Chapter 18: Draco

Useful Mistakes

"Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth." ― Jules Verne, A Journey to the Center of the Earth

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

My Dearest Draco,

Happy birthday, darling. It feels like just yesterday that you were born, and I held you in my arms—pink and plump and the most beautiful thing in the world. You still are the most beautiful thing in the world to me.

I eagerly await your visit to France this August. I understand that the Quidditch European Championship is set to begin then, and I know how much you enjoy the sport. (I greatly appreciate Quidditch this year, myself, considering I may not have your promise to visit me otherwise.) However, I must insist that you stay with me for the entire month. We must discuss matters of importance, and I'm sure you'll agree that family comes before all else.

I've taken the liberty of arranging a few gatherings where you will have the opportunity to meet some charming young witches. It's only natural for a mother to hope that her son finds a suitable companion, and I do not doubt that among these gatherings, you might find someone who captures your interest.

Your father has informed me of your recent misunderstandings, and I know he is eager to move forward and leave silly fights in the past. Unfortunately, he has accepted an invitation to take a summer tour of the Danube with the Serbian Minister's cigar club, so your reconciliation may need to wait.

I know you are busy, my dear, but I trust you will make the right decision and join me here soon. August the fifth, at the latest, or I may have to come to you myself. I miss you dearly.

Happy birthday, my darling son.

With all my love,
Mother

~Depuis l'écritoire de Narcissa Black Malfoy~

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Draco,

Happy birthday! I hope you have a wonderful day—whatever day you envisioned for yourself—and many more happy days to come.

Twenty-seven is a promising year in my book. It's the age at which I had my daughter Nymphadora. That's not to say you should be having children any time soon. Whatever you plan for your own life ends up being the right thing in the end.

Speaking of children, I've had some more letters from your mother. Please give her the benefit of the doubt. Also, I'm planning an outing with Teddy in a few weeks to celebrate the end of his Muggle school year. It involves the Muggle sport Tennis. He would really like you to attend and then have dinner with us so that he can beg you to animate more of his drawings.

I'll owl you the details!

With Love & Expectation,
Aunt Andromeda

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU SILVER-HAIRED, BEAN-SHAPED, BASEMENT-DWELLING, CAULDRON-CANOODLING, INAUGURAL DUELING CLUB MEMBER AND LORD OF MY HEART!

In honor of your 27th birthday, I shall bestow upon you a precious gift that not even your bottomless coffers could purchase.

Twenty-seven hours to yourself.

That's correct. I shall neither floo, nor owl, nor otherwise pester you with messages. I shall not invade your home. I shan't even give you the customary bedtime kiss on your precocious little forehead.

Twenty-four hours left. Cherish them.

Yours despondently,
Theodore Nott

Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Malfoy Manor

Draco Malfoy felt conflicted regarding his birthday. He possessed beautiful childhood memories filled with sweets, presents, and grand celebrations. Since he had come of age, however, his birthdays had been, for lack of a better term, complete shit.

At seventeen, he had been recently sliced up by his arch-rival and tasked with imminent murder by a bald-headed flat-nosed demon who threatened his mother's life.

At eighteen, he was in Azkaban.

At nineteen, he was studying for NEWTs in a castle filled with bad memories and people who hated him.

At twenty, his birthday party had doubled as his and Astoria's betrothal party.

At twenty-one, he and Astoria were on the verge of irrevocably breaking their engagement, making the day a subdued and awkward affair.

At twenty-two through twenty-five, Theo had spirited Draco away to increasingly loud and dangerous places—Draco detested both noise and places—including a magical rave in Berlin where Draco had passed out and woken up hours later to find a bearded wizard about to steal his boots. After that, Draco refused any of Theo's birthday plans.

At twenty-six, he had received the most recent of his many rejections for a potions apprenticeship. It had put a damper on the day, to say the least.

And now here he was, at twenty-seven, and for the first time perhaps in his entire life, Draco had no plans. He had no parties to attend, no people to see, and nothing to worry about.

He was bored by nine o'clock.

Despite putting his foot down those years ago, Draco still feared that Theo would emerge from a shadowy corner and portkey him somewhere crowded and cheerful. But Theo had been a whirlwind of busy energy since his birthday the month prior. Now that the secret about the Dueling Arena was out, Draco could not get Theo to shut up about the club. They were up to fifty inaugural members, primarily students from their time at Hogwarts. Even the girls from their Slytherin cohort—Pansy, Daphne, Millie, and Tracey—pledged to become paying members, though Draco had never known them to be interested in dueling.

Draco dreaded returning to the DA after it officially opened, so he hoped there would be time to appease Theo's excitement in another pre-opening gathering. He had never personally insulted MacMillan, which made their interactions almost peaceful. And the former Johnson seemed eager to best Draco on a broom for revenge from their Quidditch days. Draco would never admit so out loud, but he looked forward to the opportunity.

Weasleys were always Weasleys, though, and Draco supposed that could not be helped.

At mid-morning on his birthday, Muffy served him a grand brunch fit for a king, with enough food to sustain Draco for a month. The pink-clad elf sat beside him on the veranda and clapped each time Draco complimented her cooking.

In the afternoon, Draco descended to his lab.

With the excitement from the Victory Ball, werewolf panic, hospital brewing, and aconite struggles, Draco had not had a single full day to devote to his potion. Not to mention, he spent the last week brewing the whole gamut of healing remedies for the DA, thanks to Theo involuntarily volunteering for him.

Draco's perfect birthday gift to himself would be hours devoted to his longtime project.

His last batch of the anti-glamour potion was close to being right. And now, he had Demiguise saliva, which might be the ideal base to which the bicorn horn could attach. Bicorn horn had transformative properties, especially in powdered form, and the saliva was malleable and took charm work well. If he made some delicate adjustments to the other ingredients … well, Draco was very optimistic.

Draco set up the brass case containing his musical library and got to work.

After cleaning up his workspace, setting up the ingredients, and moving though the well-practiced motions of preparation, the base was ready for the saliva. He picked up the flask and paused.

Granger had purchased this with her own money—with many galleons, if the price had not decreased since he last researched the ingredient. It still boggled him to remember that day in Theo's kitchen, with her eyes shining like fire and hair containing the contents of an entire tree. It almost made him laugh.

Why had she done it?

Draco did not know. But it irked him to be in her debt, and he resolved to send her repayment. It would require communicating with Granger, which Draco was unwilling to do—but he would find a way around that later.

The saliva simmered with the other ingredients for four hours, and Draco took the opportunity to brew some remedies and tinctures for St. Mungo's: headache cure, sobering draught and hangover cure, contraceptive potion, and a broad-spectrum antidote. The antidote was probably pushing the limits of his concentration, but Draco relished in the work. He was happiest when he was too busy to think of anything else save for what he was doing. Crush this, slice that, stir with that rod, muddle, mix, simmer—each potion required unique attention.

He returned to his anti-glamour draught.

Precision was vital in potion-making, Draco mused, as he stirred the mixture counterclockwise. Each ingredient, each step, had to be carefully measured and balanced. Too much of one, and the entire brew might become volatile. Too little of another, and it might become ineffective.

Draco had learned early on that the right blend of ingredients could create something powerful—something that could heal, harm, or change a person's very essence. Severus Snape taught him that.

A memory suddenly popped into Draco's mind.

"Potions are like people, Draco," Severus Snape had said to him one evening in the dungeon labs of Hogwarts. It must have been Draco's second or third year. "Fickle, temperamental, and sentient. Never let your life seep into your work."

Potions are like people—the adage had always stuck with him. The smallest misstep could lead to disaster. A second of carelessness, a misjudgment in the heat of the moment, and everything could fall apart. How often had Draco seen that play out in his own life? He thought of the scars on his body, the brand on his arm, and the lingering stench of death and decay in the dining room upstairs.

He recalled Granger screaming and bleeding on the floor of the drawing room—had that not lingered with them all? With him, certainly.

Did it still linger with her?

He added a pinch of powdered moonstone and watched as the potion brightened, a faint shimmer spreading across its steel gray surface.

Granger had defended him at the apothecary all those weeks ago—defended him after not having seen him in years, mere days after fighting with him inside the Ministry.

Severus would say that potions could also be deceptive. What seemed harmless on the surface could be hiding something darker, more dangerous. The poison he brewed for Greyback—still hidden in his old bedroom upstairs—looked like water.

Snape, an infamous spy for both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, would say that people were deceptive, too. Smiles concealed venomous thoughts; promises could be nothing but empty words. And the art of deception was as much a part of potion-making as it was a way of life.

Draco thought of Granger at the Victory Ball, the dappled light of champagne flickering in her eyes. She had acted like she valued his opinion—and then sequins flew as she ran to face werewolves on a full moon.

She was fine, Draco reminded himself. That much was obvious. He could not turn a page of The Prophet over the last month without seeing her name. Impatient fool, he thought, recalling the advice he had given her. He should have known such a thing as patience was impossible for Granger to accomplish.

He leaned over the cauldron, inhaled the steam, and added the final ingredient. The potion flared with a sudden burst of light before settling into a smooth, mirror-like finish. He stared at it for a long moment, seeing both the potion and his reflection in its depths.

Draco extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron and stepped back. It was perfect. With the addition of the Demiguise solution, it looked exactly as he expected.

With practiced ease, Draco decanted a vial and altered his appearance in the mirror, which still rested against the wall, wincing again at how off-putting he looked with dark hair.

And then, once again, he upended a few drops of the potion on his head.

Draco closed his eyes momentarily, afraid of what might happen—or not happen, as it were. But he might as well know the results, so he looked in the mirror.

It was him. Perfectly normal, blonde, pale him. He gaped. It worked! He set the vial down on the counter and clapped his hands, wanting to jump with excitement. And he was all alone, so he did.

He returned to gaze in the mirror, just to confirm that he had not hallucinated.

Yes, he was himself. He smiled. And then—he frowned. His reflection was flickering, his hair returning to black.

Interesting. So, the potion was temporary. He wondered if it would work for a set time or if the topical application ceased functioning when it dried. He wondered if it worked on human transfiguration. He wondered if it worked on non-humans. There were so many things to test!

He smiled again. This was his best birthday in a long while.

One Week Later—
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Diagon Alley

Draco was still elated. His potion worked. Over the last week, he had tested for effect (indeed, it lasted only while the potion was wet), time (ranging from one to three minutes, depending on how moist you were), and type of physical change (it worked on glamor charms and human transfiguration, even when Draco had transfigured his arm into a tentacle). Now, he planned the ultimate test: Could the potion temporarily nullify the effects of Polyjuice?

Which meant he needed more supplies.

So, Draco, who hated noise and places—and people, most of the time—ventured to the Westbrook Apothecary. Luckily, it was empty when he walked in, and he wasted no time procuring a dozen more bottles of Demiguise saliva from Westbrook—the store's entire stock. As always, the old wizard was much more accommodating to Draco's galleons when no one was watching.

Draco had also purchased fresh bottles of the ingredients for Polyjuice. He could always buy some from the specialist in Knockturn, but he had never brewed Polyjuice on his own, and he was looking forward to the challenge.

He had also, begrudgingly, gotten Westbrook to agree for Draco to pay Granger's bill whenever she entered the shop—up to but not exceeding the price of two bottles of the saliva. An interest payment was only fair.

There, his conscience was clear.

With his satchel full, Draco hurried along the crowded streets to the apparition point, the hood of his cloak covering his bright hair. He hung his head low while walking past Ollivander's. Draco had tried his best to keep the man alive while he was imprisoned at the Manor. However, the guilt did not abate. Years ago, Draco had formally apologized to the wandmaker and funded the reconstruction of his shop. But it was still awkward.

Draco was making his way past Flourish and Blott's when he caught sight of a cloaked figure standing in the shadow of a narrow side street. The way the figure was half-hidden, almost as if they didn't want to be seen, piqued his curiosity. He slowed his pace slightly, squinting to get a better look.

It seemed that the figure was also suspicious of Draco's cloaked form because their eyes met, and Draco recognized them—her—immediately.

Granger.

Draco hesitated, pulling to a stop as the surprise set in. He could tell that Granger, tiny, shadowed, and hooded though she was, could also see and recognize him. What was she doing? He could not resist the pull.

"Granger?" he called out, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. He took some steps over to join her in the narrow opening of the alleyway. "Hiding again, are we?" He had not seen her since the Victory Ball, and he was shocked to realize that a measure of relief washed over him when he noticed she was, indeed, ostensibly well. At the very least, she was in one piece.

Granger flinched just slightly before facing him. "Keep it down," she hissed. Her expression was tight and defensive, and she dropped her hood slightly. "Malfoy," she greeted. "What do you want?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Nothing. Just surprised to see you lurking about …" He looked at her and noticed for the first time that she was wearing robes in a disgusting shade of burnt orange. "… in Auror's robes?"

She crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as she looked up at him. "Yes," she said shortly, clearly not in the mood for his teasing.

"And what inspired this change of profession, Deputy Head Granger?" He looked at her pointedly, noticing that her hair was uncharacteristically tied into a tight plait down her back. With her hair pulled away, Draco could see the entirety of her heart-shaped face and the angle of her delicate neck.

The familiarity of this situation struck Draco. The defiance, the ribbing, Granger's furrowed brow, the dip in her bottom lip as she looked back at him.

But these were merely empirical observations, of course.

Granger cleared her throat, looking around as if checking to see if someone was eavesdropping. "I am on leave."

That was intriguing. Draco almost took a step closer. "What happened? Did you finally tire of the flobberworms?"

Granger's jaw clenched. "It's complicated. I'd rather not discuss it."

"Complicated," Draco repeated, his smirk fading into something more serious. "Don't tell me this was involuntary." Internally, he roiled. What the fuck had happened?

She hesitated, as if debating whether to tell him. They were not friends—barely even cordial acquaintances. Antagonists was a better word. She owed him nothing, and Draco, suddenly eager to retreat to his cellar lab, prepared himself to make a quick escape.

Finally, though, Granger sighed, her voice tight with frustration. "You've probably heard about the memo I wrote—the one leaked to the Daily Prophet."

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly. He had seen it. The memo had been a reckless demand for sweeping changes to the treatment of werewolves that called out specific higher-ups in the Ministry, some of whom were her allies. It was not the kind of thing he would have expected Granger to write, and even Draco had been surprised by the ferocity of her language. The Prophet had printed a retraction the next day, so Draco thought the entire thing was a slightly embarrassing blip.

"Ah, that," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "I'm surprised you're not wearing it as a badge of honor."

Her eyes flashed with irritation, and she took a step closer, her voice low. "I never sent that memo. I would never have written it—it was just some notes. Of course, you wouldn't agree. Your piece in The Prophet was just a jab at your father, right?" Her voice dripped with resentment.

"Careful, Granger," Draco scolded, his temper flaring slightly. The goodwill between them from the Victory Ball was now a distant memory. Granger was bitter and out of her depth. "Let me get this right. You wrote something foolish, left it lying around, and now they've pushed you out."

"It's temporary—you know what? It's none of your business, Malfoy. Go on your way," she snapped, gesturing down Diagon behind him with the tip of her wand.

"I see you did not take my advice from the night of the ball," Draco remarked. "No patience at all. You pushed too hard, and now you're facing the consequences. The Ministry's a game, and you're learning how it's played the hard way."

She glared at him. They were standing quite close to one another, wedged as they were into this unnoticed outdent of the roadway. He breathed in through his nose and smelled the faint scent of peach blossoms. He met her eyes, and for a moment, he was overcome by temptation.

What if he stepped closer? Pressed her against the wall? Breathed in more of her aroma?

Wait—what?

Then, Granger spoke softly. "Maybe I don't want to play the game anymore."

Draco stared at her for a long moment, his expression carefully controlled. Though inside, he became a burning coal of anger. Who was this pathetic wisp of a witch before him? Not Hermione bloody Granger. Where was the furious dervish who ripped off her skirt and ran off into the night?

Finally, he replied, his voice quiet but firm. "And look where that got you—on leave," he reached out to finger the lapel of her cloak, and she slapped his hand away. He smirked at the sting and continued, "Wearing the robes of a junior auror, and hiding in alleys."

Her fists clenched at her sides, and for a moment, he thought she might hex him. But instead, she just shook her head, a bitter smile on her lips. "You're right. Maybe I was foolish to think I could do something. But at least I tried. I'm still trying—I chose to join the DMLE and help as an Auror instead of laying around. What have you done, Malfoy?"

The question hung in the air between them, and Draco was decidedly irked. How much Wolfsbane had he brewed in the last few weeks? How many hours had he spent knee-deep in the dirt of his greenhouse? How many months and years had he devoted to brewing for the hospital, trying to help—trying to forget?

He supposed she still didn't know any of that—and good. It was none of her business.

"You don't know me, Granger," he said sharply.

She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for something—what, he wasn't sure. Finally, she nodded, a resigned look crossing her features. "I'd rather have tried and failed than done nothing."

"You're even more of a fool than I thought if you believe your only two options were taking a nap or becoming a junior Auror," Draco hissed, a bit cruelly because he had enough of Granger's self-pity. He continued, driven by the surprising desire to ease his tone, though he kept his voice firm. "Be smart, Granger. The Ministry isn't going to change just because you want it to. Why did you not listen to what I said? You need to learn how to pick your battles."

"I am not a fool! Some things—happen."

Draco shook his head, almost laughing in his confusion. "Hermione Granger, youngest Deputy Head at the Ministry for Magic in over eighty years, Order of Merlin—First Class, perfect bloody NEWTs, champion of the House Elves, and savior of the Magical World," he looked down at her and added, voice barely above a whisper, "an Auror grunt."

He could not help it—the fact disgusted him.

She looked at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. "I'm on duty," she snapped. "Leave before I arrest you for obstructing the work of a DMLE Auror."

"As you wish," Draco replied, taking a step back.

Draco started to turn around. Started to—and then he felt a spasm of something bubble up from his chest. Suddenly, sentences he had not planned to voice came rushing from his mouth. "Why would you spend time patrolling Diagon Alley as an Auror when you could be off trying to help your mongrels in other ways? You can meet with anyone—go anywhere and receive a welcome parade when you get there."

Did she not understand how rare that was?

The witch let out a bitter laugh. "Not so much, Malfoy. It seems you have a better opinion of me than most wizards." Her expression shifted to bewilderment as if she did not believe the words coming from her mouth—and neither did he.

"Anyway," she continued quickly. "I'm not to be involved with werewolves in any official capacity for at least three months. And The Prophet's done a great job of spreading misinformation. Anything I do only makes things worse."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Use your big old brain, Granger. What do you think is the most widely read publication in England?"

"What do you mean? The Prophet, of course—"

"Wrong," Draco cut in sharply. "The Prophet has more copies around due to institutional partnerships, but since the new millennium, Witch Weekly has the most individual domestic subscribers." His father had made him aware of the public's lack of interest in "official" matters from the time he turned seven and received his first bank ledger.

"Okay," Granger replied, clearly confused.

Draco almost stomped his foot. How could this witch be so daft?

"Were you not the one to weaponize the bloody Quibbler in school? Think harder. You have never given an interview to Witch Weekly; you avoid all manner of well-covered social gatherings—so you're barely ever seen outside your Ministry capacity. You're not just an employee, Granger. You're a person with personal thoughts and feelings. If you want to change minds, attract the minds you want to change."

Her mouth opened, but she faltered.

"Disappointing," Draco replied after the silence continued. "And orange is not your color."

He shook his head and turned away, recognizing the futility of this conversation. Oddly, Draco though he had not been so angry with Granger since before the Dark Lord came back to life—before he knew better than to be angry at everything. He turned around.

After debating for a moment, he called over his shoulder. "By the way, you will find that your bills at Westbrook's are covered for the foreseeable future. Thanks for the Demiguise solution."

Draco was sure Granger was spluttering in anger behind him, but he did not look back as he walked away.

Of course, Granger would muck up her standing in the Ministry. She had little political sense and even less tact. If she had asked him—which she hadn't—Draco would have told her that she was a fool three times over. Once for leaving your most radical thoughts in writing, twice for getting caught, and three times for ostensibly deciding to work in an entry-level position—probably because she wanted to "help"—instead of taking the leave as an opportunity to travel, network, and gain support for her planned initiatives. He could think of at least five international bodies who would welcome Granger for a political fellowships if social capital wasn't her style—and that was just off the top of his head.

But who was he to give Granger advice?

No one, he thought bitterly, as he disapparated. No one at all.

When he arrived at the Manor, a letter awaited him, written on Hogwarts stationary. It seemed, just like Granger's, that Draco's mistakes had come back to bite him in the arse.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
~From the Desk of Neville Longbottom~

"Oh, bollocks."

Four Days Later—
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Outside the Flat of Blaise Zabini, Central London

Draco popped into existence. The street was almost deserted, save for a few distant figures. It was a dark night, overcast, and the only lights were from the Muggle street lamps along the concrete walkway.

Just as Draco exhaled from his apparition, a sharp crack echoed from immediately behind him. He yelped, nearly dropping the heavy bottle of Firewhiskey in his hands.

"Draco!" Theo greeted, slapping Draco sharply on the shoulder.

"Must you apparate directly behind me?" Draco replied through clenched teeth.

"Not like I planned it. Must be that our auras are deeply connected," Theo quipped with a smile. "I think that's beautiful."

Draco glared, still recovering from the shock. "Any idea what this evening is about?" He asked, smoothing his robes and trying to appear unruffled.

Theo shrugged. "Haven't the faintest clue."

Draco frowned, his mind wandering back to the invitation he had received by owl the night before. It had been brief and cryptic—a midnight blue card with silver script inviting him to an "evening soirée" at Blaise's flat.

"Well," Draco muttered, still unsure what to expect. "Shall we?"

Theo smirked and gestured toward the entrance. "After you, my darling."

Draco rolled his eyes and strode toward the sleek entrance of the magical apartment complex. Instead of a standard Muggle-style lobby, the front doors opened directly into a lift lined with deep maroon wallpaper and gold filigree. Theo pressed the penthouse button, and the lift whirred to life before pausing.

"Invitation, please," a calm voice emanated from the panel.

Draco reached into his robe pocket, pulling out the midnight blue card. He pressed it against the glass, and the lift began to move again, rising smoothly. He slipped the card back into his pocket, glancing at Theo, who was watching the velvet-lined walls with a raised eyebrow.

"How's the club?" Draco asked as the lift shot upward with a smooth glide.

"Coming along," Theo replied with a smile. "Been producing magic dampening panels like crazy. I'm worried they're not durable enough, so I'd like a stockpile as backup, just in case."

"Prudent," Draco commented.

"You should come by again. Angelina keeps mentioning how she'd like to trounce you at broom dodging."

Draco scoffed. "She could try."

"You'll be in big trouble when I tell her you said that," quipped Theo with a much-too-delighted gleam in his eye.

When the lift doors slid open, Draco and Theo stepped out into Blaise's penthouse. They had been there before, both together and separately, but after sharing a surprised glance, Draco knew that even Theo had never seen the flat like this—specifically, filled to the brim with witches and wizards—at least fifty as far as Draco could see.

It seemed that Blaise had invited them to a party.

The open floor plan stretched before them, the dark hardwood floors gleaming beneath the floating candles that hovered in midair, casting a soft glow over the room. A large enchanted gramophone in the far corner played nondescript instrumental music at a volume loud enough to muffle the conversations throughout the space.

The cream-white walls were adorned with spelled paintings of various famous magical locales—the Singing Pipestone Quarry of North America; the Crystal Fjord of the Arctic; and Xameno Nisi, the Lost Island of the Aegean Sea, whose painting was peppered with frolicking Griffins. Beyond the well-dressed throng of guests, deeper into the penthouse, were monumental windows overlooking the Thames. The view was stunning—London twinkled in the distance, and the river gleamed under the moonlight. But Draco had been here enough times to know that the view was enchanted. The windows showed a conjured version of the city, one far too picturesque for this part of town.

Interspersed throughout the well-dressed guests were leather-accented pieces of furniture and wrought iron lamps. Silver trays of hors d'oeuvres floated gracefully from group to group, their contents never waning. The air smelled faintly of perfume and alcohol, and the soft hum of conversation buzzed along with the music.

"Well, this is ... a lot," Theo muttered, standing beside Draco as they took in the scene.

Draco adjusted the mandarin collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling underdressed in his black robes and silver cufflinks. Theo, too, seemed slightly out of place in his usual simple yet undoubtedly expensive, thin-cut navy-blue silk robes. Theo leaned in and whispered, "Am I under-dressed?"

Draco quietly snorted. "What's Blaise up to, throwing a party like this out of nowhere?"

Before Theo could respond, a figure across the room caught their eyes. A beautiful witch walked toward them with waist-length dark hair and striking green eyes. She wore floor-length purple robes that clung to her figure, with a high slit up her left thigh that revealed long, graceful legs. She moved confidently, and a vague sense of familiarity struck Draco as she approached.

"Draco, Theodore, welcome! So glad you could make it," the witch said when she reached them, her voice smooth and melodic. She reached out with her arms to caress Draco's shoulders and brought her lips to kiss each of his cheeks. Draco, at a loss, merely reciprocated. He watched closely as the witch repeated the ritual with Theo, who hardly moved as he allowed the witch to greet him.

When she pulled away, Theo blinked and forced his mouth into a smile before saying, "We wouldn't miss this for the world, of course. And also, who the fuck are you?"

Draco coughed, stepping in quickly before Theo could say anything more. "What he means," Draco said, a bit louder than intended, "is that I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting."

The witch laughed softly, piercing Theo with a mysterious look. "You are funny, Theodore. Forgive my rudeness, but I feel like I know you both already. Blaise speaks so highly of you."

Theo raised an eyebrow, and Draco shifted uncomfortably, trying to piece together how exactly Blaise had neglected to mention this woman, who reached out a slender olive-toned hand toward them. "Edie Allard, a pleasure to meet you."

The name struck a chord deep inside Draco's mind. Allard—as in Warlock Lawrence Allard of the Wizengamot, who had voted to imprison Draco for life. He wondered what Edie Allard's father would think of his daughter kissing Draco Malfoy's cheek.

Theo, who had retreated into one of his carefully composed social masks, reached out to grab the witch's hand, kissing her knuckle above several gleaming rings, clearly heirloom jewelry.

"How have we never crossed paths before?" Theo inquired, releasing her hand and pulling into a ramrod-straight posture.

"I graduated from Hogwarts last year, and since then, I've been completing a mastery in magical history with Professor Bonmarchand at Beauxbatons," she replied smoothly. "Just go back to London, actually."

"Beautiful and smart," Theo commented with his most charming wink. Draco almost rolled his eyes. "Lovely to meet you. Since you already seem to know us, I assume we need no introduction." He reached an arm around Draco's shoulders, which Draco promptly shrugged off.

"Every Slytherin worth their scales knows Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott," Edie said, flipping a dark lock of hair over her shoulder.

"And where is our host this evening?" Draco inquired, still confused as to why Edie Allard, of all random people in the world, was greeting them at the door.

"Around here somewhere," she said, glancing briefly and the throng of guests behind her. "I could take that if you'd like," she added, gesturing toward the bottle of whiskey in Draco's hands.

Still confused, Draco handed the bottle over.

"Thanks." She smiled with a row of perfectly white teeth. "I hope we'll get to know each other better later on. Enjoy the evening." And then Edie Allard sauntered off the way she came.

Draco did not admire her arse as she walked away, of course. And if he did, then it was not in a sexual way but more in an appreciation of aesthetics. Sometimes, a wizard could not control these things.

"Well, either you were just robbed," Theo said, his voice unusually flat. Draco turned to better examine his face, which was inscrutably blank. He continued, "Or Blaise has a girlfriend."

Draco's brows shot up. "You think?" He suddenly felt awkward next to Theo, whom Draco had not three months ago witnessed in an tender moment with Blaise on the terrace of Malfoy Manor. Draco and Theo had never explicitly discussed Theo and Blaise's relationship, but Draco had his suspicions.

"Well, Miss Edie certainly acts like she lives here," Theo said, eyes dark. "Come on, if we're going to stay, I need a drink."

Theo launched into the crowd, leaving Draco to blindly follow behind him. When they entered the central space of the flat, the music became much louder. As they meandered through the other guests, Draco noticed some familiar faces: a few other witches and wizards from Hogwarts that Draco knew worked at the Ministry; some other employees from the DIMC that Draco had crossed paths with since Blaise started working there years ago; and, finally, some truly familiar faces, which Draco and Theo discovered in the far corner of the flat by the enchanted windows next to a gilt-and-mirror etagere.

"Daphne," Theo sighed in relief. "Finally."

Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode sat side-by-side on a tufted leather loveseat, and Tracey Davis perched on a padded armchair beside them. Theo wasted no time inserting himself on the loveseat between Daphne and Millie, leaving little room for breathing. Draco stood back and chuckled as Daphne and Millie put up a feeble protest.

"Are you done with that?" Theo asked sharply, pointing at Daphne's flute of champagne.

The blonde witch looked confused as she said, "No—"

Theo did not wait for her to finish, grabbing the flute and downing its contents in one large gulp. Daphne almost squealed. Millie and Tracey chuckled.

"Hi Theo. Hi Draco," said Tracey, ever the polite one of the group.

Draco, still standing, nodded at the group. "Hello, ladies." He looked around and, spotting a floating tray of champagne, grabbed three flutes in his hands and crouched down to give Daphne and Theo replacement drinks. Taking the third as his own, Draco decided that the wrought iron coffee table was stable enough to hold his weight and perched down, facing the other four.

"What's with you?" Daphne asked, her ice blue eyes zeroing in on Theo's face.

After taking a large gulp from his new glass, Theo replied, "Nothing! What's with Blaise? What's this party for? And who the fuck is Edie?"

"Daughter, I presume, of Warlock Lawrence Allard of the Wizengamot," Draco supplied.

"Exactly," Daphne confirmed, meeting Draco's gaze. He nodded back at her, relieved when she returned a smile. Draco never knew how Daphne would receive him in recent years. It always, he suspected, depended on her sister Astoria's mood.

Daphne returned to Theo and added, "Edie is also Blaise's girlfriend—as of last month, I believe."

"Fucking typical," Theo muttered, running a hand through his hair. "He disappears for weeks and then returns with a well-connected girlfriend. Are they cohabitating?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Millie said, pulling out a floral throw pillow from under her elbow and holding it out to Theo. "Blaise would never."

Theo grabbed the pillow and brought it up to his face. He screamed into the fabric, the sound muffled by the plush stuffing.

Daphne reached around Theo's shoulders and rubbed. She murmured, "I can't believe he didn't tell you."

"I can," said Theo. He hugged the pillow to his middle and returned his glass to his mouth. After taking a sip, he sighed, and Draco could see Theo's dark mood abate instantly. He was always quite good at concealing his emotions.

"Well, enough of that," Theo declared, sitting more upright, which caused Daphne and Millie to grumble as they were squeezed toward the loveseat's edges. "How's it going, Daph?"

"Same old," she answered, though her eyes still held some concern as they remained on Theo. "Parents are being unbearable, waiting for Marcus to propose to me. I keep telling them I don't want him to, which he knows at least."

"Don't want him to yet, or don't want him to ever?" Tracey asked as she twirled a lock of her dark hair around a finger.

"Isn't that the question," Daphne sighed, straightening the bodice of her chocolate brown dress. "I'm hoping Astoria and Adrian take the attention off of us."

"Is Adrian proposing?" Millie asked, clearly interested.

Daphne eyed Draco, and then so did the entire group. He suddenly felt like a burning spotlight was shining on him.

"Merlin," he muttered. "It's been five years! I hope Astoria is happy." And he meant it. He still felt guilty for how things ended between them. Astoria always wanted to be married, and he hoped she got what she wanted.

"She is," Daphne replied, jutting up her chin and returning her attention to Millie. "And I think Adrian might propose soon. He asked me what style of jewelry Astoria likes."

She liked big jewelry with at least three stones and a platinum setting, Draco did not say out loud.

"Well, here's to future Greengrass nuptials," Theo proclaimed, raising his flute, which was almost empty.

They all drank, and Draco took the opportunity to glance behind him. The party seemed to be getting rowdier, with a few people dancing by the gramophone. An old hit by the Weird Sisters was playing.

"So why the last-minute party?" Draco inquired to the group. "A housewarming, then? It wasn't on the invitation."

"Guess so," Daphne shrugged.

"Whatever it is, I'm glad. We need more parties," Tracey remarked, jutting out her chin. "We've gotten so old and boring."

"Speak for yourself," Theo stated with false offense. "I'm an unparalleled, youthful delight."

"I do feel old, though," Millie commented, her gaze over Draco's shoulder. "Did you notice all the recent Hogwarts grads here? They're like children."

"Edie's friends?" Theo suggested with a mocking lilt to his voice.

"Must be," Daphne murmured, following Millie's gaze. She spotted something, and then her hand raised in the air. "Blaise!"

Draco turned, and all five Slytherins looked at the crowd. Blaise's tall dark head was clearly visible, and Draco saw him walk from the open kitchen toward the large fireplace across the room. The other guests drowned out Daphne's voice, though, and he did not hear them.

"Lovely," Theo said, and Draco turned around to face his friends on the couches. He shifted his seat, the ironwork of the table pressing into his thighs.

They continued talking, catching up on each other's lives. Millie regaled them with tales of her work at a publishing house, including a memorable day when her boss's husband discovered his wife in a compromising position with their star novelist—who just happened to be a witch. Then Tracey filled them in on her Ministry Department of Finance work.

"It's been a mare this month. Ten separate meetings with the Goblin Liaison Office to work out renewals of the most boring, insignificant contracts with Gringott's. The Magical Creatures Department is a mess," she complained. "Speaking of—" Tracey leaned forward, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you know that Hermione Granger was placed on a mandatory leave?"

"I did not," Theo said, clearly interested. He met Draco's eyes. Draco shifted in his seat, looking at the hardwood floor. "Did you, Draco?"

"I … heard," Draco replied evasively. Thankfully, Tracey cut in, saving him from elaborating.

"They're keeping it quiet, I think. But my friend in the DMLE said that Granger is working as a patrol Auror while she's banned from her department."

"Why would they sideline Granger during an international werewolf crisis?" Theo asked. "Isn't that her thing?"

"Well, didn't you see that piece in The Prophet about Granger's memo?" Daphne stated as if it were an obvious answer. "I bet some higher-ups were pissed off."

Tracey nodded. "I bet some lower-downs were pissed off, too. Imagine working a Ministry job for years, and then someone a decade younger than you becomes your boss and says whatever she likes. I'd quit—or get revenge."

Draco scowled. "I doubt you'll need to worry about that, Tracey, unless Granger decides to join your department."

Tracey flushed and sipped her Champagne. "Just saying."

"Knowing Hermione Granger, she'll have revolutionized the DMLE and solved the Night of Terror cases before month's end," Theo declared with a pleased smile. "I can't wait to watch."

"If they let her," Draco remarked, fiddling with the stem of his glass. "I also heard she's banned from dealing with werewolves." He recalled his conversation with Granger in Diagon Alley earlier in the week. It still riled him to have seen her so reduced.

"Well, that's just silly," Theo protested. "Unsportsmanlike!"

"Granger has a lot of enemies," Millie asserted. "I'm not a Ministry witch, but people talk. My firm published Rita Skeeter's book on Harry Potter when I was just starting, and let me tell you, I think that woman has it out for Granger. You can tell from reading that book. She's retired now, but … some comments stick with you."

Draco frowned. He had never bothered to pick up a copy of FUGITIVE!—honestly, the title alone made him want to puke—but perhaps it was worth an anthropological study.

"All this work talk is boring," Daphne complained.

"Very well," Theo drawled. "How about work and pleasure? Ladies, when can I get you into my expensive, luxurious, exclusive dueling club?"

"When are you actually opening?" Millie queried with a smirk. "You know better than to show us a sub-par product."

"How dare you?" Theo said, aghast. "I am a professional."

"We'll come by whenever you'd like, Theo," Tracey laughed.

"That's what I thought," Theo sniffed. "Ask Draco. It's very nice."

"It's very nice," Draco parroted.

"See?"

"Alright," Daphne said, placating Theo by resting her head on his shoulder. "We shall come. Can I hex you?"

"You can try," Theo replied, pleased. "I'll owl you the details."

Before anyone could continue, the clinking sound of a glass echoed across the room. Draco and Theo turned in unison, spotting Blaise at the center of the room, his glass raised high and a smile blooming on his lips.

"Well, this should be interesting," Daphne muttered under her breath as the room hushed.

Theo's face, light-hearted only moments ago, suddenly tensed. He set his empty glass on the ground by his feet as if bracing himself for something.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Blaise's smooth voice carried over the crowd, and the music quieted in response. He looked around the room with that familiar, aloof smile, and then his gaze shifted toward Edie Allard, who had appeared at his side. "I know it was last-minute, and most of you didn't expect a party like this … but I've had a reason to celebrate."

Draco blinked, his curiosity piqued. He leaned forward slightly, feeling a strange foreboding as Blaise wrapped his arm around Edie's waist. He gently pulled her closer.

"And that reason is this incredible woman," Blaise continued, looking at Edie with a softness that Draco had never seen from him before. "Who has just completed her Mastery in magical history!"

The room applauded, and Edie waved, her face falling into a shy but delighted smile. Practiced. Trained. Draco could sense such things. It had been bred into him. How often had he witnessed his mother—and Astoria, for that matter—don that precise expression?

Blaise grinned. "Yes, she is quite impressive, for more reasons than that. … Edie has made me realize something I never expected—that I want to spend the rest of my life with her."

Draco felt his stomach lurch as Blaise turned fully toward Edie, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. The room collectively gasped as he opened it, revealing a diamond ring that glinted in the candlelight.

"Edie Allard," Blaise said, dropping to one knee. "Will you marry me?"

Draco's mouth fell open, his mind reeling. "What the fuck?" he muttered. He had just met this woman a few hours ago, and now Blaise was proposing? He shot a glance at Theo, who was sitting unnaturally still. Beside him, Daphne and Millie's mouths were agape.

Edie beamed and nodded. "Yes!" she exclaimed, loud enough for the crowd to hear, and Blaise slid the ring onto her finger before standing and pulling her into a kiss.

The room erupted into applause and cheers, but Draco hardly noticed. His heart was pounding in his chest as he looked back at Theo. His friend's face had gone pale, his expression blank, but Draco saw the faint tremble in his hand as he began to clap along with the other guests. Draco numbly followed suit.

Daphne was the first to break the stunned silence in their corner. "Did anyone know about this?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Nope," Tracey muttered, glancing between Blaise and Theo with a knowing look. "Bloody hell, this is … surprising."

Millie shook her head. She was still blithely clapping. "I thought Blaise would be a bachelor forever. He always said he was too restless for all that—marriage, settling down."

Draco barely registered their voices, his gaze fixed on Theo. He wanted to say something, anything, but words failed him. Theo's eyes were still trained on Blaise and Edie, but they were glassy, distant.

"Theo," Draco whispered, leaning closer. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," Theo cut him off, his voice tight. He stood abruptly, the pillow on his lap falling to the ground. "I just need a drink."

Without another word, Theo walked away from the group, disappearing into the crowd.

Draco watched him go, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

"Poor Theo—and he only met Edie tonight?" Daphne uttered sadly. "I'll go after him."

"No," Draco protested, standing up and smoothing the fabric of his trousers. "I'll talk to him. See you all later."

The women waved as he walked away in the direction Theo had fled. He hoped his friend had not immediately left the party. Unfortunately, Theo's wily nature was in top form that evening, and Draco could not spot him anywhere. Draco searched in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom—a bad idea, since it was occupied by two teenagers and not nearly enough clothing—and the Floo room.

Now that Draco knew that Edie Allard lived here, the signs were everywhere. Vases of flowers where Blaise had never had any before, photos of people that Draco had never seen, and the entire place smelled vaguely like cinnamon and vanilla.

Draco exited the Floo room with its large white mantlepiece, now dotted with enchanted porcelain figurines of ballerinas that swayed to the music faintly audible from the living space. As he proceeded down the corridor and rounded the corner back toward the main celebration, he walked—directly into Blaise.

His old friend, dressed impeccably as always in deep emerald robes, barely reacted, his sharp eyes already focused on Draco's face. Blaise's usual relaxed smile spread across his face.

"Draco," Blaise greeted, his voice like silk. "I was wondering when I'd run into you. Enjoying the party?"

"You can say that," Draco replied, forcing a smile of his own. His mind was racing, still trying to process everything. "I didn't know you were—well—in a relationship. And now you're engaged! Congratulations, mate."

Draco pulled Blaise into a quick embrace. They hardly ever hugged, and Draco hoped Blaise could sense the sincerity in Draco's tone, even though he was still confused by the entire turn of events.

When they broke apart, Blaise's expression flickered. "Yes, Edie and I—well, it's been in the works for a while. I'm glad you could be here to celebrate with us."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "In the works for a while? I wish I had known. … Merlin knows I've been trying to get a word out of you. My letters must've slipped through the cracks."

Blaise shifted his stance. "Things have been busy at work and everything. I know it seems sudden, but I didn't want to wait."

Draco glanced back toward the crowded room where Edie was now surrounded by guests, her laughter ringing through the penthouse. "You know, Theo would probably like to congratulate you as well. He's around here, somewhere."

At the mention of Theo, Blaise's smile faltered, and Draco caught the briefest flash of something in his dark eyes. But just as quickly, Blaise composed himself, nodding curtly. "Of course.

I'm looking forward to catching up with him. It means a lot that you both came last-minute."

Draco hesitated, observing Blaise. "Are you happy?" Draco asked, his voice softer and more sincere now.

Blaise's eyes flicked toward Edie again, watching her as she spoke animatedly with their guests. When he finally turned back to Draco, his expression was calm but determined.

"I've never been more certain of anything in my life," Blaise said firmly.

Draco studied his old friend, trying to gauge how much of that was the truth. Blaise had always been hard to read, his emotions locked away behind layers of charm and indifference.

"Well," Draco finally said, his voice carefully neutral, "I'm happy for you."

Blaise's smile softened, a genuine flash of gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Draco."

Before Draco could respond, laughter echoed from the main room, drawing Blaise's attention away. He glanced back at Draco as if weighing something in his mind.

"I should get back," Blaise said after a moment, his tone light again. "Enjoy the party. And don't be a stranger. We'll talk later!"

With that, Blaise returned to the celebration, leaving Draco alone in the dimly lit corridor. The noise of the party grew louder as Blaise disappeared around the corner.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. Theo. He had to find Theo.

He marched back into the kitchen, where several other guests were mingling. There were so many people he had never seen—people wholly disconnected from Blaise and Theo and their usual circles. Two witches looked up at him from their conversation, and Draco could sense the instant they recognized him, huddling closer together and whispering frantically as they looked up at him through the fringe of their hair.

Draco leveled them with his most menacing sneer, a honed look from his school days, and he was delighted when the young women nearly cowered. He turned away, eyes darting around the room. He spotted his bottle of Firewhiskey, unopened, pushed to the corner on a white marble countertop. He walked over and grabbed it, and when he looked up from his quarry, he spotted a concealed French doorway behind one of the white-painted cabinets. As soon as he spotted it, he knew.

Draco opened the door to find a small balcony, just a few meters wide. The only light in the dark evening air came from the faint illumination from the adjacent windows from the main living space of the penthouse. And on the darkest side of the balcony, Draco found Theo.

Theo leaned against the iron railing, staring out over the city. The view from the balcony was distinctly different from inside the flat. Instead of a pure, unobstructed view of the Thames, the balcony looked out onto tall buildings. Only the faintest strip of the river was visible between the adjacent structures. The windows, it seemed, deceptively vanished the buildings.

Draco padded onto the balcony, letting the door slide shut behind him. He approached slowly, giving Theo space as he leaned on the opposite end of the railing.

"I have whiskey," he said.

Theo, who had not moved, spared Draco a glance out the side of his eye. "Hand it over."

Draco unstopped the bottle and took a quick sip before handing the bottle over to Theo's outstretched hand. His friend took an alarmingly long draught spanning several gulps. Draco resolved not to get drunk to make sure they both made it home that night.

"You alright?" Draco asked.

Theo didn't answer right away. He was still holding the bottle. His knuckles were white around the neck, but he remained eerily still, staring at the skyline as if trying to avoid the question altogether.

Draco waited.

After what felt like an eternity, Theo finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse. "Do you ever feel like there was a subject at Hogwarts on how to live your life, but, somehow, you missed every class? Like everyone else knows exactly what to do and how to go about fucking existing. And … I just don't."

Draco looked down at the streets far below them, letting Theo's words sink in.

"I was the one who missed every one of those classes," Draco eventually replied. "You got in there a few times, I think."

Theo let out a breathy laugh, though his eyes held no humor. His mouth twisted into something resembling a sneer. "Guess I was never really an option in the end, was I?"

Draco searched for the right words. This was the most direct reference Theo had ever made to his relationship with Blaise. But then again, they had always known things inherently—words were never an issue.

"Blaise is making his own choices. But that doesn't mean he didn't care about you."

"He'd care a lot more if I were the daughter of a Warlock, though," Theo replied. "Obviously."

"You're better off, you know," Draco urged his friend. "I think … Blaise may be more of a mess than we are." He wasn't sure where the evidence of that thought had come from, but Draco had an uneasy feeling deep in his chest.

"Speak for yourself," Theo declared, turning to raise the bottle in a mocking toast. "I take pride in my award-winning state of mess."

"My apologies. I'll happily take the bronze medal between us."

Theo exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of everything had finally crashed down on him. "I just can't believe he didn't even mention her—or say anything at all. And then to invite us here. … What the fuck?"

Draco had to agree. "People grow apart, I suppose. Not like it's our fault."

Theo didn't respond. He just stood there, staring into the night and trying to make sense of everything. Draco stayed by his side, offering quiet company, knowing that sometimes there weren't any perfect words to make things better.

After a long silence, Theo finally spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let's get out of here."

Draco nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."

Up Next: Hermione J. Granger, junior Auror. Plus, Ginny tries out for the English National Team.