Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express arrives with a blistering whistle and a billowing cloud of steam. Draco Malfoy, standing tall beside his trunks and one small crate, can’t help but smirk.
It’s all old hat to him now; the muted bustle of platform 9 ¾, the lamplight throwing long, dramatic shadows on the worn stone floors, the powerful engine pulling in as families cry into their handkerchiefs, then wave the damp fabric in the air as they bid farewell to the students for the next three and half months.
But as it’s his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Draco tries to take it all in. He lifts his head to admire the iron and glass ceiling and fills his lungs with crisp, autumnal air. Idly, he adjusts the snake-shaped pins of his platinum collar chain, keeping his trinity-knotted tie centered between the lapels of his charcoal robes. His chest swells with pride. Most wizards can’t master a four-in-hand, let alone the trinity. But Draco is not most wizards.
This is going to be his year. He’s twenty-one, Slytherin’s best seeker in a generation, and dating the fittest witch at school. By June’s end, he’ll ace his NEWTs, win the coveted potioneering apprenticeship and another quidditch cup, and since seventh year coincides with courting season, he’ll also leave Hogwarts with a fiancée. Then he’ll leave boggy old Scotland behind for good.
His smirk widens. He has it all figured out.
“Malfoy.”
Draco winces as he turns to find Crabbe clapping him on the back in greeting. Built like a bludger—and about as clever—Crabbe has never been one to know his own strength.
“Crabbe. Have you seen Pansy?”
Draco rubs his shoulder as he scans the crowd for his girlfriend, but as usual, she seems to be running fashionably late.
Crabbe scratches his armpit, looking more thoughtful than usual. “Mm, might be with Goyle.”
Before Draco has the chance to hunt for Goyle’s wide frame, his mother appears at his side.
Narcissa Malfoy holds her head high, despite everything their family’s been through the past three years. A veiled pillbox hat sits atop her platinum hair. While her robes aren’t new, she’s brought out one of the sparkliest necklaces from their vaults as a tactical distraction for the gossipy types.
“Good morning, Vincent. I just spoke with your mother. She tells me she’ll be chaperoning with me this season.”
“Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” Crabbe says, dipping his chin in respect. He’s buzzed his dark hair short. “Hoping for a good match.”
“I’m certain you’ll comport yourself well. Draco practised all summer. I trust you did the same?”
Draco sighs and searches again for Pansy. It’s been a long summer without her. She’d travelled back to Vietnam with her family while he’d been stuck at home with merciless French dance instructors, stoic Germans specialising in manners and etiquette, and his father’s solicitors, who required his signature, thumbprint, and far more day-to-day management than Draco expected. It would have been much more convenient if his father had not gotten himself tossed in Azkaban after the disastrous final task of the Triwizard Tournament, but since he has, Draco has not known a moment’s peace.
That will all change once he marries.
As the wealthiest wizard in all of England, Draco will be the prime target this season for those looking to climb the proverbial ladder. But he’s also clever, which is why he decided to sidestep the obvious traps before him and toss his lot in with Pansy far in advance. Pansy is much more suited to the running of the estate. He'll be able to leave matters in her capable hands while he continues to brew potions with his godfather—surely the extra work he's been doing on medimagical applications will make the apprenticeship a sure thing—and play for the national quidditch team. In return, she’ll be set for life.
He’s always known they belonged together. Years ago, when he presented her with his plans for the future, she hadn’t even blinked before saying yes, and a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders. Rather genius on his part, really. He doesn’t know why more people don’t lock something down early.
Of course he still has to go through the motions. According to everyone who’s been through it, including his parents, courting season is fun, but predominantly stressful. Traditionally-minded Purebloods have less than a calendar year to find a suitable partner; it’s just the way things are done. He’s memorised the schedule of events, knows every step of every dance drilled into him by his poncey tutors, and can interpret intentions by the tilt of a fan or the composition of a corsage. Perhaps he can’t recite the entire extended family tree of all the eligible witches his age, but again, he’s anticipated this. All he needed to study was who-married-what-Parkinson for the last three hundred years.
And he knows it, mostly. He’s never been one for long hours in the manor library. Who could blame him, when he has the fastest broom on the market and the clear skies of Wiltshire beckoning?
Reluctantly, Draco tunes back into the conversation.
“Draco’s lucky he doesn’t have to worry about courting,” Crabbe was saying. “He and Pansy are perfect for each other.”
“Indeed,” his mother murmurs. “I look forward to welcoming Draco’s choice of bride to the family.”
Draco offers a polite smile, carefully harnessing his satisfaction. If possible, he’s even more excited for his wedding day than his mother. He’ll marry the perfect bride in his ancestral home surrounded by the most prominent members of polite society.
In addition to locking down a wife, he’ll have unlimited access to his inheritance and permission to finally run the manor as he sees fit.
The train whistles again, and Crabbe makes a hasty goodbye before lumbering off.
“Do you have everything, little dragon?”
“Mother,” Draco huffs. He’s had a full foot height advantage over her since he was sixteen, and yet she won’t let the nickname go.
“If you’ve forgotten anything, I can bring it with me to the first social. It’s only two weeks away.” She reaches up and smooths her thumb across his jawline, then cups his face with soft, affectionate palms. “And I though I suspect you’re tired of me saying it, I’m your mother and I must: you only get one season. This is your chance to explore your options. Even though you and Ms Parkinson are currently intertwined—”
“Mother.” Gently, he closes his fingers around her wrists, the metal of the Malfoy signet ring winking in the light, and while she purses her lips, she drops her hands and steps away.
Technically, his mother is right. Draco has more options than any Malfoy before him. Ever since Potter defeated the Dark Lord in that frigid graveyard and upended societal norms, half-bloods twenty-one and up can participate in the yearly courting season.
Draco would never stoop so low as to marry a half-blood. But he sees the sense in opening up the process.
There aren’t many witches and wizards to begin with, let alone purebloods. The best families, those with massive wealth and pristine bloodlines, make matches immediately, but those with lighter vaults or less secure connections have to shop around a bit, and since the new wave of participants falls into the latter category, the new state of play has the obvious effect of turning the competition between the families of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight even more fierce. Families prepare for years for the chance to marry well and have their fortunes soar, socially and financially.
His mother’s obvious disappointment twists his stomach, but he remains steadfast. She just doesn’t understand that he can’t risk entertaining other witches. She can’t understand. His mother has never been plagued by fortune hunters, or worse, morally bankrupt witches who don’t value their education and instead attempt to land a wizard by way of a covertly sabotaged contraceptive charm.
He’s known Pansy since he could walk. They used to sneak away during balls and hide under tables draped in silk damask, where they’d strip off itchy lace socks and stiff leather shoes and take turns picking the worst Bertie Bott’s flavours from the bag and daring the other to eat them. When wine-drunk adults asked where they’d been, Pansy could always spare them from any real trouble by batting her lashes and spouting some lie that made them chuckle and comment on her precociousness.
He can trust her.
“If she’s your choice,” his mother nods, worry creasing her forehead.
Draco falls back on his father’s words. “The Parkinsons are a good family. Sacred Twenty-Eight, holdings in England and Asia, no debts or known health issues.”
“Of course.”
“And Pansy’s practically a Malfoy already. You told me yourself how much you appreciated her input when you redecorated the east wing. Good taste is hard to find.”
With a flick of his wand, his belongings take flight, floating behind him in mid-air like ducklings bobbing behind their mother, waiting to see which direction she might sail.
He busses his mother’s cheek, a twinge of guilt plucking at his nerves. They aren’t an outwardly affectionate family, the Malfoys—it isn’t the done thing—but sometimes he wishes he was small again, so he might be permitted a hug. It wouldn’t undo the tension between them, which roils beneath the surface of every interaction they’ve had since he assumed control of the estate. But it might help.
Every decision goes through him. Every purchase, every sale, every investment, because he’s the man of the household now; no longer his mother’s responsibility. The script has flipped. He’s responsible for her, and her future, and marrying well will ensure them both much happier years ahead.
It’s rather a lot of pressure.
Draco shoves the thought away. He’s twenty-one, for Salazar’s sake, and Malfoys have broad shoulders. He can carry this.
He’s the last to board the train. Even the nervous firsties have gotten on before him. As the doors close, the familiar scent of bituminous coal and protective magic fills the air, as if he’s not on a train but standing over his cauldron for the first time again, and for a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes it in. It doesn’t last—a series of discordant, excited squeals from a gaggle of third year girls rather spoils the effect—but he shouldn’t linger this close to departure, anyway. He stows his trunks on the rack and takes the crate in hand as he strides down the aisle toward the seventh year compartments.
“Malfoy, in here,” Goyle calls from a few doors down, waving a meaty hand in Draco’s direction.
The compartment is spacious, and the walls are embroidered with miniature couples dressed in Slytherin green, dancing across an endless parquet floor, moving in time to a song only they can hear. Draco slides past Goyle and onto the hard wooden bench, tucking the crate beneath his seat just as the train lurches into motion. Daphne scoots over to give him more space, tossing her dark blonde hair over her shoulder while nudging Crabbe closer to the window. Draco pays Crabbe’s protests no mind, because across from him sits Pansy.
She’s shed her robe, revealing a starched white button-down tucked in a black skirt, her long pale legs crossed demurely at the ankles. At first, he can’t see all of her heart-shaped face because she’s checking her signature red lipstick in her compact mirror, but when she shuts it, Draco’s heart stops.
Pansy wields her beauty like a weapon, and she stabs him in the chest every time. Somehow she even makes the regulation skirt with the stupid box pleats look sexy. As she tucks her black bob behind her ears, her dark eyes meet his, and his mouth twitches up at the corners. She doesn’t smile back.
That’s Pansy for you. Zabini loves to say she’s the Ice Princess to his Slytherin Prince, born and bred to be a perfect, proper pureblood wife. At Hogwarts, she’s pursued courses in finance and magical law so she’ll know exactly how to handle a noble family’s holdings. She’s stylish, in the way his mother is stylish; she keeps her colour palette black and white, and wears sky-high heels no matter the occasion. She comes with an allergy to timeliness and a high degree of sass, but that’s part of her charm. A less difficult witch wouldn't interest him.
“Hey gorgeous,” Draco tries again to get Pansy’s lips to curve.
“Malfoy,” she says primly.
Malfoy? Since when is he Malfoy? Is this a test? Does she want him to snog her in front of everyone or something? He’d be all for it, but Pansy doesn't go in for public displays of affection. He means to inquire further, but doesn’t want to embarrass himself by asking what’s wrong—they have an audience.
“Seventh year. Last autumn term,” Crabbe cheers, slapping his knees as he turns his attention away from the red and gold foliage outside the window. “And courting season. Can you believe it?”
Daphne snorts. “Courting season. They made sure to give it a benign name, didn’t they?”
“Here she goes,” mutters Goyle.
“Whose bright idea was it to commit young pureblood men and women to an entire year—during NEWTs prep, I might add—of exchanging gifts ascribed archaic meanings? Months of veiled conversation whilst dancing at galas in order to secure a spouse? I’d love to know.”
Pansy’s nose shoots up in the air. “Just because your sister’s considered a better catch doesn’t mean you have to rail against the system, Daph. It’s getting tired.”
“This adherence to tradition is what’s tired.”
“Our magic helps us divine the right match,” Crabbe says. He’s always defended the courting process, probably because he stands to benefit the most from it. As far as Draco knows, Crabbe’s never had a witch give him the time of day. “You don’t trust your magic?”
Daphne’s eyes roll so far toward the back of her head the entirety of her irises disappear. “You sound like Professor Trelawney. If divination was real—and it isn’t—we’d know our entire future because it would be laid out for us at birth. We wouldn’t need a courting season. It’s utter rubbish.”
“Worried no one will choose you?” Pansy sneers. “Why don’t you consider taking a page out of Astoria’s spellbook and, I don’t know, try being ladylike for a change?”
The Greengrass sisters, despite being only two years apart in age and sharing the trademark Greengrass dark blonde hair, could not be more different. Spiky as a weed and twice as stubborn, Daphne is frequently overshadowed by her younger sister, who’d blossomed early like wisteria on the vine. Draco had blinked and Little Greengrass turned pretty. Unfortunately for him, he’ll always remember her as the precocious tadpole he taught to fly. Otherwise, he might’ve considered her.
“Lay off, Pansy,” Goyle glowers, and for some reason Pansy wilts a little, as if she’s ashamed.
Weird. Draco didn’t think shame was in Pansy’s emotional lexicon. She and Daphne always snipe at each other. Draco tries not to take sides, but Daphne’s like a sister to him, and Pansy is so often the antagonist in their little spats.
Pansy clears her throat. “What I meant to say is wizards are only considering waiting for Astoria because you’re, well…”
“Openly hostile,” suggests Draco.
“Kind of a buzzkill. Not as bad as Granger, but, you know, up there,” Crabbe adds, unhelpfully.
“You’re fiery, and some men can’t handle that.” Goyle stretches and lays his arms on the back of the bench, deep in thought. Draco raises an appreciative eyebrow. He’s not checking his best friend out like that, just admiring that he’s clearly been working out. Good thing, too, since they need to pull out all the stops if they want to take down Potter and the Gryffindors this year.
Daphne folds her arms in front of her chest. “Good. I don’t wish to be manhandled.”
“Don’t you want to be married, though?” Pansy retucks a hair that foolishly dared to rebel and trains her gaze on Daphne. “Make a house of your own into a home? Have children?”
“Not really.”
“No kids?” Crabbe’s face takes on a pained expression. For years it’s been obvious to anyone within a ten mile radius that he’s smitten with Daphne. He either can’t interpret her overtly oppugnant signals or refuses to acknowledge that Daphne wants nothing to do with wedded bliss, and he’s so bloody sensitive that no one wants to tell him the truth outright, lest they have to deal with the fallout.
“I’m not about to end up a broodmare for the establishment. That’s all they care about, you know, the Ministry. More magical babies. That’s the only reason they’re letting muggleborns in this year. Too many wix going unmatched.”
“Muggleborns?” Draco jerks back in surprise. “They’re letting muggleborns court?”
He doesn’t share his father’s exact views; it’s one thing to recognise the inherent superiority of purebloods, and quite another to resurrect a monster hellbent on world domination. But Draco doesn’t have to be a fanatic to recognise that muggleborns are wholly and utterly unprepared to participate in the courtship season. Muggleborns typically marry other muggleborns by way of a lengthy, messy process, roughly outlined in his Muggle Studies course. It involves things like a ‘talking stage’ and risky engagements without so much as a basic contract. As far as he knows, they don’t even have rudimentary cotillion lessons. If they match at all, he’s led to believe that it’s usually at a serious social, economic, and magical disadvantage.
“First half-bloods, then mudbloods,” Pansy sneers. “All because of Potter, I suppose.”
Mudblood. Draco winces. Few people use the slur anymore, especially in public. It’s so ugly and obvious. But amongst his set, the term hasn’t been relegated to the history books. Many purebloods claim it’s the only appropriate term, that using it is part of their heritage.
The fact is that despite Potter’s heroics, the hierarchy of the wizarding world remains relatively unchanged. There’d been some minor business about freeing house elves, though most, including the Malfoy elves, stayed on with their families in exchange for clothes and nominal wages. The Ministry made a big show of hiring a half-blood Head of Portkeys. And of course, his father, his mad aunt Bella, and the other Death Eaters who'd helped the Dark Lord become corporeal again received life sentences for their troubles. But that was about it.
His father did wrong, but Draco can’t forgive Potter for his part in putting Lucius Malfoy behind bars, thrusting his obligations into Draco’s lap at the tender age of nineteen. As such, their rivalry endures, though without the political rancor that once fueled it. Both wizards are seekers of the highest calibre, excellent duellists, and have been trained—separately, of course—by Draco’s godfather in the art of occlumency.
Draco had hoped he’d be awarded Head Boy this year, seeing as his marks are far better than Potter’s, but the absence of a letter from Dumbledore this summer had told him all he needed to know. He’d consoled himself with firewhisky and the fact that Potter can’t change his lineage. Even if he marries a pureblood witch—and odds are good—he’ll always be a half-blood; worse still, a half-blood with no sense of style who spends his time rollicking around with muggleborns and muggleborn sympathisers.
Draco is too genteel to use outdated vulgarity, but it doesn’t mean he finds the idea of mixing with the lower classes the least bit palatable.
“Too bad Snape’s not chaperoning this year,” Goyle muses. “He’d have a field day taking house points for that sort of language.”
“He’s not chaperoning?” This is news to Draco.
“How’s he supposed to chaperone if he’s not even at the castle? Apparently he took a sabbatical. My father heard he might be forced to come in and teach a few lessons, in case that cousin of yours with the tattoos can’t handle preparing us for DADA NEWTs.”
“Fucking Black family affair,” Crabbe grumbles, digging around in his pockets and coming up with a few knuts. “Anyone else hear the trolley?”
Draco refuses to be distracted, even by the potential opportunity to temporarily sate his sweet tooth. “Sirius is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”
“Seems more than qualified,” Daphne shrugs as Crabbe brushes past her. “Vince, get me a cauldron cake, will you?”
“So it’s Vince when I’m stopping the trolley, is it?”
It’s undeniably true that Sirius Black, Draco's second cousin once removed and, more recently, Potter’s substitute father, has more hands-on experience going up against the dark arts than most wizards living today. Ironic, since most people thought he was the dark wizard who betrayed Potter’s parents. He’d been offered an Order of Merlin and a position in the Ministry once his name had been cleared, but decided to fuck off to Islington instead, where he reportedly lives with Remus Lupin (his husband), Nymphadora Tonks (Remus’s wife, and also, damnable narrowing bloodlines, Draco’s cousin), their son (all three claimed him), and, who else? Potter.
Draco sweeps a hand over his face, but it does nothing to quell his rising irritation. They aren’t even off the damned Hogwarts Express and he’s already thought about Potter more than he wanted to for the entire year. Once they’re finally face to face on the pitch he’s going to crush him; break his stupid spectacles and grind him into the dirt.
Crabbe ducks back in the compartment and shoots Daphne an apologetic look. “Firsties ate all the cakes. Second choice?”
“Figures.” Daphne stands, resolute. “Let’s see what’s left.”
Draco’s heart rate picks up. This might be his best chance to speak with Pansy alone before the feast. He tosses a meaningful look at Goyle, tilting his head towards the door.
Come on, old chum.
“I’ll go, too,” Goyle says smoothly, as if leaving had been his idea. Despite his hulking form, he moves with surprising grace as he steps over Pansy and Draco’s feet and slides the door shut behind him.
For a scant second, Draco studies Pansy. Deciphering her mood is always a challenge, but especially so today. She doesn’t seem to want to meet his gaze.
“Missed you this summer, gorgeous,” he says, lifting his trouser-clad leg and dragging it down the side of her bare calf.
Pansy recoils, and her eyes finally lock on his. She looks… Scared? No, not scared. Nervous?
“Malfoy,” she starts, then swallows her next words. Draco shifts to lean forward in his seat. What’s that about? She’s called him Draco since they’ve been together.
Maybe their last few months apart have her questioning his loyalty. Malfoy men are deeply loyal to their intended brides, but the same cannot be said for other Sacred Twenty-Eight families until rings are on fingers and bindings are sealed. Perhaps he’d been remiss not to reassure her sooner that he won’t entertain other offers this season. By the end of seventh year, they’ll be betrothed, and soon after, he’d make her his wife.
Salazar, he’d almost royally fucked this up, hadn’t he? He should have had one of his solicitors put something in writing. He’ll send an owl as soon as the feast is done. Until then, he’ll reassure her with words of his own.
“I know we’ve spent a lot of time apart this summer, what with your travels and everything I had to attend to at home, but I promise you, Pansy Ngân Parkinson.” He deploys her full name like a trump card, taking her cold hand in his. “I haven’t once thought about changing my mind. You’re the right witch for me.”
She looks as if she might cry. Again, highly unusual, but in her defense, Draco has just been terribly romantic.
Pansy draws back her hand, and that’s when he feels it. A shift. If he had an empty teacup, he feels certain there’d be a grim staring up at him from the bottom of the porcelain.
“I didn’t want to do this now,” Pansy says quietly. “But I don’t think there’ll ever be a good time.”
“To what?” Draco asks, but when he looks back on this moment later, he realises that deep down, he already knew.
Her voice is barely a whisper. “End things.”
Draco reels back. “What?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I… You have to understand, I meant to marry you.” She wrings her hands, half her focus trained on the door, where any minute their friends will burst back in with a largesse of snack foods and no idea of the strained conversation taking place. Draco holds his breath and waits for her to continue.
Pansy frowns when she speaks again. “All this time I’ve been preparing to eventually become your wife. I mean, I know everything there is to know about what it would take to be the perfect Malfoy bride. I could throw a gala wandless with my eyes closed. And when we left things in June my mind was made up. But then I went to Chùa Bái Đính with my cousins a few weeks ago, and it was so peaceful there. I had some time to reflect on what I really wanted out of life. And I realised that I want more than a marriage that makes sense on parchment.”
Having entered a state of shock not unlike being hit by a stunner, Draco can’t think of anything clever to say, and only repeats himself again. “What?”
“I know it’s a massive risk,” Pansy continues. “Everyone’s going to think I’m mad. What girl wouldn’t want to marry you?”
His brain, which until this point has been reading her signals as the opening to a renegotiation of terms—he’d planned to give her unfettered access to everything he had, but maybe there was something he’d forgotten?—suddenly erupts into chaos, jettisoning adrenaline into his bloodstream. He clenches his fists around the lip of the bench, so tight he thinks he might splinter the wood. He feels sick.
“Don’t do this. I—I need you, is that what you need me to say? Tell me what it’ll take, and I’ll do it.”
Pansy looks at him like one might look at a fussy mandrake mid-repotting. “I don’t understand why you’re fighting this so hard. You’ll have your pick of witches.”
“I don’t want them. I want what we agreed to.”
“And that’s just it. You want what we agreed to. You don’t actually want me, Draco.”
She’s finally called him by his name again, but it’s like a thin layer of cheap salve after a nasty stinging jinx. Not the right cure.
“I do,” he implores. “Forgive me if I sound upset but I’m offering you an incredible life in the lap of luxury and you’re threatening to throw me to the wolves. Make it make fucking sense!”
There’s a loud bang, and the compartment goes dark. They’ve entered a tunnel.
Draco keeps talking, words spilling out faster than he can vet them for sensibility. “Look, I’m sorry about this summer, alright? I’ll make it up to you. Courting season starts in two weeks, and I’ll dote on you every second. The freshest flowers, the finest jewels, fucking, I don’t know, Swiss chocolates on your pillow every night before you go to bed. It’ll be the talk of the castle.” He spreads his arms wide. “The courtship to end all courtships. You know I can afford it.”
There, that ought to tempt her out of whatever nonsense she’s fallen into.
Sunlight floods the compartment again, and with horror, Draco turns and sees the half-open compartment door, riddled with the sticky ends of extendable ears, and his friends just outside, cringing as they look on.
“I’m sorry,” Pansy says hurriedly, rising from her seat. She wobbles in her heels, and—are those tears in her eyes? “I just can’t.”
“Pansy.”
“I hope you find the right one.”
She flees, and from his seat in the now-empty compartment, Draco vaguely hears a choked sob followed by the soft, mournful sound Goyle made when they found that injured unicorn that one time. He leaps to his feet and—it is Goyle, scooping up Pansy like she weighs nothing and carrying her off in front of the entire train. Almost all the doors are open, and when he steps out into the aisle, it’s packed. Hundreds of eyeballs watch their departure into another compartment, then swing to him.
Sweat gathers under his arms. He resists the urge to fidget with his collar.
Everyone onboard has just borne witness to his break-up. Dumping, more like. They’d heard his unseemly begging, the way Pansy denied him even after he promised her the world. There’s mortification, and then there’s whatever this is.
The tips of his ears go hot.
“What are you lot staring at? Show’s over,” he shouts. Crabbe and Daphne crouch, hustling themselves into the compartment. Draco stands determinedly, gripping his wand like a lifeline.
What’s his next move? Go after Pansy? Act as if nothing happened? Buy every sugar quill left on the trolley?
He attempts to retreat down the aisle with some semblance of dignity, but instead stumbles backwards into another person. Grand, just grand.
“That was rough, Malfoy,” comes a muffled but distinctly feminine voice from behind him. “Are you alright?”
Draco closes his eyes and nearly growls with frustration. He’d know that uppity speech pattern anywhere.
Of all the people to overhear the total decimation of his relationship—and possibly his life—it just has to be Granger. And she has to ask him, like the kind of precious, pure-intentioned angel she’s fooled everyone into thinking she is, if he’s alright.
He won’t give her anything more than the sight of his back. The so-called cut direct, if she knows anything about purebloods, which she obviously doesn’t, because she speaks again.
“Dreadful luck, and right before the start of courting season. Although, from my limited research, you’ve got time. Not that I’ve read much about courting season—there aren’t exactly many books on the subject, it’s mostly old family journals—but the Weasleys told me Sacred Twenty-Eight families always match the first go-round. Unless you’ve got some sort of horrid disease or some such.”
“What could you possibly want?” He grits out.
“Oh, Snape gave me your Head Boy badge.” He hears her fumble for it.
Head Boy? Not that he’s about to turn the honour down, but what about Potter?
Granger’s still nattering on. “He’d hoped to be here, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard, circumstances have changed, and now I’m meant to give it to you.”
Circumstances have changed, indeed.
He holds his hand out at his side. “So give it to me.”
Draco expects her to throw it at him. Instead, she lays the badge, still warm from her pocket, into his open palm. He senses her hand lingering in the air above his for the quickest of moments before falling away. He curls his fingers around the metal.
“Right. That’s done then,” she says matter-of-factly. “I suppose I’ll see you in our rooms.”
She’s already sailed past him, a thundercloud of hair, before he realises what she said.
No. No no no.
“Now hold on a second, Granger,” he snarls. Before he thinks better of it, he follows her into her compartment and slams the door behind him, trapping them alone together.
