2

* * * August 17, 1997 * * *

The party had, indeed, improved the atmosphere in Malfoy Manor. Narcissa clucked around the house for days afterward, brushing up crumbs and Vanishing the stains of discretely-spilled drinks, pretending to complain about the dreary rigors faced by the good hostess. This was a vast improvement to the shrill whiner she'd been all summer, but Draco hardly noticed. Getting laid always put him in a fine mood, and he'd managed to lure both Pansy and Brietta Zabini to the west garden. Not at the same time, unfortunately, but still, it boded well for the year ahead.

Relaxing in bed, he watched the post arrive, having opened the draperies for a bit of cool morning air. The little Hogwarts owl had returned. Draco was expecting to receive a book list, but seeing the familiar owl made him wonder if perhaps this was more news about being Head Boy. There would be a badge, he knew, and probably some information about his new dormitory--and of course, the name of the Head Girl.

As far as he could tell, it wasn't Pansy. She could keep a secret like any decent Slytherin, but there was no reason to keep such news quiet. He didn't even know who the Hufflepuff seventh-year was; he'd seen the girl at meetings but never bothered to learn her name. Those smug bastards in Gryffindor wouldn't be back; that left only the Ravenclaw girl. Come to think of it, he never learned her name either, but he could at least picture her face.

Draco decided to torture his mother just a little bit. He was curious about the letter, certainly, but nothing could possibly top the original announcement that he was to be Head Boy. Mother, he knew, wouldn't see it that way; she'd be dying to find out what the letter said. He took an exceptionally long bath in the marble tub and took his time getting dressed.

The joke was on him, however. When he reached the breakfast nook, it was laying open on a plate, along with a small note from Mother stating, "Gone shopping--muffins in oven." "Fuck!" he shouted angrily. He really hated it when she opened his mail. Chomping into a blueberry muffin as though tearing out its throat, he finally sat down to read the parchment.

Dear Mister Malfoy,

The faculty and staff of Hogwarts are delighted to welcome you as the next Head Boy. Your badge is enclosed, as well as a list of Prefects and the password to the Head Students' suite. Your first duty, as you may have surmised, will be to greet the new Prefects at Platform 9 3/4 and supervise the ride aboard the Hogwarts Express.

Naturally, the Head Girl will share these duties and all others for the school year. You might wish to contact Hermione Granger prior to September the first, in order to plan the Prefect schedules and organize your presentations to the group on the train.

Best wishes,

Albus Dumbledore

"FUCK!" he yelled, spraying a lumpy mist of muffin crumbs onto the parchment. What the hell is she doing, coming back to Hogwarts? The stupid bint! She's mental! That Granger would forego the adoring masses for another year of the likes of Flitwick and McGonagall was simply impossible. No one would pass up the chance to mingle with the glitterati of the wizard world--yes, the world, not just London or even the UK. Everyone wanted a piece of Those Three; they were being wined and dined by every socialite on the planet.

It dawned on him that if being declared Head Boy could win him two girls in one night, then he could only imagine the kind of action Potty and the Weasel were getting. Without realizing it, he clenched his fist on the remainder of the muffin, mashing it into a thick paste. The thought of that scrawny blood traitor and the Moron Who Lived getting it on with their pick of the richest and most beautiful witches EVERYWHERE was enough to burst an aneurysm. And now he'd be stuck with that, that, that annoying little yap dog... She even looked like a poodle with that mountain of hair, a prissy little know-it-all Mudblood. And her face would be the last thing he'd see before he turned in for bed, and the first he'd wake up to in the morning.

Draco crushed the parchment into a ball and hurled it into the fireplace, just in time to watch it bounce off his mother's nose as the flames suddenly turned emerald green.

"Oh!" she squawked. "What was... Oh, all right, I'm sorry I opened your mail," she said crossly, setting down a shopping bag from Twilfitt and Tatting's. "I just couldn't help myself, it was too--"

"It's off, Mother," he growled over her, not interested in her excuses.

"What's off?" She glanced at the paper on the floor and recognized the ivory Hogwarts parchment. "Draco! What's this?"

"Well, I hardly need to explain it to you, do I, Mother?" he snarled back, but she grabbed the crumpled paper before he could bat it into the fire. "Granger the Mudblood's been chosen as Head Girl and I'm not about to spend a year making nice with that bitch!"

Draco's jaw fell at the sound of the slap, for he hadn't even seen her swing her hand and he was too angry to feel it. Yet. After a moment the side of his face began to sting considerably, but at the time all he felt was a numb shock. His mother had never struck him before, and she hissed at him with a ferocity she normally reserved for house elves.

"Now you listen to me! You WILL be the Head Boy, and you WILL get along with Granger! You're a Malfoy, Draco--it's about time you started acting like one! Your family needs this. Your father needs this. He's rotting away in Azkaban. Winning the support of Dumbledore is going to save us, Draco. We need his influence with the Wizengamot--we can't afford all the bribes we'd need to get Lucius acquitted, not in this political climate, anyway.

"The Dark Lord's gone, Draco. Really gone this time. There'll be no more spoils to plunder, no more tributes, no more protection money. Just how long do you expect our wealth to last without your father earning?"

It felt like the world had screeched to a halt and started spinning the other direction. Draco was speechless, possibly for the first time in his life. "What are you saying?" he finally croaked.

Rolling her eyes, his mother stalked off with her shopping bag and began to unload it. "Merlin's codpiece, Draco, how did you get so thick? I said what I said. Much of our assets were seized by the Ministry for reparations when your father was convicted. Don't you even read the Prophet I buy for you every morning?"

Gulping, he refrained from admitting he usually went straight to the comics. "So we're broke?" he said, his eyes widening in disbelief as she removed yet another expensive gown from the Twilfitt bag.

The look she gave him was hauntingly familiar (hours later he would realize it was the same one Uncle Severus constantly used on Potter). "Obviously not," she sighed in disgust. "But we have nothing coming in, only going out. That can't last forever, Draco. We need your father back."

Or you might consider wearing the same thing twice now and then, he thought, but kept it to himself. The cynicism must have shown on his face, though, for she narrowed her eyes and studied him as one might look over an insect to make sure it wasn't a wasp before smashing it with one's palm.

"The Goyles invited us to dinner this evening," she finally announced stiffly, handing him the shopping bag. "Just us, no other families, but it's a start. Wear the black robes with the silver trim, and find one of your father's ties. I expect more invitations before you return to school, so if you keep very tidy, we won't have to pay to have them cleaned in between. You can get away with wearing the same ones over and over, until the other guests start repeating. Be ready at six." With that she levitated the new gowns she'd bought for herself and led them in a fashionable parade to her wardrobe.

It couldn't even be Pansy's house for dinner. So much for his good mood.