Chapter 1 — Presentable
The left side of Draconia Malfoy’s hair was behaving disgracefully.
She had explained this twice to the mirror, which persisted in describing the result as lovely. Clearly, it had grown complacent.
“Lovely is what people say about a cake they don’t intend to eat.”
“A little more sleep might improve your disposition, dear.”
“A better mirror might improve yours.”
She leaned closer to the glass.
There. Just above her ear. One pale strand refusing to lie smoothly with the rest.
It was barely seven.
She did not need to be downstairs until eight.
There was plenty of time to correct it.
On the marble dressing table, between her silver-backed brushes and a tray of pearl fastenings, stood a small glass pot of Sleekeazy’s smoothing cream. Her mother had ordered the premium preparation from a specialist in London. It left no unpleasant stiffness, no greasy residue, and, most importantly, no indication that any effort had been required.
Draconia applied a little to her fingertips.
The offending strand submitted.
“An extraordinary recovery,” the mirror said.
She ignored it.
Her hair fell over her shoulders in a shining sheet. In the morning light it looked almost white, although she preferred to think of it as silver. White sounded elderly.
She turned her head. Her green eyes inspected the result with appropriate severity.
The emerald ribbon would bring out their colour. Her mother had said so at the last fitting, and her mother was rarely wrong about such things.
Presentable.
On the chaise beside the dressing room window lay three sets of robes.
The pale blue had been a possibility until she remembered wearing it to the Parkinsons’ luncheon. The green was beautiful, but the cuffs were too formal for shopping. That left the charcoal, lined in deep emerald, with narrow silver stitching at the cuffs and a tiny serpent clasp at the throat.
The embroidery was worked into the fabric rather than laid over it. She had rejected a less expensive pair at the fitting because the threads caught against her wrist.
There was no reason beautiful things should be uncomfortable.
Understated.
Expensively understated.
Anyone could wear a great quantity of jewels. It took judgment to make people notice the absence of them.
She dressed, considered a ribbon, rejected it, and then reconsidered.
Potter might be in Diagon Alley.
Her hand stopped over the ribbon.
Well, obviously he might. Most of the school would be buying books before September. It would have been peculiar not to account for the possibility.
She put the ribbon down.
Then she picked it up again, because allowing Harry Potter to influence her accessories by his absence would be just as ridiculous as allowing him to influence them by his presence.
The mirror wisely said nothing.
Outside her dressing room, the corridor was quiet. Sunlight lay across the long carpet in pale rectangles. A house-elf vanished around the corner with an armful of fresh linen; somewhere below, a clock sounded the quarter hour.
Draconia paused beside a window overlooking the lawns.
A white peacock stood on the balustrade with its tail trailing over the stone, looking magnificently offended by the weather.
She understood the feeling.
Summer had been much too long.
Pansy’s letters had become repetitive by July. Her father had been occupied. Her mother had taken her to fittings, which was pleasant, and several dinners, which was not. Every adult had asked about her marks, her house, or whether she was enjoying Hogwarts.
None had asked whether she had managed to go an entire week without thinking about a boy who had refused to shake her hand.
Which was fortunate.
She would have lied.
At breakfast, her father was reading a letter.
Her mother sat beside the windows, dressed in ivory, a cup balanced lightly between her fingers. There was a place laid for Draconia halfway down the table.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, darling,” her mother said.
Her father finished the line he was reading before looking up.
Draconia stood a little straighter.
“The charcoal,” he observed.
“Yes, Father.”
“A sensible choice.”
His gaze moved to the ribbon.
“Green has always suited you. Quite the little Slytherin.”
Draconia allowed herself a smile.
“You carry the Malfoy and Black names,” he added. “One expects a certain distinction.”
“Of course, Father.”
She sat carefully, keeping her shoulders straight as she reached for her napkin.
A plate appeared before her. Toast, eggs, sliced pear. She took a piece of toast.
“Your book list?” her father asked.
“In my bag.”
“And the measurements for your winter robes?”
“Also in my bag.”
“Good. I have business to attend to. We shall not spend the afternoon retracing our steps.”
“No, Father.”
Her mother’s gaze rested on the ribbon.
Draconia put down her toast.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing at all. Turn your head.”
She did.
Narcissa reached across the small distance between their chairs and adjusted the knot.
“There. You were hiding the stitching.”
The touch lasted only a moment. Draconia wished, absurdly, that there had been something else wrong with it.
“Thank you, Mother.”
Her father folded the letter.
“Will Miss Parkinson be joining you?”
“She’s going tomorrow.”
“A pity. Suitable company makes these excursions considerably more tolerable.”
Draconia reached for her tea.
“There will be people from school.”
“Undoubtedly.”
She should have left it there.
Instead, she said, “The Gryffindors generally travel in packs.”
Her father’s expression sharpened with amusement.
“Then you will have no difficulty avoiding them.”
“Of course.”
Narcissa selected a slice of pear.
“Shopping is more pleasant when one remembers why one has gone.”
Draconia could not tell whether that was advice or a warning.
She ate her eggs.
By the time they left, she had decided that she would not approach Potter even if he were standing directly outside the fireplace.
Unless he said something.
Or looked at her.
Or behaved in a way that required correction.
There was no reason to be unreasonable about it.
Diagon Alley was hot, crowded, and full of people who had apparently mistaken leaving the house for an emergency.
A witch outside the apothecary wore shoes that clashed with her hat. Two small boys were arguing over a paper bag of sweets. Someone had brought a toad into a dressmaker’s.
Draconia stepped around a puddle of something purple.
Her father did not alter his stride. People made room for him.
She kept beside him, pleased by the soft movement of her robes and the occasional glance that followed them.
At the robe shop, the assistant remembered her measurements.
At the stationer’s, her father rejected a set of quills before the proprietor had finished explaining their virtues.
At the next shop, a witch behind the counter called Draconia “Miss Malfoy” and brought out a tray that had not been on display.
By then, the morning had improved considerably.
They were approaching Flourish and Blotts when she saw the crowd.
“Oh, honestly.”
A large photograph in the window smiled down at a cluster of witches jostling near the entrance. Gilderoy Lockhart’s teeth flashed beneath letters announcing his presence.
Her mother owned one of his books.
Draconia had read three chapters in the hope of discovering whether his hair was naturally that colour. The book had failed to address the question.
Her father surveyed the doorway.
“Stay close.”
Inside, the shop smelled of paper, dust, warm bodies, and somebody’s aggressively floral perfume.
Draconia drew her elbows in.
Near the front, Lockhart was signing books beneath an enormous portrait of himself. The portrait was signing books as well.
That seemed excessive.
A photographer backed into a display, swore, and lifted his camera again.
Then the crowd shifted.
Black hair.
Round glasses.
Draconia’s fingers tightened on her bag.
Potter stood near Lockhart’s table, looking as though he would rather be somewhere considerably less public. His robes were unremarkable. His hair was worse than she remembered.
He was also smiling at something the youngest Weasley had said.
Draconia looked away.
Too late.
“Something amusing, Draconia?”
Her father was watching her.
She had been smiling.
Not at Potter. Obviously. At the whole spectacle.
“Nothing, Father. Just some rats nearby.”
She smoothed her cuff.
“I’ll put them in their place.”
His gaze followed hers.
“Do try not to cause a scene.”
“Of course not.”
She slipped through a gap in the crowd.
For several steps, she had an excellent view of Potter’s back and no idea what she intended to say.
This was easily remedied.
The Weasleys provided ample material.
Ron stood beside a cauldron full of books, one sleeve noticeably shorter than the other. His sister was holding a new-looking volume to her chest. The older woman beside them had an expression of determined cheerfulness that Draconia found exhausting at a distance.
Potter turned.
His eyes met hers.
For one foolish instant, she forgot about the robes.
“Malfoy.”
Not pleased.
Not displeased, precisely.
As though he had noticed a door was open.
“Weasley,” she said, choosing the easier target. “Why would you even leave the house in robes like those?”
Ron glanced down.
A tiny movement. Barely anything.
She felt the familiar satisfaction of having found the weak point.
“They were clean when I left,” he said. “Then you came over.”
Potter’s mouth twitched.
Draconia’s smile became more exact.
“How reassuring that you’re taking such good care of them. I imagine they’ll need to last another generation.”
“Did you come over for a reason?” Ron asked.
“I was concerned. Those cuffs look positively archaeological.”
The youngest Weasley lowered her book.
“At least he can move his arms without worrying about the embroidery.”
Draconia looked at her.
“Oh. It speaks.”
“His robes are fine,” Potter said.
He had not raised his voice.
That made it more annoying.
“I wasn’t aware I’d asked you.”
“You walked over here.”
“I suppose buying everything secondhand does leave very little for—”
“Did you actually want something?”
He was looking directly at her.
She had spent forty minutes on her hair.
The thought arrived so abruptly that she nearly lost her place.
“From you?” She laughed. It came out a little too quickly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Right.”
He turned back to Ron.
Just turned.
As though she had finished.
For a moment she could hear the photographer’s camera, the scrape of someone dragging a box, Lockhart laughing much too loudly at his own remark.
Potter reached for the book in the little girl’s hands.
“Do you want that one with the others?”
She nodded.
He took it carefully.
Draconia remained where she was.
She could say something about his fame. His taste in friends. The absurd performance at the signing table.
He had no right to dismiss her.
“Draconia.”
Her father’s voice reached her from behind.
She turned before Potter could see that she was grateful for it.
Lucius stood a few paces away, one gloved hand resting on the silver head of his cane.
“You intend to leave it there?”
His mouth had tightened.
Heat climbed beneath her collar.
“I won’t degrade myself by chasing after them.”
She made herself speak slowly.
“They know what they are, Father. Pretending otherwise changes nothing.”
She held his gaze.
Please, she thought, and hated herself for not knowing exactly what she was asking.
The corner of his mouth curved.
“A graceful decision.”
Her shoulders eased.
Behind her, Ron said something under his breath. Potter answered, too quietly for her to hear.
She did not turn.
“Nevertheless,” her father continued, “I do need a word with Arthur about his work.”
Only then did she notice the small, shabby book in his other hand.
Its dark cover looked wholly out of place against his gloves.
He moved past her.
Draconia followed a pace behind, her expression composed, her ribbon perfectly straight.
Potter had not looked back once.
