d r a c o

Draco had learnt to like the summer.

He had been homeschooled as a child, by a weedy tutor with wire glasses and a palpable fear of Draco's parents. He had sat with the tutor for six hours a day, five times a week - going over and over all of the different lessons that wizarding children had to learn. Despite learning alone, Draco still had the same academic structure as other children, which in summer was a two-month holiday. Two months a year spent alone, wandering around the Manor by himself.

It wasn't that he didn't like the heat, or the long, dry days. It was the unending circle of having nothing to do and no one to talk to. His parents had spoiled him, he knew that. But they had spoiled him with gifts, and flattery, and a false sense of self-importance. They hadn't spoiled him with their time. Or with companionship, or affection.

Being alone was something he had come to like. He had learnt, over time, how to make the most of summer days, if they were spent in only his own company. He became accustomed to spending hours sitting on top of the fountain in the garden, or by the window in his bedroom, staring out at the fields beyond.

He was good at being alone, because his parents had taught him to be. Which was why he found it ironic that even now he had moved out, they were still finding ways to control his time. That they were fine with him being alone, but only on their terms. That they could still force him to go for tea, to visit family, and now, to go on a date with a girl he had never even met.

He had thought that the strange relationship he had with his parents would pass with the end of childhood dependency: that when he stopped living under their roof, he would finally be free from their control and their values.

Clearly not.

He had been given clear instructions to dress nicely for the date. He had put on a smart pair of trousers and a grey shirt, which he rolled up to his forearms for practicality's sake. He was clutching a mug of camomile tea, his fingers wrapped around the hot ceramic. Heart beating fast, he was staring out of his window into the sky beyond. Still.

Because he had five minutes to go until his mother showed up, and a letter from Ginny Weasley was yet to arrive.

A week ago, when his mother had set a date for him to meet Astoria, he had written to Ginny to ask for a picture of Isobel. He had only had two or three pictures himself, and they had disappeared with the rest of Belly's possessions on the day of his trial - when his mother had "cleaned up." But he was sure that the Weasley girl would have one, and if not she, then one of Belly's other Gryffindor friends. It was something to do with ego that he hadn't asked sooner.

It had taken him five drafts to whittle down the letter to something suitably polite - for one thing, forcing himself to use Ginny and her brother's first names rather than one of the more creative nicknames he had adorned them with in school. He had hoped this civility would work in his favour, but Ginny was taking her time getting back to him, so he didn't know. It was possible she felt angry at him, he thought; blamed him for Belly's death. Maybe all of her other friends hated him too, now more than ever.

And then - he threw his mug into the sink and slammed open the window. As if on command, an owl was sweeping down in the direction of his apartment. He stretched out an arm to grab an envelope from the bird's foot - and sure enough, his name was written in a loopy scrawl that he didn't recognise.

He ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter.

Hi Malfoy,

I could only find a few pictures of Isobel, but I thought you'd like this one best. It was taken in October of seventh year. She looks happy, and was happy for a moment, even though it was a miserable time. What I remember most clearly of seventh-year Isobel was her insistence on being "over" you. And yet, she stared at you pretty much the entire time.

You know that neither I nor the rest of Isobel's friends ever showed much approval of your relationship. I want to apologise for that. Your time together was short and I feel awful that I might possibly have played a role in limiting it further. Not to give myself too much credit - you were both always insufferably stubborn - but regardless, I'm sorry.

I really hope you are doing well. I miss her too, you know.

Ginny.

Draco tossed the letter aside. Then, with trembling hands, he slid a photograph from the envelope.

Belly was sitting in between Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. They were in front of a fire, in what he vaguely recognised as the Gryffindor common room. All three were laughing, tugging a box of cornflakes between one another.

A knock sounded on the door, and Narcissa's voice came from behind it. "Draco, darling."

Draco stayed where he was. He carefully tore Longbottom and Lovegood from the sides of the picture, until it was just Belly left. She looked at the camera then, and her smile grew. Mischievous. The fire reflected in her eyes. Her face had haunted him for over a year now, but that was nothing compared to seeing her like this, her actual features, smiling at the camera as she used to smile at him.

Narcissa knocked again. "Draco."

"Coming, mother," he called, but didn't move.

"Draco, I won't let you hide from this. I don't want to use Alohamora in a muggle residence, but if you're going to refuse to co-operate -" Narcissa's voice stopped. Then came a nervous, "Oh. Hello."

Draco cursed. He tucked the photograph into the pocket of his trousers and strode to the door. Flung it open to come face to face with his mother and Emily, his neighbour.

"Hello," chirped Emily. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

Draco stuck an arm out to usher his mother into his apartment. He tossed an Obliviate back at Emily, and shut the door behind him.

His mother looked at him, wide-eyed. "Draco, I don't think that's legal." Draco said nothing, and Narcissa cleared her throat. She was dressed for the occasion, her usual casual black dress upgraded to a flouncier, lace-trimmed one. As if she was the one going on a date. "Right, well. You've dressed suitably. You'll need something warm."

"It's summer," said Draco. "I thought we were going for afternoon tea."

"Change of plan," said Narcissa briskly. "The two of you are going for a walk at St. James' park. We thought it might be more casual, less overwhelming for the both of you. And it's cool out today."

Draco groaned. The plan had been that they - he, Astoria and all of their parents - go for afternoon tea, somewhere fancy. He had been banking on the ability to sit in a corner and say little. "Who's we?"

Narcissa gave him a pointed look. "Astoria's mother and I."

"Right," he said. "The matchmakers."

Noticing a jumper of Draco's hanging on the back of his door, Narcissa took it and handed it to him. "Draco, I don't want to quarrel about this."

"Then don't make me go," mumbled Draco. But he took the jumper from her obediently; pulled it over his head.

He locked his door from the inside, and Narcissa took his hand. She did not look at him, but she gave his hand a small, gentle squeeze. Draco understood.

Together they Apparated to Diagon Alley, where they were to meet the Greengrass family.

Arriving in a wizarding community felt like shedding an invisibility cloak. It almost was that, in a literal sense, and as they appeared in Diagon Alley, Draco felt prying eyes turn towards him and his mother.

Narcissa smoothed out her dress and looked around for the Greengrasses, ignoring their onlookers. Draco felt vaguely amused to see nerves in her expression. What was she afraid of? That the Greengrass family wouldn't like them? Or that he would embarrass her?

"Oh, there they are," she said. She stood a little straighter, and shot a tight-lipped smile over Draco's shoulder.

Draco sighed heavily and turned to face Astoria and her parents. They were approaching across the cobblestone pavement, looking just as apprehensive as he felt.

With Isobel's photograph in one trouser pocket and her snowdrop in the other, he shook Astoria Greengrass' hand. Her eyes were light where Isobel's were dark: her hair was brown where Isobel's was fair. And she seemed, like Draco, not all too happy to be there.

He and his mother exchanged pleasantries with the Greengrass family. The weather, the news, their jobs, their lives. The upcoming turn of the century. He and Astoria left to make their way to St. James' park, where they would walk slow, long loops around the green, making small talk and getting to know each other. Standing far enough apart to be strangers, but close enough to be friends.

And he would find, to his surprise, that he quite enjoyed her company.

She would tell him she was sorry he lost his girlfriend in the war, and place a consoling hand on his arm. And he would not feel discomforted by it.

He would find comfort in her anger at the world, in the opinions she had that his parents would scorn. There were thoughts he had had once in his life and never dared to turn his mind to again, and here she was, voicing them aloud. Blood purity is a construct built from fear and pretension. It is inhumane and sadistic to choose status over justice. Arranged marriage between purebloods is outdated, yet here we are.

And between her controversial opinions, he would find kindness, compassion and understanding.

He would be surprised by how similar their lives were - their upbringing and their current circumstances - after having, for so long, felt so alone.

And on their return to Diagon Alley, she would make a snide remark about pureblood constructs, that would cause the corners of his mother's mouth to turn down, and his to turn up.

That night, he would sink into his bed, feeling intensely relieved.

Astoria Greengrass was nothing like the pureblood snobbery he had known his entire life. She was bitter and smart and very angry. And it was refreshing.

She would never replace Belly, this he knew. But it wouldn't be all that bad to have another friend.