The Slug Club
Days pass like sand slipping through his fingers, and before he can blink, it's the first quidditch match of the season. To say Draco was excited would be a bald faced lie.
For all Draco loved flying, he hated losing, and he was rapidly beginning to accept there was no winning against Harry Potter.
Oh, he tried. He flew complex loops to confuse the gryffindor chasers, he took sudden dives, he even cheated a little, goading Katie Bell into chasing after him, causing her to nearly slam into a goal post. But it was never enough. Potter caught the snitch, and was lifted over his teammates heads in triumph.
At least, he usually was. To Draco's immense delight, Potter proceeded to have an explosive fight with his entourage.
Something about luck and Christmas and Viktor Krum, Draco watched gleefully as the gryffindor trio all stormed in different directions, their sorrow almost enough to soothe his battered pride.
He really did feel bad, his team was fantastic, easily beating ravenclaw and hufflepuff every time. His chasers could out manoeuvre any gryffindor, and his beaters were some of the most vicious there was. The only reason slytherin consistently lost was him. No matter how close it was, Potter always got the snitch.
If he wasn't so selfish, if he didn't love flying so much, he’d consider stepping down and letting someone else try their luck against the gryffindor golden boy. But as it stood, none of his housemates could beat him in so much as a race, let alone take over as seeker.
He didn't even like playing seeker all that much. Yes, he loved flying at speeds fast enough to break the sound barrier, but being a seeker was really a rather stationary position most of the time. Most of his taunts were due to sheer boredom, gliding around in circles watching for the snitch. If he could, he’d switch and play chaser, but he was the fastest person in slytherin, and even Pansy, his closest match, was leagues behind him. He made up for it by sneaking out with his friends to race at night, doing ridiculous and dangerous tricks outlawed by the rule book.
But tonight, there would be no racing with his friend and fiancé.
Tonight was the Slug Club Christmas Party.
He’d owled his mother for a set of her nicest dress robes, he'd brought his own, of course, just in case, but they wouldn't do the job, regardless of how nice they were. Tonight wasn't just any party, and he could show up looking anything less than ethereal.
He’d spoken to Blaise beforehand, to tell him to leave his robes to Draco. For all the Zabini’s knew fashion, the Malfoy’s knew politics, and that was what they needed. If they were going to avenge the slight on Pansy, they needed everyone in the room to forget Slughorn even existed. He and Blaise were going to so thoroughly distract the party-goers that the only name on anyone’s lips would be Draco Malfoy.
For an attention seeking society snitch like Slughorn, nothing could be worse than being forgotten. That was why Draco was in charge of tonight, because if there was one thing he could do without fail, it was attract attention.
He let himself into the common room, only to be waylaid by Pansy herself. She was still fuming, and had vented her frustrations by concocting several vicious, career destroying, rumours. Draco's favourite was that Slughorn had slept with Dumbledore for his job, purely because of the sheer horror the image caused.
“You are letting me do your hair!” She practically shouts at him, already waving her wand.
He dodges a particularly well aimed poke, “Pans, you know I'm hopeless with it, you’d have to do it for me anyways.” He really was, most days he just tied it with a ribbon like his father, but it was too short, and pieces in the front kept slipping loose.
“Oh. Well, in that case, come here.” She ordered, already walking to her room. Draco followed, with only slight hesitation, thank you very much. She very unceremoniously pushed Draco to sit at her vanity, which has obviously replaced the school-sanctioned desks every student got. He wondered if Professor Snape was aware, but he didn't think so. Even if he did know, no one in their right mind would challenge Pansy on the matter of interior design.
“Show me your robes.” She demanded.
Draco summoned the garment bag from his room with a flick of his hand, dutifully handing it over to his friend. They really were gorgeous, but as his mother grew older, she started to 'develop a more mature taste’ which Draco thought was a sore excuse. But it let him pillage her closets for gem's like this, so he didn't mind much.
They're such a dark blue it's almost black, and the material shines with purple and green reflections, giving the impression of an oil slick. The outer cape reached a little past his elbows, showcasing the detailed black lace sleeves of the robes themselves. It was all rather conservative, considering the slinky fabric, with a high neck, though there was a small keyhole cutout, showing his collar. The final touch was charmed silver embroidery, with small snakes that danced along the hems of the robes, catching the light perfectly.
"Oh, Draco." Pansy breathed, "They're beautiful! I've never been so jealous in my life!"
He smiled, "I'll buy you something better if you make me the most stunning wizard in that room."
—-------
After Pansy managed to seemingly reconstruct his face entirely, and put his hair up into an elegant twist, with a few strands left out to frame his face, Draco could confidently say he was gorgeous.
Pansy helped him charm the robes to fit him like a glove, since she was much better at tailoring spells, because while he got his slight frame from his mother, she was much fuller in certain areas. It seemed the Malfoy angles could not be avoided, not that Draco was complaining.
Pansy stepped back, admiring her handiwork, "Merlin, Draco, your neck looks a mile long. Slughorn won't know what hit him."
Draco took her hand, pressing his lips to it, careful to not smudge the light gloss she'd given him, "All for you, Pansy Parkinson."
"As if," she snorted, "You just want an excuse to dance with Blaise and make fun of the gryffindors."
"I don't see why revenge on your behalf has to be so singular. I can do all three." He argued, though it was softened by the grin he was fighting.
Pansy rolled her eyes, though she was also smiling, "Come on, let's go see if Blaise has finished his skincare yet." Ugh, Blaise had some of the best skin any one of them had ever seen, but it came at the cost of a twenty step routine.
So, they walked across the hall (and again, Draco had to wonder about the tower dorms, separating the sexes? Really? What would that do?) to enter his and Blaise's shared room. When they walked in, Blaise was there in front of a transfigured vanity, which was in the same place as his desk.
Ok, seriously? Did no one respect the desks but him? They were nice desks! He loved his desk! And transfiguring furniture in the long run was seriously a gamble.
"Do neither of you respect the furniture? What is wrong with the desks?" He asked, slightly outraged on behalf of Salazar himself.
His train of thought was interrupted, however, when Blaise turned around. He obviously hadn't heard them over the Celestia Warbeck record playing loudly in the corner, and he simply stared at Draco and Pansy.
"I-" He paused, blinking owlishly, "Wow, Draco." He stood up, walking over to stand in front of them. He ghosted a hand over Draco's hair, careful not to disturb the stasis spells and pins, "Did you do this?" He asked Pansy, not taking his eyes off his fiancé.
"Hey! I could do my own hair." Draco said, huffing.
"Draco Malfoy, you are a filthy liar." Blaise replied with a soft smile.
Distantly, Pansy could be heard making retching noises.
"Are you two done? Some of us still have to eat dinner." She flopped onto Draco's bed, "It's already 6, get going, or it won't be fashionably late, it'll just be late."
Draco, ever the mature young man, stuck his tongue out at her on his way out.
Slughorn's party was in one of the upper layers of the dungeons, so they had no problem walking. Blaise held his arm out, and Draco took it with a smile.
Blaise was dressed in the same inky blue that Draco was, but his robes were made of velvet, and cut to be much more angular. Together, they made a matched set, opposite yet equal.
"You look nice."
Draco snorted. Trust Blaise to simplify what was quite literally hours or work into 'nice.' But that was his fiancé, Draco could take him to the wizarding section of the Louvre to see the moving marble statues of Ancient Greece, and he would say they were 'ok'.
The worst part was that he was entirely sincere.
"What a wordsmith, my fiancé," Draco teased, "You don't look so bad yourself."
"You picked out my robes, Draco." He pointed out.
Draco grinned at him, "I know."
Blaise's robes, while very expensive, and incredibly well fitting, were designed to be complementary to Draco's, even though he was technically Blaise's guest. Usually it was flipped, but tonight wasn't about the party, or even their announcement. It was about revenge. Pansy wasn't the only one who'd been slighted, Slughorn had been trying to get in with the Malfoy family for years, so for him to not invite Draco?
Well, who could let such an insult stand?
So, even uninvited, Draco would be the talk of the evening. With any luck, people would even forget it was christmas. Yule was the better holiday anyway.
Stopping in front of the door, Draco dropped Blaise's elbow, and his fiance dutifully put his hand on Draco's lower back instead, his other hand reaching for the door knob.
"Ready?" Blaise asked.
"As ever." Draco replied.
The party was already in full swing, but as people saw Draco and Blaise, conversations petered out. They kept walking however, making their way to Slughorn himself.
The man visibly faltered when he saw them, and Draco had to fight to restrain his wild grin. Good. Let the leech sweat.
"Professor, I trust you've met my fiancé, Draco." Blaise began.
The party somehow managed to get even quieter, every ear in the room straining for their conversation. Draco heard several choking noises as people registered what Blaise had said. Then, all at once, whispers and furious rustling broke out, the rumour mill already working full speed to ensure the whole school would know before the night was out.
"Ah. Yes. Of course. Mr. Malfoy." Slughorn tried for a smile, but it came out more as a grimace.
"Professor Slughorn, I missed you at the Malfoy Winter Gala last year," He tilted his head, the picture of innocent forgetfulness, "You were invited? Weren't you? I must admit I zone out when my mother runs the guest lists past me." He smiled, waving his hand gently, "Ah, it's no matter, I'll be sure to tell my father the club is still happening, he wasn't sure."
On cue, Blaise looked over his shoulder, even though Draco was sure no one was actually there, "You'll have to forgive us, Professor, I think I hear someone calling."
Draco let himself be tugged away by Blaise, playing the part of silent arm candy well, even if every eye in the room seemed to pierce his back. He grinned, leaning further into Blaise's hand. It wasn't his most subtle ploy, but Slughorn wouldn't understand true society speak if it hit him in the face.
"That went well. Though you shouldn't look so smug, I can see Potter blowing a fuse." Blaise whispered into his ear.
Draco turned his head, making eye contact with the chosen one. Smirking, he lifts his head to whisper back into Blaise's ear, "But that's half the fun."
Blaise laughs softly, and Draco is gratified to see the glass Potter was clutching shatter into bright shards of glass, causing the crowd of gryffindors around him to rush into helping him clean.
This time Draco can't fully contain his laughter, letting it ring out, uncaring of the glaring sea of red hair.
Merlin, how nice this was after the past month. From planning the murder of the most powerful wizard alive to playing cheap social tricks on Potter. His laughter ended abruptly, cold creeping into his limbs at the thought of his tasks.
He was supposed to be letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and here he was, laughing with Blaise. If he knew what Draco had to do, would he have come at all? Would Pansy have sat him down and helped him with his hair if she knew he was going to be responsible for the massacre of their schoolmates? Suddenly the walls felt too small, closing in on him as he simply stood there, surrounded on all sides by dead men.
He wished desperately he was back in the forests around Malfoy Manor, looking into the stars and hearing the wind blow songs through the trees. The dungeons, usually so comforting, now felt liable to collapse on top of him and bury him beneath miles of rock and silt, filling his lungs with water until he became a part of the castle itself.
“Draco!” Blaise’s voice cuts through his thoughts easily, and when Draco looks, his smile is strained around the edges. Looking further, they're by the window now, looking out over the bottom of the lake. “Are you alright?” Blaise asks quietly.
“I'm fine, Blaise.” Draco breathes, focusing on the deep black of his fiancés eyes.
“Are you sure? Do you want to leave?”
Draco snorted, “Pansy would never forgive me for letting this hair go to waste, I'm fine.”
“She would understand.” Blaise argued.
“I wouldn't want her too.” Draco countered, “I am fine, Blaise, just bored out of my mind.”
What was wrong with him? He was quite literally born for this, to attend these parties, expecting adulation. He was born to be Lord Malfoy-Black, the most powerful person in any room. So why can't he? Why did it all feel so wrong?
He reached a hand out to rest on Blaise’s, taking comfort in the warmth of it. Blasie moved his hand to circle Draco’s, watching him with inscrutable eyes. Draco feels his smile grow more genuine, if he had to be stuck at this party, he was glad it was with Blaise.
Finally, he speaks, “Alright, but just tell me, and we'll go. It would be quite the statement.”
Draco smirks, that it would, going to a dinner party and not staying for dinner would be the highest insult, too bad he had other motives.
Not a moment too soon, dinner is called, and they make their way to their designated seats. Sitting down, Draco looks up to meet the eyes of one Harry Potter. Great, not only does Draco have to deal with the git staring but now he has to make polite conversation while he does it. On his right, however, is the hufflepuff prefect, Hannah Aboat or something, a pureblood, his mind reminds him. Draco has no problems with Hannah. Hannah was his partner in transfiguration last year, and it's not her fault she’s an insufferable bore.
“Granger. Weasley. Potter.” He says shortly, before turning to his right, “Hannah, how nice to see you.”
The weasel promptly chokes, then goes an alarming shade of red at being ignored so thoroughly, but Hannah just smiles shyly, “Hello, Draco, I haven't seen you around often.”
“Yes well,” he sighs, “you know how sixth year is, lots of NEWTS studying, and the like.” And vague murder plots, but he assumes that's not a very common problem.
“Ah speaking of NEWTS, you're taking transfiguration again this year, right?” She asks, brightening slightly.
“I am.” He confirms, slightly hesitant.
“Oh! Fantastic! See, I've been having problems with my non-organic to organic transformations, they keep coming out too. . .” She pauses, looking for the right word.
“Unnatural?” He offers. It was a common problem, he'd helped Vince and Greg through it often enough, to get a block of wood to turn into something soft and round was quite difficult.
“Exactly!” She exclaims. Draco sits back, running through his schedule in his head.
“Well, We've both got prefects meetings Monday night, and I have quidditch every other . . .” He furrowed his eyebrows. When did he have free time? On top of his task, he had a full NEWT class-load, prefect duties, and was captain of the slytherin team.
“Next Tuesday.” Blaise helpfully supplied, “It's mostly just getting Greg and Vince up to speed, so you'll be able to skip out.”
“That might be true, but I’d really rather do it myself. You know how-” he started, indignant at the implication the captain could skip practice.
“Yeah yeah,” Blaise waved his hand dismissively, “I'll help them, don't worry.”
Draco pursed his lips, he didn't like it, but Hannah did have a very powerful family. Her aunt was currently head of the Magical Department of Potion Regulations, and someone his father did business with regularly.
“Alright then,” he said, turning back to Hannah, “Next Tuesday, meet me in the library?”
Hannah beamed at him, “Oh thank you! You're just brilliant at transfiguration, I know I'll get it with your help!”
Ugh. Hufflepuffs, so sentimental.
He let his eyes sweep over the room, absently noting dinner had been served sometime during his conversation. To his surprise however, Granger looked about ready to jump out of her seat. He frowned, he didn't think he'd said anything she'd find offensive, but then again, Granger could find offence in a teacup.
“You know,” he said, looking between Blaise and Hannah, “there was a fascinating study about the subject of organic transformation and sentience.” Blaise rolled his eyes fondly, and Hannah looked politely, but not insincerely, interested. “They transfigured mice into plates, then ate off them for a week to see if they would remember the kinds of food after they were transfigured back.” He picked up his fork, “It was wildly unethical, of course-”
“Why?” Granger demanded from where she sat across from him.
He blinked, “what do you mean, why?” He asked, “would you like to be a plate for a week?”
"No- I-" She turns red, "I mean, why do you care?"
He blinked again, looking between Blaise and Hannah to see if he was missing something, "I don't."
Granger makes to stand up, probably to strangle him, but Weasley yanks her back, muttering. The table is blissfully quiet after that.
Potter's eye's remain locked onto Draco, startlingly silent
After dinner is over, the party hits full swing. He and Blaise make their way around the room, speaking with admittedly interesting people. Eventually though, they end up in a far corner, making fun of passers by like they did at every party.
"Look!" Draco laughed into his hand, "Oh my god, her roots!"
Blaise snickered, "I bet she uses muggle dye. Oh, they've got Pixie Wine, do you want some?"
Draco faked a swoon, "Ugh, my hero." Blaise rolled his eyes again, but moved to the other side of the room towards the hors' d'oeuvres.
Draco lounged against the wall, for a few moments, before his corner was invaded by irritatingly messy black hair.
"I know you're up to something." Potter spits, "I don't know what, but I'll find out."
Draco snorts, "And why, pray tell, do you think that?"
Potter falters, "Well-"
"That's just it, isn't it?" He says, suddenly incandescently angry in the way only Potter could make him, "You don't actually know. So you sit here, and stalk me, and whine to Dumbledore. If I didn't know better, I would think you were scared, Potter." He steps forward, smug when the gryffindor steps back, "And that's the beauty of it, you know I'm up to something, but I've had years of practice keeping secrets, and you'll never catch me." He leans into Potter's space, "No matter how hard you try, you'll keep following and following, because that's all you can do."
Potter snarls, "You're wrong. I'm the only one who can do something. I get that you wouldn't know, because you're too busy following Voldemort!"
Draco flinched at the name, but refused to back down, "You can't honestly be that naive." He barks a harsh laugh, "No, of course you are. Because you're a child, with no idea about how the real world works! Dumbledore is using you! Just like The Dark Lord is using me!" He's near hysterical now, but he has enough sense left to cast a silencing spell.
"He is not using me! He's trying to win the war!" Potter yells.
"It's the same thing!" Draco yells back.
"I thought you'd be different." Potter says, near spitting, "After the train. I know you don't want to, but you won't even try and fight back, that is how we're different. Because I'm not a coward, and you are."
It's nothing Draco doesn't know about himself, but for some reason it hits him right in the heart. He staggers, eyes stinging and chest heaving, "You don't know a damn thing about me." He whispered, rage and fear coursing through him in equal measure.
"No." Potter says, "But I know enough to see that you're going to fail."
Then he walks away.
He walks away, like he didn't just insult a Malfoy to his face. He truly didn't know how the world worked.
He is quite literally shaking with rage when Blaise returns. Who is Potter to tell him who he is? Potter wouldn't know duty if it was shoved up his nose. He can't just up and throw himself away like Potter can, he isn't some high and mighty chosen one, given leeway to do whatever he deems fit.
He had people to answer to. People he needed to protect. He's not some poor orphan with no titles, he's heir to the Merlin-damned Malfoy and Black family fortunes.
Blaise passed the barrier on the silencing spell, visibly frowning at the sudden lack of noise, but then he caught sight of Draco's face and grimaced.
"Here, it's spiked." He says, offering Draco an ornate goblet filled with pearlescent silver liquid.
"Thank Salazar." Draco replies, tossing most of the liquid back in one gulp.
Blasie darts forward in an aborted attempt to stop him, "Ok, what happened?" He puts a hand on Draco's back, face twisted in concern.
"Moronic Potter. He's convinced I'm out for his blood." He laughs bitterly, cancelling the spell before anyone notices. "As if his filthy blood would be useful for anything more than a child's charm-"
"Okay-" Blaise says, quickly distracting him from his seething anger, used to Draco's moods, "Walk with me."
Draco, startled enough to comply, walks with Blaise. They make the rounds again, and this time Draco ends up in front of Luna Lovegood.
"Hello." She begins pleasantly, "you look like you need some mint."
"I'm sure you're right." Draco replies, all of his mothers social lessons kicking in at once. He continues the rest of the conversation in a daze, still angry from his earlier argument with Potter. He doesn't think he's making sense, but Lovegood keeps nodding like what he's saying is wise, so he couldn't be doing too badly.
"I agree. The kerfuzzles are quite a problem, I'll have my father inquire at the Ministry-" Draco is interrupted by Blaise, who he hadn't even known had left.
"So sorry Luna, but I've gotta borrow Draco." He interrupts, easing Draco away.
"Oh, It's alright, talk to you soon, Draco." She sighs dreamily, her tinsel dress sparking.
Walking with Blaise, Draco feels completely lost for the third time that evening, "I have no idea what just happened."
"If it's any consolation, I don't think Lovegood does either."
They walk for a while, saying hello's to everyone, when Draco hears the music, it's old and soft and familiar. For a moment, the stress of the night fades, and Draco smiles. So that's where his fiancé had been.
He leans into Blaise, making no effort to quiet himself, "This music is wasted on them." He says, looking pointedly over the crowd of rabble.
He hears a loud and familiar Humph.
Turning to face the Weasel, he lifts an eyebrow. The ginger pulls himself up, obviously preparing for a fight, "And why is that, Malfoy? Us peasants not worthy of it?"
He smiles, a cruel and cold thing, "No, Weasel, it's because no one here can dance properly."
He scowls, "All of us had to go to the Yule Ball, we can dance!"
"No, you were forced to dance, and it shows. But none of you know how to do anything more than aimlessly swaying. To call what you lot do dancing is an insult." He says with his most pleasant and mocking grin.
"All right, let's see you do it then!" He challenges eyes burning bright with anger.
Draco laughs, he's sure Weasley is attempting to catch him off guard, which, he supposed, he did have a tendency to over-sell himself.
But this time? Draco knows dancing, he's been doing it since before he could properly walk, balanced on his father's shoes, spinning around in The Manor. To imply Draco couldn't dance was like implying a bird couldn't fly, or a spider couldn't spin a web.
He grins, and this time he knows it's too sharp, "Blasie?" He asks, holding out his hand.
"Of course" Blaise replies, taking it and leading them to the floor.
The crowd had the good sense to clear the floor, not even bothering to hide their eavesdropping.
They barely need any time to get into the starting position, melting into it like they had never left. They don't start the dance touching, in fact, they move to near opposite sides of the floor. As if sensing what was about to happen, the music stops, before restarting from the beginning.
Draco and Blaise both start to walk forward at the same moment, their steps light and purposeful. Draco brings one hand to the back of Blaise's neck, and Blaise puts his arm around Draco's waist, leaving their other arms free at their sides. They begin to spin slowly, nearly chest to chest.
"We haven't been able to show off in ages." Draco whispers.
"You really are worse than a peacock." Blaise replies.
Eventually, Draco takes his hand off Blaise's neck at the same moment Blaise takes his hand from Draco's waist and they join hands, Draco spins under his fiancé's arm before stretching out and twirling away. They let go of each other, but not before they both begin to twist in the other direction, moving past each other. They float to opposite sides once more, before falling back together into the traditional waltz stance.
Their conjoined left hands raise into the air, and Blaise refits his other hand back to Draco's waist. They sway side to side for a moment, and Draco can feel himself relax, his eyes fluttering closed.
For this second, he's not underground, surrounded by gaudy party decorations and people he doesn't particularly like. He's in the forest.
The stars shine above him, and the trees sway in time with his steps. He is bigger than himself, his magic stretching all around him to intwine with the elements. He feels the water of the lake, the incense scented air, the miles of stone, and the flickering flames of the torches as if they were his own limbs, holding them within himself like his own blood.
The music begins to get faster and faster, so he and Blaise match its tempo, whirling across the floor at dizzying speeds, turning in concentric circles around each other, letting go and coming together as if it were inevitable. They switch directions and spin and dip in perfect sync, but eventually the music slows, entering the final quarter.
Draco and Blaise are pressed front to back, with Blaise's arms wrapped around Draco. In time, they lift their hands, wrists crossed, high above their heads. At the crescendo, they move them out gracefully, expanding like flowers.
Blaise grabs Draco's hands, and they begin to twist again, this time facing out instead of at each other.
Blaise leans his head towards Draco's, speaking low, "The candles, Draco."
Draco opens his eyes finally, struggling to see what Blaise meant when they were spinning so fast, but eventually he sees it.
All of the candles are paused. Not out. Not flickering. Completely still, held in place by his magic. The normally chaotic element allowing itself to be cradled and restrained. Draco breathes out, releasing his hold on it, and the candles go back to their own dance.
The music enters its final act, speeding up for the last time.
Draco spins back into Blaise's arms, lifting his leg just as Blaise picks him up. Draco's lifted high into the air, his robes flaring out as Blaise spins at speeds that would knock any other wizard off.
Just as the music began to wind down, Blaise lowered Draco to the floor, still spinning. Draco spins out one last time, and the music cuts out, leaving Draco and Blaise side by side, hand in hand, facing out into the crowd.
There's absolute silence for a moment, then applause break out, practically shaking the floor in their volume. Draco stands, Startled for a moment, before grinning. Reaching into a flair he hadn't felt since the war began, he drags Blaise into a deep bow beside him. Straightening with a dramatic flourish, he walks off the floor.
"Good enough, Weasel?" He asks, relishing in his startled awe. But before he could gloat any further, Slughorn dashed to his side.
"Stunning performance, my dear boy!" he exclaims, practically bouncing in place.
"Thank you, Professor." Draco says through gritted teeth, his mood immediately souring. God how he hated false worship, after spending months in the company of The Death Eaters and their fanaticism, he'd had enough, thank you.
"Why! I don't think I've ever seen dancing like that! You have real talent!" He continues, oblivious to the way Draco's grin is beginning to take on a decidedly more bloodthirsty look.
The dancing had peeled away the layers he normally kept, bringing something wild to the surface. He knows he should rein himself in, but after all the stress of the night, he couldn't care less.
Just as he opens his mouth to tell Slughorn exactly where he could shove his talent, Blaise interrupts, "Isn't he?" He says pleasantly, "He's been good at it since we were children."
Slughorn laughs, "Hah! Well, a family like the Malfoy's, there should be very little Draco here isn't good at."
Draco bristled at the casual use of his first name, but once again his fiancé saved him, "Yes, he is rather wonderful."
Draco subtly stomps on Blaise's foot, causing him to cough.
Slughorn merely looks amused, "I take it he's good at care of magical creatures too?"
Blaise and Draco both freeze.
Studying the Potions master, Draco considered his words carefully, "Well, there's only so much one can be taught, growing up next to the Malfoy Forests will do that."
Slughorn smiled back at them, and though the conversation was between the three of them, he only looked at Draco.
"If you'll excuse us, Professor, It's getting late." Blaise once again led Draco away, but this time, they left.
When they got to the hallway, Blaise opened his mouth to speak, but Draco waved him silent, "Not now." He urged, starting towards the slytherin dorms. The further away they got from the party, the more Draco allowed himself to relax. It wasn't like the true calm he felt while dancing, but it was better than the rigid tension he had felt the rest of the night.
Collapsing back onto his bed, still in his dress robes and uncaring for his hair, still full of silver pins. He groaned as the full weight of Slughorn's words sunk in. He was utterly screwed if he knew what he obviously thought he did. The bastard was probably so smug, but Draco truly doubted he knew the full extent of what he spoke of.
Blaise sat down at the top of the bed, moving Draco's head onto his lap. One by one, he began to pull out the pins and cancel the charms holding it in place. As his hair loosened, falling around his face in waves, he felt the beginnings of the brewing headache ease, not enough to stop it, but enough to stave it off.
He melted into the bed, letting Blaise run his hands through the silver-white strands until they both felt more at ease.
"Do you think he knows?" Blasie asked. He guarded Draco's secrets with the same fervour he would his own, and he knew something was different about Draco, but even he didn't know the full extent of the Malfoy family secrets. After so much time, it was no doubt he had guessed, but half the fun was keeping him on his toes, so Draco liked to throw in small red herrings, like disappearing during full moons, or exclusively drinking mysteriously red liquid for weeks.
"No." Draco replied, "I assume he's found an old society magazine, and is running with rumours." He scowled, what an awful end to the night.
"It wasn't all bad." Blaise said, and Draco could hear the beginnings of a smile in his voice.
"No," Draco agreed, "It was nice to dance again."
"Yeah," Blaise agreed, "We don't get to do that much anymore, I'd almost forgotten what it was like."
Draco could sympathise, he was rapidly forgetting many things, in this new world. He could no longer remember his father's smile, or his mother's sarcasm. He couldn't picture The Manor at its best, or what it felt like to wear any colour but black.
His heart broke suddenly, for what could have been if his father hadn't made the choices he had. If his year hadn't been filled with nightmares and blood and duty, if he could have been the same arrogant child he had always truly been, trusting the adults around him for support.
If he hadn't had the blood of dozens coating his hands.
But Draco didn't think it made a difference, his sadness. His sadness wouldn't keep The Dark Lord at bay, or kill Dumbledore. It wouldn't matter.
For now, Draco forced himself to forget his uselessness. All that mattered was Blaise's hands, carding through his hair, just as much for him as it was for Blaise himself. All that mattered were the stars, still projected onto his canopy, and the sure knowledge that Draco would do anything to ensure their safety.