Blood Bound

Blood Bound
Author: Vashka
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Draco needs a bride. Hermione needs a new start. A new Ministry mandate solves both of their problems. So why are they so unhappy?

000


Chapter Two: Unexpected Correspondence


000


It was five o’clock PM. Time to go home.


Hermione sighed deeply and stretched her sore neck, one hand rubbing the taut muscles gingerly. She twisted her tight calves to and fro and slipped her stocking-clad feet into her heels as she straightened the piles of parchment on her desk. Plucking her wand from its customary place at her side, she flicked and swished and tided up the remains of her afternoon tea with the delegation representing the United House Elf Union.


Honestly, as if I would stop the passage of laws requiring mandatory salaries for labor. Hermione snorted remembering their panicked, desperate faces. After all these years you’d think they would know better.


After leaving school, Hermione had many job offers. She’d considered following Ron and Harry into a career in law enforcement, but ultimately decided that it didn’t suit her personality. She liked research and development better than running around risking her life on a whim. So, upon careful consideration, she accepted a position with the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, combining her passions. Five years later, Hermione was now the head of the department, and, at twenty-three, the youngest department head in ministry history. (Well, except for Gerard Bixby, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes at the tender age of fifteen. Hermione didn’t think he should really count, as he was Head during the dragon pox plague of 1750, for goodness’ sake. There probably weren’t any other qualified wizards still standing!)


Satisfied that her office was once again presentable, Hermione slipped on a light robe and stepped out of her office.


“Evening, Euan,” Hermione said as she passed her assistant’s desk. “Any new messages I should worry about before I head home?”


Euan Abercrombie looked at the list, brows furrowed. “Nothing pressing. The Centaurs want to lodge another formal complaint about Hogwarts students trespassing in the forbidden forest, but their magically binding treaty with Hogwarts is still valid for another five hundred and thirty-four years, so I don’t think that will go very far, do you?”


Hermione smiled in amusement. “I think not. Would hate to be the arbitrator for that contract re-negotiation.”


Euan shuddered and furrowed his thick brows in a deep scowl. “Also, Theodore Nott filed a complaint regarding to, and I quote, ‘A vile family of Sphinx taken to living in the forest on my family estate. Although I doubt your Mudblood, excuse me, Muggle-born employer is talented enough to get rid of them.’”


“That foul-mouthed bigot,” Hermione muttered. “But I suppose even evil gits can have legitimate problems. I suppose we should be grateful that he didn’t exterminate members of an endangered species like rubbish. Have you looked over his paperwork?”


“Yes, and it looks like it could be a nasty bit of business, too.”


Hermione winced. “Right. Put it on my desk and I’ll look it over in the morning. We’ll see if Mr. Nott is as crafty as he is nasty.”


“Will do. See you tomorrow, Mum!”


Hermione grimaced and turned her back quickly to Euan and approached the department’s floo connection. Mum? I’m only twenty-three for Merlin’s sake! She picked up a fist of the fine magical powder on the mantel and with a shout and a flash of green smoke, she was gone.


000


As the floo smoke was clearing in the flat Hermione shared with Harry and Ron, she stumbled out of the fireplace when her thin high heel caught in a deep crevice between the red bricks. Cursing softly under her breath, she narrowed her eyes and with a small wiggle of her fingertips, the chimney dust crept from the corners of the fireplace and into the crack, grey darkening to red and solidifying.


Hermione smirked and stretched her tingly fingers.


Then sneezed.


Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically and humphed as she took out her wand to clean the dust off of her expensive robes. Every time! It’s unnatural to have an allergy to wandless magic.


She detoured to change out of her formal work robes and into a comfortable pair of jeans and a soft hunter-green jumper and made her way to the large kitchen. Halfway through the dining room, she was ambushed by a large orange ball of fluff.


After an embarrassingly effusive greeting to her beloved Crookshanks, Hermione launched into her Wednesday routine. Wednesdays were special because all three of the friends could make it for supper, and they always made a night of it. It was an evening just for them- no friends, no significant others- to catch up with each other and fall into the easy rhythm they had always had.


Surprisingly, all three of the flatmates were decent cooks. Harry loathed it, however, as it reminded him of his younger days on Privet Drive, so most of his meals were take away of various kinds. Ron was also surprisingly competent, owed directly to Molly Weasley’s policy of using her children for menial household labor whenever possible.


Hermione usually liked to stick with tried and true recipes, but yesterday at the grocery while at the butcher counter, instead of asking for the sirloin she was suddenly filled with the wild desire to look at the fish, and ended up picking up a nice filet of salmon instead. Seized by the unexpected feeling of freedom of doing something different, she splurged on the more interesting greenery (some of which she wasn’t sure was edible by anything but rabbits), a few bottles of fairy wine and a carton of ice cream (of an unknown but interesting-looking flavor).


When Harry finally showed up, the salmon was baking in the oven and she was curled up on the plush, overstuffed sofa in front of the cheery fire, sipping on a cup of Darjeeling and reading Egyptian Tombs: The True Curse-Breaker’s Test. As the floo whooshed, Hermione reluctantly glanced up from the pages and the hand holding her teacup froze mid-sip.


Hermione’s brows shot nearly to her hairline. “Why are you wet?”


Harry shot her a look. (Which was rendered completely impotent by the viscous something slowly dripping from his glasses. And from everywhere else, really.) As the distinct scent of petrol hit her nostrils, Hermione’s eyebrows climbed higher.


“Long story.” Grumbling to himself he smoosh-stomped dramatically all the way to the bathroom. After the door slammed shut, Hermione stopped holding back her giggles. She was insanely curious, but she knew that she would hear the whole story, dirty details included, once Ron came home. She put her book down on the end of the cherry coffee table as the low rumble of the shower started, and padded to the sink with her empty teacup.


At the sink, she took out her wand and spelled the dishes clean. With a little grin of satisfaction, she waved her wand and the dishes put themselves back into their proper places. No matter how many times I do that, I’m still ridiculously happy that I don’t have to wash them by hand.


Hermione set to fixing a salad, deciding that the unusual greens actually were quite tasty. She was nibbling on a bit of kale and slicing the tomatoes when the fireplace lit up, revealing her other flatmate. Ron gave her an easy grin as he shook off his heavy outer robes.


“Wow, Hermione, that smells fantastic! What’re we having?”


“Salmon Niciose- which is ready. Would you mind getting it out of the oven?”


Ron whipped out his wand and with a small swish, the salmon was out of the oven. Ron rooted around in the refrigerator for a moment and grinned as he pulled out the bottle of fairy wine. “All right! My favorite. Do you want a glass, Hermione?”


“Not right now, I’ll have some with dinner.”


Ron shrugged and pulled out a long-stemmed crystal goblet. He Poured a generous glass of the golden wine, took a long sip and sighed contentedly. He hefted himself onto the counter; his long legs kicking Hermione’s side playfully and then snagged a tomato from the pile. Popping it in his mouth, he said while chewing, “Is ‘arry home yet?”


Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m convinced that you now do that on purpose.”


Ron widened his blue eyes, giving her his best innocent look and swallowed before speaking. “What are you talking about?”


Hermione snagged the scallions and waved her knife at the grinning redhead. “You certainly do know what I’m talking about.” Ron’s eyes crinkled in mischief, and Hermione blew a wayward curl out of her eyes and resumed her steady chopping. “Harry’s in the shower. Do you know what happened at work today? He was covered in petrol!”


Ron’s eyes widened. “No. I know Harry was out on assignment with Boot today, but I really don’t know what kind of case they are working on…”


Ron trailed off as the man in question came around the corner, a towel perilously hanging onto his lean waist by a loose knot. Another towel was casually wrapped around his wide pale shoulders. He was absently toweling drops of water from his lean chest as he padded into the room with bare feet.


“You certainly look better, Harry,” Hermione said, regarding his bare chest thoughtfully. He really is quite handsome… too bad he’s as sexually exciting to me as a brother. She looked at Ron and grinned wryly. Both of them really.


“Ugh! I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean. I think it’s still in my ears. Do we have anything for that?”


Hermione kept slicing the carrots. “I think that there may be some cleansing potion drops left in the bathroom cabinet after Ron’s incident with the ghouls.” Ron shuddered and took another sip of his wine.


Harry grinned as he ran the towel through his damp hair, knocking his fogged glasses askew. “Ha! I remember that- you and Goldstein were absolutely covered in green slime.”


Ron smiled sourly. “Ugh! Nasty little buggers!”


Harry simply laughed as he turned back to the bathroom.


Hermione finished chopping the vegetables and spelled them into the salad bowl with the other greens. As she set about mixing a simple vinagrette, she yelled, “Harry, do you want any wine with dinner?”


“Please!” Harry’s voice echoed from his bedroom.


Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, and he rolled his eyes and slid off the counter. As Ron set the table with a few efficient swishes and flicks and poured the wine, Hermione tossed the salad, and poured the Dijon mustard dressing over the salmon and potatoes. With a wave of her wand, she sent the food to the table. She and Ron were chatting and serving themselves when Harry sauntered in, dressed casually in jeans and a blue Weasley jumper.


Ron beckoned him over, with a wave of his wine glass. “Mate, shouldn’t my sister start coming over to these things?”


Harry smiled as he slid into his seat. “Nah. I like having had a night where it’s just the three of us.”


Hermione caught Ron’s eye and raised a brow. He shrugged and mouthed, ‘Later,’ so she artfully steered the conversation away from Ginny to other topics. Soon, Harry was telling them the story about his partner, a thrilling chase with a Squib turned Muggle bank-robber, and a Muggle petrol station.


Hermione soon was laughing so hard she was in tears. “Tell me Terry didn’t Reducto the petrol pump?”


Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. “He did, that idiot. I tried to warn him, but he panicked when he saw the suspect was getting away. His spell missed, of course, and petrol sprayed everywhere. I thought we were going to go up in flames on the spot.”


Ron snorted. “Magic in Muggle London? That paperwork is going to be a bloody nightmare!”


They all laughed as Harry groaned. He took another bite of salmon and asked, “Have you heard any rumors at work about a big secret project? All of the higher ups are quite hush-hush lately.”


Hermione raised her brows. “Can’t say I have. But my department doesn’t interact with many of the others, so it’s possible something is in the works as long as it doesn’t involve Magical Creatures.”


“I’ve noticed that the blokes in Internal Affairs have been a bit twitchy lately,” Ron said as he took another sip of wine.


Harry leaned forward and steeped his fingers. “Whatever is going on, it’s massive. I spoke to Kingsley about it point-blank and he wouldn’t tell me anything.”


“That’s not like Kingsley,” Hermione said, worriedly.


The three friends were silent for a moment, but soon conversation picked up. Ron and Harry traded stories about work, Ginny, and Quidditch, and Hermione listened attentively, as usual.


“So, Hermione, you’ve been quiet. How’s your week been?” Harry asked.


Hermione opened and closed her mouth at the realization that she could say nothing that they hadn’t heard before. She had nothing to tell. And she was sad. Her life was content, happy, peaceful, perfect, and utterly boring.


Distressed, Hermione lowered her head and picked at her fish.


“What’s wrong, Hermione? You’ve hardly touched your food.”


“Am I boring?” The words were out before thought, and Hermione covered her mouth in shock. Had she really said that? She had meant to mumble the standard something about work, stress, etc. She furrowed her brow and considered. If it was bothering her this much, maybe it was for the best that it was out in the open. If she couldn’t trust Harry and Ron by now, she couldn’t trust anyone.


Harry and Ron sat in shock, silent for a moment. Ron shot Harry a significant glance and nodded slightly. Harry cleared his throat. “Hermione, we’ve noticed… a bit of a change in you since Hogwarts.”


“What kind of change?”


“Erhm. Well, Ron and I love you of course. So don’t take this the wrong way…”


“Don’t take what the wrong way?”


“You’re dull,” Ron said, very earnestly.


Harry’s eyes widened significantly at Hermione’s mortified expression. “Shut it, Ron!” He hissed under his breath. Louder, he said, “What Ron means is that you seem to have lost your purpose.”


Ron nodded his head vigorously. “Right. When we were fighting You-Know-Who? You were on fire.”


“But you seemed happy, so we were happy,” Harry interrupted.


“And you never used to be boring- just swottish and proper.”


Hermione glared at the redhead to her right and took a long draw on her wine, emptying the glass. “Keep talking, Ronald,” she said, “It builds my self-esteem.”


Harry sighed at Ron’s look of confusion at the Muggle term and took Hermione’s hand, squeezing it tight. “We’ve been thinking about this for some time, Hermione. After the war, if anyone deserved a break, it was you. You were always there for me, through the woods, Gringotts, Hogwarts, everything. And your talents were always strongest in the areas of research anyway. So when you decided on a safe desk job, we didn’t think anything of it. But the past few years you’ve been growing unhappier and unhappier and we didn’t really know how to help you…”


Harry trailed off at the sight of tears welling in Hermione’s eyes. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sharp rapping of a haggard tawny brown owl pecking at the kitchen window, loaded with parchment.


Ron stood and crossed to the window and opened it for the poor creature. Taking the heavy packets from the owl, he gave the tired bird a treat and let it stay awhile to rest.


He quickly glanced at the post and said, “There’s one here for each of us, from the Ministry. I wonder what they want at this time of the evening.” He tore into his letter with his dinner knife and started reading.


Hermione looked at Harry, who looked like he wanted to continue the conversation, and sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Harry. I know I’m in a rut, but I don’t know where to begin to make changes.”


Harry rubbed his fingers over Hermione’s knuckles and smiled crookedly. “Hermione, as long as we’re alive, you’ll never be alone in this. We’ll get through this together, just like we always have. I think that-”


“Harry, Hermione,” Ron interrupted, grimly. “You need to read your letters. Now.”


000


She was perfect.


Well, she looked the part anyway.


Astoria was the kind of gorgeous that belonged in pictures. From head to toe, she was the epitome of elegant beauty. Her features were regular and symmetrical in a heart-shaped face framed by long, sleek golden hair. She had dark brown eyes, which Draco had always personally preferred. She was tall enough so he wouldn’t have to lean over to kiss her, and her robes draped elegantly over her willowy body.


After months of dating inbred Squibs, Draco had finally found a girl that was the epitome of pureblood breeding. Draco had known Daphne Greengrass for years, and was pleasantly surprised her sister looked and acted nothing like her. Astoria was lovely, restrained, elegant, and pure. An ideal wife.


Draco had never been so bored.


“More wine, Astoria?”


The girl’s red mouth smiled demurely, her honey-blonde locks swaying prettily as she shook her head. “No thank you, Draco.”


Draco didn’t trust that smile. Beauty, he thought, Certainly doesn’t go with brains, in my experience. Or humility, for that matter.


Dinner progressed at a snail’s pace. The conversation never faltered, as both Draco and Astoria were too well bred to allow awkward pauses, but it stayed in the realm of glittering superficialities, bright remarks meaning nothing.


Sometimes Draco surprised himself at functions like these, at his ability to slip into his old, pre-war habits. Draco went to great lengths to disguise his paranoia and saw his ability to hide it as a great success. To everyone else, he was still the same prejudiced, spoiled brat. He thought Greg had some idea of how he’d changed, and perhaps his parents, but no one else seemed to pick up on his preference for sitting with his back to the walls. Or the subtle wandless spells he cast over his food before consuming it. Or the way he watched the wand hands of everyone within a casting distance.


It developed as a survival function. He observed and catalogued and avoided direct confrontation those horrible years until he existed in a hyper-aware state most of the time. He couldn’t turn it off. He’d tried. There were twelve other couples in the room, three of the men looked like they’d have something to bring to a fight. The waiter had his wand in his right sleeve, and hadn’t touched it during the course of the meal. The woman in the right corner near the palm tree had a glamour to make her look ten years younger. The candles at the table were charmed to create a subtle atmosphere of romance and peace. (Which, in his case, were decidedly not working.)


His hid his sigh of irritation, a normal wizard would be plotting how to get into his exquisite date’s undoubtedly exquisite knickers. He was currently plotting his escape route in the event of a homicidal maniac causing a stir. (It was possible – there were enough batshit insane former Death Eaters at large to make Draco nervous in unfamiliar public places.)


He could use the table as a temporary shield if he overturned it, but it certainly wasn’t strong enough to withstand a blasting hex, let alone a Reducto. Assailants would undoubtedly enter through the main door, or possibly through the kitchen, leaving his best avenue for escape the large window to the left of Astoria.


Draco tried to beat his paranoia back down into his subconscious. He was on a date. He was good at thinking on two levels, but not that good. If he accidentally let slip that he was seriously considering her use as a human shield in the event of an attack, she might leave before he decided if he wanted to see her again.


That certainly wouldn’t do.


With his heightened observational skills, Draco couldn’t help but observe his date’s habits. He found himself critiquing her dinner choices, her conversation, and her dress for amusement. When he started internally jeering at her choice of the chicken over the veal, he mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? She was everything a sane man would ever want in a wife, easily. Yet he didn’t want a doll-woman. He knew his temper, his passions, his flaws. He wasn’t an easy man; he was bitter and cynical. Women like Astoria were nothing to a man like him.


With effort, he put his mind back to the conversation, groping for a topic, any topic that seemed to evoke a genuine response in this woman.


All of the fashionable subjects were covered over the soup and salad courses. The weather was discussed in grave detail-- it had been an unusually fine autumn day-- during the foie gras and caviar. By the time the entrée plates hit the table, Draco had exhausted his already modest amount of patience.


Is it too much to have a real conversation with a woman?


Cutting his veal viciously, he watched the delicate way she minced the chicked on her plate, and how she took small bites to avoid smudging her perfect red lipstick and, irrationally, it irritated the hell out of him. Her flawlessness annoyed him. Snidely, he asked, “So what is it you do exactly?”


With satisfaction, he watched Astoria’s lovely smile fade. “Pardon me?” she said.


Draco waited until the moment grew uncomfortable, out of spite. He took a bite of his veal, and chewed slowly. He wiped his lips delicately with his napkin. As he saw her gold brows draw together in a frown, he inwardly gloated. He moved to speak, but took a long draw of his wine instead, letting the taste of black cherry, pepper and tannins settle against his tongue.


“I don’t think that you’re a very nice man, Mr. Malfoy.”


Draco bared his teeth in a mocking smile, his eyes cold. “Not particularly, no. I’ve been too spoilt to have the patience of a truly good man.” He leaned in, letting his voice go low and husky. “Nothing a good woman couldn’t fix.”


Astoria caught her breath, and her dark eyes narrowed in thought. “I believe I’ve been boring you.”


Draco smirked and drained the rest of his wine. It wouldn’t do to scare off the most promising marriage prospect in all of Great Britain, no matter how dull she truly was. He would prefer to love the woman he chose to marry, but sadly, it seemed that it was not in the cards.


He desperately wished for some sort of chemistry, some spark of awareness. He could at least work with that, possibly mold it to something more. Determined to try harder, he gave her a hooded glance, knowing the effect it had on women. When he saw her lips part slightly, he let his gaze drop to her mouth.


“Not at all. I’m just in a boorish mood tonight. Business, you know.” He reached across the table and touched two fingers to her delicate bejeweled wrist and smiled, with devastating effect. “Now none of this ‘Mr. Malfoy’ nonsense. You called me Draco earlier, and I much prefer it.”


The carefully orchestrated moment was interrupted when the waiter came and swiftly magicked away their mostly empty plates. Ramekins of crème brulee and coffee appeared on the pristine white linen.


Draco, rather heroically in his opinion, resisted the urge to hex the bloke.


Over coffee, Draco exerted himself to be his most charming, his most seductive. Astoria was still quite dull, but her frosty demeanor thawed as Draco enticed her with smiles and compliments.


She was as pliable as a wand of willow to his charms, yet her easy compliance irritated him still. Perhaps his annoyance with her could be a good thing? Wasn’t it better to feel something for her other than indifference?


He resolved to behave the perfect gentleman for the rest of the date-- he offered his hand to her as she got up from the table, he helped her with her wrap, and held her arm as they tandem-apparated to a small park. As they walked down the dimly lit path, they discussed wizarding music, a subject that gave Astoria’s perfect features more animation. He rechecked the smooth length of hawthorn at his side as his eyes scanned the trees, and patted her hand as she adjusted her hold on his bicep. Relax, Draco, he told himself.


Draco made sure to listen attentively as Astoria talked about her time at the French Wizarding Conservatory for the Gifted, and about her passion for the violin. She played for a small chamber quartet based out of London, but traveled around the world quite a bit.


Draco was suitably impressed- wizards, while quite talented in many arenas, were typically much less musically gifted than Muggles. Hence, there were very few wizarding schools to study music, or even musical groups. However, being less gifted was no barrier to Draco’s mother. As Astoria prattled on about her favorite composers, Draco remembered endless, torturous piano lessons and the stern, frowning face of his mother when he tried to skive them.


Conveniently, the autumn breeze could excuse his shudder. His iron-willed mother was one of the things that he would never dare fight against in his lifetime. Although he’d always craved the heady feeling of his father’s unconditional approval, he supposed he could rebel against his father if the cause was right. But his mother… no. Narcissa Malfoy was a force of nature when she wanted something, and was nigh near unstoppable. Perhaps he’d inherited more of that will than he thought. It would certainly explain why Astoria’s easy pliability goaded him.


Soon, the couple reached the Thames. Following the curve of the river, they reached a grand ship, brightly lit with torches and fairy lights. Other witches and wizards, clad in their best robes and sparking jewels, milled around the dock, greeting each other with bright chatter. Draco relaxed slightly as he catalogued the patrons. No obvious threats, but best to remain alert.


At the sight of the theatre, Astoria smiled in anticipation. Draco, remembering many evenings of boredom at this very place, could already feel the collar of his robes tightening.


He gestured to the carpeted oak gangplank. “After you, my dear.”


As they took their seats in the Malfoy family box, Draco felt slightly more at ease. He had his back against a thick oak wall facing the outside of the ship, and he could see everyone and everything from his high vantage. He told himself that he could relax, but he knew that he wouldn’t. At least he could try to enjoy the performance. He’d never been a particular patron of the arts, having no ear for music, but he approved of the activity in a future wife.


Especially since it meant that he could shuffle her off to the theatre when he needed time to get away from her. Stop it, Draco thought, just stop. I can’t afford to screw this up.


As the candles snuffed out, one by one, Draco plotted. If he were to woo Astoria, which he wasn’t entirely set on yet, he would have to prepare himself for many evenings of theatre. Hopefully she likes plays as well as musicales, otherwise I’ll go batty, Draco thought acidly. The orchestra stared to play the overture, and he settled in for a long evening. He slanted a glance over at his lovely date. Smiling dreamily at the stage and paying no attention to him, she looked absolutely ravishing. Perhaps I could throw in a gallery exhibit or two. Infinitely more interesting to look at antiquities and art.


Draco sighed and squirmed in his comfortable chair. Why did everything in his life have to be so difficult? It seemed his cross to bear. After being raised with the expectations of an easy life where everything was given to him, to be violently thrown into the real world where even the simplest task was a life and death struggle stung. Even after years of scorn and hardship, he still wasn’t immune.


Finding a bride, not the easiest task in the first place, was made infinitely more difficult by his reduced social status. Of course, he was still rich and handsome- which were points in his favor- but he scorned the women who would date him simply for those shallow reasons. He wanted what his parents had – a match where both partners genuinely cared for one another and would defend each other to the death.


He frowned slightly. Lovely, boring Astoria had spent the war away from the fighting in France, and the best she could probably to do to defend him would be to stand in the way should any hex or curse be aimed at him. That was unkind. Perhaps she could throw her violin at an assailant before he threw her... Hmm. No instinct to defending her to the death or noble sacrifice in those thoughts.

In spite of it all, she was still the best prospect he had. Astoria wasn’t his first choice, and he wished she were more passionate, but she at least seemed to be interested in him rather than his fortune. She was convenient, certainly, but that didn't preclude the possibility of a happy marriage. He supposed he would have to find out. The date his parents set for declaring a future wife was drawing near, and there certainly weren’t any other more suitable candidates lying around in the hedgerows.


Draco snickered at his vestigial sense of romanticism, and quickly looked at his date to see if she noticed. She hadn’t. Perfect. It’s like we’re married already, Draco thought bitterly. He subtlety started to massage his temples to rid himself of a burgeoning headache.


Luckily, the orchestra broke for intermission within a few minutes. Draco turned to his date and offered her his arm. Smiling so that his face hurt with it, he escorted Astoria to the glittering lobby.


“Oh, Draco, I see Medusa and Iris! I’m going to go freshen up.”


Draco kept smiling and nodded slightly. Astoria sashayed to her friends, the long line of her back exposed by the low cut of her robes. Draco watched her giggle with the other two witches, slanting glances in his direction with heavily made-up eyes. The witches tugged on Astoria’s hands in the direction of the restrooms, presumably to gossip about their date.


Draco picked his way to the bar slowly, nodding politely at a few of his acquaintances and smiling superciliously at a few of his parent’s friends. It was difficult to relax when in the midst of a crowd; to not feel claustrophobic and too-aware of wands and subtle movements that may signal attacks, to tell himself he wasn’t surrounded by enemies, but stupid socialites for whom the war was academic. He was jittery and highly irritated by the time he made his way to the bar, and he traded a few galleons for quick service and something intoxicating.


Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped onto a deserted balcony off the side of the ship, relieved to be outside and away from the people. He closed the French doors, shutting away the noise of the crowd. Leaning his forearms on the railing, he slouched over and stared at the water, and tried to clear his mind as the firewhisky burned down his throat.


Just as the alcohol and the lapping water were working their subtle magic, he heard the latch of the door rattle. He put a tense hand on his wand and turned to glare at the intruder.


“Hullo Malfoy,” Theodore Nott said. He stepped onto the balcony, a glass of blood-red wine in his hand. He smiled tightly and fidgeted. “It’s bloody hot in there. Mind if I join you?”


Draco relaxed slightly, but did not take his hand off of his wand. Nott wasn’t a friend, precisely, but he wasn’t an enemy either. He did mind, actually, but his opportunistic side was always eager for a chance to pump someone for information. “Evening, Nott.” He gestured for Nott to stand beside him, and the other man visibly relaxed.


The former housemates made polite conversation for a few minutes, each one subtly prying the other for information, weaknesses. They traded business tips and gossip, stories about common acquaintances and family, ignoring for the moment their mutual animosity for the pleasant illusion of friendship.


Nott’s ugly face scrunched up in disgust as he described his current dealings with the Department of Magical Creatures. “They’ve buried me in so much bloody paperwork can’t keep track of it all. Of course, Granger is absolutely impossible to deal with. Bloody annoying cow.” Nott rolled his eyes. “I should have just gotten rid of those damn Sphinx myself. Endangered, my arse. But if the Ministry ever found out, I’d be fucked. I’m not about to go to Azakaban over some damn animals.”


Draco’s mouth twisted. “Certainly not. Former supporters of the Dark Lord would not be granted any leniency if such a situation were to come to light.”


The men were silent for long moments, lost in their thoughts. Nott drained his wine and tossed his glass into the calm waters of the Thames, where it landed with a quiet splash. He ran a hand through his dark hair wearily. “You did get the worst of it, didn’t you Malfoy?”


“If you’re even thinking about pitying me, I’ll eviscerate you,” Draco said.


Nott’s answering laugh was short and bitter. “Who pities Malfoys? Your family so foul that any soft emotion is wasted on your sort.” He smiled nastily. “It’s why I could never stand you in school, and why I can’t stand you now. Your ego was so inflated that it was almost divine justice that the Dark Lord chose to punish your family. It could have just as easily been me, so easily. So when I think about what happened, and am moved to pity you, I remember that little shit of a kid and I don’t feel quite as bad.”


“Merlin, I need another drink,” Nott muttered. He took out his wand and Draco tightened his grip on his length of Hawthorn, ready to strike. But when Nott only muttered a quiet Muffliato, Draco relaxed.


“Are you going to insult me further, or do you wish to duel?” Draco said, “This conversation is truly riveting, but I’m afraid I need to attend to my date.”


“Look Malfoy, I don’t like you, you don’t like me. That’s fine. But I came out here to warn you.”


“What?” Draco exclaimed, startled.


“My sister works in the Department of Internal Affairs, and she told me that something big is coming, something that will change our world forever.”


“I’m listening.”


Nott looked through the windows at the glittering lobby and milling crowd. “They’re mixing blood. My sister has seen them do it, but as a child of a Death Eater, she has very little access to the actual potion. We don’t know whose blood it is, and what they hope to accomplish, but it can’t bode well. We’ve scoured our library, and we’ve come up with nothing. Nothing!” Nott hesitated, and then said, “You have more resources at your disposal…” His words trailed off and the weight of his dark gaze settled on Draco.


Draco was silent for a few moments. “Why should I care?” he asked.


Nott leaned a little closer to Draco, his mouth a thin, grim line. “You and I, we’re in the same bloody position. We barely survived the war by the skin of our teeth, and our lives are just now getting back to a decent sense of normalcy. Do you want to sacrifice that?”


Draco looked away quickly, not wanting Nott to see the expression on his face.


“I didn’t think so. See you around Malfoy.”


Shocked and more than a bit worried, Draco stood in the shadows of the balcony for a long while, thinking. When the candles dimmed signaling the end of the intermission, Draco collected his date and escorted her to the box. He made chit-chat without really thinking about what he was saying, his mind still reeling.


Mixing blood? What the nine hells is the Ministry doing?


Draco spent the rest of the performance balanced on the fine edge of his control. He wanted to rage at the interference in his life, rage at the fates, rage at the Ministry, rage at anyone who was even remotely responsible for upsetting his plans. Countermeasures were useless without more information, and no one who knew anything about the project was talking.


They’ll talk now, Draco thought, viciously picturing the revenge he’d take if he weren’t satisfied. Apparently I’ve been too lenient on my informers. That will change.


The show ended as Draco was contemplating the financial, moral, and physical ruin of various Ministry officials. Grabbing Astoria’s hand, he led them out of the box and off of the boat as quickly as possible as quickly as possible without raising he suspicions.


As he tandem-apparated them to the Greengrass manor, he was jerked back into the world of the living, and remembered his other responsibilities. Mother would have a fit if I just left her here. Time to put on the show, Draco thought, pasting a seductive smile on his face. Taking Astoria’s slim hand in his, he felt her stiffen at the sudden contact. Tugging softly, he slowed their brisk walk down the long gravel drive to a more sedate pace.


The Greengrass family estate was near the seaside at Dover, and Draco could smell the faint tang of sea-salt. The apparation point was inconveniently at the end of the long drive, so guests and family had to walk to and from the large Manor in all sorts of inclement weather. Draco was not amused. The autumn night wasn’t cold necessarily, but it was clear, and the breeze was bone-chilling.


“Astoria, you should take my cloak.”


“Oh!” she said, “Thank you, Draco. You don’t have to…”


“My pleasure.” Draco dramatically swept his cloak over her shoulders, careful only to touch her arms. She immediately straightened the folds of heavy wool and velvet so that they lay in lovely lines around her. She took her time, and he thought that she might have been more affected by his gallant gesture than she let on.


He couldn’t quite tell if she flushed at his attentions, but he fancied that she did. They made their way to the grand entryway in silence, but it was much more comfortable than the superficial chatter that made up the rest of their evening.


Astoria stopped, her hand on the door handle. “I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you, Draco.”


Draco smiled. “I think that the pleasure was mine, Astoria.” Taking her gloved hand in his, he bowed neatly over it and placed a brief, dry kiss on the back. He took a swift, interested glance at her red lips, but easily restrained himself from the temptation to taste them.


Smiling triumphantly, Astoria opened the door and took a step inside the foyer, but stopped suddenly and turned, gold hair flying. “Oh! Your cloak…”


“I’ll come back tomorrow to pick it up,“ Draco said, “Would that be acceptable?”


She nodded her head regally. “Yes, thank you.”


When she finally closed the door, Draco felt a mixture of relief and grim satisfaction. If he wanted her, Astoria would fall willingly into his arms, his bed and into matrimony with little persuasion.


However, that was the question, wasn’t it? Did he want her?


It was still relatively early when he arrived at the Manor, so instead of ascending to his bedchambers, he took a brief detour to his study.


Malfoy Manor held a strange place in his heart. On one hand, some of the best memories of his life were made here. On the other, here was where he had truly learned to fear.


Shuddering slightly, Draco suppressed the memories of those terrible years. If he didn’t, he knew the night would be long and sleepless.


He poured himself a glass of wine and noticed a note sitting next to the crystal decanter.


Dearest Draco,

An owl came for you tonight at six ‘clock and the post looked serious. I urge you to open it immediately. I do hope it isn’t anything to do with the business.

Your Loving Mother


Interested, Draco picked up the heavy packet. There were magical seals preventing tampering with the letter, and Draco smiled. Curiosity about the letter’s contents must have driven his mother mad. He traced the runes of the seal carefully with his index finger before breaking it and beginning to read.


The crystal goblet in his hand fell to the ground and shattered, spilling the wine across the lush carpet like blood.


000


Author’s Notes: Many thanks to both Ravyn and Heist for helping me whip this chapter into shape! It has been a long time coming. A mixture of writer’s block, an insane school schedule and injury kept me out of the writing game for a long time. But I’ve got my inspiration back! Let’s see how long I can corral it this time…