Chapter 38: Draco
Beguiled
"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is Love said to be a child
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled."
― William Shakespeare,A Midsummer Night's Dream
Moments Earlier—
Draco's footsteps were heavy as he bounded down the gravel drive of the Sauvan estate. Granger's wide, startled eyes seared into his consciousness—as did the sight of that word carved into her skin.
A sudden rush of anger surged through him. He wasn't angry at her but rather at himself, his parents, and the life they had all lived. Seeing that scar brought back memories of Bellatrix crouching over Granger and Draco standing there, paralyzed, doing fucking nothing.
Draco walked faster, trying to distance himself from that gods-forsaken flower and everything about that day. What was he even thinking, talking to Granger casually, being near her again?
The estate grounds blurred past him as he stormed through one of the old iron gates on the Muggle side of the property. As soon as he found a secluded, deserted spot behind a particularly tall oak tree, he reached for his wand and apparated, the rush of magic pulling him away from Sauvan and depositing him in the grand foyer of Château Malfoy.
The familiar air of the chateau brought Draco a moment of clarity. He knew what he needed: his broom. A fly around the grounds and the feel of the wind ripping past his face would help him get Granger out of his mind. He moved quickly through the halls toward his quarters, where his broom was stored.
As he passed one of the sitting rooms, a voice called out. "Draco?"
He froze—his mother's voice.
Reluctantly, he turned to face the sitting room door. He did not need this. The conversation would probably be a scolding for his behavior that morning. But Draco could not ignore Narcissa. With great difficulty, he schooled his expression into something neutral and stepped inside.
Narcissa sat elegantly in one of the velvet-covered chairs, looking serene. A book was discarded beside her, and her eyes were sharp as if she discarded the printed words in favor of reading him.
"You're upset," she observed, her voice gentle.
Draco clenched his jaw. "Just a long day, Mother." It was only three o'clock.
She smiled faintly, motioning to the chair opposite hers. "Sit with me for a moment."
He hesitated but obeyed, lowering himself into the seat. He was grateful that his father wasn't here; Lucius's presence would probably make Draco's facade of neutrality snap. Narcissa indeed read his thoughts.
"Your father is out," she said, a bit too casually. "We probably won't see much of him for the rest of your time here."
Draco exhaled quietly, relieved, understanding that Narcissa had probably sent Lucius away. "Alright, Mother."
Draco paused, struggling with how to proceed. Eventually, he asked, "Do you think you'll both return to England soon?" His father's political ambitions were concerning, and he wondered what his mother thought of them.
"If I do, it won't be until late next year," she responded. "I have a life here. There are things I need to settle if I'm to leave." She hesitated, then added softly, "And I will only return to England if you want me there."
Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I've never not wanted you there, Mother," he said quietly.
Narcissa's face softened. "I know how unhappy you were. We survived the Dark Lord, but his presence lingered with us. Back then, I had hoped Astoria would help ease that, but the engagement only seemed to make things … harder for you."
Draco stiffened at the mention of Astoria. He wasn't sure how much Narcissa knew of their recent escapade or if Lucius had said something to stir trouble. The idea of his father watching the Manor continued to rankle him. "I don't know what Father told you—"
"Your father is wrong more often than he's right," Narcissa cut him off gently. "I try my best, but unfortunately, I love him too much to control everything he does fully. I don't pay much heed to what he says."
Draco wasn't sure what to make of that. He stared at his mother, trying to untangle the emotions inside him. He wasn't ready to talk about Astoria or Granger—perhaps never about Granger—or anything. He was just tired of being pulled in different directions.
"I know you and Father resent that the estates have been taken out of your control," he ventured, trying to steer the conversation. "I have tried to defer to your wishes …"
Narcissa shook her head, her expression calm. "I'm happy you're Lord Malfoy now, Draco. You deserve the title, the vaults, all of it. It almost goes unsaid, but I will be blunt today. Your father didn't do a great job of protecting what was ours. For years, we were puppets, just trying to survive. Monsters roamed the home that I helped make for our family."
Draco's mind flashed to that awful day in the drawing room. Greyback's threats, Granger's screams, his cowardice. And the rest of the war at Malfoy Manor: the Dark Lord's hall of torture, Nagini, vampires, a giant's gargantuan footprint on South lawn …Surviving.
He clenched his fists. "Yes, we did what we could to survive, didn't we?" His voice was sharper than intended.
Narcissa's reply was gentle but firm. "Yes, and I'd do it all again because you're alive. Everything your father and I have done and will do is for you."
Draco let out a breath. "At some point, I need to control my own life."
His mother's eyes narrowed slightly, expression curious. "In what way do you feel you don't have control?"
Draco didn't have an immediate answer. For a long moment, there was silence. Then, he spoke slowly, uncertainly. "Either I'm Lord Malfoy, free to do as I please, or it's just another role I play. Trying to survive again. I don't know which. Whatever I do, I'm always thinking about whether it'll please you or if I'll end up fighting with Father again. So I just … do nothing. Avoid everything. It's easier that way."
Narcissa looked a bit sad, which made Draco feel guilty. She conceded, "You have a family legacy, yes, but it is a blessing as much as a burden. Perhaps if you have your own family, you'll find a new path for yourself. We should all think of the future more than the past—that's what it means to live for yourself. You can't always turn back time. … Surviving is not enough. Live, Draco. Live in the present. Think of what's ahead of you. You have a bright and promising future if you only seize it."
Did he? Draco could not see that future. He shifted in his chair, feeling trapped by the conversation. And then he stood. "I was just off for a fly, Mother. May we talk about this another time?"
Narcissa nodded, her eyes still soft. "Of course, dear."
The wind whipped against Draco's face as he soared high above the chateau, its ochre walls and slate rooftops nestled within the rolling hills of Provence. The estate stretched beneath him: olive groves, lavender fields, and a small vineyard glittered in the afternoon sun.
As he ascended, the whistling wind began to drown out the distant hum of cicadas.
The higher Draco flew, the more the chaos inside him settled. He was still confused and angry, but at least he could breathe up there. He focused on the steady rhythm of his broom gliding through the air and the sight of the landscape blurring beneath him.
It was in the atmosphere, clear and cool and vacant of the tribulations of his life, that Draco finally admitted to himself—bitterly, reluctantly—that he fancied Hermione Granger.
It wasn't just the physical attraction, though there was certainly that. No, it was deeper, more complicated. He admired Granger—her strength, tenacity, and refusal to let anything keep her down. Not his pathetic past bullying, not international political turmoil, not a dubiously motivated mandatory leave from her career. She acted freely and was unapologetically herself in a way he could never emulate.
Merlin, how he hated that about himself.
Granger didn't deserve his pathetic infatuation, the weight of his twisted feelings. She deserved to be free of the past and everything that came with it—free of him, too. He was a living embodiment of the worst parts of her history: the war and everything they had endured.
He gritted his teeth and leaned forward on his broom, flying faster. He needed to regain control of his life. It wasn't just Granger. It was his inability to feel comfortable in society; it was his father, too, always looming, judging, and pulling the strings.
Draco couldn't control Lucius. Even if he could, part of him didn't want to. Despite everything, a part of him still craved his father's approval, as twisted and hollow as it might be. But if Draco wanted to be his own person, he couldn't waste time living up to Lucius Malfoy's expectations. He would monitor his father's actions—perhaps Muffy could help—but act on his own accord.
He felt lighter after deciding that.
That's when he saw it.
In the distance was a flash of metal—a Muggle automobile, of all things—driving along the road bordering the estate. The chateau was warded to the hilt with Muggle-repelling charms. In all the years he had visited with his parents, he'd never seen a Muggle automobile come anywhere near the place.
Draco hovered in the air, frowning as he watched it draw closer. It stopped at the edge of the wards, then abruptly turned around. He exhaled, relieved, thinking the wards had worked. But then, just as suddenly, the automobile swerved back toward the chateau, heading straight for the front drive.
What the bloody hell?
He flew lower, close enough now to make out the vehicle more clearly. It was a sky-blue thing with black-and-white wheels and no roof.
And sitting behind the wheel, with her wild hair tucked beneath a cobalt blue headscarf, was Granger. Theo was in the backseat, wearing a ridiculous tweed cap and goggles, and Pansy sat in the passenger seat, her head wrapped in a matching silk scarf to Granger's, hers emerald green.
What in Merlin's name were they doing?
Draco flew to where the car had stopped, landing inside the wards from them. He cast a spell to hear what they were saying, piercing through the magical boundary. Immediately, a strange noise—Music?—blared through the air. Lyrics he didn't recognize floated to him over the breeze.
"When the sun shines, we shine together. Told you I'll be here forever. Said I'll always be your friend. Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end …"
"Are you sure it's here?" Granger's voice rose over the odd lyrics.
"Clearly not, Hermione," Pansy snapped.
Draco's brow furrowed. Since when didPansycall Granger by her first name?
"That hill feels familiar," Theo remarked, pointing directly at Draco, whom he could not see.
Pansy groaned. "In what way?"
Theo sighed. "Must I face an inquisition?"
With a bemused laugh, Granger said, "Maybe you should get out and apparate in? There must be wards."
Granger was the only one with some sense among them.
Theo protested. "It feels wrong to leave you on this deserted road."
Granger laughed again. "I will need to drive back to Aix-en-Provence alone anyway."
Pansy, clearly annoyed, grumbled, "Why did we even try to drive here in a Muggle car?"
Draco decided he'd listened for long enough. As the Lord of the chateau, he was keyed into the wards and could lift them at will. With a quick flick of his wand, he dropped the boundary over the front drive, revealing himself, the extensive moat, the lowered drawbridge, and the looming castle behind him.
"Need some help?" His voice cut through the air.
All three stared at him in shock, and Theo laughed loudly.
"Draco!" Theo gestured to the vehicle. "Hermione took us for a ride in her Muggle automobile. Look—isn't it pretty?"
Draco's eyes flicked to the vehicle. The thing was quite attractive, but he did not say that.
"I can see," he said dryly.
Granger turned the music down to a dull hum. Pansy crossed her arms and said, "You're a total prat, you know. We're your guests, and you just abandoned us."
Draco cleared his throat, acutely aware that he still hadn't spoken to Granger directly since the greenhouse. Standing there facing the ridiculous sight of his friends in a Muggle automobile, Draco decided awkwardly avoiding Granger was doing more harm than good for his twisted infatuation.
He attempted to deflect like he'd seen Theo do countless times before. "Sorry for running off. Thanks for minding the children, Granger."
Granger looked at him over the top of her sunglasses, and the image of her warm brown eyes peeking out almost undid him.
"No problem," she said before casting her eyes behind Draco. "… Is that a moat?"
Draco coughed, uncomfortable. "Yes."
Theo grinned. "Isn't it charming?"
Granger tilted her head. "Why does your estate need Muggle defense techniques when you have powerful wards?"
"The chateau predates the Statute of Secrecy," Draco explained. "It was built to blend in without magic."
"Interesting," Granger murmured.
An awkward silence fell.
Draco broke it. "Do you all want to come in, or are you continuing your journey elsewhere?"
Pansy sighed dramatically. "Hermione, this was both terrifying and lovely. Terrifying in that I felt like I would die at any moment, but lovely in that I love a headscarf."
She delicately removed the scarf and glasses, holding them out to Granger, but Granger just shook her head. "Keep them. They look good on you."
Pansy smiled. "They do, don't they? Thanks."
"Can I keep my cap and goggles?" Theo asked with a grin.
Granger raised an eyebrow. "You conjured them."
Theo beamed. "And I did it very well if I do say so myself."
Pansy awkwardly beheld the car's door and looked lost. Draco then made an impulsive offer, directing his voice at Granger, "Do you … want to take your automobile up to the entrance?"
Granger frowned without hesitation. "No."
Draco's stomach sank. Of course not. What kind of a stupid question was that?
"It's not that—" Granger faltered, clearly uncomfortable. "The car has electrical components. I worry that if I drive it inside your wards, it will never work again, and it's just a rental. I don't own it."
"What's electrical?" Theo asked, leaning forward toward Granger from his position in the back seat.
"The radio, the ignition … you know, I'm not entirely sure the extent of it. There's a battery inside the front there," Granger replied, pointing through the glass windshield.
"The battery holds electricity?"
"Yes, that is its sole function."
"What if we encased the battery in a magic-dampening panel?" Theo wondered, half lost in his head.
"You think that might prevent magic from making it go haywire?" Granger asked, half-turning in her seat to look at Theo directly.
"No idea what haywire means, but yes!"
Granger and Theo began speaking closely in rapid, technical terms, and Draco could barely keep up from his position. Pansy finally figured out how to open the car's door and exited the vehicle, coming to stand beside Draco as she rolled her eyes.
"Think they'll be a while?"
Draco frowned. "Hard to say." He allowed himself to be mesmerized by Granger's lips as they formed the foreign words of response to Theo's questions.
"Could you fly me back over the moat? I've learned today that I don't have the right cushioning charms on these shoes for gravel."
"Sure," Draco murmured. He wondered what it would be like for Granger to drive him around the countryside. He wondered if she only listened to contemporary Muggle music or if she would enjoy the instrumentals he kept in his brass music case at the Manor.
He glanced at Pansy, who gave him a somber but quizzical look. "Are you alright?"
"What a theory!" Theo exclaimed loudly, breaking the frantic whisperings of his conversation with Granger.
"It's certainly worth investigating …" Granger said, eyeing the span of her vehicle behind the steering wheel with the fervor of a swot before an exam. "Of course, building a car that runs entirely on magic is possible. But if we're right, this could apply to more than just cars. Have you ever heard of a cellular phone?"
"Is that like a telephone?" Theo asked.
"Yes, but you can carry it with you everywhere. They don't work at all near magical properties. I thought it was because they operate on satellite and other airborne signal networks, and wards interrupt the signals from transferring, but what if the receivers are the issue? If we encase them to protect from magic …"
"Oi," Pansy called. "Can you revolutionize Muggle technology later? I need some tea."
"Hermione, this is quite exciting—for me, at least. Let's talk more about this," Theo told Granger with one of his tones that Draco knew immediately meant he was serious.
"Yes," Granger agreed, and she had that glint in her eye that he'd only ever seen when they'd been at Hogwarts—during the early years before everything had gone to shit.
Theo awkwardly climbed out of the back seat of the automobile without opening the door like Pansy had. He turned to face Granger from outside the vehicle and asked, "Will we see you at the final on Saturday?"
Granger nodded. "I'll be there. The Weasleys purchased a box."
"Brilliant! Perhaps I'll stop in," Theo replied.
Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I … won't be doing that. Will we see you at the gala?"
Granger chuckled. "Yes, I'll be there, too."
With that, she turned the knob on the radio, and another loud song blasted from the speakers.
"One night and one more time. Thanks for the memories. Even though they weren't so great …"
"Goodbye!" she called, and then the engine purred to life.
Draco watched Granger longingly as the car kicked up dust in its wake.
Three Days Later—
Saturday, August 25, 2007
French National Quidditch Stadium, Provence
The French National Quidditch Stadium was a marvel, built into the rocky cliffs of the southern coast. Its high walls were draped in deep crimson and gold banners bearing the Fleur-de-lis of France and the roaring lion of England. Tall, enchanted glass windows lined the uppermost levels, allowing spectators to see the Mediterranean waters crashing in the distance.
On the day of the European Championship Final, the sky was a cloudless, dazzling sapphire blue, and the high noon sunlight glinted like stars off the polished wooden stands.
As Draco, Pansy, and Theo made their way to their box, Draco admired how the stadium was constructed in layers, each section curving elegantly upward like the rows of a grand amphitheater. Their box was not the highest, but it was high enough to provide an excellent view of the field of play. A gentle breeze fluttered through the air, carrying the scent of salt and freshly cut grass from the sea and pitch below.
Draco's steps slowed as they entered their box, a comfortable and modest area with cushioned seats and carved wooden railings.
The rest of the box contained several well-dressed, clearly affluent French families. A dark-haired and poised woman sat beside her husband and their three young children. The children squirmed excitedly, the oldest tugging at his father's sleeve, eager for the match to commence.
Draco, Pansy, and Theo filed in—Pansy immediately selected the seat furthest away from the children, and Theo happily plopped down beside her. That left Draco to be the seatmate of a young girl no more than five years old, who looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
He knew immediately that he would not be able to handle terrified children for the entire match, so he tried to diffuse the tension.
"Êtes-vous excités de regarder le match?" Draco asked in what he hoped was a kind manner, leaning slightly toward the three young siblings. The children looked up, wide-eyed, at the tall stranger speaking to them in perfect French. [Are you excited to see the match?]
The oldest one, a boy of about ten that reminded Draco very much of Teddy Lupin replied. "Oui, très excités, c'est la première fois pour nous." [Yes very excited, it is our first time.]
Draco followed up with an obvious question, "Vous encouragez l'équipe de France?" [Are you supporting France?]
The little girl beside him cried, "Bien sûr!" [Of course!]
"Malheureusement, je suis Anglais. J'espère que vous n'y voyez pas d'inconvénient à un peu de concurrence." Draco almost laughed at the shocked expressions on their faces. [Unfortunately, I am English. I hope you don't mind a bit of competition.]
The middle child, a girl with long brown hair, said,"C'est ridicule d'être Anglais!" [It's silly to be English!]
At that point, the children's parents were eyeing Draco suspiciously, clearly ready to step in if needed.
Draco said, "Que diriez-vous de ceci? Si la France marque le premier but, je vous prendre une glace? Seulement si votre parents sont d'accord, bien sûr." [How about this? If France scores the first point, I will buy everyone an ice cream. Only if your parents agree, of course.]
The mother smiled warmly, clearly appreciative of Draco's gesture.
"Oui!" the youngest girl replied, glancing at her siblings, who nodded enthusiastically. [Yes!]
Draco nodded politely before pulling out his omnioculars and focusing on the pitch. He scanned the players stretching on the field, their brightly colored robes a blur of movement. He quickly spotted the English players on one side, clad in their distinctive navy blue uniforms, and his eyes narrowed in on a head with familiar red hair. The Weaslette was there, limbering up near the goalposts, looking determined.
Across the pitch, the French team, dressed in pristine white with gold accents, made their preparations. Their robes fluttered as they flew drills. As more spectators filed in, the stadium's din grew.
Pansy also peered through her omnioculars but not at the players. She scanned the stands, her lips curving into a smirk. Without putting down her device, she leaned closer to Draco and whispered, "Guess what, Draco? We might have the best view in the house … for you."
Draco blinked, confused, lowering his omnioculars. "What are you on about?"
Still grinning mischievously, Pansy lowered her omnioculars and pointed across the stadium, directly opposite their box. Draco followed her line of sight through his device. It didn't take long to spot the heads of fiery red hair scattered throughout the opposite box. Weasleys. At least seven of them sat together, their animated faces turned toward the pitch.
And there, unmistakably amidst them, were Potter and Granger.
"You must be joking," Draco muttered under his breath, lowering his omnioculars just as Theo, who had also been looking, let out a low chuckle.
"Well, Draco," Theo said, his voice thick with amusement. "This is lovely. Two easily accessible sources of entertainment."
Draco felt his pulse quicken as he tore his gaze away from the Weasley box. "Shut up," he muttered, though he could feel heat creeping up his neck.
Pansy nudged him from across Theo's lap. "It's going to be rather difficult to pretend you're not looking."
"I'mnotlooking," Draco snapped, though he knew it was a losing battle. He could feel Granger's presence even then, tugging at the edges of his awareness.
He stubbornly pointed his omnioculars back toward the pitch. He resolved not to look at the box again, though part of him already recognized the futility of that idea.
Theo leaned toward Draco and asked, "Any bets on the match length?"
Draco considered the question and replied, "It can't be more than four hours. The seekers are excellent on both teams."
"I'll take the over," Theo replied, and they shook hands.
The match lasted for three full days and two hours. It was the longest-recorded final match in the history of the European Quidditch Association and the twelfth-longest match of all time.
Hour One—
England scored the first goal. The Weaslette led a rally that resulted in England leading by fifty points within the first twenty minutes. It was an exciting and auspicious start to the match.
The French children in Draco's box were disappointed, pouting furiously as the rest of the stadium oohed and ahhed with every swerve of a broom.
Draco purchased ice cream for everyone in their box.
It had only taken Draco thirty minutes to give in and look at Granger through his omnioculars. She followed the match intently, particularly the Weaslette, which made sense. Draco supposed they were friends.
Hour Four—
By the fourth hour, Granger looked increasingly concerned. Draco observed her for several minutes straight, during which she checked the time using her wand and asked Weasley—Draco reluctantly admitted to recognizing most of them by name; it was Ronald—a question that he dismissed rather rudely. Granger then pulled out that ridiculous tiny bag of hers, stuck her hand inside, and emerged with a thick tome.
Draco zoomed in on his omnioculars, spotting the words THE HISTORY OF QUIDDITCH: ITS GREATEST MATCHES. Draco laughed to himself. He owned that book. He wondered whether Granger was reviewing the chapter detailing the longest match in modern Quidditch history, which had lasted seven full days.
There was no way this final would last much longer. He could already see the French keeper losing energy, and both team's seekers were on high alert.
Hour Ten—
The sun had set.
The match had begun at midday, and now the sky was pitch black, though the stadium lights were too bright for Draco to notice any stars.
Pansy was long gone. She had departed around dinnertime with a "Ta-ta!" and a halfhearted promise to return in the morning "if this cursed match is still crawling along like a terminally ill flobberworm."
Theo was sleeping peacefully with his head in Draco's lap. Draco was too tired to protest, his eyes straining to follow the match even though the players also struggled to maintain their energy.
Draco also tried to keep still because the young French girl had slumped to his side, her blonde curls falling over her face.
Hour Twelve—
The English and French coaches called for a mutual halt to the match. The exhausted players landed on the pitch, flopping to the ground.
The reserve squads took to the air, and the game continued.
Hour Fifteen—
Draco woke with a start. He did not remember falling asleep, and a quick check of his pocket watch revealed that it was now three a.m.
The stadium was mostly empty; only the truly devoted remained.
Granger had left hours ago—after Pansy but before the French children had trudged out reluctantly after their parents with promises of returning the next day if the match continued. Only Potter and three Weasley brothers remained. Draco was too tired to remember all their names.
"I think the French seeker saw the snitch," Theo said beside Draco.
Draco almost yelped, not realizing Theo was conscious. He looked at his friend, who appeared to be buzzing.
"What happened?"
With eyes still glued to the slow-moving players, Theo said, "She saw the snitch and didn't go for it because France is down by 200 points. By the time the English seeker realized, the snitch was gone."
"Fuck," Draco muttered. "… Are you okay?"
"Took an invigoration draught," Theo replied, offering a bright purple vial to Draco. "Want one?"
Draco winced, instantly disgusted at the thought of downing the potion. "No. Just wake me if something good happens."
Draco transfigured the three children's chairs into a mildly comfortable settee and closed his eyes.
Hour Twenty-Four—
Draco awoke from his third nap with a start; the somewhat rested returning attendees shouted when the English keeper nearly crashed into his goalpost.
The children were back, and so was Granger in the Weasley box. Draco had watched with deep resentment when Granger had reentered the box alongside the Weasley matriarch earlier and gently woke Potter and the remaining Weasleys with fresh tea and hot sandwiches from the concession stand.
Theo, oddly, was nowhere to be found. Draco shrugged and pulled out his omnioculars again. And again, he did not watch the match.
Granger looked rested and content, sitting in her chair with a book in her lap and her feet propped on a conjured footrest. She was blissfully unaware of the match's happenings.
The inhabitants of the Wesley box suddenly moved in unison, turning back toward the entrance, and Draco almost gasped at the sight of Theo entering the box.
George Weasley was the first to greet him, followed by Granger and Potter, who looked skeptical at Theo's presence. Theo, ever comfortable wherever he went, plopped himself happily in a seat next to Granger and pointed at her book. She started chatting with him as if they were old friends.
Draco dug the omnioculars into his eyes.
And then—Theo looked up and across the stadium, squinting directly into Draco's eyes as if he could sense that Draco was watching. Draco growled softly, and Theo, from across the stadium, smirked.
Mother Weasley offered a cup of tea to Theo, who happily accepted. Within minutes, they had all settled in to watch the second day of the match as if Theo was part of their family. Draco threw his omnioculars on the adjacent seat and tried to concentrate on the interminable Quidditch plays before him.
The match was dire, indeed. The reserve squad had tapped out, and the original players retook the field with insufficient rest. Weaslette and the other English chasers had allowed France to bring the score within 100 points, making the snitch more critical than ever.
But it was nowhere to be found.
Hour Twenty-Eight—
Theo eventually returned to Draco's side, looking smug and offering no details—and Draco did not deign to acknowledge his interest in Theo's disappearance.
"You said you'd be back in the morning!" Theo complained when Pansy walked in with a fresh manicure and looking delightfully alert.
"I made no promises," she lied, taking her seat. Looking disgusted, she sniffed and added, "You smell."
"Did you bring us anything?" Theo asked hopefully.
"No.Scourgify. Scourgify. Scourgify."
Hour Thirty-Six—
In a dramatic and painful turn of events, one of the French seekers fell from her broom, unable to muster the energy to continue.
Draco stood after checking to see if Granger was still there (she wasn't).
"Alright. I'm going home. Be back after a shower and a nap."
Theo protested, "Don't leave me!"
"Why don't you come along?" Draco offered. "We put up a good fight. If the match ends while we're gone … we'll pretend we saw everything."
Theo looked resigned. "Okay." He stood, walked two steps toward the box's exit, and promptly collapsed.
Draco had to spoon-feed Theo half a mouthful of invigoration draught so that he could make it to the Floo on his own.
Hour Forty-Eight—
Draco and Theo returned to find the match still progressing with no end in sight. Theoretically, it could end at any moment, but the snitch continued to bugger off.
It was the first time that Draco seriously questioned the mechanics of Quidditch. This sort of thing would never have happened at Wimbledon.
That reminded Draco that he needed to purchase a souvenir for Teddy. He bitterly considered that Potter would do the same and resolved to buy one of everything from the English and French merchandise stands.
Pansy had abandoned the match and decided to shop in Paris with Narcissa for the day. The Quidditch Gala, originally scheduled for that night, had been postponed indefinitely until the match ended.
Across the stadium, Potter and the Weasley brothers had also disappeared. Only Granger, Mother Weasley, and two redheaded children remained. Draco knew some of the Weasleys had procreated but would not be able to say whom if his life depended on it.
Granger held a small girl in her arms, showing her how to look through the omnioculars.
While demonstrating, Granger's gaze panned toward Draco, who panicked and dropped his device. He looked anywhere but across from him. The young French girl, whom Draco now knew was called Louise, tugged at Draco's sleeve.
"Est-ce que nous pouvons prendre une autre glace?" [May we buy another ice cream?]
Hour Sixty—
Theo was sleeping with his head in Draco's lap, again, and Draco was too tired,again,to shove him off. Behind them, a white-haired wizard was snoring loudly.
The Weaslette scored, again, against the French keeper, who had not bothered to try saving the shot … again. The score was 950-1000, France.
The seekers—including the one who had fallen the day prior—seemed to gain a second wind.
Hour Seventy-Two—
This was it. It had to be.
Draco and Theo shot to their feet. The English seeker had spotted the snitch. He shot toward the corner of the pitch, behind the French goalpost. The snitch was fluttering near the ground.
But then—a French beater, with a yell of crazed desperation, flew directly into the English seeker, knocking him off his broom and earning France a fifty-point penalty.
The snitch disappeared again.
Hour Seventy-Four—
The French seeker caught the snitch. No one had noticed until she flew to the center of the pitch, arm aloft, and released a crazed, feral cry.
The French team won, 2050 to 1990.
Later that night—
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
French National Quidditch Stadium, Provence
The humid evening air off the southern coast of Provence brushed against Draco's face as he walked beside Theo and Pansy toward the French National Quidditch Stadium.
Again.
Draco had no desire to return to the stadium, having departed it only eight hours earlier, but the French government had allegedly transformed the pitch into a venue for their championship gala. The stadium, built partially into the jagged cliffs of the shore, loomed over the Mediterranean, the nighttime rendering the waters into a churning darkness. Draco, too engrossed in the interminable final, had not had a chance to appreciate the site over the prior days.
Distant music floated over the roar of the crashing waters. Beyond, the horizon melded with the inky darkness of the night sky. Constellations twinkled above them—Orion's Belt, Cassiopeia—but it was the bright full moon that commanded Draco's attention as they approached the stadium's entrance with a dozen or so other attendees.
Pansy glanced around at the sheer number of guards stationed around the perimeter. There were at least thirty French Aurors, some pacing, others stationed by tall iron gates enchanted with shimmering protective wards. "Security's pretty tight, isn't it?" she remarked.
Theo, hands casually in his pockets, nodded. "Looks like it."
"It's a full moon," Draco muttered, almost to himself. Then louder, "They're probably worried about another incident like Montauroux in April."
Pansy stiffened slightly. "Shit, I forgot. Why would they have this thing on the night of a full moon?"
Theo replied, "They didn't plan it, did they? Or did you forget we've just spent the last three days stuck watching that final?"
Pansy could hardly forget, Draco mused. He and Theo had barely stumbled through the Floo into Château Malfoy earlier that day, disheveled, smelling of sweat and exhaustion after the marathon match. He'd been so tired that he'd barely registered Pansy and Narcissa forcing them into a bath before collapsing into bed. He'd only woken up two hours ago, groggy and drooling, to prepare for this gala.
Pansy sniffed. "It was already delayed once. Might as well have pushed it another day, considering the troubles we've all been having."
Draco didn't say it aloud, but he agreed. Especially as they neared the main entrance, where the Aurors weren't the only ones on duty. Between every few guards stood figures so still they looked like statues.
Vampires. Draco froze.
They were deathly pale with dark, flowing robes that seemed to sap the warmth from the summer air. As Draco and his friends drew closer, the more he felt the temperature of the balmy summer evening drop.
Draco's hand shot out, gripping Theo's arm. "Are those what I think they are?" he hissed.
Theo followed his gaze. "What, the vampires?" His voice was low but unconcerned. "Yeah. I think so."
Draco's eyes darted to an unusually tall vampire standing by the cliffside, white-haired and looming. The dreadful recognition washed over him: This was Ersilia's coven, the same one he'd seen at the Victory Ball in May, the one Blaise had told him was negotiating with the English and French ministries about investigating the werewolf attacks.
Draco leaned closer to Theo, his voice barely a whisper. "I think this is Ersilia's coven. You remember—the one that tried to ally with the Dark Lord during the war."
Theo frowned. "How do you know?"
"I recognize them," Draco muttered. "From the Manor back then. They were at the Ministry in May, too. Blaise told me they were in negotiations with the French. … I thought it was a bloody terrible idea."
Theo's jaw tightened at the sound of Blaise's name, and Draco felt guilty for even bringing up the topic. Theo said, "It seems that they followed through."
"What are you talking about?" Pansy's voice cut in.
"Draco's worried about the vampire guards," Theo told her.
Pansy gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I just hope they're notinside. They certainly bring down the mood, don't they?"
Draco couldn't argue. The air around them was growing colder, and the light seemed to dim as they passed by the vampires. Draco shivered, more from the eerie sensation than the temperature, as they reached the entrance. He tried not to think about the Dark Lord and Ersilia and those horrid, impermeable memories. Their tickets were scanned, and they were admitted with relatively little hassle.
The moment Draco stepped into the stadium, his unease evaporated, replaced by astonishment.
The transformation of the Quidditch pitch was breathtaking. What had earlier been a vast, grassy field was now a sprawling open-air ballroom. A polished hardwood dance floor covered the ground, enchanted to shimmer underfoot and reflect the thousands of floating fairy lights above. Rich, flowing fabric draped the stadium's high walls in whites, deep reds, and royal blues, marking the national colors of the competing teams.
A massive orchestra played a lively tune at one end of the space, the sound swelling through the air. Towering decorative pillars were topped with golden torches, and white-clothed tables spanned the perimeter.
The place was packed. Guests in luxurious robes moved gracefully across the dance floor, and the chatter of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses filled the space.
Pansy grinned, clearly satisfied with their fashionably late arrival, which she had insisted on. "Well," she drawled, glancing around, "they spared no expense. Just my type of party."
Theo grabbed three glasses of champagne from a passing enchanted tray, handing one to Draco and one to Pansy before taking his own. "Cheers," he said with a grin, raising his glass. "Here's to a lovely evening for all of us."
Draco sipped the dry drink, and the three friends stood silently in their secluded corner near the entryway for several minutes. From his position, Draco spotted a couple of vampires through the large gateway. He eyed them warily.
Pansy nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Since you're my host," she said, her voice sweet but with an edge, "I'm claiming you as a temporary date. Take me for a dance, won't you?"
He turned to her, some surprise showing on his face. "I seem to remember you not being very pleased with me back at the Yule Ball, fourth year."
Pansy raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "That had nothing to do with your dancing, Draco. It had to do with your awful personality."
"I hear my personality has only gotten worse," Draco drawled.
Pansy didn't miss a beat, holding out her hand with a grin. "Well?"
Draco let out a sigh, reaching for her hand. "May I have this dance?"
Before Pansy could respond, Theo's voice cut through their exchange. "Leaving me alone thirty seconds into the evening. Typical."
"Don't worry, darling," Pansy shot back at him with a wink, "you're next."
Theo rolled his eyes and gestured to an impressively long bar that stretched the entire width of the dance floor, glittering with crystal decanters, bottles from every corner of the wizarding world, and gold-clad bartenders mixing up extravagant drinks.
"I'll be over there," Theo pointed, "I think I see some signature cocktails."
Without another word, Theo strode off, leaving Draco and Pansy to their dance. The music swelled into a soft, nondescript waltz as Draco guided Pansy to the floor. He swept her into his arms with an ease that surprised even him. It had been over a year since he last attended a formal event.
Pansy's bespoke coral robes, which she commissioned explicitly for this Mediterranean gala, shimmered under the soft lights, catching the attention of several onlookers. Draco had to admit—as he often did—that she looked beautiful.
As they twirled together across the dance floor, Draco wondered what life would be like if it had worked out between them. Perhaps he wouldn't be wrestling with these maddening emotions about Granger, dealing with Astoria's machinations, or his mother's relentless matchmaking. It might've all been easier.
"Snap out of it," Pansy's voice broke through his thoughts. "Will you try to be a charming date for a moment? We've only been dancing for ten seconds."
Draco muttered, "Sorry," and slipped into the automatic headspace his mother's dance instructors drilled into him during his youth. His feet moved through the motions, muscle memory taking over as they spun gracefully across the floor.
When the song ended, Draco escorted Pansy back to the bar where Theo was already perched, a satisfied grin plastered across his face. By the look of the two empty glasses in front of him, he was already on his third evening cocktail.
"It's delicious!" Theo declared, holding up another drink. "Some muddled blackberries or something. Here, have one!" Without waiting for a response, he shoved two freshly made cocktails into Draco and Pansy's hands.
"Watch the fabric!" Pansy snapped, giving Theo a sharp glare as she carefully took a sip.
Draco took a swig from his glass, pleased by the burst of flavor.
Pansy turned to Theo. "Have you seen anyone we know?"
Theo shook his head, eyes still gleaming from his indulgence. "Not yet."
Draco raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the glasses littering the bar in front of Theo. "He's been busy. Can't you tell?"
Pansy frowned. "I do not want to drag your unconscious body back to the chateau at the end of the evening. Please control yourself."
Theo grinned mischievously. "Shan't!"
Pansy muttered, "Forget it. If not for the liquor, you'd get piss drunk on your antics."
"Cheers!" came Theo's irreverent reply.
Rolling her eyes, Pansy turned, scanning the room with a practiced sweep of her gaze. Draco's mind wandered again, contemplating how many drinks it would take to make the rest of this gala bearable. Before he could make a decision, Pansy stiffened beside him.
"Oh, wonderful," she said with a smirk. "Draco, your evening's entertainment is here."
Draco followed her gaze across the room and immediately spotted them: Granger, flanked by Potter and Weasley—her usual Weasley. Even from this distance, the sight of her made his stomach twist. Her brown curls framed her face perfectly, and her gown—blue with a pattern that he could not distinguish—appeared tight against the curves of her torso.
"Granger and her two trolls," Pansy commented dryly.
Draco's eyes narrowed. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't want to admire her up close, shouldn't feel the pull in his chest at the sight of her. He'd resolved to overcome this ridiculous infatuation, yet he was staring across the ballroom like a lovesick fool.
"I can't tell fully," Theo teased from behind them, "but I think Hermione looks stunning."
Draco turned away sharply, clutching his drink. He said nothing, the heat rising to his face. It wasn't his business.
Theo shot him a sidelong glance. "Don't be morose, Draco. Maybe she and the hot werewolf lawyer broke up?"
"They didn't. But they also haven't shagged yet," Pansy said casually as if it weren't the most outrageous topic of conversation Draco had ever heard. Draco didn't move and pretended he wasn't listening. Pansy continued, "If you ask me, I don't think she likes him. What grown witch wouldn't take that tall beast to bed in an instant?"
"It doesn't matter," Draco hissed, his voice sharper than intended.
"Yeah, sure," Theo replied, dripping with sarcasm. Then, with a mischievous glint, he added, "Well, if it doesn't matter to you, then you also wouldn't mind if I go and ask Hermione to dance?"
Draco ground his teeth together, forcing his features into a mask of indifference. "No, of course I wouldn't mind."
"Great!" Theo exclaimed. Before Draco could process what was happening, Theo was gone, weaving through the crowd, heading straight for Granger.
Draco watched Theo's retreating form with a dark glare that could have turned someone to stone.
Pansy, catching his expression, elbowed him playfully in the side. "I miss broody and mysterious Draco. That wasn't even ten seconds of classic Theodore ribbing, and already you're in a snit."
Draco turned his glare on her, but she only raised an amused eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.
"Fear not," she remarked, reaching up to adjust his lapel, "Broody Draco's in there somewhere. Let me fix your collar before you burn a hole in Theo's back with those glares."
Draco kept one eye on Theo as she fussed with his robes, watching him snake his way through the crowd toward Granger. The bile of jealousy rose as Theo offered her his hand, a charming smile on his lips. Worse yet—Granger took it. They stepped onto the dance floor, and Theo spun her into his arms.
Draco scoffed.
Pansy turned her head to follow his gaze, spotting Theo and Granger dancing. "Let's get you another drink, then," she suggested, ever perceptive. Draco wordlessly agreed, and over the next five minutes, he downed three shots of whiskey, relishing the burn.
Draco watched Theo converse with Granger as they ignored the waltz's strictures—Theo just did a bloody pirouette, for Merlin's sake! They paused dancing occasionally because their conversation was so bloody engrossing. They probably discussed Muggle automobiles again.
The music changed, and Theo and Granger continued through a second dance.
Draco turned back to the bar, contemplating whether another shot of whiskey would make him retch. He found Pansy watching him with a wry smile.
"What?" he snapped, perhaps more sharply than intended.
"I've never seen you like this."
"What—ill?" Draco quipped.
"Jealous."
"I'm not. Theo is gay."
"Oh really?" The sarcasm dripped as Pansy rolled her eyes. "You were kind of like this at the Yule Ball, you know. When Hermione was there with Krum. But it was more of a disgusted, angry sort of thing—don't look at me like that, Draco. I know. I was your date. It was jealousy but more of a why-does-she-get-all-the-attention jealousy. Now you want to be the onegivingher attention."
Draco concealed his reaction behind another sip of his drink. The alcohol was starting to roil in his stomach. Pansy was right. He could barely stand to look at Granger with Theo, even though nothing romantic was happening between them.
Apropos of nothing, Draco was a better dancer than Theo. He would have led Granger through the waltzproperly.
Pansy set her glass down and smirked. "How about I cut in and dance with Theo?" she suggested. "Then you can grab Hermione. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, Draco. It'd be rude not to step in and rescue her. Proper manners and all that." Her hand patted his shoulder, smugness practically oozing from her voice. "You owe me a favor now."
Draco's initial instinct was to protest. Despite his daydreaming, there was no way he could handle dancing with Granger. His pulse was erratic from the mere sight of her. But before he could form a coherent refusal, Pansy turned and strutted off toward the dance floor, leaving him in a panic.
Draco watched in silent horror as Pansy tapped Theo on the shoulder. Theo grinned at her and whispered something to Granger, but Pansy dragged him off, leaving Granger standing alone in the middle of the other dancers, looking confused.
Draco's heart hammered in his chest as he stuttered toward her, uselessly rehearsing what he'd say. But before he got anywhere close, someone knocked into him—hard.
The impact pushed Draco off-balance, spinning his body around as his legs and arms tangled with his offender. When he righted himself, Draco whipped his head upright to glare at the boor, only to be met with a familiar scowl and thick accent.
"Excuse me," Viktor Krum muttered, hardly sparing Draco a glance as he bulldozed his way through the crowd, heading straight for Granger.
Victor fucking Krum.
Draco's face twisted in disgust, and his stomach churned even more violently as the scene unfolded. Granger's face lit up when she saw Krum, her eyes wide in excitement, and then—to Draco's utter horror—she jumped into his arms. Krum swung her around as though they were characters in some overly dramatic romance novel. Draco's heart sank.
They danced together like the only two people in the room.
Draco stood rooted to the spot, watching them spin clumsily through the end of the orchestra's song. His mind raced. Should he cut in now? Each time he considered taking a step, something held him back. Was he this much of a coward? But the moment had passed.
The song changed, and then Granger and Krum continued for a second bloody dance. Draco scowled, feeling the weight of his indecision crash over him in a bitter wave.
Eventually, Pansy and Theo found him, Pansy shaking her head with mock disappointment.
"Well, you mucked that one up, didn't you?" she said, crossing her arms with a smirk. "But you still owe me a favor, by the way. Theo stepped on my foot."
"I did not," Theo retorted indignantly. "I am an excellent dancer. You tripped over your own foot, Pans."
Pansy shrugged. "Whatever. I'm off. There's a delectable Quidditch player over there I fancy shagging. Don't wait up for me." With a playful wave, she sauntered off, leaving Theo and Draco alone.
Theo rubbed Draco's back in a failed attempt at comfort, which Draco immediately shrugged off.
"The night's young, mate," Theo said with a grin. "Who knows what could happen?"
Draco ignored him, smoothing down his robes where that tosser Krum had knocked into him. His fingers brushed against something in his pocket—two small vials. He frowned, pulling them out. One was a sobering potion, but the other caught his eye: a vial of silvery liquid. His anti-glamour potion.
He turned to Theo, confused. "Did you slip this into my pocket?"
Theo blinked at him, baffled. "No? Why would I do that?"
"This is my anti-glamour potion," Draco said, furrowing his brow. "I thought you said you would send it to the Potion Masters' Guild."
"I did!" Theo insisted. "You only gave me one, and I sent it off weeks ago. Why do you have another with you?"
Draco stared at the vials, unsure of what to make of it. He could've sworn he didn't pack this., but with the emergency at St. Mungo's, Granger's life on the line, their feverish encounter at the DA … well, Draco had packed in a messy haste. He tucked the potions back into his pocket, feeling more unsettled by the second.
Theo nudged him lightly. "How about we explore the food offerings, then? Maybe that'll take your mind off whatever just happened."
Draco sighed and pocketed the vials. "I guess …" he muttered, still distracted by his frustration. The evening was turning out to be an absolute disaster.
Theo led Draco over to the buffet, a long table laden with a feast of Provençal delicacies: platters of ratatouille, pissaladière tarts, crisp chickpea pancakes with olive tapenade, a grand bouillabaisse, and the most enormous basket of bread Draco had ever seen.
Draco picked at his favorites: a hefty spoonful of ratatouille, a slice of pissaladière, a small wedge of Roquefort, and a brioche roll the size of his fist.
Meanwhile, Theo took some of everything, his plate overflowing with food. Draco rolled his eyes as Theo piled on clams, cheeses, and pâté with no concern for flavor or stability. With his latest drink in one hand and the plate in the other, Theo wobbled to a nearby table, somehow managing to sit without spilling it all. Draco joined him with a more reasonable portion and ate silently.
Theo would hum in appreciation every few bites, muttering about how he should send Bob to culinary school. Draco merely nodded, stabbing his tart with a fork and sighing inwardly.
After a while, Theo broke the silence. "I forgot to mention that Hermione does indeed look stunning tonight. Even more so up close."
Draco's eyes shot daggers across the table, but he said nothing. His grip tightened on his fork, the tines eviscerating a thin slice of squash.
Theo continued, unfazed. "Her dress suits her—and with lovely long sleeves. It should prevent others from having any rude emotional outbursts."
"Shut up," Draco hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Theo looked at him with an innocent expression. "Oh, you know, the scar. The one that sent you running the other day like a crup fleeing a manticore."
"I did not run," Draco snapped, heat rising to his cheeks. "I was surprised. And I had a stomachache."
Theo nodded solemnly, though his eyes betrayed him. "Of course, mate. A stomachache."
Draco set his fork down, appetite gone, and leaned back in his chair. His heart raced, the memory of seeing Hermione's scar fresh in his mind. But Theo had already moved on, clearing more of his ridiculous plate and finishing his cocktail with a satisfied sigh.
"I think I need another drink," Theo declared, pushing his chair back. "Want one?"
Draco grunted in agreement, barely acknowledging Theo as he wandered back toward the bar.
Alone at the table, Draco stared up at the night sky above the gala. The full moon was clear and bright, but the stadium lights washed out the stars. A chill in the air made Draco shiver slightly.
Without warning, Draco felt a presence at his side, his skin prickling as a dark shadow slid into the chair where Theo had been. He turned slowly to find the vampire Ersilia beside him.
Ersilia's white hair cascaded down her back, and her pale and translucent skin seemed stretched too tight over her sharp cheekbones. But it was her eyes, cold and black, with no whites at all, that sent a shock of dread through Draco's veins.
"I remember you," Ersilia said in thickly accented English, her voice sending a shiver down his spine.
Draco swallowed hard, nearly choking on a stray piece of food.Fuckfuckfuck.He did not want to be remembered by Ersilia.
Ersilia's gaze did not waver. "You served theSeigneurVoldemort."
Draco's mind raced. He wondered if he could escape from her or if she would follow, like a predator stalking its prey. Her cold finger traced along his jawline, and he was grateful that he still possessed enough composure not to flinch away.
Her smile widened.
"You had a lovely home," she continued her voice barely above a whisper. "A shame I never spent more time there."
"We don't like visitors anymore," Draco managed to say, his throat tightening further. He was desperate for her to leave. He wished Obliviation worked on vampires; he would have risked anything to erase all knowledge of his existence from her mind.
Ersilia shrugged, her eyes never leaving his. "I am a nomad. … My coven will protect from any true wolves here tonight."
Draco remained silent, hoping his lack of response would end the conversation.
"You have the look of a child of the night," Ersilia uttered suddenly, her lips curving into a smile.
Draco stiffened. He most certainly did not, but he kept that thought to himself.
"It is something in your eyes. You understand the acute joy of suffering," she murmured, her voice soft, as though speaking of an old lover.
Draco's gut churned, and he abruptly pushed his chair back, the sound of wood scraping against the floor harsh in the air. "Excuse me," he muttered, turning to leave.
Before he could make a step, Ersilia's cold hand shot out and gripped his wrist, her touch icy even through his sleeve. "The Dark Lord promised my coven would grow," she whispered, her black eyes boring into his. "Remember me, Draco Malfoy."
No. Not hisname.Draco was terrified—more so than he had been in years. But the insinuation of Ersilia's comments also infuriatedhim.
"Remember me, Ersilia," Draco sneered, taking a page from Lucius's book of disdainful tones. It took all his energy to maintain the performance. "I am not among the sheep you fooled to acquire this position. Do not trifle with me."
Without waiting for Ersilia's reaction, Draco wrenched his arm free, turned on his heel, and bolted across the ballroom, knocking into several well-dressed attendees as his vision blurred.
His breathing was labored, and his chest felt tight with panic. Finally, he found refuge against a decorative pillar, pressing his back into the cold stone as he tried to calm his racing heart. Had Ersilia threatened him? Was it real? He pondered the possibility of getting an emergency portkey to England—but Ersilia could find him there, too.
Draco's heart still pounded when he heard a voice break through the haze.
"Hi, Malfoy … Are you alright?"
He opened his eyes to see Potter, of all people, standing before him with that irritatingly earnest expression plastered across his face.
Draco knew that no amount of Occlumency could hide the fear that Ersilia had elicited. So, he opted for bluntness.
"Do I bloody look alright, Potter?" Draco spat, relishing the flicker of annoyance that crossed Potter's features.
"Fine," Potter muttered. "Just wanted to return the favor from Mungo's. Have a good evening." He turned to leave.
But something stirred in Draco's mind—an impulse he didn't have time to second-guess. "Potter, wait."
Potter stopped, looking back at Draco with a weary expression. "What?"
Draco took a deep breath, trying to steady his pulse. "Are you aware of the DIMC negotiations with the French Ministry and a coven of vampires a few months ago?"
Potter furrowed his brow. "Not specifically, but the Ministries were trying everything after the first werewolf attack. So, I'm not surprised. I saw the vampires here. What's this about?"
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated by Potter's obliviousness. "The vampire guards on duty tonight belong to a coven closely allied with the Dark Lord."
Potter visibly tensed. "What?"
"It's the coven of a vampire named Ersilia," Draco explained, watching Potter's reaction closely. "The Dark Lord … experimented with them. Promised them power … recruits. He courted other covens, too."
The weight of Draco's words hung in the air, unspoken but clear.
Potter's expression darkened. "Okay …"
Draco's frustration deepened. "Potter, if you have any sense, you'll make sureyourMinistry doesn't partner with Ersilia nor help her negotiate with anyone else. This coven isn't interested in long-term peace."
Potter's gaze was sharp now, focused. "How do you know?"
Draco swallowed, his voice cold and clipped. "It's as I said. I had some experience with this coven during the war. I wouldn't trust any vampires I've encountered, but … especially not them."
To Draco's relief, Potter seemed to take his words seriously, nodding slowly. Then, Potter's eyes narrowed. "Did something happen to you?"
Draco straightened. "Of course not. What are you talking about?" He smoothed the line of his dress robes, trying to push the unease from his body. He took a second look at Potter, noticing his emerald-green robes. They were oddly familiar and ill-fitting around the shoulders and arms.
Draco smirked, finding some levity in the ridiculousness of it all. "Are those your dress robes from Hogwarts, Potter?"
Potter shifted uncomfortably, the movement making the poor tailoring all the more obvious.
Draco raised a brow. "I have to say, you were much better dressed at the Victory Ball."
"Those robes got ruined," Potter muttered, clearly uncomfortable. And Draco remembered that had been the night of the werewolf attacks.
Feeling done with dark and awkward conversations for the evening, Draco waved him off.
"Enjoy the evening, Potter." Without waiting for a response, Draco marched toward the bar.
The first drink he grabbed was a violently pink concoction, snatched from right in front of a petite witch, who immediately cursed him out in rapid-fire French. Draco didn't care—he downed the too-sweet drink in one go and tossed the empty glass into a potted fern.
He walked away imperiously, stretching his neck and savoring the pleasant buzz of alcohol warming his system. His earlier nausea was long forgotten. Draco debated whether or not to get violently drunk or to take the sobering potion in his pocket so that he could stay alert in case Ersilia wanted to have another conversation with him—one that involved more blood. Where the fuck had Theo gone?
Someone called his name.
"Draco!" The French accent sliced through the noise, and Draco's stomach sank. He knew that voice.
The blonde hair of Jacqueline Ballinois bobbed in determined strides toward him, cutting through the crowd like grindylow in shallow water. Draco's pulse kicked up again as her intent became clear.
He glanced around desperately, searching for an escape route. He spotted an opening on the dance floor, a path to freedom, and quickly dashed toward it.
But then, a body collided with him, halting his escape. Draco had to untangle his limbs from another person for the second time that evening.
"Malfoy!" a furious and familiar voice snapped at him.
Granger.
Draco barely had time to process her presence before his head whipped around to see Jacqueline closing in, her red-painted lips parting with what was sure to be a demand—for a nonconsensual dance or coerced marriage, he wasn't sure. There was no time.
Draco turned back to Granger, her eyes blazing into his, and made a split-second decision.
"Granger—dance with me."
Up Next: Hermione's night at the gala.