D E C E M B E R 1 9 9 9

d r a c o

six hours before

Malfoy Manor looked the same as when Draco had left it eighteen months prior, and as every time he had visited it since then. Which was, he thought, just as it had looked for his entire childhood. An unchanging, soulless house, that he had once called home but had never felt like it.

He had no doubt that the paintings that lined the walls now had hung in their same positions a hundred years before. His ancestors stared at him as he passed through the hallway; their fair hair and pale skin similar to Draco's but constructed through oil paint; wealthy and successful in their time but forgotten in his. The idea that his own portrait might one day hang on the same wall; that he might hold the same grandeur, had once been exciting to him.

Now, he could think of few things worse than to have his face hang alongside the faces of these bleak men.

He didn't like to even visit the Manor, now. Hated it, actually: hated being reminded of the prisoners that had once resided in its basement, the tension-filled meetings, the fear that had seized his body every time Voldemort had entered a room. The house he had grown up in became a torture chamber; his own aunt interrogating streams of prisoners in the same rooms he had once done schoolwork in. He hated to remember the way he had sat in his bedroom and been too afraid to do or even say anything about any of it. It filled him with nausea.

Worst of all, the Manor reminded him of Belly; of sitting with her on the fountain, of curling up in the guest bedroom, of bringing her breakfast and kissing her goodnight. Belly and the Manor had used to exist in two separate worlds - dark and light. He had been stupid; laughably irresponsible and naïve to mix them.

In a recent shift in the way that Belly haunted him, Draco had begun to see her. Her face had always frequented his mind, of course, but now she appeared in his world; a dainty phantom, emerging out of thin air. He would often be deep in his own thoughts, as he walked or stared out of his apartment window - that he wouldn't quite realise when he was looking into her big, dark eyes. He would blink once, refocus, and she would be gone.

He never saw her here, at the Manor. He always felt alone here, when he visited for dinner or afternoon tea. Always alone, even under the watchful gaze of his parents.

The silence around the table was thick, intermittently punctuated by clinks of porcelain tableware. Draco didn't much prefer to go out in public, but it felt it was more tolerable than this repeated, painful ritual.

"Astoria's mum has a dress picked out," said Narcissa cordially; as if announcing a pleasant piece of neighbourhood gossip. "It's being imported from Switzerland."

Draco had been inspecting the bottom of his cup. He looked up. "What?"

Narcissa gave him an exasperated look. "Astoria's dress, sweetheart. For the wedding."

"I heard you," said Draco. "I didn't know there were actual plans being made for the wedding. At least without the bride and groom being consulted first. Or, you know, getting engaged."

Lucius gave a pointed sigh and looked away. Narcissa frowned. "Darling. We've been making plans for months."

Draco stared at them. He had been, to his own surprise, fairly tolerant about the entire affair; had met Astoria when he was instructed to, had befriended her and hadn't complained often. He had known that his and Astoria's parents wanted them to get married, but hadn't considered that they might actually be planning it all, actively. "Do you have a date for it, then?" he asked. "The wedding?"

Narcissa set down her cup. "As a matter of fact, yes, we do. Next August, the fourth."

"And were you planning on informing me of that?"

"The date was only decided last week, Draco," said Narcissa. "You haven't been entirely receptive to the arrangements, so I saw no need to inform you straight away."

"Receptive," repeated Draco, incredulous. "If you need me to be clearer about it," he said, "I don't want to marry Astoria."

Narcissa's frown deepened. "I thought you liked her."

"I don't want to marry her," he repeated. "I didn't say anything about disliking her."

"Did you two have a fight?"

"No," he said. He folded his arms, agitated. "I'm just done playing your stupid game. I don't want to participate in this. . . perfect little portrait you want to paint of our family."

Narcissa drew a long breath; pursed her lips. "I think," she said slowly, "I think you are acting impulsively. You need to give it time; you'll come around eventually. You're still hung up on Isobel, I understand that. But you need to think about this for a while, before you write Astoria off entirely."

That was the first time one of his parents had spoken Belly's name since before the war. Draco tensed his folded arms; glared at his mother, who went on;

"You and Astoria are similar people. You make sense together."

Draco laughed aloud. What a ridiculous notion, to marry someone because it made sense. He and Belly had never made sense.

Lucius finally turned his eyes to Draco. He gave him a long, bored look. "What has inspired this sudden revolt, Draco?" he asked. "Is the Gryffindor girl still getting into your head, even now she's gone?"

"That Gryffindor girl," said Draco through gritted teeth, "has a name. And actually, if anyone has been getting into my head, it's been Astoria. She hates arranged marriage; thinks it's stupid."

Narcissa looked flustered. "Well - her parents think it's a perfectly lovely idea -"

"She doesn't," said Draco. "And I understand the - the rush of marrying off your children to publicize something other than your own failed reputation - but I'm twenty years old, Mother. I don't have to do everything you want me to, anymore."

"You do, actually," replied Lucius coolly. "As long as you want our support."

"Your support," echoed Draco. It wasn't a question; he knew what it meant. "I don't need you anymore, Father. I'll get a job."

Lucius raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? And where will you work, the Ministry?"

Draco seethed. "Maybe."

Lucius tutted. "An ex - Death Eater, working at the Ministry. In these times. . . What a funny concept."

Narcissa looked nervously between the two of them. "I think that's enough," she said.

"All I'm saying is," said Lucius, not taking his grey eyes off his son, "the Ministry isn't quite what it used to be. The entire wizarding world isn't, in fact, and right now, it's all rather structured against people like us. So if you want to escape the confinements of your upbringing, Draco, feel free. Keep being so sickeningly idealistic." Lucius looked away then; inspected his own, pale hand. "Just let us know when you come around."

Draco stood from his chair. He looked down at his mother and father in their perfect, white-tiled kitchen; everything glossy and unblemished. Drinking from the same cups they had owned since before he was born. "Well," he said, "I don't think I am going to come around anytime soon. But thanks anyway."

He left the Manor without looking back at his parents.

-

five hours before

Back at his apartment, he boiled water for tea; fragments of their conversation still echoing in his head. He didn't have to do what his parents told him to. He could survive without their financial support, probably, though he doubted they would cut him off entirely. It would just make everything very difficult, if they did. It would be inconvenient, definitely - but not impossible.

His apartment door swung open, and Blaise walked in. Blaise had always liked to visit without warning, but these days, showed up without even knocking; sauntered into the apartment like it was his own. Blaise had broken up with his French girlfriend recently - or she with him - and his appearances had become more regular. Draco might once have minded, but Blaise's intentions were always good.

"Malfoy," said Blaise, in lieu of a greeting. "How are the folks?"

"They're fine," replied Draco, trying to keep the grumble out of his voice. "Same as ever."

Blaise noticed the boiling kettle. He leaned over the counter and flicked it off. "No more of this," he said, ignoring Draco's scowl. "We're going out tonight. All the Slytherin folk - Pansy, Nott, Pucey. . ." he counted them off on his fingers. "And you. Big reunion."

"I'm not in the mood."

"There's no option, Malfoy, you're coming," said Blaise. "You haven't been out with us in months."

"Not in the mood," repeated Draco flatly. He turned to the window, rested his forearms on its sill and stared out of it. Wondered if Belly might spring up again; a ghost on the pavement.

"Malfoy," groaned Blaise. "I'm trying to help you through all of this, I really am. But you're being impossible, locking yourself up here in this dingy apartment everyday. You're going to waste your life away here -"

"That's fine."

"But we miss you, mate," said Blaise, his tone softening. "Even if you don't miss us. You've been through a lot of shit, I won't deny it. But the others - they're going through a rough time too. We all are; we have been for the past year and a half. And we'd much rather go through it all together."

Draco didn't reply.

"I'll be back at nine," said Blaise. "If you decide not to come - that's fine. But you should know that we all want you there."

Draco bowed his head. "They want me to marry her," he said, finally.

Blaise paused. "That's nothing new."

"But they're actually planning it. They're planning the wedding. They ordered Astoria's dress."

"Well then, marry her," said Blaise. "You like her, don't you?"

Draco frowned. "I don't love her."

Blaise groaned again, loudly. "Holy shit Malfoy, what's happened to you?"

Draco didn't reply. Blaise slung an arm around his shoulder; positioned himself beside Draco, facing the window. "Just give us one night," he said quietly; tone imploring. "Just one night, to remind you of those mad Slytherin parties we used to have - and then we'll leave you alone. Then you can let yourself rot away here, and I won't say a word."

Draco smiled, but he was silent.

"I mean," said Blaise. "I'll still visit, of course. But you can rot freely."

Draco chuckled. He wrenched his eyes away from the window and looked at Blaise. "Fine, Zabini. If it gets you off my back, then fine - I'll go out with you." Blaise punched the air; Draco rolled his eyes. "Just one thing," he said, and Blaise feigned a look of attentiveness. Draco took a breath; felt resentment stir within him. "Astoria's not invited."

-

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