and the DIMC. I certainly have." The man looked around, and his gaze settled on Draco, who had slid up to within arm's distance of their conversation. "May I help you?"

Andromeda turned and noted Draco's presence with a quirk of her eyebrow. "There you are. Lawrence, you must know my nephew, Draco Malfoy. He was kind enough to escort an old widow like me to this soiree. Draco, this is Warlock Lawrence Allard of the Wizengamot."

Draco nodded his head at the man, whom he now recognized, not trusting himself to speak.

In truth, Draco had been too overwhelmed during his trial to notice much of anything except the iron railing of his seat in the court chamber. When the verdict had been cast, he was surrounded by reporters, his parents, Theo, and too much noise to take in anything other than a profound, all-encompassing relief. It was only days later, when catching up on issues of the Daily Prophet that Draco learned the complete details of his trial's end. It had been close. Thirty-five to twenty-five: just five votes over the three-fifths threshold he needed for exoneration.

This warlock had been at the top of the alphabetical list documenting the vote.

Lawrence Allard: Guilty

Allard contemplated Draco with a stony-faced expression. He did not extend his hand to shake, and Andromeda pulled Draco in close by the elbow, noticing the social rebuff. Her smile never wavered.

"Yes, I am, of course, familiar with Mr. Malfoy," Allard eventually said. "How considerate of him to attend this evening's celebration."

Allard's eyes flicked to the arm Andromeda clutched to her side. It was Draco's left, the arm bearing his Dark Mark.

Draco angled his head but kept his eyes trained on the warlock. "Aunt Andromeda, I wonder if I could have a word in private."

"Of course," she replied cheerfully. "Have a good rest of the evening, Lawrence," and then Andromeda led Draco to a deserted part of the hall next to a pillar. Her hand remained firm on his arm.

"That man," she said once they were alone, "has more political machinations than Machiavelli."

Draco was curious about what his aunt and the warlock had been discussing before his arrival. Still, bad memories of his trial were stirring in Draco's mind, and the thing he wanted most was to leave.

"There is currently a werewolf attack in Hogsmeade," Draco declared bluntly.

Andromeda released his arm and became very still. "How do you know?"

"I was…" Draco was unsure why he wanted to keep his encounter with Granger to himself. It seemed like time had frozen behind that tower. Like it was sacred. He felt the firm pressure of Granger's shrunken skirt in his pocket. Draco could not predict what Andromeda would read into this tidbit of information, but ultimately, he decided she was a safe source. "I was talking to Hermione Granger when she was called to assist with the situation."

His aunt went silent for a moment, and then she nodded. "I must go home and get Teddy."

She did not say anything else. Grabbing his arm again, Andromeda led them all the way back across the Atrium to the Floo connections.

Draco landed on his feet in the fireplace at Andromeda's home. She did not let him go to the Manor, insisting that Draco escort her all the way home "like a proper gentleman." Draco scowled the entire way.

Andromeda's home was as unlike the Manor as a home could possibly be. Where the Manor was dark, this house was light; where the Manor was impermeable stone and iron trim, this house was warm wood and painted plaster and gauzy drapery.

It was frightening in its alien nature and comforting for the same reason. He had been here once, before, years ago and was happy to find it unchanged.

Andromeda sat him down on a taupe-colored sofa, commanded, "Wait here," and promptly abandoned him to retrieve her grandson. Draco suddenly felt fifteen again instead of twenty-five.

Andromeda returned through the fireplace not five minutes later, this time with an exhausted blue-haired boy in plaid pajamas.

Teddy Lupin was much bigger than Draco remembered. He must not have seen the boy in two years or more, the last time at a tea parlor in London with Andromeda and his mother. When the boy spotted Draco sitting on the sofa, his tired eyes widened, and he held Andromeda's hand more tightly.

"Teddy, you remember your cousin, Draco, don't you? Why don't you two sit here, and I'll get some tea."

Draco took a breath to protest vociferously, longing for his bed and maybe a half-dose of calming draught, but Andromeda hushed him, and she led Teddy onto the sofa directly next to him.

"Teddy, you must remember when you are a guest in someone's home that rejecting refreshments is rude. Even if you don't plan to eat or drink anything, accepting and saying thank you is polite." She spoke to her grandson, but her eyes did not leave Draco's face.

Bleary and oblivious to the coded message, Teddy simply said, "Okay."

Andromeda whisked off to the kitchen, and Draco crossed his arms, now alone in the company of a child.

A soft "hello" sounded to Draco's left, and when he turned toward the voice, he was alarmed to find Teddy looking at him intently. It seemed as though the boy's tiredness was slowly fading.

"Hello," was Draco's gruff reply, and silence reigned again. The clanking of china sounded from the next room.

Draco sought out his former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor in Teddy Lupin's face, but he had trouble seeing beyond the blue hair. There may have been something in the shape of his wide-set eyes that reminded him of Andromeda. Draco had not been around children much in his life by chance or choice. First-years were small, but Teddy Lupin sitting beside him on the sofa was so much smaller than he could remember. How much did boys grow between nine and eleven?

"Do you have a pet?" the boy asked after an eternal moment.

Draco frowned. "No."

"I want a dog." Teddy's legs did not reach the ground as he sat on the sofa cushion and swung them idly.

Draco hummed, acknowledging the random statement. He said nothing.

"My godfather said his godfather could turn into a dog," Teddy supplied. Draco scowled. Potter. And then the boy continued, "Can you turn into a dog?"

"No." Draco rejected this entire conversation. Could it be called a conversation?

"A cat?"

"No."

"A bird?"

"No." Draco turned his torso to face Teddy more directly. "I can't turn into anything."

"That's boring." The boy dared to look disappointed.

Draco scowled and crossed his arms more firmly against his chest. Where was his aunt?

"My friend Jimmy has a hamster. I think that's a boring pet. But a dog would be fun."

Silence again. Drumming his fingers on his forearms, Draco cleared his throat. "My father used to have peacocks."

"Peacocks?"

"Yes."

"I guess that's cool. Not as cool as a dog, though. Did they do any tricks?"

"No."

Finally, Andromeda returned, levitating a tea tray. She set it down on the table, and Teddy perked up. "Can I have a biscuit?"

Andromeda pursed her lips. "These are for Draco, dear. He hasn't had anything to eat all evening." At the look of petulant dejection on the boy's face, she relented, "You may have one biscuit."

"Yes," the boy whispered triumphantly, adding a quick "thank you" to Andromeda.

Being physically closest to the child, Draco lifted the plate of biscuits from the low table and was surprised when he recognized the small Muggle sandwich-like things that Theo had forced upon him.

"Oh, I do enjoy these," he commented, handing one to Teddy and popping one into his mouth whole, crunching loudly.

Andromeda gazed at him in apparent amusement. Draco knew it was poor manners to scarf down a treat like a starved monkey, but he was famished. And in the battle of neat eating, Draco was clearly the victor in the room. Teddy had already gotten crumbs all over his drawstring trousers.

"I didn't know you partook in Muggle treats, Draco." Andromeda took a sip of her tea, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Draco swallowed and lifted his teacup to his mouth, washing the biscuit down with the hot liquid. He shrugged. "I don't like to limit my culinary palette."

His aunt chuckled and turned her gaze to her grandson. "Teddy dear, isn't there something you've wanted to say to your cousin Draco?"

The boy wiped some chocolate crumbs off his mouth and blinked at his aunt. After a moment, his eyes lit up. "Oh yeah! Be right back." He ran down the corridor, and Draco heard feet pattering up the stairs.

Draco sipped his tea and quirked an eyebrow at Andromeda, whose expression was light but revealed nothing.

After a moment, the pattering of feet returned, and Teddy walked back in carrying a parchment and a familiar silver pen.

Teddy sat close enough to Draco on the couch that their legs brushed, and Draco stiffened. The boy did not seem to notice.

"Thank you for my birthday present. I made this for you." Small fingers held out the parchment, and Draco took it in his hands.

On the paper was a detailed drawing of a dragon with ink-black scales, menacing eyes, and a powerful tail that ended in an arrowhead. The dragon reared up in the drawing, and some tendrils of flame escaped its open mouth.

In surprisingly even script, the words DRACO DRAGON were at the top of the parchment.

Somewhat speechless, Draco figured he would state the obvious. "You drew this?"

Teddy smiled. "With the nice pen you gave me! Gran told me your name is Latin for dragon. That one is a Hebridean Black. You can tell because it's black and because of the pointy tail."

"It's excellent," Draco replied. "Thank you." Draco knew he should probably continue a conversation and say something—anything—more, but he was struck dumb. He thought back to the twenty-six years of gifts he had received, and he could not recall anyone having given him something that they created. Teddy had spent time on this thing for him.

"I can't get the fire right." Teddy frowned.

Draco thought the flames were perfect. He remembered doodling images in his notebooks at Hogwarts, especially during History of Magic. Teddy's dragon was more advanced than what Draco had accomplished as a child.

"Have you ever made a moving drawing?" Draco asked, glancing down at Teddy's face.

"No. Have you?"

Draco nodded. "May I?" He gestured at the dragon.

"It's your drawing now."

Draco pulled out his wand, nonverbally cast the simple charm he learned during third year, and then silently asked Teddy for his quill by holding out his hand. Teddy handed over the instrument, eyes wide and curious, following every movement of Draco's hands.

He leaned over the coffee table, laying the drawing down flat. Then Draco took a minute to draw out what he had in mind, careful not to block or change anything that Teddy had drawn. After another flick of his wand, Draco examined his work and nodded in satisfaction, handing the parchment back to Teddy.

The original tendrils of flame at the dragon's mouth were now animated, exiting the flat snout and then growing to a larger blaze before curling in on itself, looping over and over.

Teddy's mouth dropped open, and Draco could not prevent a smile at the corner of his lips.

"Wow!" The boy exclaimed. "Can you teach me?"

"I'll show you as soon as you're old enough for a wand," Draco hedged.

"That's so far away," Teddy muttered, pouting. If Draco thought anything was adorable, he may have thought his cousin was adorable at that moment. But, of course, Draco was not the sort of person to adore things.

"I'm sure Draco would charm any drawings you'd like until then, Teddy," chimed Andromeda, smiling brightly. "Wouldn't you, Draco?"

Draco had the odd sense he had created his own trap. He looked from his aunt's knowing gaze and down to his cousin's wide brown eyes. He nodded slowly, "Sure."

Teddy beamed up at Draco. "Cool!"

"Teddy, you can send letters to Draco through the owl post, and he'll come whenever possible. Isn't that right?" Andromeda's legs were crossed, a knowing smirk flitting over her face, and she sipped the last of her tea and set her cup and saucer down.

"Thank you, Draco! I already have a bunch of ideas." The nine-year-old bounced his knees up and down. He met Draco's eyes and let out a small laugh. "Your hair is funny."

Draco's hands shot up to his head, trying to figure out if something horrible had happened to his hair, but he could not feel anything amiss. And then, Teddy's face scrunched up into an odd expression. Before Draco's eyes, the boy's cobalt blue hair lightened, transforming into the exact shade of Draco's platinum blonde locks.

"You—" Draco stammered. Andromeda laughed from across the parlor. "What's funny about it?"

"It's shiny," said Teddy. "I like it."

Draco blinked.

Andromeda laughed again. "I think you should go to bed now, Teddy. It's very late, and you have school tomorrow."

Teddy moaned, but at the stern glare from his Grandmother, he became quiet and contrite. "Okay," he mumbled, sliding off the couch.

"Goodbye, Draco!" And he was gone.

Andromeda thankfully did not comment on Draco's interactions with Teddy, which he felt suddenly self-conscious about.

"School tomorrow?" Asked Draco.

"He's been going to a Muggle school, primary school. Just until Hogwarts. It's nice for him to be around other children his age." She shrugged, "It's hard with just a grandmother, I think."

Draco did not know what to say, so he simply nodded. But he thought Andromeda was doing a much better job than many parents he had known, including maybe his own. He wondered whether Andromeda enjoyed how angry her own mother would have been at the thought of a Black grandchild attending a Muggle school. Draco had only met his Grandmother Black once as a child before she died, but he knew how imperious and angry she would have been.

Andromeda glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner of the sitting room, which soon after struck midnight, the gongs ringing out, filling the room's emptiness.

"It's late," said Andromeda, meeting Draco's gaze. "Can I get you to stay the night?"

"I should probably Floo home," replied Draco, suddenly longing for his cellar room.

"You're welcome here whenever you'd like, Draco. I think Teddy would love it." She paused, tapping her fingers on her knees in a clear sign of nervousness. "I'm so afraid of what's happening right now. I hope Harry and Hermione are safe. I hope the press won't be too abhorrent. I can protect Teddy from some things, but not everything. He's getting older now and starting to realize what it means to have Harry Potter as a godfather, to be the son of Remus Lupin. I wish …" She trailed off, and Draco was briefly terrified she would start crying.

"I'm sure it will be fine," offered Draco without much conviction.

He could not recall someone being so open with him, and he wondered whether it was easier that Draco was somewhat of a stranger. Teddy Lupin certainly had a complicated legacy to contend with. What would the boy think when he learned about Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and Draco's history? Draco caressed the edge of Teddy's drawing of the Hebridean Black.

The shrunken mass of Granger's sparkling skirt sat in his pocket. Draco would probably be finding sequins in his wardrobe for years to come. The sight of Granger running off to the apparition point, skirt-less and furious, replayed repeatedly in his mind.

When Draco fell asleep later that night in his room, darkness engulfing him like a blanket, he dreamed of champagne and golden light in amber eyes.

Up Next: Hermione joins the fight against the werewolves.