Chapter 2
2.
Hogwarts, though the premier school in the UK, succeeded in the world only by Durmstrang, is so full of plebians sometimes Draco can hardly breathe for the stench of their stupidity.
Christ on a broomstick! Who would waste their breath on a holiday so hypocritical as Valentine’s Day? Lady Rosier (Father’s first cousin’s widow, who is positively salivating over the day her bastard nephew, the only viable blood heir to the family titles, turns seventeen, when she might finally adopt him, abdicate the responsibilities she was left regent to, and return permanently to France, and who is, after thirteen years a widow in a seat of immense wealth and power, an expert on such topics) says that true romance is a private intimacy. She says that any who need a holiday to spur them to action or crave the emotional voyeurism of a public ‘date’ really ought to take a good hard look at how they are expending their efforts. She says there are far less treacherous means of courting public opinion which eschew risking the entire political capital gained on the object of their supposed affection opening their eyes to the truth of the matter and starting a blood feud over something so simple as miscommunication or a poorly chosen venue.
That wisdom considered, Hogsmeade on the twelfth of February is downright sickening. Roses are not meant to bloom in February, therefore the pink, red, and white shrubberies now lining the streets? Vulgar, really. Gauche. Pansy dragged them, cooing like a sickle-show actress, to peer in the windows of Madame Puddifoot’s, and the only reasonable explanation for what Draco had seen inside is that someone had exploded a cauldron of stomach soother by upending a vial of Amortentia. You’d never in a million years catch Draco in a place like that. Not even if there were anyone worth going with.
Crabbe and Goyle, the louts, couldn’t care less about the whole affair, aside from the variation in Honeydukes’ displays. Draco’s only here because the castle’s an awful bore, and Scabbed and Spoilt—Vince and Greg, he’s supposed to call them, but really—followed along because that’s all they know to do. Father says he’s to let them. Father says even clods have their uses, and having brutes at one’s back can come in useful in the right circumstances. Pansy’s here because she’s got this idea in her head that she can charm Draco into participating in the festivities, so to speak, ever unaware that she has all the charm of a pogrebin. Daphne and Millicent are part of the Parkinson package, and Blaise, thank Merlin, seems to have been intrigued rather than repulsed by Draco’s haphazard posse… Or perhaps he just happens to be walking the same way; it really is sometimes quite difficult to tell. That’s everyone who at all matters, among their year. Tracey Davis is practically a mudblood, and she and Susan Bones have made their place clear by attaching at the hip. And no one wants to be stuck with Nott.
So, having nothing better to pass the time on, Draco strolls on towards Honeydukes, supposing to indulge Slab’ and Gargoyle’s gluttony and perhaps restock on peppermint snaps, as whoever assembled Mother’s last package failed to include any. That all goes out the window when he spots Potter and Weasley coming out the door of the establishment—if one can really use so dignified a word when Weasleys are allowed on the premises.
Potter is peering into a paper bag decorated with red roses.
Draco grabs the nearest person. “Look there,” he says.
“Honeydukes?”
Goyle. He’s got sod all between his ears, hasn’t he. “No, you dung-brain. Potter.”
“What about him?”
“He’s got somethin’,” Crabbe whines nasally. “I bet it’s chocolate.”
Potter and Weasley, somehow, don’t seem to notice them, too caught up in their conversation, which, as they get closer, becomes just audible from across the street:
“...really like these?” Potter is asking.
“Of course she will,” Weasley replies. “And, hey, if Hermione doesn’t want them, I’ll take them.”
“Not helping, Ron,” Potter says, closing the bag and looking up, squinting—at the shops across the way, not them. “We’d better hurry; I told her we’d meet her at eleven. Neville said he would—”
At that moment a cart from down the street, one of those awful things pulled by an entirely mundane horse that you might think has been charmed to look like a miniature Abraxan if you’ve never seen one, illusory flower petals sprinkling like melting snow behind, carries a pair of sappy upperclassmen rudely through the middle of the street, the clatter overwhelming Potter’s soft-spoken words. When it passes, the two are too far away to hear.
“Ooh,” Pansy squeals. “Has Potter got himself a girlfriend?”
Why, why is it his lot to be surrounded by cretins? Does the word ‘subtlety’ mean nothing to them? “What else would he be doing with a bag like that, meeting Granger?” he scoffs. He tugs on Goyle’s sleeve before letting go: “Come on. Let’s follow them.”
“Why?” Goyle asks.
“Why?” Draco would not speak against Father, but honest to God, he can’t for the life of him see how these miserable boors will ever prove worth Draco’s immeasurably more valuable attention. “Because I said so, is why.” That ought to be enough, for someone like Goyle.
“I think it’ll be a good laugh,” Pansy announces. “Potter and that mudblood, fancying themselves romantic? I simply must see how that tragedy plays out.”
“What,” Millicent says drably, “We go and watch them snogging, feeding each other chocolate, while the rest of us celebrate being single? Right. Real funny, that.”
Everything Millicent does is drab.
“I have no intention of watching,” Draco starts.
“Of course not,” Pansy agrees, cutting him off. “Don’t be so gross, Millicent.”
“Well,” asks Daphne uncertainly, “what are we going to do, then?”
Pansy babbles out some ridiculous answer before Draco can lay out a competent plan, and Potter and Weasley are nearly around the corner by then. “Come on,” Draco tells Crabbe. “If nothing else, you can reappropriate their—take, you can take their chocolate.”
That’s enough for Crabbe, and what’s enough for Crabbe is enough for Goyle, and Daphne is as inclined to follow Pansy as Millicent is to follow Daphne, and Pansy—to be brutally frank he’d really rather she weren’t following, but etiquette demands that you don’t just say things like that, so the whole train is hanging on. By a stroke of luck, Nott’s just now going into Honeydukes, and that’s enough for Blaise to carry on with them, too.
Potter and Weasley do not curve around to Madame Puddifoot’s or the Three Broomsticks or that tacky cafe down ahead of the apothecary, the usual locations, so far as Draco understands, for a romantic rendezvous, but it is Granger Potter is trying to woo. Who knows what filthy muggle ideas the mudblood’s bringing in. For a moment, he’s scandalized to think they’re going to the Hog’s Head, easily the worst hovel in this dump of a town, but no, that’s back the other way, isn’t it? No, their destination soon becomes clear: a squat building set underneath Scrivenshaft’s narrow spire.
Tomes and Scrolls. How… dreadfully predictable. It would be cliche, if only there were anyone else in the whole of the UK dull enough for it.
Gabbe and Croyle would stand out like an erumpet in an apothecary, so Draco tells them to keep an eye out for Professors, and opens the door himself.
Inside, though the ceilings are low, the store is larger than Draco had expected. Needless to say it can’t compare to the library at the manor, in scale, decor, or quality of its holdings, though if he didn’t have a task, he might find it a reasonable distraction to inspect the varied shelves for any unlikely treasures amongst the chaff. The witch sitting at the front desk doesn’t look up from her book as they come in. A large, dusty sign tacked to the wall behind her proclaims RING BELL FOR SERVICE, and service, it seems, is in no way provided unless one follows that command. Draco passes by her into a hallway, past a suspect staircase leading down into a basement and into the next room: also empty. There’s another door turning off to the right, and through it, he hears a hushed voice—unmistakably Granger’s—but when he goes through it is not Granger he spots but Potter and Weasley, standing very close together, peering at the same book.
Granger must be in the next room—does this shop have a license for wizard’s space? Father could have it brought down in a day, if not—which, well, does make this a bit less interesting. Potter’s… problematic, and Weasley is too easy. He tries to step back, but Pansy’s right behind him, and she makes a ridiculous sound as she walks into him. Both Potter and Weasley’s heads pop up like—like weasels, looking right at him.
“Malfoy,” Weasley spits, turning towards him and fumbling for his wand, which he’s got jammed in the back pocket of his tatty trousers like a moron. Like he could ever dream of landing a hex on Draco. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same,” Draco says, taking quick stock of the situation, the hand he’s been dealt. There’s plenty to work with here, but the simplest… It doesn’t take but the flick of his wand to call the book to him, the benefit of Father hiring the best tutors for him before Hogwarts to stamp into him the very basics that most of these fools can’t even imagine being capable of, and he catches it and takes a look at the title.
“'The Tales of Beedle and the Bard’?” Oh, this is too easy. “Finally learning to read, Weasley?”
“Shut up,” Weasley snaps. His ears go so red it’s impossible to separate them from his hair. “You give that back, Malfoy.”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Draco says, and he tosses the book back at Weasley for the satisfaction of watching him fumble for it. “I suppose the reading level is about right. Personally, I graduated from such childish stories when I was hardly four years old, but with your level of comprehension…”
Weasley is spluttering like a drowning cat, by now, which means it is the perfect moment to emulate Severus. “Shame that your parents couldn’t afford to have you taught, if they didn’t care enough to teach you themselves,” Draco drawls. “Do they even know your name, or are you just ‘boy number—’”
“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Potter suddenly says, voice clearer than Draco’s ever heard it. Though he’s a foot shorter than Weasley, right now he looks bigger. Every inch what Severus had called him back in September, arrogant, rude—not that, as far as Draco’s heard, even Severus has ever ruffled Potter’s feathers. “Just because you have a stick up your arse and nothing better to do with your time doesn’t mean we’re here to entertain you. Or aren’t your friends enough for you?”
“Of course we are,” Pansy says, pushing forward. “But someone has to stop this travesty against romance.”
Of all the things she could have said—Weasley glances at Potter, who furrows his brow in confusion.
“You think,” he says slowly, “that Ron and I are—”
“No—you and that—that Granger!”
Weasley seems to catch on more quickly than Potter, and he grips his wand more tightly, which is not what Draco wants. Verbal jousting is all good fun, and tearing Weasley down to size will never not be satisfying, but if hexes get thrown then people start talking to professors, and detentions get doled out, and Severus gets patronizing—and, since they’re here in Hogsmeade, they could risk being banned from the shop, or, worse, losing their village privileges. Father wouldn’t let that stand for long, especially if Weasley is involved, but it would be such an inconvenience.
“So… you assume when anyone is friends with another person, it’s automatically dating?” Potter asks, slowly as he ever does, making no move for his own wand. I suppose you Slytherins are a bit more adventurous than the rest of us, his darting eyes say.
“Obviously not,” Pansy says shrilly. “It’s when you’re with someone at Hogsmeade… on a special day…”
She’s completely lost the plot, hasn’t she, sending those frankly desperate looks Draco’s way. Potter, meanwhile, snorts.
“So you assume that anyone who interacts with anyone else on Valentines Day in Hogsmeade is automatically dating?” Potter’s eyes dart between Draco and—Lord have mercy—Pansy, who absolutely preens and tries to scoot closer—Draco shifts quickly away, but not before Potter clocks it. “To clarify,” Potter goes on, slowly—Draco should really— “Does this mean we are dating now, Malfoy? Because from what I understand about re—”
“Don’t be delusional!” Draco snaps. Oh, Merlin, please let him not be as red as he feels—spare him looking like a Weasley— And, no, Pansy’s opening her mouth again; he cuts her off before this can get any worse. “Obviously we were mistaken about you and the mudblood. Not even she would stoop to someone as dense as you, Potter!” It’s weak. So, so weak. But it’s the delivery, isn’t it, so Draco turns on heel and saunters back the way he had come in. “And anyone with an ounce of sense wouldn’t be caught buying from this rubbish heap, in any case!”
Just his luck that as he reaches the front room, Granger, by some trick of directions, is standing at the front counter with Longbottom, pointing at something in a book. Her eyes go wide as she spots him, and Longbottom shrinks back beside her, about ready to piss himself, if he hasn’t already. If the witch at the desk weren’t looking at Draco, too, he might add something clever and cutting, but again—he doesn’t know the witch at the desk. And Severus won’t care about evidence if it gets back to him that Draco had called Granger a mudblood in public. And Mother would surely send him a letter about propriety, or something of the sort. And Granger simply isn’t worth the trouble, infuriating as she is, at this point—this was supposed to be a spot of fun. He sneers at her, doesn’t bother with Longbottom, and storms out the door.
Flab and Oil jump and point their wands at him as he comes out. Draco sneers at them, too. What were they going to do, if he was one of Potter's lot? Hex him? With their lack of talent? Is that their interpretation of ‘keep an eye out for Professors’? He won’t make that mistake again.
“How could anyone be so dense?” Pansy asks before the door is even closed. “Honestly, I’ve heard that Potter was raised by muggles, but he might as well have been raised by werewolves—”
“He was being clever, Pans,” Millicent retorts.
“Clever?” Pansy demands. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s as thick as mud—”
“He was playing the fool,” Draco snaps. “Playing you for a fool, Parkinson. Why did you have to open—”
That’s when the door of the shop opens again. The dunces jab their wands back up, the bloody imbeciles—
The icing on the cake? It’s Blaise coming out the door, a parcel tucked under his arm. Having bought something, right after Draco denounced the store.
“Draco?”
“What?”
He finds Daphne blinking her wide blue eyes at him. “I,” she says, “I really like that book. It’s been my favorite since I was a little girl. My Grandmother gave me a copy, before she, she died, and…”
So what?
“When you were a ‘little girl’?” Pansy mocks. “Mordred, Daphne, what are you, five? Reading nonsense like ‘Babbity Rabbity’—as Draco says, it’s a—
“It’s not nonsense!” Daphne insists, and—oh, for Christ’s sake, are those tears she’s holding back?
Whatever Pansy says next, Draco doesn’t want to hear it. “Honestly?” he says over the top of her. “I couldn’t care less about that book.”
It has the opposite effect he’d expected, and—Merlin—now she is crying. Where people can see.
“Daphne,” Pansy chides. “Quit being such a baby—”
“Oh, shut it, Pansy,” Millicent snaps. “You’re only on her because Draco made something up to insult Weasley and you believed it, lay off.”
“And I suppose you think you’re so clever, Millicent,” Pansy retorts, getting louder. “As if Daphne needs someone like you—”
“So… we’re not going to take Potter’s chocolate?” Crabbe mutters.
Take Potter’s— Oh, well, might as well, then—while the girls are distracted— “It was only Ice Mice,” Draco lies. “Let’s go.”
It says something about the spat that’s brewing that Pansy doesn’t notice as they make their escape, though Daphne’s staring at her feet and Millicent’s got her face twisted up in a scowl that would scare off a dementor. Blaise falls in step with Draco for the first time all day. Crabbe and Goyle might be thick as stale fudge, but Blaise, of everyone at the school, will at least understand what Draco has to deal with—
“A real laugh, wasn’t it,” Blaise says dryly.
“That wasn’t,” Draco admits, “how I thought that would go.”
“No? Surprising.”
They’ve already reached the center of town again, and Draco pauses, glancing around. He doesn’t need anything from Scrivenshafts, which is back where they came from, and there’s been a nauseating chorus of love songs blaring from Maestro’s Music Shop the whole morning. There’s Spintwitches… but Blaise has never shown any particular interest for quidditch, except in placing bets. Yes, he’s far too sophisticated for a common sports shop—
And the Clap and the Boils, Draco realizes none-too-soon, are already lumbering away.
“Hey,” Draco demands. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Chocolate,” Crabbe retorts. “Isn’t anything worth just standing around here.”
He has a point, Draco supposes, and, really, he’ll be better off without them to worry about. Dervish and Bangs, Draco decides quickly; that’s the only place here that might have something that could interest someone like Blaise, that wouldn’t risk revealing Draco as a total bore.
Before he can even suggest it, Blaise is turning toward him. “You’re on your own, then,” he says. “But that’s what happens when you are careless with your words, isn’t it.”
Why does Draco have to be such a troll as to gape? “You don’t want to—”
“I have a date,” Blaise says.
A date? With—with who?
“A gentleman never kisses and tells, does he?” Blaise says, though he smiles with satisfaction as he says it. “And there will be plenty of that, I predict.”
Well, yes; if any of them were going to have a good snog, it’d be Blaise, but of the first years… one of the Patil twins, perhaps? Hopefully not the Gryffindor, though Blaise has an opportunist’s eye. And he may be in Slytherin, but there’s not a soul in the school who would refuse Blaise for that.
“At least someone will have a good time,” Draco concedes.
“Right,” Blaise drawls. He tucks his purchase under his arm as he drops his hands into his pockets. “But you didn’t want a good time, did you, coming down here? You just wanted everyone else to feel as miserable as you’ve been the last few weeks.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” Blaise challenges, and Draco has to wonder. “Then you’re more careless than I thought,” he goes on. “Word of advice? If you want to fuck up someone’s day, fine. But try to make sure you’re not fucking up anyone else’s that you don’t mean to. Or everyone else’s, in this case.”
Then he turns, not even bothering to be quick about it, and saunters off towards the Three Broomsticks, and Draco, frozen in the middle of the crowded square, finds himself alone.