A/N:
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"Tsk. The Malfoy family's owls are truly extraordinary."
Blaise Zabini, hands clasped behind his back, leaned over with great interest and examined the eagle owl standing proudly on the Slytherin table — its feathers glossy and immaculate, its bearing regal.
That was Draco's beloved eagle owl, Joan.
She held a letter in her beak and was fixing Draco Malfoy with a resolute, unwavering stare, seemingly incapable of blinking.
"What are you doing?" Blaise said. "Draco, are you training a hawk?"
Draco remained silent, maintaining a steady battle of wills with Joan through their matching expressions of iron resolve.
"Of course not — it's an owl, not a gyrfalcon!" Pansy laughed. "Besides, what would you even do with a cooked owl? Porridge?"
"That's monstrous!" a passing Slytherin girl said in an affected tone. "Owls are our companions! How could you suggest eating one?"
"Oh, I'm about to be sick," Pansy said, rounding on her. "Get out of here, or I'll have you served with the porridge."
"Ha —" The girl clutched her chest dramatically. "Why would anyone be so impossibly rude..."
"I'm rude?" Pansy shot to her feet. "You insufferable, preening little —"
"Don't bother with her, Pansy," Blaise said smoothly. "I know who her father is. He just lost a land auction to my mother a few days ago."
"Oh, Mrs. Zabini," the girl's companion said with dismissive scorn. "She's always been quite infamous. We couldn't possibly compare."
Blaise paused, momentarily speechless. Anyone who listened carefully could hear the sarcasm.
"Of course you can't compare to her — because you're considerably less elegant," Pansy said, tightening her grip on Blaise's hand and sniffing with contempt. "And your breath is absolutely foul. Like a salted fish that's been left to pickle for three years."
After the commotion died down, the Slytherin table fell silent again.
The couple, having won their verbal duel, sat back down in triumph and turned their attention to the two figures across from them, who had remained entirely unmoved by the entire row — still locked in their silent standoff of wills.
"Draco! Snap out of it — Granger's just walked into the Great Hall," Pansy said, with relish. "Don't blame me if she finds you sitting there looking like a gargoyle."
Draco blinked. He glanced toward the entrance to the Great Hall and, sure enough, spotted her.
He sighed and spoke quickly to Joan. "Please, Joan — take this letter back to me unopened. Pretend you never delivered it, same as the last few times."
Joan appeared to have quite exhausted her patience for this particular game. She thrust the envelope stubbornly forward in her beak and offered it to Draco, ignoring him completely.
"You really can't treat a hardworking owl like that," Pansy said, disapproving. "Delivering letters is an owl's sacred duty. Making one return a message undelivered is a profound insult — it's like telling her she's failed her mission. No owl with any self-respect would stand for it."
"It's not that difficult. She's returned it for me three or four times already," Draco said, irritated. "I don't understand why she won't do it a fifth."
"That eagle owl must love you enormously to have done it even once." Blaise smiled and glanced at his indignant girlfriend before simply pulling the letter from Joan's beak himself, freeing the poor bird so she could finally drink from the glass of orange juice on the table. "Open it. It might be something important."
"I know perfectly well what it says without opening it," Draco said flatly — but eventually took the letter from Blaise's hand.
"Well done, Blaise!" Pansy gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. "Now, feed me some fried eggs."
"Could you two be even slightly less revolting first thing in the morning?" Draco rolled his eyes and began opening the letter.
This was the fifth letter to arrive from Malfoy Manor — the fifth he'd pretended not to receive.
He had actually opened and read two of the previous ones. The first had contained a seemingly casual inquiry from his mother Narcissa; the second, sharp questions from his father Lucius. Both letters, however different in tone, pointed toward a single question: what, precisely, was going on with the widely circulated rumours about him and a certain Gryffindor girl at Hogwarts?
Draco's response had been to let a bewildered Joan return them unopened.
The newly received letter from Lucius — Draco skimmed it — was already thick with thinly veiled threat.
"If you continue to ignore your mother, fail to reply to her letters, or pretend you never received them — an extraordinarily childish act — and fail to explain your recent behaviour, I cannot guarantee that I won't send a little gift to this scheming Miss Granger." Lucius's displeasure fairly leapt off the parchment.
A little gift.
Draco raised an eyebrow. Across the table, Hermione glanced over at him, suspicious. He caught her eye at once, offered a smile and a brief wink. She relaxed, returned a bright smile, and went back to her porridge.
In one smooth motion, he folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket as though it were nothing at all — a perfectly ordinary letter home.
Draco knew precisely what his father meant by "little gift," and it was not as lighthearted as it sounded.
Lucius's gifts were never the obvious kind — shouting Howlers, envelopes of Bubotuber pus, letters cobbled together from newspaper clippings. Those were the tactics of the blunt and the unimaginative. Lucius Malfoy's version of a gift tended to be something beautifully crafted: an opal necklace carrying a lethal curse, perhaps, or a bottle of fine mead laced with poison.
Quiet malice. Far more alarming than anything obvious.
"Joan, I misjudged you," Draco said quietly, stroking the eagle owl's feathers. "This was indeed a letter I needed to read."
Joan let out an arrogant cry, twitched her tail, and looked precisely as smug as a bird that had been proved right deserved to look.
"Joan, don't fly off — I need you to take a reply back." He brazenly leaned across and borrowed Crabbe's parchment and quill from beside him. "Vincent, may I?"
"Fine, whatever," Crabbe said, waving a hand. He wasn't looking around and chatting as he usually did; he was attacking his fried eggs with unusual ferocity.
"Vincent, leave some for me!" Goyle said, aggrieved. "You can't eat the entire plate!"
Draco had no interest in mediating.
He was grappling with something considerably more important. The quill hovered above the parchment; he had a thousand things to say and no idea how to begin.
Since his rebirth, Draco had been quietly terrified by his parents' pure-blood supremacist views.
His father, Lucius, was known throughout the wizarding world for his contempt toward Muggle-born witches and wizards; this was no mere rumour, and Draco, as his son, perhaps understood the depth of that stubbornness better than anyone. It would be easier for Lucius to embrace a werewolf than to welcome a Muggle-born witch as his son's girlfriend.
His mother, Narcissa, though renowned for her elegance, was no different at heart. She adored and indulged her son, but her disdain for those of non-pure-blood heritage had never wavered. He had never quite believed she would support him unconditionally — not in this.
In the earliest days of his rebirth, he had been too busy being shocked by his situation, too busy adapting and investigating the Dark Lord's secrets, to truly reckon with the problem of his parents. He had not seen the point in trying to change beliefs so deeply embedded — not then, when he hadn't believed there was any future worth building with Hermione.
But everything had changed.
What should he do now? With a thorough understanding of his parents and careful observation of their habits and characters since his return, Draco found himself deeply troubled by the question of how to shift what they believed.
Since he and Hermione had become a couple, he had been shamefully indulgent — living in the warmth of it, avoiding the problem, ignoring the owls from Malfoy Manor. Every morning he opened his eyes thinking of her, cheerfully flirting with the Gryffindor girl across the Great Hall, stubbornly ignoring the thorns beneath the rose.
Now, with no way out, Dumbledore's words surfaced in his mind — words they had exchanged when discussing how to keep Harry safe — "Running away is never the solution."
Only by facing a problem could you begin to solve it.
Face it, Draco, he told himself.
It was time to change more things. Not only the Malfoy family's catastrophic political alliances, but now their centuries-old fixation on bloodlines. These would be radical changes. They would bring excruciating pain. Draco didn't want anyone to be hurt — but he found, on this particular matter, that he had no choice but to steel himself and take decisive action.
He had anticipated these obstacles from the very beginning. From the moment he had dived into the Black Lake to find Hermione — or even earlier, when he'd invited her to the Christmas Ball — it had always been foreseeable where this would lead. His feelings would be exposed. Their relationship would become the talk of the wizarding world.
When he had openly declared to every Slytherin who came to congratulate him that she was his girlfriend, he had already known how many owls would fly from Hogwarts to the drawing rooms of pure-blood conservative families across Britain.
"The old guard will be restless," Draco thought, cutting his steak methodically. "They'll be rushing to Father and Mother to sound them out."
The Malfoy family, widely regarded as a weathervane for pure-blood wizarding politics, would naturally draw scrutiny. The Malfoy heir openly courting a Muggle-born witch — what could it mean? Those pure-blood patriarchs, each a seasoned political creature, would not simply dismiss it.
Sensing a shift in the wind, they would probe Lucius and Narcissa, delicately and persistently, until the full picture was assembled. That was how these increasingly urgent letters had come about.
Draco considered for a moment, then wrote a brief reply:
"I will explain everything when I return for the summer holidays. Father, please be kind to her — she is very important to me. I would also advise you to reconsider the gifts. You cannot be entirely certain that the one who opens them won't be your son."
He spent a few minutes gently persuading the somewhat put-upon Joan to carry his reply back, then sent her off.
Had Joan been capable of speech, she might have honestly warned him that the reply had made Lucius Malfoy extremely angry.
Lucius would almost have preferred no reply at all. At least silence wouldn't have been so brazen.
"This is our son!" He brought his fist down on the table — quite forgetting his decades of polished table manners — and said furiously to his wife, "He's threatening me! His own father! He must be under the Imperius Curse —"
"Lucius, how dare you say such a thing." Narcissa's displeasure was unmistakable. "Even in anger, how can you say that about your own son?"
"Oh, Cici, I misspoke —" The rest of Lucius's fury caught in his throat.
"Do you have any idea what I endured bringing him into this world, Lucius?" Narcissa said quietly, a shadow crossing her face. "You must be patient with him. He is our only son."
"He's infuriating — oh, Cici, don't be upset, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it." Lucius apologised at once, though inwardly his thoughts were considerably less gracious.
That unfilial boy — the arrogance of him! If it weren't for Cici, he'd Apparate to Hogwarts and give Draco a thorough dressing-down...
Narcissa, for her part, was calmer than she appeared. She had said enough to rein in her husband; now she snorted quietly at his penitent expression, picked up the parchment with slender fingers, and read those few lines of elegant cursive once more.
"I see," she said softly, her expression composed, her eyes quite cold.
Of course she was upset. Her son had stopped writing to her because he was courting a Muggle-born girl.
What mother could calmly accept such neglect?
Who was this Hermione Granger? How had she so easily wedged herself between mother and son? Narcissa frowned.
When had Little Dragon — who used to whine for sweets and cling to her robes — become so impossible to reach? She searched her memories, and the answer came slowly: her son had grown up. Perhaps had been grown for quite some time. Ever since he had gone to Hogwarts, the closeness between them had gradually lessened.
It seemed that overnight he had developed his own independent personality, his own ideas. He was no longer the small boy who confided everything to her. He had grown into a teenager she no longer entirely recognised — composed, guarded, full of secrets she couldn't see.
Narcissa found she could no longer understand her son — a realisation that filled her with a deep, quiet sorrow.
But she also knew perfectly well that anger would not solve anything.
The Malfoy family's position, though secure, was not without scrutiny. Countless eyes watched them. They had to maintain their composure and dignity, especially with the Triwizard Tournament still underway and international guests in residence at Hogwarts. Storming up to the school and dragging their son home would disgrace the Malfoy name not only in Britain, but before the international wizarding community. Every gossipy noblewoman in every salon in London would have something to say about it.
"Calm down, Lucius," Narcissa said. "Little Dragon is nearly fifteen. He has always been an excellent and sensible child, and he has grown more composed with every year. As for these rumours — how much of it is truly reliable? There may be circumstances we cannot see from here. He will explain himself when he comes home for the summer." Her blue eyes flickered with uncertainty she didn't voice. "You must trust the son we raised."
She had faith in him. She did. Having been raised in the Malfoy tradition, she could not quite believe he would do something so rash as the rumours suggested — and yet, something about her own reasoning felt less certain than it had before.
"He had better handle this himself," Lucius said, grinding his teeth. "Otherwise I would not mind handling it for him."
Narcissa sighed and placed her hand over his, stroking his palm until the sharp line of his jaw softened slightly.
"Lucius," she said, looking up at him, "I'm growing tired of the English weather. And even more tired of those gossipy witches who linger at our gates. Come for a walk with me."
"That's not impossible," Lucius said, his expression easing a fraction.
He knew she was thinking of him. The quiet, pointed questioning he faced whenever he left the Manor had grown considerably worse than whatever she endured on the estate — and he was thoroughly sick of it. Thoroughly sick of discovering that strangers knew more about his son than he did.
---
Draco Malfoy, for his part, remained entirely unaware of his parents' complex inner state. He waited two days, but Lucius and Narcissa sent nothing — not a single word. They appeared, improbably, to have forgotten about him entirely.
So he calmed himself and wrote a long new letter, apologising to his mother with diplomatic care — detailing the pressure of his studies, the intensity of the Triwizard Tournament, the many social obligations the presence of international students had imposed — and explaining that he had never intentionally ignored her.
Narcissa remained silent.
Which was, Draco reflected with some frustration, typical of how these things worked. When someone wrote to you persistently, you felt cornered and impatient. The moment they stopped, you began to wonder what they were up to.
Several days passed. What on earth were they planning?
His irritation found its usual outlet on the Quidditch pitch.
"Vincent!" He blew his whistle sharply, glaring upward at Crabbe hovering uncertainly in the air. "I told you to practice counter-attack roaming, not counter-attack your own teammates! You've made Gregory bleed!"
"I didn't mean to!" Crabbe descended to the ground with considerable impact. "Gregory's head looks like a Bludger! He came at me from behind without making a sound and gave me a fright!"
"I called out to you!" Goyle shouted from beside Draco, head tilted back, blood streaming from his nose. "You never listen!"
"You two need to work on your coordination," Draco said, exasperated. "Individually you're both capable — you're strong, you've got good balance — but the moment you try to work together, it falls completely apart."
Crabbe stood before him, head bowed, listening in sullen silence. Goyle, the aggrieved party this time, had just begun to look smugly vindicated when a mouthful of blood choked it back out of him.
"It's not as though we're completely hopeless," Crabbe mumbled after a moment. "We've both hit the ball at the same time before —"
"And you still have the nerve to bring that up!" Draco planted his hands on his hips. "Tell me — how, precisely, did that happen? Every time the ball came over, you either ignored it entirely or you both went for it simultaneously and someone ended up with a broken nose!"
"In fact, Malfoy," said a voice nearby, "it's not entirely a liability."
Cedric Diggory had paused beside them, seemingly on his way across the pitch. He gave Crabbe and Goyle a pleasant nod. "The ability to react identically at the same moment, in the same place — that's a rare kind of instinct. The only pair I've ever seen with that natural synchronicity is the Weasley twins. If they've genuinely got it, they'd be a natural fit for practicing double-teaming."
"Oh." Draco blinked, his dormant hope for the two Beaters rekindling unexpectedly. "Right. Thank you."
But Slytherin instincts died hard. A second later, he said suspiciously, "Diggory. What are you doing over here?"
"You should take him to the Hospital Wing first," Cedric said, ignoring the question and nodding at Goyle. "That bleeding is heavy. Is his nose broken?"
"I'll take him!" Crabbe volunteered — before Draco could say anything else — and the two of them stumbled off together.
Draco was left alone on the pitch with the Hufflepuff champion. One of his persistent minor nightmares. The boy who had, in another life, proved the Dark Lord's return with his death. Cedric Diggory.
"I don't need your goodwill," Draco said coldly, looking away toward the empty stands. "What do you actually want?"
"I've noticed you're out here coaching their practice fairly regularly," Cedric said, grip easy on his broomstick. "As it happens, I haven't given up on supervising Hufflepuff's training either."
"And you want recognition for that, do you? Shall I write you a commendation?" Draco said flatly.
"Malfoy, I don't know what I've done to offend you. I simply wanted to say that I respect what you've put into this." Cedric kept his tone mild. "Even as opposing teams, I think of you as one of those opponents worth respecting."
"How touching," Draco said without warmth, ignoring the slight tremor behind his ribs. "Do you expect me to believe you came over here purely to express some worthless pleasantry?"
"Think what you like," Cedric said, and turned to go.
"Wait —"
Draco wasn't entirely sure why he'd said it.
"Why did you help Harry last time? The golden egg —"
Cedric turned back, genuinely surprised. He glanced quickly around, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. "How do you know about that?"
Draco said nothing. He simply repeated, "Why?"
"Why are you asking?" Cedric said carefully. "Are you trying to use this against Harry, or frame me?"
"I know about both exchanges, Diggory — the first and the second." Draco held his gaze, his tone deliberate. "If you'd rather I take this to the judges, that's your prerogative. Otherwise, answer me honestly. Why?"
Draco extended maximum suspicion to every Triwizard champion as a matter of course. It was, historically, a reasonable policy. Throughout the Tournament's long and blood-soaked history, more than a few competitors had played both sides with spectacular ruthlessness.
So when he'd learned in this life that Diggory had voluntarily helped Harry decipher the golden egg, his first reaction had not been gratitude but deep suspicion. Who would be so righteously foolish? Diggory had never been an idiot.
Perhaps the Hufflepuff champion was cultivating Harry's trust now to sabotage him more devastatingly later.
He stared at Diggory's face — forcing himself to hold those eyes, though he desperately did not want to, because in his memory those same eyes had once lost their light entirely — and waited.
He needed to know what this boy was thinking.
Harry could not afford any mishaps in the Third Task. Any risk had to be eliminated early. Draco was quite resolved on that point.
Cedric Diggory's expression had shifted into something strange.
He couldn't understand how Malfoy had learned any of this. He couldn't understand why the boy was asking with such desperate intensity. And he couldn't understand what, exactly, this Slytherin — whose every word carried the subtlest undercurrent of threat — was actually trying to do.
Then Draco looked at him very directly and said, "Diggory. Why would you hand a rival something so valuable? Why would you help someone who has no claim on you — at such great risk to yourself, to your own chances, to Hufflepuff's glory? Why?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Cedric said, studying him with new uncertainty. "I owe him a debt. I pay my debts."
"Just because he did the same for you?" Draco pressed. "That's all it takes to befriend a rival?"
"Yes. That's it. That's fair." Cedric said it without hesitation.
Fair. Draco looked at him without expression.
The word was at once entirely foreign and oddly familiar — Hermione Granger had used it too.
But where in this world was there so much fairness?
Draco could just about comprehend Hermione's idealism and do what he could to protect it. What he could not comprehend was hearing those same slogans from an adult wizard who had willingly walked into a tournament that had, historically, collected bodies.
"Fairness," Draco said with open contempt. "That's a principle for Hufflepuff House to uphold, is it? I wasn't aware."
"I don't expect you to understand it." Cedric's voice was steady. "If you want to report me, I have nothing more to say. But Harry took no part in this — I gave him the clue willingly."
"Regret it now?" Draco said. "If you'd said nothing, no one could have touched you."
Cedric showed no remorse whatsoever.
"I'd do it again," he said simply.
"How admirably stubborn. So the outcome of the match means nothing to you? Hufflepuff's honour means nothing?" Draco pressed him harder, trying to crack the composure. "Diggory, you're fooling the rest of them, but you're not fooling me. I've seen you play Quidditch. You're not nearly as gracious as you seem — you're intensely competitive. You had a dozen more rational choices. Why this one?"
"Malfoy." Cedric looked at him calmly, his words suddenly pointed. "Haven't you ever had moments like that? When there were more rational choices, but you followed your instincts and did something difficult — and came away feeling it was right?" He held his gaze. "I thought you, of all people asking me this, might understand. When you jumped into the Black Lake — did you stop to calculate first?"
Draco went very still.
He could have avoided that jump entirely. He could have followed Snape's guidance and kept to the shadows, stayed the quiet figure working behind the scenes. Everything would have proceeded slowly, safely, according to plan.
But she had been down there. Alone, in the dark.
He couldn't bear to think of her frightened. Couldn't bear to see her slighted or abandoned. Couldn't loosen the grip he'd already taken on her hand.
A thousand rational calculations had counted for absolutely nothing against the simple, irrefutable fact of her.
He'd jumped. The fallout had been enormous. And if given the chance, he would jump again without a moment's hesitation.
Cedric, meanwhile, had grown more curious rather than less. "I've actually been wondering about that. You weren't a competitor — you had no advance knowledge of the task. You just jumped in. How did you possibly —"
Draco's instincts snapped back into place.
Diggory was no fool. Those pleasant grey eyes were sharp, and he was trying, quite skillfully, to peel back something Draco had no intention of revealing.
"Don't try to redirect this," Draco said coldly. "My reasons are my own and don't concern you. Now, I have information that could be used against you, which means you answer my questions — not the other way around."
Cedric pursed his lips and met his gaze squarely.
"You spoke about upholding your own standards and principles," Draco continued, pressing relentlessly. "You carry Hufflepuff's hopes into that arena, and you fight through dragons and lake water to prove yourself — and then you hand over your advantage and talk to me about conscience? In my eyes, that makes you a hypocrite chasing attention. You want Harry to go easy on you in the Third Task, don't you? Don't tell me you don't care about winning."
"Of course I want to win!" The composure finally cracked, just slightly, a flicker of genuine fire in Cedric's grey eyes. "But I have never once thought about asking another competitor to spare me, any more than I would hand someone else my glory. Yes, I care about winning. I care about Hogwarts and I care about Hufflepuff — but I also care about my own integrity, and those things are not mutually exclusive!" He steadied himself and continued: "Maybe my actions weren't precisely within the rules. But I have a clear conscience. Competition and decency are not opposites, Malfoy. Whatever you decide to do, I will still stand on the pitch at the Third Task and fight with everything I have — just as I will continue to do what I believe is right."
Draco studied his face for any sign of performance. He found none.
He didn't entirely understand Cedric Diggory. He suspected he never fully would. They were very different kinds of people. But he could see, quite clearly, why the Goblet of Fire had chosen him.
In some small, reluctant part of himself, Draco thought that Cedric Diggory — with his ridiculous, impractical commitment to fairness — might actually be as genuine as Harry Potter.
"Very well," Draco said. His arrogance receded; his expression settled into calm.
"That's it? You're satisfied?" Cedric still sounded faintly irritated. "After all that, you're not going to report me?"
"No," Draco said.
Cedric stared at him.
"This has nothing to do with me from beginning to end. I haven't got the time or the interest to waste on someone as irrelevant as you." Draco said it coolly, drawing the words out.
Cedric looked at this baffling, hostile, incomprehensible Slytherin — and a quiet thought surfaced.
Perhaps the source of Malfoy's information had never been hidden at all.
Draco Malfoy had some connection to Harry Potter — had saved him publicly — as everyone knew. And his words just now, beneath all the aggression, had contained no malice toward Harry. Not a trace. The concern for Harry's safety had been right there, in the very questions he'd asked.
Perhaps the relationship between Harry and Malfoy was considerably closer than rumour suggested. Close enough for them to share secrets. Close enough for this sharp-tongued Slytherin to come and interrogate Cedric's motives in his own peculiar, toxic way.
"I see," Cedric said, understanding settling over him. "Harry told you, didn't he?"
"None of your business."
"You're his friend," Cedric said, with quiet certainty. "You're worried about him."
"None of your business."
"Does Harry know you came to ask me this?" Cedric pressed. "Is this what he wanted?"
"He knows nothing about this." Draco's voice turned flat and final. "And I trust you won't bother him with it. He has enough on his mind before the Third Task."
Cedric breathed out slowly.
His guess had landed fairly close — Malfoy was Harry's unlikely, largely invisible protector, who expressed concern through interrogation and threat. It was, honestly, a remarkable piece of information.
"Harry's difficult friend —" Cedric turned to leave, hiding his smile. "Any more questions? If not, I'll be on my way."
"Oh, one thing —" He stopped, not turning around. "There's an eagle owl landed behind you. I imagine she's yours."
Draco turned.
There was Joan — looking thoroughly exhausted from a long journey, perched on a seat in the stands, examining the postcard dangling from her beak with an expression of some bewilderment.
He crossed over and took it from her.
On one side was his mother's beautiful cursive handwriting. She had written only: Take care of yourself.
He flipped it over. A nighttime view of Las Vegas. In the top corner, "Greetings from Las Vegas," and below it a street of American-style buildings, neon signs in the windows advertising casinos and gambling houses.
Merlin's beard. When had Father and Mother gone to America? And they were visiting Muggle casinos?
His astonishment lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Lucius and Narcissa's private life had always been rather more open-ended than they let on in public; this was not exactly a secret within the Malfoy household. Diagon Alley, with its small collection of familiar establishments, could hardly satisfy two people who had always taken their pleasures seriously. They frequented both wizarding and Muggle entertainment venues whenever the mood struck them, and felt considerably more at ease in Muggle settings where they weren't expected to perform the full weight of Malfoy dignity.
Crossing the Atlantic was, frankly, completely in keeping with their style.
They must have grown sick of the constant scrutiny at home and gone to find some peace. Draco thought, opening a pouch of the finest owl feed for the heroic bird who had just crossed an ocean, and offering it to Joan.
Joan cried out happily and ate with great enthusiasm.
So. His parents had calmed down for the moment — and Cedric Diggory appeared to have no ill intentions toward Harry.
Draco felt reasonably content.
He strolled unhurriedly off the pitch, deciding to set aside his future concerns for now and let his wayward, globe-trotting parents enjoy themselves — just as he intended to do.
"Hermione," he said, ducking into the card catalogue room with a pleased expression, "do you want to go for a walk in Hogsmeade?"
"I don't know." Hermione didn't look up immediately. She was still rocking back and forth in the walnut rocking chair with the carved lion armrests. She held a catalogue card up to the light streaming through the window, gave it a brief glance, and moved on to the next one. "Is there anything new happening there?"
"Spending an afternoon in the library once in a while is fine," she continued, with exaggerated contentment. "It's actually rather nice."
"Once in a while?" He took advantage of her inattention, lifted the entire stack of catalogue cards out of her hands, held them above her reach, and bent down to kiss her forehead. "You're here every single day, Hermione. You practically live here."
He was a little concerned, if he was honest. Hermione Granger's focus was extraordinary — the sort that caused her to forget to eat and drink. Admirable for academic purposes, but not particularly wise at her age.
"But the rocking chair is terribly comfortable," she said, entirely unmoved, twisting in the chair in a valiant attempt to retrieve her catalogue cards. "And the sunlight's just right at this hour. Besides, there are still several books I haven't gone through. You always seem to have so much free time —"
"This isn't free time, it's a healthy balance between work and rest." He set the catalogue cards down out of reach, gripped the armrests of the rocking chair with both hands to stop it, and leaned in close to examine her eyes from the left, then the right. "Good — no dark circles yet."
Hermione was less concerned about her dark circles. She was more concerned with the fact that his face kept getting closer. She had a persistent, curious feeling that whenever he got close to her like this, he was quietly smelling her hair. Though perhaps she was only thinking that because she was certainly thinking about smelling him. She swallowed nervously, looking into his amused grey eyes, and felt her resolve wobble considerably.
"I've made a reservation at the Three Broomsticks," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Shall we go?"
Hermione nearly said yes immediately.
The next second, she caught herself and felt vaguely annoyed. She could not simply let him derail her plans every time he deployed his face at close range. That was not a dignified pattern of behaviour.
She gripped the armrests and deliberately frowned. "I'm not going. I've grown into this rocking chair."
"Grown into it entirely? That does sound like a problem." Draco looked genuinely entertained — she had the quality of a cat deploying maximum cuteness to get its way. He stroked her hair with a troubled expression. "Should I not have got it for you?"
"Of course not — I love it very much," Hermione said firmly, watching to see what he would do next.
"Let me think," he said, and then simply dipped his head and kissed her.
Slowly. Patiently. Tenderly. He kissed her until the mischievous girl felt something in her chest give way, and she found her arms wrapping around his neck and drawing him closer entirely of their own accord.
At which point he took the opportunity to lift her cleanly out of the rocking chair.
"Draco, you absolute schemer!" she cried, face going red, clinging to him tightly out of pure instinct.
"There — you've been successfully removed from the rocking chair." He swung her up with a gleeful spin. "I could carry you all the way to Hogsmeade like this, if you prefer. I'm sure the villagers wouldn't mind."
"Put me down — I can perfectly well walk on my own!" she said into the wind created by her flying hair.
"Going or not?" He leaned down and nuzzled her cheek with the tip of his nose.
"Go!" She turned and pressed her face against his, laughing helplessly. "I'll go — now put me down!"