Chapter 34: Draco

Wretched

"Eleanor went to her room 'where she was free to think and be wretched.'" ― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

Moments After the Almost Kiss—
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Dueling Arena

Draco burned.

He clenched his fists and stood furiously up from the table, abandoning the three nearly empty glasses and walking away. He could still feel the warmth of Granger's body lingering in the air.

Granger had looked at him like shesawhim. And he, like an idiot, almost crossed a line he shouldn't have even been near.

Granger had backed off quickly, though, and left him sitting there like a fool. The scene kept playing in his mind, every word, every look. Why did she have this effect on him? It wasn't just the pathetic almost-kiss. It was everything—every argument, every whiff of her shampoo, every time they were stuck in the same room together.

Why did they keep getting stuck in the same rooms together?

Draco stormed through the Dueling Arena. He needed to find Theo—this was all his fault. If Theo hadn't left them alone…

Draco passed by several DA members who gave him puzzled looks but wisely kept their distance. Draco barely noticed them. His focus was singular: Theodore Nott.

Finally, Draco spotted Theo emerging from the doorway, which led to the DA's private upper level and offices. Theo looked disheveled; his shirt was slightly askew, and his hair mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it. What had that crash been, then? But Draco didn't want to dwell on whatever Theo had been up to.

"Theo," Draco hissed, marching up to him, his voice low and furious. "Never leave me alone with Granger again."

The dark-haired wizard looked at him in bewilderment. "What happened?"

Draco blinked and then looked around for any prying eyes. "Nothing. Just don't do it again."

Theo eyed him with skepticism. "Okay, come here." He grabbed Draco's elbow and pulled him back through the doorway, shutting it behind him. They stood in the dimly lit vestibule with the staircase rising next to them. Theo gestured with his hands for Draco to speak.

"I almost kissed Granger."

It sounded worse out loud than it did inside Draco's head. His voice slightly echoed through the stairwell. Mocking him.

Theo blinked, his face breaking out into a delighted grin. "You what?"

Draco ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I said I almost kissed her! It just … I wasn't bloody thinking."

Theo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "So, what stopped you?"

"She stopped me," Draco snapped, pacing in the small space. "Ran away."

"Ran away?"

"Ran. Away."

Theo let out a low whistle. "Well … she's not exactly impulsive, is she? Probably ran off to write a pros and cons list."

Draco glared at him. "This isn't funny!"

Theo's smirk widened. "You've been in denial about her for months, Draco. You're finally catching up to what the rest of us have already figured out."

"The rest of us?"

"Well … just me, I suppose."

"There's nothing to figure out," Draco argued, his tone sharp.

Theo shook his head, still amused. "You're awfully worked up about this."

Draco stopped pacing and turned to face Theo, his expression dark. "You think this is funny, but it's a bloody disaster."

Theo shrugged, unfazed. "It's only a disaster if you let it be a disaster. You didn't even actually kiss."

Draco sighed, his anger fading into a weary resignation. "I don't know what to do, Theo."

"Stop beating yourself up, first of all," Theo said, his tone gentle. "It's Hermione Granger, not the Dark Lord."

Draco muttered, "Feels similar."

Theo quipped, "If I were you, I'd hang around here more often. Maybe she'll show up again, and you can see how you feel the next time."

"Can't," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "I'm off to France tomorrow. My mother personally sent me a Portkey this morning."

Theo's face fell in disappointment. "Oh, that's tragic. … But, you know, maybe Narcissa's parading you around every eligible witch in Europe will take your mind off Hermione fleeing from you like you've got Dragon Pox."

Draco ignored that comment. "The European Championship. You're coming. Don't leave me at my mother's mercy for an entire month."

Theo chuckled. "Of course. But only because I can't stand the thought of you sulking through the South of France, pining for Hermione while some witch tries to snog you. It'd be pathetic. Or entertaining. Either way, I'm there."

Six Days Later—
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Château Malfoy, Provence

"Draco dear, this is Mademoiselle Amélie Arsenault. Her father owns a manse with a lovely vineyard nearby, and this is her mother, Madame Arsenault."

Draco nodded politely in the solarium of Château Malfoy, feeling like an exhibit on display.

Midmorning sunlight streamed through the glass walls and reflected off lush potted plants and hanging ivy. It was all vaguely chartreuse. But Draco likely would have been green anyway; the whole situation was nausea-inducing. It was a farce—a parade of every eligible witch in Southern France. Their heavy-handed perfumes mixed with the aromas of the brunch that Narcissa had laid out, with steaming tea and freshly baked patisserie.

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his summer formal dress robes, a linen blend ensemble that clung too tightly at the neck and wrists. The fabric, though designed for the Provence heat, still felt stifling. Draco could feel the nervous sweat beading under his collar, though he dared not tug at it for fear of looking unseemly. His mother had chosen these robes, of course, ensuring that he looked every bit the part of the eligible young lord.

Draco had been in France for less than a week, and already he felt trapped.

When he first arrived, Narcissa welcomed him with warm smiles and gentle embraces, her joy at seeing him palpable after so many months apart. But that warmth quickly gave way to her true purpose: ensuring her only son was suitably matched. The pointed questions had begun almost immediately—"What is keeping you occupied lately, dear?" "Have you and Theodore been attending the regular social functions?" And the worst one: "Are there any special young witches in your life?"

Draco was sorely tempted to let Narcissa Black Malfoy know that he was currently fantasizing about none other than Hermione Granger. But Draco also still possessed a modicum of self-preservation.

And then Narcissa had sprung this brunch on him yesterday, leaving him no time to prepare or even protest.

He should have seen it coming. The elaborate preparations, the way the elves had been buzzing about for days, and how Narcissa had been curiously absent for hours at a time—it all pointed to a meticulously planned event. Now, Draco was surrounded by more than a dozen witches and their chaperones, all eyeing him as if he were some rare artifact to be acquired. It was all very Medieval.

Narcissa was in her element, effortlessly charming, as she introduced him to yet another pair of French witches.

"Draco, this is Mademoiselle Élodie Dubois and her mother, Madame Dubois. Élodie studies magical law at Beauxbatons and is keenly interested in ancient spellwork."

Draco forced a polite smile, bowing slightly as he greeted them. Élodie was petite, with dark curls and wide eyes that sparkled with curiosity. Her tall and stern mother looked him over with the practiced eye of someone assessing livestock. Draco exchanged the usual pleasantries, but his mind was elsewhere.

The Quidditch European Championship games had already begun, and he was missing them, all thanks to his mother's insistence that they spend quality time together. She had expertly wielded guilt as her weapon, reminding him that they hadn't seen each other since Yule. Draco longed for the final match—an event his mother couldn't force him to miss.

He had already sent several letters to Theo, practically begging him to come to France sooner rather than later. He had even written to Blaise, though he had not received a reply.

Draco wondered if Blaise had made it to St. Petersburg. His friend had suggested they travel there together on holiday back at the Victory Ball, but he hadn't renewed the invitation. Then again, the international magical community had been wrecked with disasters since, and Blaise had also gotten engaged to Edie Allard. Draco had no idea where Blaise was or what he was doing.

"...and of course, you remember dear Jacqueline, Draco," his mother's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.

Draco's stomach twisted unpleasantly. Not Jacqueline Ballinois. He turned slowly, steeling himself for the encounter.

Jacqueline stood there, every bit as perfectly put together as he remembered. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in an elaborate twist, her robes a shimmering azure that matched her eyes. She looked like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine, and the self-satisfied smile on her lips only confirmed Draco's worst fears.

He swallowed his disgust, forcing himself to meet her gaze. For the sake of his mother, he would endure this. But inside, he was seething.

"Of course, Mother," Draco said smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. "How could I forget Jacqueline?"

Jacqueline's smile widened, and she stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Lord Malfoy, it's been too long. I told your mother the other week how much I've been looking forward to seeing you again."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Draco's jaw clenched as Jacqueline Ballinois glanced at his neck with a familiar, disdainful expression. "Draco, your cravat is askew," she said, her voice dripping with faux concern.

"Ah," Draco muttered, fumbling to straighten the offending fabric. The cravat felt like it was choking him, a fitting metaphor for the entire day. "How have you been, Jacqueline?"

"Oh, you know," Jacqueline began, her tone laced with the affected nonchalance that only Purebloods of her upbringing could master. "Keeping busy with this and that. The social season is quite demanding. But then, I suppose you've been… otherwise occupied." Her eyes flicked to his cravat again as though it were a personal affront.

Draco nodded stiffly, aware of his mother's hopeful gaze next to him. Narcissa was watching them intently, her eyes full of expectation. She had orchestrated this entire charade, after all.

"Indeed," he replied, his voice strained. "Work has kept me occupied. The responsibilities of the family estates…"

Before he could say anything more, Narcissa intervened, smiling brightly. "Well, I'll just leave you two to catch up." With that, she drifted away, leaving Draco and Jacqueline alone.

Draco felt a pang of dread as his mother departed. He was now at the mercy of Jacqueline, who wasted no time in tightening her grip on the conversation.

"It was rude of you not to attend my birthday party," Jacqueline commented sharply. She stepped up to Draco and began untying the cravat, her long nails grazing the skin of his neck.

"I—ouch—ah, I was busy, as I mentioned in my letter," Draco replied. A lie. He would rather have died.

Jacqueline began re-tying the cravat, and he could already tell it would be too tight.

She looked up at him with acid-blue eyes. "I could have forced you to come, you know. I still have those pictures."

Draco choked as she tied the knot. "I don't know to what you're referring." Another lie. She had gotten him drunk and accosted him, forcing her House Elf to take photographs of them with less than the ideal amount of clothing before he could get away. It was a large part of why he had not visited France much in the last two years.

Jacqueline ran a thin finger down the completed cravat. "There you go. Perfection isn't just expected—it's required for those of us who matter."

Draco was half sure that Jacqueline was insane.

"Lovely weather we're having, is it not?" Draco attempted to shift the conversation, stepping away from the witch.

She narrowed her eyes. "I tolerate social pleasantries only because they remind me how insufferably common everyone else is, Draco. We are not common."

Draco feared that Jacqueline would accost him again, right then and there—and then a familiar voice cut through the tension. "Draco, darling, introduce me to your friend."

Draco turned, relief flooding him as he saw the glorious figure of Pansy Parkinson gliding towards them. She looked stunning, dressed in a sleek, midnight blue robe that clung to her curves and shimmered in the sunlight. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, the ends curling around her jawline. Pansy had always had a flair for fashion; today, she was the most dazzling witch in the room.

"Pansy," Draco breathed, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks, his voice low in her ear as he whispered. Kiss. "It's so good to see you." Kiss. "Save me."

Pansy laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she turned to Jacqueline. "Pansy Parkinson, enchantée," she said smoothly, extending her hand.

Jacqueline took Pansy's hand with a forced smile, but her expression was guarded. "Jacqueline Ballinois."

Pansy's smile didn't waver. "Jacqueline, yes, I've heard so much about you," she said, her tone polite but with a subtle edge that lifted Draco's heart. "Draco's mentioned you … though not nearly as much as he should have."

Draco barely suppressed a grin as Jacqueline's eyes narrowed. "Has he?" she asked.

"Oh, absolutely," Pansy replied, her voice dripping with charm. "He told me all about your… unique sense of humor. Quite a talent to pull off nudity-based pranks."

Jacqueline's eyes flashed with annoyance, and she opened her mouth to retort, but Pansy didn't give her the chance.

"And those robes, Jacqueline," Pansy continued, her eyes drifting over the other witch's attire. "They're so … traditional. I admire your commitment to the classics. Not everyone can pull off a style so passé. The uneven hemline—is that intentional? I have to admit, I'm not as familiar with last decade's fashions, so I find it hard to tell."

Draco had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing as Jacqueline's expression soured. The tension between the two witches was palpable, and Draco knew Jacqueline well enough to see that she was on the verge of losing her carefully maintained composure.

Finally, Jacqueline let out a huff of irritation. "Well, I should go find my mother," she said, her voice tight. "It was lovely to see you again, Draco."

Draco inclined his head, managing to keep a straight face. "And you as well, Jacqueline."

Jacqueline gave Pansy one last, withering look before turning on her heel and stalking off, her back rigid with anger.

The moment she was out of earshot, Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you, Pansy. You have no idea how much I needed that."

Pansy waved a hand dismissively, though her eyes showed a twinkle of satisfaction. "Don't mention it."

Draco smiled genuinely this time. "What are you doing here? Not that I'm not thrilled to see you."

Pansy's expression softened, and she shrugged elegantly. "Your mother invited me. I wasn't going to come, but there's a sale on hand-woven enchanted silks made by the dwarfs living underneath Mont Saint Michel. And Provence isn't too hard to apparate to, is it?"

Draco shook his head, chuckling. "No, I suppose not. It's good to see you, Pans."

They walked over to the tea table, where Draco carefully prepared a cup of tea for Pansy, adding a twist of lemon just the way she liked it. As he handed it to her, Pansy glanced around the room, taking in the gathering with an amused expression.

"So, you're the prized peacock, are you?" Pansy said with a smirk. "I must say, even for your mother, this gathering is impressive. This must be every eligible witch over twenty in Provence."

Draco grimaced. "It's punishment for not visiting since the new year. She seems determined to marry me off as if I were a third daughter in the seventeenth century, not the government-mandated acting Lord of our family line."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "And how's that going for you?"

"Terribly," Draco admitted with a sigh. "Which is why I'm asking—begging, really—how long you plan to stay. Please don't leave me alone with them."

Pansy sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Well, I can make some time. I don't like that one." She eyed Jacqueline, who had retreated to the opposite side of the solarium and was glancing their way with a sour look. "And anyway, I want to attend the Quidditch gala. Until then, you can help me with some of my work."

Draco's eyes lit up with hope. "I'll do anything, Pansy—just don't leave me with Jacqueline again."

Pansy laughed, patting his cheek affectionately. "Relax, Draco. Besides, it'll be fun to see how long you can survive this little game your mother has curated."

Draco exhaled, relieved. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this, Pans. I owe you one."

"Don't worry," Pansy said with a mischievous grin. "I'll make sure you pay up. Let's see if we can't find some entertainment in this madhouse."

Later that evening—
Sitting Room, Château Malfoy, Provence

The sitting room at Château Malfoy was a Rococo monstrosity, from the carved wood furniture upholstered in yellows and pinks, to the excessive crown moldings, to the ridiculous mantle of the fireplace, sculpted into some sort of lewd scene from mythology. Narcissa had laid out delicate porcelain teacups for Draco and Pansy after dinner. Draco sat in an armchair, his posture relaxed, though his mind was anything but.

Across from him, Pansy was recounting one of her latest adventures in the world of rare enchanted fabrics.

"So, it turned out that the Moroccan acromantulas make their dens in the hollows of cliffside beaches. Very hard to access," Pansy was saying, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Of course, I didn't have the pleasure of facing the spiders myself. I paid a local coterie of harvesters quite handsomely to do it for me. They returned mostly alright. They were each in one piece, at least, by the time healers saw them."

Draco hid a shudder behind a sip of his tea. The idea of facing a den of acromantulas was not something he cared to entertain, and he was inwardly relieved that he hadn't been indebted to Pansy at that time. Knowing her, she wouldn't have hesitated to call in a favor and send him straight into the lair.

Narcissa, sitting with perfect poise beside the fireplace, listened intently, her expression one of admiration. "You always manage to find the rarest treasures, Pansy. … But tell me, how are you faring outside your work?"

Pansy's smile softened slightly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. "I'm keeping an apartment in Milan, in a Muggle quarter, if you can believe it. More privacy that way. But I'm hardly there. Traveling is much more fulfilling—and it's certainly more productive for my work."

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, which Draco knew meant she was about to probe further. "And is there any wizard in your life, dear?"

Draco glanced at Pansy, curious to see how she would respond. Pansy, ever the master of coyness, let a slight smirk tug at her lips. "A fair few," she admitted lightly, "but nothing serious."

Narcissa's gaze shifted briefly to Draco, her next words carrying a subtle edge. "You're not alone in that, it seems."

Draco suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. His mother's pointed comments about his personal life had become a common occurrence, though that didn't make them any less irritating.

Pansy continued smoothly, picking up on the undercurrent in Narcissa's words. "It's a different time than thirty years ago, Narcissa, when you and dear Uncle Lucius were married. After the upheavals of the war, people are waiting longer to wed. Did you hear that the young Hendricksons are getting divorced after only three years of marriage?"

Draco was only half-listening until Pansy added, almost as an afterthought, "And Astoria Greengrass called off her engagement to Adrian Pucey."

His head snapped up, his mind racing. "She did?"

Pansy nodded, her expression neutral. "Yes."

Draco's thoughts whirled. Astoria had seemed unhappy about the engagement, and a part of him was secretly glad she had decided to end it. He wished he could have done more to help her, but he was also relieved it was over. He couldn't entirely suppress the flicker of satisfaction that came with the news.

Narcissa's voice cut through his thoughts. "I didn't even know dear Astoria was engaged … again."

Pansy shrugged lightly as if it were of little consequence. "It was a very short engagement. I think Draco and I are doing the sensible thing by waiting for the right situation to come along. After all, one failed engagement for Draco is quite enough, don't you think?"

"Pansy," Draco said, his tone a warning, though he knew it wouldn't do much good. Pansy only smiled at him, that infuriatingly knowing smile she often wore.

Narcissa, ever composed, gave a slight nod. "I'm only interested in happiness for you both, of course."

Draco couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at the sentiment, recalling the thunderous fights he had picked with his mother after he and Astoria's engagement fell apart. He knew his mother's hopes for his future were only for his good. He quickly turned his attention back to his tea, trying to shake off the weight of the conversation.

Sensing the tension, Pansy decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Narcissa, do you ever plan to return to England, or is France your home now on a more permanent basis?"

Narcissa's gaze grew distant momentarily as if she were contemplating something beyond the room. Finally, she replied, "I'm greatly enjoying France for now, but perhaps we'll reconsider next year. My husband certainly seems more interested in British society at the moment."

"An understatement," Draco muttered.

"Draco, it's rude to mumble."

"Sorry, Mother."

Pansy's voice took on a teasing tone. "What a pundit Lucius has become, indeed. Does he run his Prophet columns by you?"

Narcissa stirred her tea, her expression calm. "Lucius rarely takes my opinion into account these days."

Draco's frown deepened. He hadn't spoken to his mother about his decision to expel Lucius from the Manor, and her comment made him wonder what she honestly thought of the situation.

Before he could dwell on it further, Pansy asked casually, "If you do return to Britain, would you live in the Manor, considering Lucius's estrangement from the current Lord?"

Draco's irritation flared. "We're not estranged. And who told you that?"

Pansy shrugged, unfazed by his tone. "Theo and I talk, of course."

Narcissa hummed, her expression thoughtful. "I hope the current Lord Malfoy won't shun his family forever."

Draco sipped his tea, wishing it were something stronger. Pansy, noticing his discomfort, pressed on with a more pointed question. "And speaking of the current Lord Malfoy, Narcissa," she began as if Draco wasn't sitting right there, "do you think the French debutantes from this morning's brunch are worthy of Draco's time? They're beautiful and elegant, but I believe the future Lady Malfoy needs more grit. My mother always said the education at Beauxbatons is somewhat lacking in building character."

Narcissa's lips curved into an odd smile. "They're untested, but everyone has potential. I agree that Draco would need someone … strong."

Draco's patience wore thin. "Are either of you curious about what I think?"

Pansy didn't miss a beat. "No."

Narcissa's laughter filled the room, momentarily easing the tension. "I've missed you, Pansy."

"And I've missed you," Pansy replied warmly.

Narcissa set her teacup down and rose gracefully from her seat. "I think it's time I retired for the evening. Draco, will you show Pansy to her suite when she's ready?"

"Of course," Draco said, standing as well.

Narcissa gave him a fond smile and a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind her.

As soon as they were alone, Draco turned to Pansy, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You do enjoy making things difficult, don't you?"

Pansy's lips curved into that familiar, sly smile. "Only because I know you can handle it, darling."

At that moment, the grandfather clock in the corner of the room rang out its hourly chimes, ten of them to be exact.

"Is that ten?" Pansy asked. She toed off her ink-black stiletto heels and propped her feet on the sofa beside her.

Draco nodded, and she said, "Then my belated birthday gift to you should be arriving at any moment."

"What do you mean, gift?" Draco queried.

"I called in a favor," Pansy replied sweetly.

Before Draco could interrogate her further, the flames in the hearth flared green, and Theo stepped out from under the mantle.

He stood there, brushing soot off his shoulders, holding a stack of parchments and a miniature trunk.

Draco gaped.

"Bonjour, mes amis," Theo quipped with a smirk.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked, too surprised to move from where he stood across the room.

"Paying a debt," Theo grumbled and walked over to Pansy's reclining form. "Your magazines," he handed her the stack of papers, "and your galleons." He enlarged the case with a tap of his wand and let it thud to the floor, the heavy clinks of gold coins audible from inside.

"Thank you, Theodore," Pansy replied, picking a magazine from Theo's stack and laying back to enjoy her reading.

Theo rolled his eyes and walked over to Draco, clapping him on the back before plopping in Narcissa's former seat. Draco, still stunned, sat back down.

"So you couldn't be bothered to reply to my owls, but you drop everything to Portkey and Floo here at Pansy's first call?"

"Yes," Theo said without hesitation. "We're square now, Pans?"

"Yeah, whatever," Pansy said distractedly, turning the pages of what appeared to be Witch Weekly.

"You'll be in her debt again soon enough," Draco commented, offering Theo the tray of petit fours from the table.

Theo grabbed one, munching unhappily. After swallowing, he nodded. "I know." Pansy cackled from her sofa.

Theo glared at her, though not meanly, and then said to Draco, "So how's it been?"

"Narcissa threw a brunch with a dozen eligible witches and their chaperones this morning."

"Only one week in?" Theo asked. He began to make himself a cup of tea. "How industrious of dear Auntie Narcissa."

"Tell me about it," Draco mumbled. He could mumble in peace without his mother there.

"But how about your heartbreak, Draco?"

Draco glared. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "What heartbreak?"

"What heartbreak?" Pansy asked, rolling slightly on the sofa so that her gaze fell directly on the two wizards. "Tell me, and I'll owe you one."

Draco protested, "No!"

Theo looked between them. "Too tempting, mate, sorry." He turned to Pansy. "Draco almost kissed Hermione Granger."

Pansy swung her legs down so that she was sitting up. The papers on her lap fell to the ground, and the magazine she was reading hung limp in her hands.

"Hermione Granger? Harry Potter's Hermione Ganger? Gryffindor princess, Order of Merlin, bushy-haired heathen Hermione Granger?" Her tone was rather too dramatic.

Draco groaned, putting his head in his hands.

"The very same," Theo replied, taking a delighted sip from his teacup.

"Almost kissed? What does that even mean?"

"She ran away before they could do the deed."

"No."

"He was distraught."

"Of course. That's very embarrassing, isn't it?"

"They do have chemistry, though."

"Well, that's unsurprising."

"Really? Gave me a fright the first time I saw it."

"It's the classic hatred-to-sexual-tension pathway, Theo. Very erotic."

Draco had heard enough. "Oh, would you two just shut up?"

"Denied," Pansy retorted, not turning from facing Theo. "When did this happen?"

"Three days ago," Theo replied.

"Oh dear, so it's fresh."

"Indeed."

"I'm afraid I have an idea of why Granger ran off, then," Pansy said, causing Draco to look at her sharply.

"What do you mean?" Draco asked.

Pansy tossed her magazine onto the table, its cover revealed to Draco and Theo, who huddled over it.

HERMIONE GRANGER'S ROMANTIC DINNER WITH WEREWOLF JOSEPH DEARBORN—EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS INSIDE

Below the garishly yellow headline was a full-color photograph of Granger and a man exiting Chez Andres, a popular magical restaurant in Highgate that Draco recognized instantly.

Draco grabbed the magazine, pulling it closer to his eyes.

Granger looked—well, if there was any question about whether she was on a date, her outfit put that to rest. She wore a dress made of crimson silk. Its bodice was tight against her torso and cut very low, revealing some décolletage that Draco was not yet ready to examine for fear of his friends' stares. The dress had long sleeves, and the skirt was pleated and full, falling just to her knees. Granger wore heels, and Draco could not recall Granger ever having worn heels like that—strappy enough to show off her delicate ankles and painted toenails.

A ridiculous realization struck Draco: Granger had ankles and toenails.

Granger's shorter hair was coiffed nicely, though still loose and natural as she usually preferred to wear it. Draco could imagine the smell of her shampoo, recalling the scent from the Dueling Arena—peach blossoms.

In the photo, Granger stepped out the door of the restaurant. Someone was holding it open for her, concealed from inside. She turned toward the cameras laughing, looked startled to see the flash of the photo, then resigned to being seen. A moment later, a tall man emerged behind her, exiting through the door he held. He reached out a muscular hand to hold Granger's waist, and his other rose to shield his eyes from the flash of cameras.

Who was that guy?

"Who is this guy?" Draco voiced, looking up to find Pansy and Theo smirking at him, Theo's smirk slightly sadder than Pansy's.

"Joseph Dearborn, current Lord of the Avery Estates. Werewolf and alpha of the largest pack in Britain. Mother: disowned Pureblood niece of the late Silas Avery. Father: Muggle—not even Muggleborn, just a Muggle. He runs his pack out of Avery Manor and works in Muggle law in London." Pansy supplied the information quickly and succinctly, clearly having read the relevant article.

Theo took the magazine from Draco, who was too stunned to speak.

"That's one handsome man," Theo commented. "How tall is he?"

"How tall is Granger?" asked Pansy.

"Five foot four," Draco said. At Pansy's all-too-knowing smirk, he added, "about."

"Mister Dearborn must be six foot two at least—look at how he towers over her, even in heels." Pansy let out a sigh of appreciation. "And those grey temples are just so captivating."

"Bummer for Draco," Theo said, patting Draco's shoulder sadly. "Sorry, mate."

Draco shrugged Theo's hand off. "Nothing to be bummed about." A lie. He was very bummed indeed.

"Well, maybe you should stop trying to kiss taken women," Pansy said, snatching the magazine back from Theo. "I had a Floo call with Daphne the other day. I know what you were doing with Astoria."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco protested. "It was entirely her doing. I broke it off weeks ago."

"And now she's broken her engagement. Probably because of you." Pansy glared at him, and Draco felt guilt wash over him for the second time that night.

"No. Astoria told me she was unhappy. She didn't want to move to America with Pucey."

Pansy sighed, looking at Draco with pity. "Why did you entertain her in the first place?"

"I … don't know."

"This situation is much more dire than I anticipated. You're a mess," Pansy told him with an imperious tone.

Draco leaned back in his seat and stared blankly at the crown molding above them. He felt like a mess, though he wouldn't admit that to Pansy.

"Give him a break, Pans," Theo said. "He has a crush on Hermione Granger, and now she's dating a handsome Lord who's much taller than Draco."

"He's not much—"

"Draco, dear, you're only six foot flat on a good day," Pansy cut in.

Draco grumbled, "Six foot one, at least."

His friends ignored him. Theo asked Pansy, "What's the consensus?" gesturing to the magazine.

Pansy flipped the tabloid open to the relevant page, reading out, "Miss Granger's recent bold moves in favor of werewolf rights make much more sense now that this Author knows that the Order of Merlin recipient was acting for the rights of her latest beaux. Could this be love?"

Love? Draco's stomach sank to the core of the Earth.

"I have to say," Pansy continued. "Granger's boyfriend or not, Witch Weekly is being very kind to a known werewolf here. They're saying he's an upstanding member of society and an example of a wizard with lycanthropy worthy of our respect." Pansy flipped another page. "Hmm. Maybe Granger knows what she's doing. That, or this man was created in a lab just for her." Pansy paused, flipping back to the cover, and added. "I love her dress. It would look much better in the Blood Moon cotton wool I've been working with. Lavender Brown Weasley … huh. Interesting."

Draco scoffed. "Granger is taking my advice."

Pansy quirked a brow. "Your advice?"

"I suggested she try for more positive media attention," Draco replied. And he regretted it bitterly now. What had he said to her as he was distracted by the beautiful dip of her cupid's bow?Make yourself impossible to ignore.Well, then. Good job, Granger.

"And drove her straight into the arms of Lord Werewolf Avery." Pansy tutted.

"He's too old for her," Theo suggested. "Isn't he?"

Pansy said, "He's thirty-eight. Ten years … But then again, we already know Granger has a thing for older men—remember Viktor Krum?"

"I remember him frequently," Theo replied with a longing lilt. "He was tall and handsome, too."

"Still is, from what I hear," replied Pansy.

Draco, once again, had had enough, and he said so. "I've had enough."

Theo looked at him sadly. "Sorry, Draco. Why don't we do something fun tomorrow? Take your mind off things."

"Nothing to take my mind off," Draco said, a bit more sharply than he intended. "Idon'thave a crush on Granger. We didn't kiss. No one is interested in anyone."

Pansy and Theo looked at him with equally pitying expressions. He felt ill.

"Do you want to see your suites or not?" Draco hissed, standing up.

"Alright, Salazar," Pansy muttered, picking up her magazines and discarded shoes. "Theo, get the money."

"What is this for anyway?" Theo said, heaving the case in his arms. "Five hundred galleons is a lot."

"None of your business."

Draco walked imperiously into the corridor, mind swirling with the image of Granger laughing in a red dress.

Up Next: What happened during Hermione's dinner with Joseph? Plus, a Very Hermione French holiday.