![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Fool (or) The Many Good Deeds of Draco Malfoy)
Wordcount: 18,000+
Rating: R
Warnings: EWE, language, sexual situations.
Thanks To My Betas: Sev1970, MelusinaHP, and Rox
Author's Note: This was written for the HDworldcup competaition. The prompts were based on tarot cards. Mine was The Fool, and explanation of the card is contained in the fic.
********
This fic is so large that this was separated into two parts. This is part one.
With all his worldly possessions in one small pack, the Fool travels he knows not where.
- The Fool Tarot Card
Wine this good, Harry thought, as he leaned back in his comfortable chair and took another sip of the mulled spiced alcohol, should be considered a sin.
He was close enough to the fireplace to feel the scorching heat on his cheeks. The crackle and pop of the logs couldn’t quite cover the steadily pounding rain outside, but Harry didn’t mind. Sheltered and out of the cold, sitting by a fire with his shoes kicked off, instead of sloshing around after law breakers and dark wizards in the storm was a nice change.
A very nice change, thought Harry as he took another sip and reached over to turn on the telly.
Harry didn’t have opportunity to indulge himself often; indeed, it was a rare occasion when he had a day off from work. As usual, Ginny wasn’t there to occupy his time because she was off playing in Wiltshire. Thanks in a large part to her skill and dogged determination, the Harpies were finally having a winning season.
The fire gave a pop and caused a bit of ember to explode out of a log and knock against one of the magical screens Harry had put up. It fell with a tiny crack to the tile, and Harry watched the light slowly fade as he sipped his wine.
“Master Potter, sir?”
Harry nearly jumped at the sound of Kreacher’s bullfrog voice so close to him. “Yes?” He tore his eyes away from the fire and glanced right beside the arm of his chair. How the old elf managed sneak up so quietly was beyond him.
Kreacher would never say so – he was nearly polite with a copy of Regulus’s locket around his neck – but from the tilt of his bat-like ears, and the glint in his eyes he still enjoyed being able to surprise his master.
“Mr. Malfoy is at the door asking to have a word, sir. Kreacher didn’t know Master Potter was expecting company. If Kreacher was told, Kreacher would have fixed some appetizers and tea for your guest.” There was more than a little censure in the house-elf’s voice, but Harry ignored it in favour of staring, dumbstruck at him.
“Malfoy?” he asked, nearly sloshing his wine as he set it down on the coffee table, exchanging it in favour of his wand. “Why is he here?”
Kreacher blinked once, slowly. “Mr. Malfoy did not say. Mr. Malfoy is a proper wizard, and does not discuss his business with house-elves, sir.”
Harry bit off a quick retort and got up from the chair, holding his wand stiffly to his side, not willing to even put it into his pocket. Never trust a Malfoy. He had learned that lesson time and time again with both Draco Malfoy and his late father.
He strode to the door, Kreacher at his heels wringing his hands and murmuring out loud about how, “Master Potter shouldn’t go to the door to greet his guests. Kreacher would bring Mr. Malfoy in. A pureblooded wizard should be shown in. Yes, he should…”
Harry ignored him. He had seen how the Malfoys treated their house-elves. Kreacher had been old even when Harry first met him, and with each ensuing year he was a little less able to keep his feet. Poor Dobby hadn’t been able to defend himself against the Malfoys, and there was no way Kreacher could either.
With a flick of his wrist, Harry unclasped the wards around the front door and opened it.
Draco Malfoy was standing on the top step. Harry hadn’t seen him for going on four happy years now, but was taken aback at his appearance. His memories of Malfoy were obviously old and outdated. The man standing before him was just a little taller than him, and clad in a finely tailored green travelling cloak that seemed to highlight rather than clash with his blonde hair. Malfoy’s face was just as pointy as Harry remembered, though, and the sneer certainly seemed familiar. But there was something different…
We’ve both grown up, Harry thought, before belatedly snapping out, “What do you want, Malfoy?”
Malfoy raised a fine eyebrow, silently taking Harry to task for his rather rude behaviour. “Really, Potter, I know you were raised by Muggles, but I was under the impression that you lived in a house and not a barn.” He paused then, as if waiting for an invitation that apparently was never going to come, “May I come in?”
Harry put out an arm and blocked the door. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“What, Potter? Afraid of me, are you?” Malfoy gave a soft, rather undignified snort. He then produced his wand, ebony, twelve inches, which was sheathed in an elegant casing of dark wood. “Don’t bother. You can hold it if you want, although we both know I have more to fear from you. The magnificent Chosen One.”
His last few words dripped with so much familiar scorn that for a moment, Harry could have sworn he was not in the present at all, but about to step off onto the Platform of 9 ¾.
But no. He was an adult, and so was Malfoy. More than that, Harry was a fully trained Auror. He had a few tricks up his sleeve, and could handle himself if the git tried anything.
It would have been polite to refuse the offered wand, but even fully trained, Harry trusted Malfoy just about as far as he could throw him. He took the wand, handle first and silently stepped to the side, gesturing for Malfoy to enter.
Malfoy’s face was impassive as he walked in, save for the slight lift of his right brow. “So this is the noble house of Black. You know, my mother came from that line. She would have inherited this if--”
“I know,” Harry cut in, gesturing for Malfoy to keep walking. The sitting room was at the end of the hall. He didn’t bother telling him of the family tree, or the names blasted off it. Narcissa had been a good little witch. She married a pureblood, and was allowed to remain as part of the family. The vague connection between him and the Malfoys always made him feel uncomfortable and a little dirty.
He retook his place on the sofa, allowing Malfoy the other chair. “Look Malfoy, I don’t know if talking bloodlines is something purebloods do for fun, but I don’t care. Why are you here?”
Malfoy studied him for a moment from behind his grey eyes, as if sizing up an opponent. Then he gave a single, slow nod. “My father has recently passed away. I’m sure you must have heard.”
“Yes, in the Prophet. I’m sorry.”
Malfoy’s cheek gave a twitch. He clearly found fault with the flat, not quite sincere tone of Harry’s voice. “I know what you thought of him. I know--” his voice broke, and he covered it with a quick clearing of his throat that fooled neither of them. “I know what most of the wizarding world thought of him, but he was a good man. A good father. He protected my mother and me, and he went before his time.”
Harry was quiet, willing himself by sheer force of will not to comment. Of course, he had a completely different view of Lucius Malfoy: Death Eater. Bully. Bigot. Even the memory of the three Malfoys sitting huddled together in the broken Great Hall of Hogwarts didn’t do much to put a dent in Harry’s opinion. He just wished that Malfoy would get to the point. If the man was grieving, why come to him? He settled with a non-committal, “Yes, I remember how you looked up to him.” More like, threatened everyone that his father would make them pay if things didn’t go Malfoy’s way…
“Yes, and he left everything to me, it seems. I am now in charge of the estate, the investments, and his business holdings.” During this speech, Malfoy had been looking at the rug, but now he lifted his gaze. His expression was defiant, “The work I need to do to secure my family’s holdings is complex, and I won’t bore you, but I am coming up against some problems. Potter, that wand you’re holding is my great aunt Cassandra’s.”
He paused. Was he looking for some sort of pity? Why else would he bring up his dead father? Did he really expect Harry to have any feelings for the man, or care about the wand that belonged to his great aunt –?
Then it hit him.
“You’re not master of this wand.” Harry’s voice was calm, although his mind was roiling with the implications.
“No.” Malfoy let a quick scowl cross his face before he stood and faced Harry, back to the fire as if he was the one who owned this house, and Harry was his guest. Perhaps, deep in his mind, it would always be that way in the Noble House of Black. “Most of the time, a wand will accept a new master when it is handed down from one family member to another. Aunt Cassandra, it seemed, always had a mind of her own. Her wand equally so.” He paused, fixing Harry with a haughty gaze, “I’ve come to ask for my wand back, Potter. I know you have your own. Surely, there’s no reason to keep mine.”
Harry blinked in surprise. “What makes you think I’ve kept it all this time and not just tossed it out?” In truth, the wand was sitting up in his attic in a box of old things… probably. He’d have to go searching for it. He hadn’t seen or so much as thought of the thing for years.
“Tossed out a wand?” Malfoy shot him a scathing look, as if he was mad. Then, with a quick shake of his head he withdrew something from his coat pocket. A magical chequebook. Once the cheque was signed, the amount of money instantly transferred from one vault to the other. “Come now, how much will it be, Potter?”
Harry just stared at him.
Malfoy’s voice took on a harder edge. “Money is no object, Potter. Just name your price.”
“No.”
“No?”
Harry stood as well, coming around his chair to grip at the top. He needed a second to think, to deal with the implications of what was going on. How he wished Hermione was here. His friend would be able to lay out the pros and cons with unwavering clarity. Harry just had a sure feeling deep in his gut that giving Malfoy his wand back would be a bad move. Later, when he had time, he would examine that feeling. Right now, he had to act.
“You lost that wand in a fair battle,” he couldn’t help but add, “it sees me as its master, now.”
“Fair-!” Malfoy broke off, looking like he wanted to swear at Harry, but somehow managed to hold himself back. “What was fair about the Dark Lord invading my family’s home, and making us his prisoners? You try living with that for a year and then see how you do in a fight.”
“Oh piss off, Malfoy. You let Hermione be tortured. You did nothing.”
“I didn’t betray you.” Malfoy’s voice took on a high, almost hysterical quality. “Not even to my father when it would have meant so much to him—to us. Don’t delude yourself, Potter. Living with the Dark Lord was Hell. You have no idea how-” again he broke off, biting back words that threatened to spill out.
Later on, it would seem strange to Harry that Malfoy’s story would inspire no pity. At that moment, however, he didn’t see the angry young man in front of him. He could only see a pointy-faced child sneering at him from the other side of a train compartment door, “Just watch yourself, Potter, because I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line”.
“You made your bed, Malfoy. Now you have to sleep in it.”
Malfoy’s face took on a puckered look, as if he had just bitten into a lemon. There was a jerky, almost unconnected air about him as he shoved the magical chequebook back into his pocket. “Even your hero Dumbledore gave Severus Snape a second chance.” He raised his chin proudly, the fireplace throwing a golden light upon half of his face, “You aren’t half the man he was.”
If Harry had hackles, they would have gone straight up. How dare Malfoy talk about Dumbledore? After what he did! If he hadn’t hemmed and hawed up on the tower, if he had accepted the common sense that Dumbledore had been offering….
And above it all, Malfoy’s comment hurt; it hurt because Harry knew he was right. Dumbledore would have given the wand back to Malfoy.
Harry swallowed hard. Two instincts were warring inside of him. His sense of justice, which told him that the wand was Malfoy’s and it was only right to give it back, and his gut which screamed to keep it away, far away.
“Dumbledore would have wanted some good to come out of this.”
“This?” Malfoy looked about the room in contempt, “What are you talking about, Potter?”
Honestly, Harry wasn’t completely sure himself. He just started talking -- a mix between what his gut and heart said. And as the words were spoken, he became confident, “It’s just… you’ve had all of these chances, Malfoy. There were so many times in the past when you could have done the right thing, but you didn’t. You could have taken Dumbledore’s hand on the tower. You could have helped us out of the basement. You could have taken down one Death Eater in the battle of Hogwarts, but you didn’t.” Harry’s eyes locked with Malfoy’s across the room. Green against silver. “You haven’t done one brave or noble thing in your life. Ever. Then you come into my house and ask me why I won’t do the right thing for you? What have you ever done for anyone?”
For a moment Malfoy seemed completely thunderstruck by Harry’s words. Then his face hardened into an impenetrable mask. “I shouldn’t have bothered to hope that you’d see some sort of reason, Potter,” he spat, crossed the room and headed to the door, “It seems as though that famous scar of yours has truly addled your brains.”
Harry stared straight ahead, and didn’t watch as Malfoy made his retreat out of the house. Malfoy’s childish barb told him he’d got his point across.
It wasn’t until about two full minutes after the door was slammed shut that Harry realized he still had possession of Malfoy’s aunt’s wand. Why would Malfoy forget about something so important, unless…
… Unless he had even less control of this wand than he had let on.
OOOOOOO
It took nearly forty-five seconds after Harry realised he still had Draco’s wand for Draco to do the same.
He swore and kicked at the Muggle trash bin that was unlucky enough to be in his path.
Not that the wand was in any way important to him. Now, however, he would have to go back to the Malfoy vault and talk the portrait of his ancestors into admitting him entrance to get another wand -- a wand that surely would be as useless as the last one.
In the weeks right after the Dark Lord fell, Draco had tried every one of his ancestor’s wands in that damned vault, and not one of them had taken to him. Of course, he couldn’t go to Ollivander, and everyone knew a wand by another maker was sub par, even the reputed French makers. The last thing he wanted was to bond his magic to a low quality wand.
Damn that Potter! Why couldn’t he be like any normal human being and accept the ludicrous sum of money that Draco was willing to throw at him? No one, not even a former Gryffindor, could possibly be this noble.
Draco stopped mid-step as an idea – no – the solution to his problems flashed into his mind.
Of course Potter was a noble do-gooder. That was just the type of insufferable git that he was. But what if he saw that Draco had taken up some outside interests, say, to the charities that were closest to his heart?
The very idea of having to work for what should come automatically, annoyed Draco. Damn Potter. Most in the wizarding world knew what title and privileges pure-bloods – his family in particular – were supposed to be afforded. It was galling to have to prove himself.
It also seemed like he didn’t have much of a choice.
Draco shook his head at his own thoughts, and summoned Tinky, his house elf, to bade her to Apparate him back to Malfoy Manor.
Oh yes, he could find one way or another to buy Potter off.
A week later
The fool in colorful motley clothes, pack tied to a staff, a small dog, a cliff.
- The Fool Tarot Card
“Harry!” Ginny’s voice rang out from the kitchen, sweet and melodic. “Breakfast is ready!”
“Coming!” Getting off of the couch and giving a stretch, Harry hunted around for the remote control and turned off the telly. He had been in the middle of a Muggle Sunday news program, and Ginny barely tolerated the Muggle contraption when she was around and it was absolutely forbidden to have it on when they were trying to have a peaceful meal. It was another strike against him that he was he was still dressed in his motley sleepwear coming on eleven in the morning.
He walked into the kitchen, eyeing the eggs over toast that Ginny had made for him and gave her a grateful peck on the cheek. Sadly, she had inherited more Quidditch skills from her father than cooking skills from her mother, but he had learned better than to complain about her Sunday breakfasts. Between both of their schedules, they so rarely had a meal together that it was best to keep the peace.
“Thanks, Ginny.” He sat down with his plate and reached over to the day’s Daily Prophet that was sitting on the dining room table. It was always a good idea to be up to speed with both the wizard and Muggle news.
Ginny flashed him a radiant smile and ruffled his hair as she too grabbed a plate and sat down. She started talking… something about having to appeal to her manager about a new uniform in time for the next match … but honestly, Harry wasn’t listening… or, he wasn’t listening actively. One part of his brain was paying attention enough to insert agreeable, “Yes’s, no’s, and umm-hmm’s,” at the correct pauses in Ginny’s monologue. It had been something he had so much practice with that it had become nearly second-nature.
Until something finally caught his attention.
“Wait, what?” He glanced up, startled with a bit of egg white on his bottom lip. “This is our day to be together, Gin.”
Ginny pressed her lips together in annoyance. “I told you that Rosalinda and I were going to the Witches Swap Meet two weeks ago.” She paused, and then gave a little huff at the blank look on her boyfriend’s face. “Honestly, how do you expect me to ever brighten this place up?”
Harry glanced around. Now that Kreacher had been taking care of things consistently for the past few years, Grimmauld place had never looked better. The oak wood was oiled to a shiny glow, the floors were scrubbed, and even the portraits seemed – well, not cheery --, but more perky. Yes, the place would never have a bright glow about it, but then again this was once the Noble House of Black. How bright could it possibly be? “I like it.”
She snorted ungracefully into her eggs. “Well I don’t. Let’s make a compromise; you get to approve of any changes before I make them, okay?”
Harry reluctantly agreed. It was, after all, his house.
Despite beginning her meal after him, Ginny was the first to finish. She had her purse in her hand and pecked him a light kiss goodbye before he was able to say too much else on the matter.
He watched the door swing shut, and then gave a sigh, digging into his half eaten breakfast. He wasn’t all that hungry any more.
Harry could just imagine what his best mate would say about the whole thing.
“Women are mental, Harry,” Ron would tell him, once Hermione was safely out of earshot. “Completely mental. No figuring them out. She’s probably marking her territory or something, getting ready for the big move in. When do you think you’re going to make it official, anyway?”
A twinge of guilt pinged at Harry’s stomach, making him push away the remainder of his breakfast. Ron had never said as much, but it seemed like the whole Weasley family was holding their breath, waiting for the date when Harry would make Ginny an honourable woman. Of course they had been engaged… forever, it seemed. Since six months after the fall of Voldemort. It was the same with Ron and Hermione, only they had actually set a date for a wedding: six short months from that day.
Everyone knew it was Harry’s turn. He even knew it was his turn… maybe that’s what Ginny was on about. Maybe she was just trying to hint at him to hurry up.
Only subtle hints weren’t Ginny’s style. She was like a bludger with her hinting, which was always a Godsend for Harry. No beating around the bush with Ginny. She had the Weasley temper, after all.
As he thought, his eyes drifted once more to the Daily Prophet. Nothing interesting today. Even Rita Skeeter had been silent for the last few weeks.
Harry was walking the paper to the trash bin when a little blurb at the bottom of page one caught his eye. Brows furrowing, he stopped mid-stride and took a look.
Draco Malfoy, largely reclusive heir to the Malfoy fortune, makes a surprise contribution to the East India Spattergroit Foundation…. contin on page 6.
Spattergroit?
Harry quickly turned to page six, which turned out to be the society section. There was a small article with an equally small picture. Harry had to squint to see it. Malfoy was in the forefront, shaking hands with a pudgy man in a Healer’s frock, and smiling at the camera. In the background, out of focus and barely discernable, were the figures of spattergroit victims on their beds. As Harry watched, the image of Malfoy broke his schooled features for a bare moment and wrinkled his nose ever so slightly.
Harry wasn’t sure that he could blame him. Apparently spattergroit was not only unpleasant to look at, but unpleasant to smell as well.
Why would someone like Malfoy bother to be there at all? He turned up his aristocratic nose at anything remotely unpleasant, and his whole family never gave any charity unless it benefited them directly.
Then Harry remembered his own words, just a week ago. “You come into my house and ask me why I won’t do the right thing for you? What have you ever done for anyone?”
He tipped back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed. It had been a long time since he had laughed so hard, and when he was done his stomach ached. Clearly, he was contributing to society for the first time in years just to impress him. How much of a fool did Malfoy think Harry was? His actions were so transparent it was beyond hilarious…. Yet…
Yet.
It was interesting to see Malfoy in the news for this sort of thing. Harry had to admit, grudgingly, that he was a little impressed with the effort. No matter what the reasoning, he at least was doing something with his giant inheritance.
Still chortling, Harry re-read the newspaper again, and then carefully took out the page and set it to the side, tossing the rest away. He had the feeling he’d be hearing from Malfoy again.
He is on his way to a brand new beginning.
- The Fool Tarot Card
On the next Saturday, Kreacher again interrupted Harry to tell him that he had a visitor. Despite being in the middle of an exciting mystery show on the telly, Harry switched off the device and asked the house-elf to see the guest in.
Malfoy walked into the sitting room, again taking full command of the room as if it were his. He was dressed in a dark velvet cloak trimmed with forest green cuffs, and his boots clacked expensively on the floor.
Harry lifted an eyebrow, pretending surprise. “What do you want this time, Malfoy?”
Malfoy paused, looking slightly shocked at Harry’s rudeness, but Harry could see the barest ghost of a smile flirt over his lips. Through years of Auror training in interrogations, Harry had a good sense of what other parties were usually thinking. Malfoy clearly thought he had the upper-hand, but wasn’t ready to tip Harry onto it… yet.
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve given what you’ve said a great deal of thought.” He stood before Harry, back ramrod straight and looking for all the world, sincere – at least, as sincere as a Malfoy could look.
It occurred to Harry then that Malfoy would continue to stand until given permission to sit. It was only polite, after all. The Auror training in Harry and long standing dislike of Malfoy loathed having a Malfoy at a higher elevation than himself. So Harry gestured to the chair in front of him, almost as an afterthought. “And?”
“And you’re right, Potter.” Malfoy gave a sigh, slightly heavier than was necessary.
All part of putting on a good show, Harry thought, cynically.
“I’ve done nothing with what I’ve been given. I’m twenty-five years old… even wandless, there should be some way I can contribute to the greater good.”
Talk of ‘greater good’ and ‘Malfoy’ should never be in the same room. A quick flash of anger caused Harry to abandon his plan to string Malfoy along, and he decided to just lay his cards on the table. “Malfoy, stop. Just stop before you embarrass yourself. I know what you’re after.”
Malfoy had the good grace to look mildly surprised. “Whatever do you mean, Potter?”
Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Instead he got up and went to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with his copy of the Prophet, holding it in his hand as proof. “You don’t honestly expect me to give the wand back to you just because you threw some money at the Spattergroit Foundation?”
“Hardly,” Malfoy’s sneer was back, and Harry was almost glad to see it. That was the Malfoy he knew. “I’m not surprised that you don’t believe me. After all you’ve had me pegged for a dark wizard since we were both eleven.”
“And what have you done to prove otherwise?”
“That is exactly my point. I haven’t, and when you pointed that out I’ll admit I felt… ashamed.”
Harry blinked in surprise and watched as Malfoy turned to face the fireplace for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts before he continued. “I’m not coming here asking for forgiveness, or for a second chance which you obviously won’t grant. I’m just telling you, Potter, that I want to change and that you’ve inspired it.”
The newspaper felt limp and clammy in his hands all of a sudden, and Harry put it on a side table. “I don’t see how I—”
“Don’t you?” And now Malfoy was facing him again, sneer gone and looking nearly… humble. “You were always my greatest rival -- The Boy Who Lived -- The boy I could never beat.” He let out a small, breathless laugh and shook his head. “I always thought that it was because Dumbledore fawned over you or because Granger covered for you or… well, any number of things. I never pointed the finger where it belonged, and you caused me to see that. So, thank you.” Then, quite unexpectedly, he held out his hand to shake.
Harry stood, shocked at the gesture of friendship, wondering if this was perhaps some sort of a trick. But Malfoy was waiting, and when Harry moved forward his hand felt both soft and unexpectedly strong in his grip. Harry didn’t have much time to think about it before Malfoy released him, gave him a curt nod, and excused himself out as if embarrassed.
Harry watched him go, hand still semi-extended, bemused.
So filled with visions and daydreams is he, that he doesn't see the cliff he is likely to fall over.
- The Fool Tarot Card
Three weeks later, most of the bemusement still lingered whenever Harry thought about Malfoy, and it was difficult not to think of the man. His now frequent charitable donations and public appearances constantly dotted the Daily Prophet. Harry, newshound that he was, found himself turning from the top stories and leading wizarding news to scanning the softer print of the society pages to catch a glimpse of Malfoy.
At first Harry had inwardly scoffed at the thought of Malfoy turning over a new leaf -- he just wanted his wand back, and clearly the only way he knew how to fix things was to throw money around in order to get what he wanted. But now that the charitable madness had been going on for nearly a month, Harry began to feel a little worm of doubt wiggle into his brain. Was he being too hard on Malfoy? After all, he had known him only as a boy. Maybe he had done some growing up after losing his father… maybe…
Harry hadn’t had the chance to see the Prophet today; he had left his house too early for the normal post-owl to catch him, because he was having breakfast with Ginny at their favorite café. The Harpies had made it to the playoffs, and he wanted to celebrate with her before she became too busy with practice to have any time.
“Need a refill, son?”
Harry glanced up at the waitress. She had a strident voice, and fried red hair that was only barely contained by a nest of hair-pins, but her face was kindly and held just the slightest bit of pity. On the table before him were cups containing the dregs of several drinks, from orange juice to water to tea.
He had been here for an hour and a half already, waiting.
“I’d like that,” he said with a smile, and then quickly added, “My girlfriend should be here shortly.” It was a pathetic balm to his dignity, but the waitress nodded sympathetically and poured a refill of his orange juice just the same.
The bells attached to the front door jingled and Harry glanced about hopefully, but it was only an older couple walking in, arm in arm.
He watched them for a moment, thinking that would be the image he and Ginny would have, sixty or seventy years in the future. Instead of this thought cheering him, though, it made him feel rather sad instead, seeing as he was sitting alone.
If Ginny wasn’t here by the time the waitress came back, he was going to leave.
The door jingled again, as if on cue. Harry turned again to look, but it wasn’t Ginny. It was, in fact, the last person he ever expected to see at a low budget Muggle restaurant in the heart of London.
Draco Malfoy didn’t smile outright at him. The tug on the corner of his mouth was much too cool, almost calculating. When the hostess asked to seat him, however, he shook his head and approached Harry’s table. “Fancy meeting you here, Potter. May I have a seat?” He promptly sat himself down without waiting for an answer.
Harry sputtered for a moment. “Malfoy, what are you doing here? Are you stalking me? Are—” a horrible thought crept into his mind and he reached under his coat for his wand, “Are you the reason why Ginny’s so late?” If Malfoy had done anything to her, he was a dead man.
To his relief, though, Malfoy looked honestly taken aback. “Hardly, Potter. If your girlfriend has stood you up, it’s nothing to do with me.” He glanced around, taking in the surroundings, “Although I am surprised. The papers say you’ve been together for years. Shouldn’t you be past the dating phase by now?”
Harry glared at him, but allowed his fingers to slide off his wand. “I’ll have you know we’re living together.”
Malfoy’s brows shot up. “Really? That’s funny, because I’ve been to your house twice now, and I haven’t seen her.”
“She’s a Harpy.” At Malfoy’s mocking smile and snort of laughter, Harry clarified, “I mean, she plays Quidditch, the Holyhead Harpies.”
“Oh, of course, the women’s team.” Malfoy leaned forward, taking a piece of complementary toast from Harry’s plate without asking. “Well, I’m sure whatever has held her up must be very important.”
Before Harry could quiz him about that little comment, the waitress was once again standing at the table, this time with menus in her hand.
“He’s not staying,” Harry said, abruptly.
“Just until his girlfriend shows up.” Malfoy flashed a charming smile at the waitress, and took a menu for himself. “I’ll have a coffee please, two creams and two sugars.” He then looked at Harry, who was winding himself up in a huff, and repeated, “Just until your girlfriend shows.”
“Fine.” Harry buried himself behind his own menu. His stomach was feeling a bit queasy after a breakfast of pure liquids, as he hadn’t really had the heart to eat anything while waiting for Ginny.
After deciding on a simple fare of bacon and eggs, he put his menu down to see Malfoy pondering over his. His nose was slightly wrinkled in distaste as he turned the menu over and over. Obviously this common food was not up to his standards. To Harry’s surprise, and relief, he didn’t speak his distaste out loud and politely ordered a mixed fruit salad meal when the waitress came up with Malfoy’s coffee.
“So…er…” Harry hated awkward silences, and this was quickly becoming one. “I’ve seen you in the Prophet.”
Malfoy smiled, an expression that went right up to his eyes, making their dull slate color seem to shine for a moment. It was… surprisingly arresting.
“Oh that,” Malfoy waved a hand as if brushing away an errant fly, “well I can’t say that I’m not enjoying spending my money on a good cause if I see one. I had my Gringotts accountant ring up my total expenses for the year, and let’s just say that the money I was wasting on vacations alone is better spent doing this. Don’t you agree?” And then he fixed Harry with a sudden, unexpected stare, as if he cared what Harry’s opinion was.
Harry could only shrug. “I suppose.” He paused, wondering if he should bring up what was on his mind. The last thing he needed was a fight in the café, but he had never been much good at keeping things to himself. “But I don’t think that a few weeks of charity work is going to make up for… everything.” For being an insufferable coward, for riding the fence during the war to see which one would win, rather than doing what was right. For… everything.
To Harry’s surprise though, Malfoy didn’t seem very offended. In fact, he seemed to be almost anticipating the comment. “Well, I’ve only just begun, haven’t I?” He idly twisted his spoon around and around in his coffee cup before looking back at Harry, “And now I have a question for you.”
“I wasn’t aware this was an interview.”
“Hardly. What I want to know is, why are you with the Weasley girl if you don’t love her?”
Harry, to his shame, fumbled the glass of orange juice in his hands and it fell sideways on the table, soaking the tablecloth, their plates and Harry’s trousers. Malfoy was able to gracefully push away from the table and stand up before his clothes got the same treatment. Harry cursed and stood up, trying to brush the orange droplets off of him before it soaked in. He was unsuccessful.
The waitress was back, all thick bright lipstick smiles and with a handy towel. “Food will be up shortly, gentlemen,” she said, once the table was squared away.
Harry waited until she was safely out of earshot to hiss, “What’s wrong with you? Of course I love Ginny. She’s just late is all. Why would you – no, I don’t even want to know.”
But Malfoy just smirked and answered anyway, “If my fiancée were late to a date with me, I would be… quite upset.”
“I am upset,” countered Harry, “and worried. It’s not like her.”
In response, Malfoy just leaned back, sipping at his coffee, his grey eyes watching Harry over the cup as if to say, “Isn’t it?”
Food came right after that, and Harry stabbed angrily at his eggs. Thankfully, Malfoy was quiet, leaving Harry to his thoughts. As much as he hated to admit it, Malfoy did have a point. There was a reason why he wasn’t charging off, looking for Ginny. He had lied to Malfoy just now. She had done this before, many times. It was just… she had a bad memory, was all. And she refused to carry one of those Muggle cell phones. He loved her, and that included loving her little idiosyncrasies; he had enough of his own for her to deal with.
But the silence was becoming oppressive again, and Harry found himself speaking before he really realized what he was doing, “I remember, in fifth year I was tricked into running gung-ho into a situation because I thought – wrongly – that someone was in danger.”
“Sirius Black.”
Harry glanced up in surprise, then mentally kicked himself. Of course Malfoy would know the story. His father had been arrested because of the whole fiasco. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before… maybe because in a way Malfoy seemed somewhat removed from Harry’s life at Hogwarts. He was an antagonist that had always hovered at the edge, like an annoying rash, but never directly involved… until that night at the Astronomy Tower.
Harry nodded, “Yes, Sirius Black. And – well, you know what happened.”
“Yes.” Malfoy drawled, popping a grape into his mouth in a delicate way that somehow managed to catch Harry’s attention. “I do.” The grape slipped in between his lips, and Harry found himself watching with rapt attention. Malfoy’s eyes met his own. “Perhaps you just cared about Black more then you care for Weasley.”
That felt like a slap in the face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry snapped, stabbing at his eggs again.
It was Malfoy’s nature to snap back, but for some reason he just shrugged and popped another grape into his mouth, once again catching Harry’s attention.
The rest of the meal went by quickly, with little said on either side, except for when Malfoy decided to snag a piece of Harry’s bacon right off his plate. Perhaps because of his new found love for charity, Malfoy offered to pick up the tab though, so Harry didn’t have much to complain about.
Another soft yet firm handshake later – was it Harry’s imagination or did it linger one or two seconds longer than needed? – And Malfoy was once again walking away from him…
… Just as Ginny came bustling in, her red hair pinned up elegantly and her brown eyes bright. “Oh Harry… I’m not late, am I?”
At his heel, a small dog harries him (or tries to warn him of a possible mis-step).
- The Fool Tarot Card
Draco’s jaws felt stiff, his lips waxy from all the false smiling that was required for this latest charity function. Merlin, how he hated being there. He hated parading himself around like a two Knut whore, hated having to smile at those people who were so obviously below him… and he hated, hated having to shake all of their disgusting hands.
If he had his wand, he could cast a nonverbal spell to cleanse his hands after every touch. But the piece of wood he held was next to useless. Instead he had purchased a full box of Muggle sani-wipes and kept them stuffed in a deep pocket of his coat. If anyone ever saw how his hands drifted to his pocket after every round of handshakes, no one said anything.
In his other deep pocket was his other saving grace – the wand he was currently using. It was a Great Uncle’s and, of course, next to useless, but he only had to touch his fingers to the cold dead wood to remind himself why he was putting up with all of these indignities.
Draco had been more than a little pleased at the progress he was making with Potter. The gleam of suspicion in his green eyes had all but faded by the end of their meal a few days earlier. The fool seemed to be buying his sudden turnaround as genuine. Draco couldn’t afford to stop now. Soon, he hoped, Potter’s conscience would get to him. Soon, Draco would have a shot at getting his wand back.
So Draco smiled again and gracefully accepted the thanks for the offer of money by another well-wisher, very conscious of the news reporters that hung around the edge of the gathering. He made sure to put his right side to the cameras -- his best side in his opinion.
It was a boring lunch, interrupted by guest speakers who stood up to make long-winded speeches about why they were all there and what good the money that was being collected would do. Honestly, Draco hadn’t been listening. These functions had melded into one another as the weeks passed, and he couldn’t even remember what charity his money was going to this time.
Something about Africa and tents or… something. He couldn’t remember.
Another well-wisher came up to shake his hand, and Draco felt like his fake smiling was going to appear demented soon enough. If only he had a working wand and could perform a glamour… but no, no, not yet.
Soon.
After wiping off his fingers in his pocket, he made an excuse to step outside for a smoke – Draco didn’t smoke, but he needed the fresh air.
The heat of the spring day hit him like a slap in the face. Draco sighed and leaned against the railing which on a normal day would lead visitors to the door of the museum. It was closed to the public during the charity luncheon.
Behind him, he could hear the sounds of people speaking – still congratulating each other on their do-goodedness. Honestly, these people were worse than he was. At least he had an ulterior motive to impress Potter. The men in there… well, he didn’t know what their motive was, and that scared him a little.
Draco gazed out across the street. Despite knowing he was closer to his goal than ever before, he felt unexpectedly low. His short-term future seemed to be filled with these boring, annoying functions, and the thought of going back into this one made his tongue curl in distaste.
Perhaps he should just go for a walk – just a little jaunt to clear his mind.
Draco was walking before he had even fully even made up his mind – his legs had apparently decided to make the decision for him. He would probably be missed at the function, but hopefully he wouldn’t be gone long enough to make a story for the reporters. It was just a little walk.
Although the building front was decorated with all types of modern Muggle art, the rest of the neighborhood was in very poor condition. Draco wasn’t all that familiar with Muggle architecture, but he knew empty warehouses and dilapidated buildings when he saw them. Who in their right mind would bother to build a museum here? The location insulted the businessman in Draco, and he gave a sniff of disapproval.
A sound caught his attention. It was coming from one of the dull warehouses, and as Draco moved closer he could see paint chipping off of the sides. The sound of barking dogs echoed again and again within the steel walls. Still bored, and a little curious, Draco searched for the entrance. Was this some kind of holding facility for Muggle pets?
The door was hard to spot as it was painted the same type of dull grey as the rest of the building. A hand written sign above proclaimed it as London’s Animal Welfare Society.
Stepping inside, Draco could see that London’s Animal Welfare Society was doing very poorly indeed. For one, there was nobody there to greet him at the counter. The whole place smelled of cleaning astringent, and the sound of barking from the back rooms was loud and raucous.
Draco rang the bell at the front desk, and counted to thirty in his head, but no one bothered to show.
Not about to let that deter him, he stepped behind the counter and let himself into the back rooms.
Large kennels lined each side of the room, and as Draco walked on he was greeted by yapping, yelping, barking and howling dogs. Each animal seemed to have been furnished with a small cut of blanket, some food, and a water bowl. But… so bare. His house-elves had better furnished cubby-holes.
Once the dogs caught sight of him, the sound became nearly deafening, but he ignored them all as he walked down the isle, heedless of their jumping against the wire doorways and spinning around in excited circles.
Occasionally he would stop to glance at one or two of them -- one a floppy haired mutt with expressive brown eyes that cowered when he stopped closer, and another, a dark one with a docked stub of a tail that wiggled frantically at his glance.
He didn’t know what he was looking for, or indeed why he was even here in this Muggle pet-pit, but as he stepped to the last cage in the corner, he stopped.
The dog within was a small terrier. Its body was pure white, save for some double coloring of light and dark brown about its head. Its ears were mismatched, the white ear standing straight up, and the dark ear folded down.
It watched Draco with the same regal air that he regarded it. It was alert, but neither wagged its tail nor shrank back when he bent down to let it sniff at his hand through the wire.
A Malfoy didn’t need to ask permission from anyone, and Draco jiggled the door of the cage. It was old or not very secure, and he was able to quickly open the door and take the little Jack Russell out. Draco gave the dog a quick once-over from front to back. It was impossible to tell without a charm, of course, but it seemed healthy enough with bright eyes and no ugly scars to mar the fur. The dog, for his part, gave a courtesy lick to his hand, but didn’t wiggle or squirm.
“What are you doing?!”
Draco could barely hear the voice over the sound of barking dogs, but turned to see a horrified Muggle woman bearing down on him from across the room. He stood up, tucking the terrier in the crook of his arm. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, with a well placed sneer, “You must get the occasional customer here?”
The woman stopped short, staring at Draco with a wild expression that he couldn’t quite place. She was older, perhaps in her fifties, with flyaway grey hair and stress lines about her eyes. She looked like she was longing to snatch the dog away, but was afraid to do so. A quick glance downward told Draco why. The terrier, so obedient in his grip, was snarling at the woman. He could feel a vibration of the dog’s growl against his body.
“But, but,” the woman stammered. “Sir! If you’d like a dog, I could show them to you, but that one bites people. He is not for adoption.”
“Nonsense.” Draco snapped, laying a hand on the dog’s head. It quieted immediately. “I wish to buy this dog immediately. How much is it?”
She now looked a little insulted. “I don’t sell dogs. I adopt them out—”
“Then consider this a donation to your…” he paused, glancing around the pens in obvious distaste, “cause.”
In the end, the poor woman really didn’t have much of a choice. Draco was adamant, and the little dog would not allow himself to be taken from his arms without snapping furiously. She led him out of the kennels to the front counter, and fussed around with the forms and till with the air of someone who had probably never had much practice. It seemed to Draco like this place never got any visitors at all.
“Name?” She asked, once she had finally got herself together.
“Draco Malfoy.”
She started to write down the name then stopped and glanced up at him. “I meant, of the dog.”
“Pyxis.” The tradition of naming children after constellations was a long held one in the Malfoy family. Draco had never had a pet before, but figured the same rule should apply here.
“Oh,” the woman’s eyes unfocused for a second and she smiled at him, the first genuine smile he had seen literally all day. “Pyxis, the compass constellation.” She smiled again as she wrote it down, took the payment and handed the receipt back to Draco. “I hope your little friend points you in the right direction.”
He tried not to roll his eyes, and mostly succeeded. “Quite. Well, thank you Mrs…?”
“Malone. Maria Malone. I’m the owner, operator, kennel manager… you name it.”
Well that explained why the place was so run down. There had to be at least thirty dogs in that one room alone. The idiot Muggle would be far too overworked to manage the place effectively. It seemed as if none of the business owners in this part of London were using the common sense that they were born with. Draco nodded curtly to the woman, retucked Pyxis back under his arm, and left.
His absence from the charity event had not gone unnoticed, but he quickly diverted any questions with a smooth answer or two. All attention quickly went to Pyxis, anyway.
To Draco’s delight, the dog became a little snarling devil when anyone moved to touch his person. Draco still had to smile and nod and answer increasingly inane questions, but all efforts to shake his hand or to shake others were thwarted by a jealous Pyxis.
As the evening came to a close, Draco found himself a seat and fed his little charge bits of cheese and sausage.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the dumpy little Animal Welfare Society, and how it was so obviously being mismanaged. It offended the businessman in him.
So when the charity event finally wound down, Draco found himself at the front door of the little warehouse. This time, Maria Malone came to answer the front bell. Her mouth dropped in surprise and dismay upon seeing him again, obviously thinking he was unhappy with Pyxis.
“I want a tour of this place.” Said Draco, before she could comment, “I want to know how you run it, from top to bottom. And if I like what I see, Mrs. Malone, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
The Fool might be about to make a move, not just to a new home, but new job, new life.
- The Fool Tarot Card
Draco didn’t leave until late that night, his mind buzzing with facts and figures, hastily scribbled notes on yellow parchment. While part of him was drooling at the business opportunity, he was mostly appalled on a business level on how botched this operation had been run. Despite the name, The Animal Welfare Society was not a government backed program. No, it had been run, maintained and owned solely by Maria Malone, which was a shame because the woman was slowly running it right into the ground.
Once the house-elf Apparated Draco home, he was forced to wait outside the gates for his mother to come down and drop the wards. After the Dark Lord had taken over their home for the better part of a year, the Malfoys had learned a hard lesson, not only to look twice at a man promising to make all of their anti-Muggle dreams come true, but also to make sure that never again would someone be able to take over their domain.
Unfortunately, the wards only recognized wards with magical intent, and without a working wand, Draco had none. He was forced to suffer the indignity of having his mother let him into his own home.
“What is that?” Narcissa asked, upon spying the sleeping Pyxis in his arms.
“It’s a dog, Mother.” Draco gave her an absent kiss on the cheek as he walked by. Pyxis was beginning to stir, so he set the terrier down and bade his house-elf Tinky to make sure that he was properly fed, watered and walked before bed. Tinky bowed low, and nodded, bravely taking charge of Pyxis even when he showed her teeth to her.
“Well, it had better be housebroken,” Narcissa sniffed, “and I will not have any fleas about the house. Make sure you instruct the house-elves to wash it on a daily basis.”
“Yes, Mother. Any news while I was out?”
Narcissa sniffed again, “The Black family house-elf is awaiting you in the study. It has been there for some hours. How you can put up with the smell, Draco my dear, I’ll never know.”
That got Draco’s attention and he nodded curtly, making a quick right turn to the passage that led to his own private study. Sure enough, Kreacher was there, waiting for him. The old house elf bowed obediently upon his arrival. His mother had been exaggerating more than a little, or perhaps she had simply been pulling from memories from the past, something she had been doing more and more lately. Kreacher, although more shabby and decrepit then any of the Malfoy family elves had been, did not smell. Luckily for Draco, he still recognized Narcissa as one of the Black family relatives, and through her, Draco himself.
“Mister Malfoy, sir. Kreacher begs your pardon for interrupting him so late.” The elf bowed deeply again, letting the ridiculous locket he was wearing nearly touch the floor.
Draco waved a hand dismissively. “You have news on Potter?”
Kreacher nodded, and Draco thought that he caught a gleam of… triumph in his old eyes. But that was impossible. House-elves did not plot. They didn’t have the brains.
“Master Potter is going to a Quidditch game in three weeks time, to surprise the Weasley, sir. Kreacher has heard the Weasley talking, always talking. Her team has patched uniforms. The Weasley says it is disgraceful and that Master Potter should donate.”
Draco chose his next words carefully, “And why hasn’t Potter bought her team what she wanted?” Because what Ginny wants, she gets. He added to himself, spitefully. He should have just paid someone to cast Imperio on her to ask for Draco’s wand back. It would have saved a lot of trouble.
Kreacher hesitated, then trembled in the classic way a house-elf tended to do when it was torn. Draco waited patiently and finally Kreacher murmured out, “My master is not the best with hints, sir.” Draco expected the elf to instantly punish himself for such a callous remark, but either Potter had forbidden such an act, or Kreacher was just weird. He just stood there, staring up at Draco with large eyes, still trembling.
Draco allowed himself a smile, “Excellent news, Kreacher. Think of how good you have done for your master. If Weasley is happy, he will be too.” It was normally beneath Draco to compliment the likes of a house-elf, but Kreacher was not his own, and he was invaluable in his quest to get on Potter’s good side. His information had already led him to the Muggle café… Draco doubted that the house-elf would steer him wrong. “Very good.” This was said mostly to himself as he turned away, “You may go now.”
He walked out, mind still ablaze with thoughts of the business opportunity missed with the Welfare Society. It was always good to diversify the family business holdings.
He did not notice Kreacher bow again, and did not hear him think out loud as he was so apt to do. “Kreacher is a good elf. Master Malfoy is from a good, pure family. He is better than the Weasley, oh yes.”
Then he disappeared with a crack.
Unfortunately, in this childlike state the person is likely to be overly optimistic or naive.
- The Fool Tarot Card
Harry could feel the cold wind stinging his face even under the warming charm. On the grounds, wandering the stands before a Quidditch game, it was brutal. He could just imagine what it would be like for Ginny and the rest of the team up in the air. Charms of any sort weren’t allowed on a professional Quidditch pitch.
Gin would probably be in a foul mood after this game… not that he could really blame her. Hopefully his surprise visit would brighten her mood.
He frowned to himself, and the hand in his right pocket touched a box of magically shrunken red roses. He and Ginny had had another row earlier in the week. Harry had still been stung over being stood up at the café, and Ginny… well, she apologized, but she always apologized and then kept on not showing up for things.
Now that the argument was nearly a week behind them, Harry realized that he had kept on pushing her, kept picking at her until she finally snapped and accused him of cheating on her when she was gone.
After a stupid accusation like that, nothing useful could be settled.
Harry had planned on coming to this game – Gin’s important match during the playoffs --, but he had wanted to surprise her and not to come apologizing. But, it was what they both needed now. It was time for him to step up and be the better man and just say he was sorry for acting stupid… even if he’d had a different point, originally.
He could almost hear Ron’s voice again in his mind, saying what had most recently become a chant, “Women are mental, mate. Completely mental.”
The cold gritty wind blew again, pushing his fringe to the side and accidentally revealing his scar. Quickly, Harry brought a hand up to his forehead to smooth his hair back down. Not that his face wasn’t always splattered across the newsprint of the Prophet, but he’d rather not have any more attention than was necessary.
Not that it had been much of a problem, lately, as none other than Draco Malfoy had been taking up the headlines. Oh, it had started small, but now his charitable contributions were really starting to get some notice. The editorials were alternating between wondering why the Malfoy heir had turned over a new leaf, and praising him for doing it.
Harry had mixed feelings as well. Only one thing was for sure -- in all of the pictures of fundraisers, scholarship awards, charitable luncheons, public speakings, cheque writings, foundation startings, and blood drives, Harry had seen – even the more recent ones with that little dog in his arms – Malfoy had not been smiling. Not once.
The git wasn’t enjoying himself. Harry had watched him…. er known him for the better part of seven years. He could just tell.
As Harry thought about this, he continued to walk, and soon found himself at the entrance to the team’s locker rooms. There were two main rooms inside; the one where the team showered and dressed, and the one reserved for VIPs and the press. The latter was the room in which Harry went, having no desire to accidentally see any of Ginny’s teammates in a state of undress.
He was in the corridor nearly to the public room when he quite literally bumped onto one of Ginny’s teammates, Rosalinda, who scurried in the other direction.
“Harry!” She yelped, hand clutching at her chest, startled.
“Whoops, sorry about that, Rose.” Harry put on what he hoped was a winning smile, “Is that a new uniform?” At her startled nod, he asked, “Is Ginny in?”
“Ginny?!” Rosalinda’s voice rose and seemed to carry unnaturally far. “Oh yeah, Harry,” again, her voice seemed louder than usual, “I’m so glad you’re here! She’s right in there…”
It was then that Harry realized what was happening. Rosalinda wasn’t unusually startled, she was trying to shout a warning.
Quickly, he ducked past Rosalinda and into the private locker…
Ginny hadn’t heard her friend’s attempt at a warning, and neither, apparently had her male companion. He had her in his arms against the wall, and he was…
… and she was…
Harry spun around, shouldering Rosalinda out of the way, and walked out.
Shock had seized up his mind. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think save for one thought: but she said I was the one cheating!
He walked, blood rushing in his ears and drowning out all noise around him. Someone was calling his name, sounding as if they were ten miles away. Then a hand touched his shoulder. He lurched around, expecting to see Ginny, but instead seeing…
… Malfoy?
Malfoy asked what was wrong. Or at least, his mouth moved, and while Harry couldn’t grasp the words, he could see the concern on his face.
He said something in reply, but it probably came out as mush other than, “Ginny… her trainer…” for his mind hadn’t put together who that man was up until then, only what he was doing.
Malfoy gave a curt nod and bent down to murmur something to his waiting house-elf, words that meant nothing to Harry. “Tinky, go immediately to my mother and have her cancel the most recent cheque.”
Once the elf Apparated away, Malfoy looped an almost friendly arm about Harry’s shoulder, and steered him to the right.
It was strange. Time seemed to speed up and slow down alternately in Harry’s shocked mind. Malfoy popped them to the darkened restaurant, and bade the hostess to get them a seat somewhere private. Suddenly Harry was in a booth, Malfoy sitting on the other side of him. There was a tumbler in his hands, and he brought it to his lips without knowing what it was. The fierce alcohol burned down his throat, snapping time into something more or less close to normal.
Ginny…
God help him, her cheating explained everything and nothing at all. Her disappearances, her lateness… but why was she trying so hard to press him to marry? Why was she trying to move in? Guilt? Jealousy?
Harry found himself chortling into his drink, as a thought struck him. Malfoy raised an eyebrow as he drank from his own glass filled with some sort of hyper blue, fruit smelling alcohol.
“It’s.. It’s just..” Harry snorted again, then took a breath to steady himself, “Women, mate. They’re mental. I’ll never understand them.”
Malfoy seemed to realize he was coming out of his shock, “Perhaps, just the ginger ones with poor breeding.” Harry opened his mouth, automatically ready to defend Ginny, but then shut it again, and Malfoy continued blandly, “Besides, what will people think, hearing that sort of thing from The Chosen One? They’ll think he’s batting from the other side.”
Harry rolled his eyes at that, but couldn’t help but notice the way that the tip of Malfoy’s tongue darted out to take a droplet that had lingered on his lower lip. The twinge of feeling was immediately accompanied by pain as if he had just touched something that burned. How could Ginny do this to him… after all they had been through…
“How could she?” It came out as a groan, and he took another sip, wanting the feel, the numbness of alcohol.
The other man shook his head, and Harry could swear he saw him make a motion as if he wanted to roll his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? She doesn’t deserve you, Potter. Drink up, you’ll feel better.”
He doubted that. Harry took another drink anyway, thinking that it might be better if Ron was there instead of—but no, he was her brother, wasn’t he? Maybe Malfoy was the best for this. He was completely unapologetic. He didn’t try to explain it all away. He just seemed to be trying to get him drunk.
Harry could do that.
