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Back to Part Two
He always pictured Hogwarts' entrance hall as huge, even cavernous, just like it was when he'd first stood there seventeen years before. Now he realised its ceiling wasn't as high as the Hub's, and while the hall was still wider, the sepia grandeur of his mind's eye had faded to ordinary beige.
Its magic, however, was undeniable.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his blazer. "Ianto Jones (Ravenclaw)" it read, and under that was written "Torchwood Institute." "So much for secret organizations," thought Ianto.
The twinkling message continued. "You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite spots around the castle."
The words shimmered, suspended like raindrops in the wind, but by the time Ianto had checked his pocket watch they had faded. Like so much magic: just a flashy trick, no permanence. Exactly why he'd left this world. Still, as Ianto braved the library's shifting stairwell, he had to admit his spirits were lifted just for having seen it.
If the entrance hall had lost its magnitude, the stairs certainly hadn't. His legs were protesting before he was halfway there; he envied his younger self dashing nimbly around this castle. But at last he arrived to the fourth floor. His fingers caressed the library's broad double doors, reverence in his touch as it connected with the ancient brass doorknob. This at least had not changed.
Nor had what he found inside. In the stacks, at their old study table, were gathered his old friends.
"Ianto!"
Mandy tackled him with squeals and a tight hug; he'd only just recovered his balance when Morag took her place. Looking over her shoulder he saw Terry grin sympathetically, obviously having suffered this himself. Michael was there too, his arm slung over the back of Lisa's chair while she whispered to Padma. A decade vanished in an instant, so familiar was the scene.
Terry waved him to the empty chair by his side. "This place hasn't changed a bit, has it?"
"Not at all! I expect Madam Pince to scold us for being too loud."
Lisa shook her head. "She went to Professor Sprout's office." Michael made a tippling motion with his hand, which she playfully slapped away. "She asked us to look after things."
"That would never have happened before."
"We're supposed to be adults now," smirked Terry, pulling a face that Ianto recognised from first year Potions. It sparked a flurry of laughter that flowed into easy conversation until Terry's voice broke through. "So Ianto, we were just catching up … we've got three Ministry employees, one Gringotts' liaison, and Padma will be running Flourish & Blott's within the year." He squinted at Ianto's nametag. "So what's this Torchwood Institute do?"
Ianto had imagined this moment, but hadn't anticipated just how enjoyable it would be to say, "We catch aliens." He barely kept a straight face when their jaws dropped and they stared blankly. "No, really. We do."
Finally Mandy said what he knew they were all thinking. "But … there are no such things as aliens."
"Funny, that's what they say about magic."
He had never talked to any outsiders about Torchwood. Now it all came pouring out, and like typical Ravenclaws his classmates still wanted to know more: how the rift worked, which alien species they'd encountered, why Retcon was preferred to Obliviation spells. Ianto realised that he'd started thinking like a Muggle when Michael asked this last question. "Honestly, I don't think about using spells anymore. I don't even carry my wand."
His classmates seemed as shocked by this behaviour as by the notion that aliens existed.
"It's nothing like in the old days with You Kno-- with Voldemort," admitted Padma, "but I surely wouldn't feel safe without mine."
Ianto glanced up as the library doors creaked open, expecting the arrival of another Ravenclaw classmate. The one they'd called the Prince of Slytherin stood there instead, staring inexplicably at him. Ianto had steered clear of Draco Malfoy during their Hogwarts days. It was awfully unnerving to be the object of his gaze now.
Noticing Ianto's discomfort, Michael said, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the library, "Yeah, you need to carry your wand, Ianto. You never know when you might run into a Death Eater."
"Shame they didn't lock them all away," added Terry with a malicious sneer. "Or better yet, set the Dementors on them. It's what they deserve."
Malfoy's face didn't change, he didn't even blink, although there was no way he could have missed the words. If it had been anybody else, Ianto might have felt some pity. But not now, not for the head of the Inquisitorial Squad, supreme bully of Hogwarts. Ianto just wanted him to go away, whatever it took.
Malfoy stared for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind about something. With the same haughtiness as when he'd entered, he spun on his heel and left.
"Good riddance," scoffed Padma. "I wonder what Harry will say when he sees Malfoy's crawled out of his hole."
Ianto nodded with the others. No matter how many years had passed, no matter how much as they all had grown, some things would never change. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry was every bit as enduring as these castle stones.
*****
He stepped crisply into Hogwarts' entrance hall as if he owned it. In effect, he probably did. Between the hefty cheques his father had written to the Hogwarts Board after the war ("tokens of good will," Father called them, but they were as good as reparations) and the sizeable donations he himself contributed each year, at least half of Hogwarts should bear the Malfoy name.
And yet there was no one here to greet him. Typical.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his suit jacket. "Draco Malfoy (Slytherin)" it read, and under that was written "Partner, Mage Investments." A light touch of his wand incinerated the tag, leaving his Prada lapel unblemished.
The twinkling message continued unabated. You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite places around the castle."
Draco had then attempted his good deed of the decade by trudging upstairs to find the Ravenclaws. Their reception reminded him why Malfoys did not perform good deeds. Let Harkness stew in that wretched pub a while; he'd be in a right state when Ianto returned. Draco brightened, picturing how entertaining that meeting would be.
His mood lifted further when he reached the Slytherin dungeon. His friends were all there, dressed to the nines. Like him, they'd come dressed to impress—even Greg was sporting a new robe from Y-3's latest line. He was especially pleased to note that their nametags all disappeared shortly after his arrival.
The Slytherins had arranged their own reception, of course. Pansy's house-elves had combed the markets of Fes el Bali for the finest Moroccan delicacies. Draco raised his eyebrow at the trays heaving with kefta, kebabs, and savoury slices of honey-soaked phyllo. "We're adults now. There's absolutely no reason to eat McGonagall's haggis!" Pansy exclaimed, horrified.
Draco motioned for her to sit beside him; she did one better, arranging herself on his lap. "So tell me, darling," she said, flashing the ostentatious diamond on her ring finger, "'Pansy Peasegood.' Do you think it works or no?"
Draco studied the ring, then glanced at Pansy's intended, ostensibly engrossed in conversation with Queenie but keeping a sharp eye on her. "Well, you wouldn't need to change your initials. I suppose there's some advantage in that."
"This is true. I do write exquisite Ps. But he is an American."
"A very wealthy American, Pans. And he adores you for some unfathomable reason."
"Because I'm unfathomably irresistible, as you'd know yourself if you weren't a poof." She wiggled shamelessly on his lap to prove her point, as if her revealing lace bustier might sway him to the other side. "Speaking of which, I was sure you'd bring one of your pretty Frenchies along."
"Are you joking? There's no one I'd subject to you lot."
Pansy slapped his shoulder playfully. "Be nice. I just thought you'd want to make him jealous."
Draco tensed, although he replied with practised calm, "And whom might that be?"
"I can't believe it," she sighed dramatically. "Still in denial, aren't you? It's been ten years."
"Pans," he said, feigning a look of befuddlement, "I haven't the slightest what you're on about."
She stood, glowering dramatically down at him. "Draco Malfoy, you are utterly hopeless. I wash my hands of you."
Snickering, Blaise watched Pansy flounce off before taking the empty spot on the settee. His date (Abigail? Abilene? Draco had forgotten seconds after being introduced) squeezed in beside him, while Greg sprawled on the cushioned armchair. "What was that all about?" he asked.
Draco shrugged. Pansy was often puzzling; this could easily be written off as her usual histrionics. "I fear that her engagement has addled her mind."
"Speaking of engagements," said Blaise in that sly tone that foretold of meddling and mischief, "I saw Potter earlier. He's single again, you know."
Evilly, Draco smirked. "How humiliating for him."
"I thought you might say that." Blaise smiled, but it wasn't evil, it was … well, it was as close to enigmatic as Zabini was likely to come. The man would never be capable of a poker face. Draco suddenly found his blatancy intolerable.
"C'mon, Greg," he said, launching himself from the settee. His oldest friend could be trusted not to surprise him. "I think we need to get pissed."
Much later, and much tipsier, the Slytherins made their grand entrance. The dance was in full swing by then. "Another cheesy wizard-rock band," Draco thought disparagingly. It was humiliating to think he'd once listened to this stuff. Even more so to see people his age dancing to it now.
This thought no sooner crossed his mind than Pansy pulled Blaise onto the dance floor; Millicent grabbed an unsuspecting Greg seconds later. His other classmates quickly joined in, leaving Draco standing alone. Which suited him just fine, as it presented the opportunity to scan the dance floor in search of Potter. Simply a reflex action, surely, this instinctive need to know his rival's location, necessary to guard against sneak attacks … and to plan his own. It was impossible to see, though; the Grand Hall was darker than he ever remembered it being when he was in school. The only light shone down from radiant faeries flying several feet above the crowd. The magical equivalent of disco balls in Muggle clubs, they swayed in time with the music, their movements casting shadows and obscuring faces. No, they'd never have dared this during his days at Hogwarts. This kind of darkness invited mischief; the child in Draco practically salivated at the thought.
No sign of Potter, however. He even checked the edges of the crowd where the Gryffindor hero might be hiding, heartbroken. The thought of Potter sobbing in a corner amused Draco greatly—dumped by a Hufflepuff indeed!—and he was disappointed when his shamed rival was nowhere to be found.
He turned his attention to the dance floor instead, wincing to see that gangly, uncoordinated teens had grown into less gangly but more uncoordinated adults. And as much as Draco might want to believe wizards superior in all things, Montréal's sex clubs had proven him wrong. He'd been introduced to a whole new magic in those steamy classrooms, where heavy bass beats taught his feet to move, where music and sex washed over the crowd, flowed into his limbs, loosened his stiff bones.
The music shifted from a power ballad popular during their sixth year to the faster dance beats from the WWN's recent charts. With its pumping rhythm it would not have been out of place at one of those clubs, save for its lyrics:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through fog and filthy air...
Spell words familiar to any wizard, but backed by this hypnotic syncopation they conjured a powerful sensuality. Half the dance floor cleared, leaving gusts of embarrassed laughter filling the empty spaces and offering Draco a better vantage point. His eye landed on a man dancing in the centre of the room. His face was shadowed but even from behind his body enticed. Draco noted the well-cut suit, the dark hair, the smooth sensuality that wouldn't be out of place at Club Tools. Suddenly he decided this dance might not be so bad as all that. Drawing himself up to his full Malfoy stature, Draco stepped onto the floor.
*****
Gryffindor House arrived at the reunion en masse. They'd met earlier at Madam Puddifoot's; it was Hermione's joking suggestion, but once word spread about the "pre-union," the small café overflowed with their classmates.
Harry hadn't expected it to be this enjoyable, being with everyone again. This wasn't the first time he'd seen them. Most worked in the Ministry; the rest visited Diagon frequently and kept in touch. But being here now, with the women donning the latest witchery couture and the men in stylish suits, it was clear how far they'd all come. In his new Hugo Boss suit, Harry certainly felt the part—and as everyone remarked on how different he looked, he wondered if they all still pictured him in baggy trousers and threadbare jumpers.
Madam Puddifoot's tea (spiked with copious amounts of Ogden's) kept them talking far longer than expected. The sky was streaked pink and orange by the time they finally made their way to the castle.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script as soon as they crossed the threshold. "Harry Potter (Gryffindor)" read the nametag on his lapel, and under that was written simply "Auror." You are now registered," the twinkling message continued. "The reception is already underway in the Great Hall. You should join your classmates there"
"at your leisure," it added after a pause, as if reluctantly.
"It didn't scold us for being late," Parvati noticed, her eyes wide.
"You know it wanted to though," insisted Dean.
"Guess it reckoned Hermione already had."
Ron jumped aside, pulling a face as he dodged Hermione's slap. "We're supposed to be adults now," she sniffed in mock-indignation.
Harry spent the next hour chatting with professors and students from other Houses, sampling nibbles from airborne trays, and keeping an eye out for two men. One arrived shortly after he did, bustling through the door with that frantic energy that Harry knew too well. Soon they were standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar.
"Wow, Harry. You always did clean up well, but … wow."
"Eat your heart out," Harry thought. "It's all Hermione's doing," he said aloud. "She insisted I look respectable."
"Her idea, maybe, but you're the one pulling it off." Harry flushed warm at the compliment; he ducked into his drink, leaving Justin to continue as Harry knew he would. "So how've you been? You look … well, you look good, but I think I already said that."
His ex grinned, acknowledging his rambling, and Harry couldn't help grinning back. "I am good, thanks. And you're looking well yourself." Except for his blond hair, cropped too short since they'd split up; Harry preferred it hanging loose over his shoulders. "So where's Marietta?"
"She couldn't get out of her shift at St. Mungo's. Said I'd have more fun without her anyway."
Harry chuckled. "In that case, you'll have to save me a dance."
"Will do."
Hermione was at Harry's elbow as soon as Justin departed. "Everything okay?"
"I asked him to dance."
"Harry!"
Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Relax, we're just friends. It doesn't mean we're getting back together."
"I know. But you promised you'd dance with Malfoy tonight."
Being stupefied couldn't have surprised him more. "I … I did?"
Professor McGonagall chose that moment to introduce the Bag End Blowers, a raggle-taggle band who kicked off the show with "A Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love." The Weird Sisters' cover was guaranteed to win over the crowd; even Harry followed Hermione onto the dance floor, although he was still stunned by her words.
Dance with Malfoy? Of all the crazy ideas. Sure, he might keep an eye on his rival—might indeed have kept an eye pealed all night—and he might have followed the business pages, noting with surprise Malfoy's success in the emerging Muggle-magic investment markets. And yes, that pointy chin and sneering mouth might feature in Harry's favourite fantasy, one that he called up in his most private moments. But none of that was any business of Hermione's, and he certainly hadn't promised to dance with him!
Not that it mattered. Malfoy wasn't here, and in all likelihood wouldn't show at all. As the night wore on, relief at this thought wrestled with a confusing hollow disappointment.
But midway through the second set the Slytherins appeared. The sight of that unmistakeable silver hair, brighter than even in his memory, almost stole Harry's breath. No one else had ever had hair that colour, so bright that the fairy lights dimmed in comparison. He watched the Slytherins flood the dance floor, all except Malfoy, who circled like a shark, hunting. Once he looked in Harry's direction, but out of habit, Harry ducked out of sight behind Neville.
The band's next song was a hard-driving electronic number with a throbbing baseline that seemed to shake the foundations of the castle. The Slytherins stayed, of course, as did a few other brave couples, but the Gryffindors, laughing, cleared the floor. Harry followed, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.
"You said to save a dance."
Harry leaned against Justin's arm. "The Prophet would love this, wouldn't they?"
Justin grinned and looped an arm around Harry's waist, leading him to the floor just like he had so many times at the clubs in London. A thigh wedged between Harry's, giving him no choice but to embrace the rhythm as Justin moved them into the crowd. The brave souls that remained had drawn tighter together, creating the illusion of a real dance floor, of those closed spaces where random bodies could collide and connect. The music was made for this, dancing flowing into foreplay flowing into sex—images he probably should avoid this close to his ex unless they really intended to give the Prophet a scoop.
Harry stepped away from Justin, leaving space for another body between them. In that moment he saw Malfoy finally approach, crossing the dance floor with a malevolent sense of purpose. Harry's suspicions were confirmed when he slipped behind another man and began a slow, undeniably sexual grind.
"What is it?" Justin moved so as to turn around.
"No, stay there," Harry hissed, peering over his shoulder. "It's Malfoy. I want to see what he's doing."
"Merlin, not Malfoy again!"
"Huh?"
But his mind was on Malfoy's target: Ianto Jones. Not someone Harry would ever have pictured with the Slytherin. Ianto looked unsettled, but Malfoy said something and then slid his arms around the Ravenclaw. Tighter than they needed to be, no doubt, and Harry watched for evidence of the other man's struggle. As they began to move together, Ianto apparently a willing victim, Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He moved closer to Justin, using him as a shield to manoeuvre towards the other couple.
"I need to hear…"
"Really, Harry, this was annoying enough when we were together. Now it's just a bore."
"Hmm … what was?"
Ianto's hand sat on the small of Malfoy's back, synching their steps, fusing their bodies with this relentless rhythm. Fire streaked through Harry at the sight—Merlin, he'd never seen Malfoy move like this before!—and inexplicably tightened his arm around Justin's waist. Justin closed his eyes, sighing heavily enough to be heard over the music.
"This obsession, Harry, it's been ten years."
Harry hardly heard Justin's words. The Ravenclaw had just leaned back, obviously shocked by what Malfoy had said.
"Huh? Um, we just need to get a bit closer. Here, let's…"
Harry turned them around, his back now to Draco, so close that, if not for the music, he could have caught snatches of their conversation. So attuned to sounds, he hardly noticed when someone pressed against him. His hips took notice, though, slipping into this new rhythm between the two men like they were born to it. Like his body had been incomplete without the hard press of bodies on both sides. He heard a sharp grunt in his ear and belatedly realised it was Malfoy's. Unexpectedly aroused by the sound, he ground shamelessly against Justin as the song whipped towards its frenzied climax. Fire ignited his feet, the beats obliterated his thoughts, and the acrid scent of sweat dripped down the back of his throat, leaving him ravenous. Merlin, he could come like this, he was sure, if only the song would keep going. And as embarrassing as that would be, he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop.
But then, with a frantic swirl of notes, the song ended. As the band left the stage, Harry gasped for breath and grinned at Justin. His ex returned his look with a surprisingly angry glare.
"Guess you finally got what you want, Harry."
He stomped off, leaving Harry baffled until he realised what had just happened, and with whom. His heart stopped. He really didn't want to turn around.
"Potter."
Reluctantly, Harry turned to see Malfoy. With fairy lights shining down, casting them in bluish light, his rival's face might have been carved from frost, with that same conceit that Harry had hated since he was eleven years old.
"No no no no no…"
But denial could not deflate his body's reaction; nor could it remove the scorn from his rival's voice. "You'd better go after your Hufflepuff, Potter. You wouldn't want him to get away."
Harry had stood against Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters. He'd rebuilt the Auror Department, ensuring that evildoers quaked at the very mention of Harry Potter. He'd faced Molly Weasley, telling her that he was gay and would not marry her only daughter. But all of these feats paled in comparison with the spectre he now faced.
Courage be damned. Harry turned tail and fled.
Halfway out the door, he heard Hermione call, "When I said to dance with Malfoy, that wasn't quite what I meant."
*****
*****
Note: Song lyrics blatantly stolen from Macbeth.
On to Part Four.
He always pictured Hogwarts' entrance hall as huge, even cavernous, just like it was when he'd first stood there seventeen years before. Now he realised its ceiling wasn't as high as the Hub's, and while the hall was still wider, the sepia grandeur of his mind's eye had faded to ordinary beige.
Its magic, however, was undeniable.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his blazer. "Ianto Jones (Ravenclaw)" it read, and under that was written "Torchwood Institute." "So much for secret organizations," thought Ianto.
The twinkling message continued. "You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite spots around the castle."
The words shimmered, suspended like raindrops in the wind, but by the time Ianto had checked his pocket watch they had faded. Like so much magic: just a flashy trick, no permanence. Exactly why he'd left this world. Still, as Ianto braved the library's shifting stairwell, he had to admit his spirits were lifted just for having seen it.
If the entrance hall had lost its magnitude, the stairs certainly hadn't. His legs were protesting before he was halfway there; he envied his younger self dashing nimbly around this castle. But at last he arrived to the fourth floor. His fingers caressed the library's broad double doors, reverence in his touch as it connected with the ancient brass doorknob. This at least had not changed.
Nor had what he found inside. In the stacks, at their old study table, were gathered his old friends.
"Ianto!"
Mandy tackled him with squeals and a tight hug; he'd only just recovered his balance when Morag took her place. Looking over her shoulder he saw Terry grin sympathetically, obviously having suffered this himself. Michael was there too, his arm slung over the back of Lisa's chair while she whispered to Padma. A decade vanished in an instant, so familiar was the scene.
Terry waved him to the empty chair by his side. "This place hasn't changed a bit, has it?"
"Not at all! I expect Madam Pince to scold us for being too loud."
Lisa shook her head. "She went to Professor Sprout's office." Michael made a tippling motion with his hand, which she playfully slapped away. "She asked us to look after things."
"That would never have happened before."
"We're supposed to be adults now," smirked Terry, pulling a face that Ianto recognised from first year Potions. It sparked a flurry of laughter that flowed into easy conversation until Terry's voice broke through. "So Ianto, we were just catching up … we've got three Ministry employees, one Gringotts' liaison, and Padma will be running Flourish & Blott's within the year." He squinted at Ianto's nametag. "So what's this Torchwood Institute do?"
Ianto had imagined this moment, but hadn't anticipated just how enjoyable it would be to say, "We catch aliens." He barely kept a straight face when their jaws dropped and they stared blankly. "No, really. We do."
Finally Mandy said what he knew they were all thinking. "But … there are no such things as aliens."
"Funny, that's what they say about magic."
He had never talked to any outsiders about Torchwood. Now it all came pouring out, and like typical Ravenclaws his classmates still wanted to know more: how the rift worked, which alien species they'd encountered, why Retcon was preferred to Obliviation spells. Ianto realised that he'd started thinking like a Muggle when Michael asked this last question. "Honestly, I don't think about using spells anymore. I don't even carry my wand."
His classmates seemed as shocked by this behaviour as by the notion that aliens existed.
"It's nothing like in the old days with You Kno-- with Voldemort," admitted Padma, "but I surely wouldn't feel safe without mine."
Ianto glanced up as the library doors creaked open, expecting the arrival of another Ravenclaw classmate. The one they'd called the Prince of Slytherin stood there instead, staring inexplicably at him. Ianto had steered clear of Draco Malfoy during their Hogwarts days. It was awfully unnerving to be the object of his gaze now.
Noticing Ianto's discomfort, Michael said, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the library, "Yeah, you need to carry your wand, Ianto. You never know when you might run into a Death Eater."
"Shame they didn't lock them all away," added Terry with a malicious sneer. "Or better yet, set the Dementors on them. It's what they deserve."
Malfoy's face didn't change, he didn't even blink, although there was no way he could have missed the words. If it had been anybody else, Ianto might have felt some pity. But not now, not for the head of the Inquisitorial Squad, supreme bully of Hogwarts. Ianto just wanted him to go away, whatever it took.
Malfoy stared for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind about something. With the same haughtiness as when he'd entered, he spun on his heel and left.
"Good riddance," scoffed Padma. "I wonder what Harry will say when he sees Malfoy's crawled out of his hole."
Ianto nodded with the others. No matter how many years had passed, no matter how much as they all had grown, some things would never change. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry was every bit as enduring as these castle stones.
He stepped crisply into Hogwarts' entrance hall as if he owned it. In effect, he probably did. Between the hefty cheques his father had written to the Hogwarts Board after the war ("tokens of good will," Father called them, but they were as good as reparations) and the sizeable donations he himself contributed each year, at least half of Hogwarts should bear the Malfoy name.
And yet there was no one here to greet him. Typical.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his suit jacket. "Draco Malfoy (Slytherin)" it read, and under that was written "Partner, Mage Investments." A light touch of his wand incinerated the tag, leaving his Prada lapel unblemished.
The twinkling message continued unabated. You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite places around the castle."
Draco had then attempted his good deed of the decade by trudging upstairs to find the Ravenclaws. Their reception reminded him why Malfoys did not perform good deeds. Let Harkness stew in that wretched pub a while; he'd be in a right state when Ianto returned. Draco brightened, picturing how entertaining that meeting would be.
His mood lifted further when he reached the Slytherin dungeon. His friends were all there, dressed to the nines. Like him, they'd come dressed to impress—even Greg was sporting a new robe from Y-3's latest line. He was especially pleased to note that their nametags all disappeared shortly after his arrival.
The Slytherins had arranged their own reception, of course. Pansy's house-elves had combed the markets of Fes el Bali for the finest Moroccan delicacies. Draco raised his eyebrow at the trays heaving with kefta, kebabs, and savoury slices of honey-soaked phyllo. "We're adults now. There's absolutely no reason to eat McGonagall's haggis!" Pansy exclaimed, horrified.
Draco motioned for her to sit beside him; she did one better, arranging herself on his lap. "So tell me, darling," she said, flashing the ostentatious diamond on her ring finger, "'Pansy Peasegood.' Do you think it works or no?"
Draco studied the ring, then glanced at Pansy's intended, ostensibly engrossed in conversation with Queenie but keeping a sharp eye on her. "Well, you wouldn't need to change your initials. I suppose there's some advantage in that."
"This is true. I do write exquisite Ps. But he is an American."
"A very wealthy American, Pans. And he adores you for some unfathomable reason."
"Because I'm unfathomably irresistible, as you'd know yourself if you weren't a poof." She wiggled shamelessly on his lap to prove her point, as if her revealing lace bustier might sway him to the other side. "Speaking of which, I was sure you'd bring one of your pretty Frenchies along."
"Are you joking? There's no one I'd subject to you lot."
Pansy slapped his shoulder playfully. "Be nice. I just thought you'd want to make him jealous."
Draco tensed, although he replied with practised calm, "And whom might that be?"
"I can't believe it," she sighed dramatically. "Still in denial, aren't you? It's been ten years."
"Pans," he said, feigning a look of befuddlement, "I haven't the slightest what you're on about."
She stood, glowering dramatically down at him. "Draco Malfoy, you are utterly hopeless. I wash my hands of you."
Snickering, Blaise watched Pansy flounce off before taking the empty spot on the settee. His date (Abigail? Abilene? Draco had forgotten seconds after being introduced) squeezed in beside him, while Greg sprawled on the cushioned armchair. "What was that all about?" he asked.
Draco shrugged. Pansy was often puzzling; this could easily be written off as her usual histrionics. "I fear that her engagement has addled her mind."
"Speaking of engagements," said Blaise in that sly tone that foretold of meddling and mischief, "I saw Potter earlier. He's single again, you know."
Evilly, Draco smirked. "How humiliating for him."
"I thought you might say that." Blaise smiled, but it wasn't evil, it was … well, it was as close to enigmatic as Zabini was likely to come. The man would never be capable of a poker face. Draco suddenly found his blatancy intolerable.
"C'mon, Greg," he said, launching himself from the settee. His oldest friend could be trusted not to surprise him. "I think we need to get pissed."
Much later, and much tipsier, the Slytherins made their grand entrance. The dance was in full swing by then. "Another cheesy wizard-rock band," Draco thought disparagingly. It was humiliating to think he'd once listened to this stuff. Even more so to see people his age dancing to it now.
This thought no sooner crossed his mind than Pansy pulled Blaise onto the dance floor; Millicent grabbed an unsuspecting Greg seconds later. His other classmates quickly joined in, leaving Draco standing alone. Which suited him just fine, as it presented the opportunity to scan the dance floor in search of Potter. Simply a reflex action, surely, this instinctive need to know his rival's location, necessary to guard against sneak attacks … and to plan his own. It was impossible to see, though; the Grand Hall was darker than he ever remembered it being when he was in school. The only light shone down from radiant faeries flying several feet above the crowd. The magical equivalent of disco balls in Muggle clubs, they swayed in time with the music, their movements casting shadows and obscuring faces. No, they'd never have dared this during his days at Hogwarts. This kind of darkness invited mischief; the child in Draco practically salivated at the thought.
No sign of Potter, however. He even checked the edges of the crowd where the Gryffindor hero might be hiding, heartbroken. The thought of Potter sobbing in a corner amused Draco greatly—dumped by a Hufflepuff indeed!—and he was disappointed when his shamed rival was nowhere to be found.
He turned his attention to the dance floor instead, wincing to see that gangly, uncoordinated teens had grown into less gangly but more uncoordinated adults. And as much as Draco might want to believe wizards superior in all things, Montréal's sex clubs had proven him wrong. He'd been introduced to a whole new magic in those steamy classrooms, where heavy bass beats taught his feet to move, where music and sex washed over the crowd, flowed into his limbs, loosened his stiff bones.
The music shifted from a power ballad popular during their sixth year to the faster dance beats from the WWN's recent charts. With its pumping rhythm it would not have been out of place at one of those clubs, save for its lyrics:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through fog and filthy air...
Spell words familiar to any wizard, but backed by this hypnotic syncopation they conjured a powerful sensuality. Half the dance floor cleared, leaving gusts of embarrassed laughter filling the empty spaces and offering Draco a better vantage point. His eye landed on a man dancing in the centre of the room. His face was shadowed but even from behind his body enticed. Draco noted the well-cut suit, the dark hair, the smooth sensuality that wouldn't be out of place at Club Tools. Suddenly he decided this dance might not be so bad as all that. Drawing himself up to his full Malfoy stature, Draco stepped onto the floor.
Gryffindor House arrived at the reunion en masse. They'd met earlier at Madam Puddifoot's; it was Hermione's joking suggestion, but once word spread about the "pre-union," the small café overflowed with their classmates.
Harry hadn't expected it to be this enjoyable, being with everyone again. This wasn't the first time he'd seen them. Most worked in the Ministry; the rest visited Diagon frequently and kept in touch. But being here now, with the women donning the latest witchery couture and the men in stylish suits, it was clear how far they'd all come. In his new Hugo Boss suit, Harry certainly felt the part—and as everyone remarked on how different he looked, he wondered if they all still pictured him in baggy trousers and threadbare jumpers.
Madam Puddifoot's tea (spiked with copious amounts of Ogden's) kept them talking far longer than expected. The sky was streaked pink and orange by the time they finally made their way to the castle.
"Welcome," proclaimed golden script as soon as they crossed the threshold. "Harry Potter (Gryffindor)" read the nametag on his lapel, and under that was written simply "Auror." You are now registered," the twinkling message continued. "The reception is already underway in the Great Hall. You should join your classmates there"
"at your leisure," it added after a pause, as if reluctantly.
"It didn't scold us for being late," Parvati noticed, her eyes wide.
"You know it wanted to though," insisted Dean.
"Guess it reckoned Hermione already had."
Ron jumped aside, pulling a face as he dodged Hermione's slap. "We're supposed to be adults now," she sniffed in mock-indignation.
Harry spent the next hour chatting with professors and students from other Houses, sampling nibbles from airborne trays, and keeping an eye out for two men. One arrived shortly after he did, bustling through the door with that frantic energy that Harry knew too well. Soon they were standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar.
"Wow, Harry. You always did clean up well, but … wow."
"Eat your heart out," Harry thought. "It's all Hermione's doing," he said aloud. "She insisted I look respectable."
"Her idea, maybe, but you're the one pulling it off." Harry flushed warm at the compliment; he ducked into his drink, leaving Justin to continue as Harry knew he would. "So how've you been? You look … well, you look good, but I think I already said that."
His ex grinned, acknowledging his rambling, and Harry couldn't help grinning back. "I am good, thanks. And you're looking well yourself." Except for his blond hair, cropped too short since they'd split up; Harry preferred it hanging loose over his shoulders. "So where's Marietta?"
"She couldn't get out of her shift at St. Mungo's. Said I'd have more fun without her anyway."
Harry chuckled. "In that case, you'll have to save me a dance."
"Will do."
Hermione was at Harry's elbow as soon as Justin departed. "Everything okay?"
"I asked him to dance."
"Harry!"
Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Relax, we're just friends. It doesn't mean we're getting back together."
"I know. But you promised you'd dance with Malfoy tonight."
Being stupefied couldn't have surprised him more. "I … I did?"
Professor McGonagall chose that moment to introduce the Bag End Blowers, a raggle-taggle band who kicked off the show with "A Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love." The Weird Sisters' cover was guaranteed to win over the crowd; even Harry followed Hermione onto the dance floor, although he was still stunned by her words.
Dance with Malfoy? Of all the crazy ideas. Sure, he might keep an eye on his rival—might indeed have kept an eye pealed all night—and he might have followed the business pages, noting with surprise Malfoy's success in the emerging Muggle-magic investment markets. And yes, that pointy chin and sneering mouth might feature in Harry's favourite fantasy, one that he called up in his most private moments. But none of that was any business of Hermione's, and he certainly hadn't promised to dance with him!
Not that it mattered. Malfoy wasn't here, and in all likelihood wouldn't show at all. As the night wore on, relief at this thought wrestled with a confusing hollow disappointment.
But midway through the second set the Slytherins appeared. The sight of that unmistakeable silver hair, brighter than even in his memory, almost stole Harry's breath. No one else had ever had hair that colour, so bright that the fairy lights dimmed in comparison. He watched the Slytherins flood the dance floor, all except Malfoy, who circled like a shark, hunting. Once he looked in Harry's direction, but out of habit, Harry ducked out of sight behind Neville.
The band's next song was a hard-driving electronic number with a throbbing baseline that seemed to shake the foundations of the castle. The Slytherins stayed, of course, as did a few other brave couples, but the Gryffindors, laughing, cleared the floor. Harry followed, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.
"You said to save a dance."
Harry leaned against Justin's arm. "The Prophet would love this, wouldn't they?"
Justin grinned and looped an arm around Harry's waist, leading him to the floor just like he had so many times at the clubs in London. A thigh wedged between Harry's, giving him no choice but to embrace the rhythm as Justin moved them into the crowd. The brave souls that remained had drawn tighter together, creating the illusion of a real dance floor, of those closed spaces where random bodies could collide and connect. The music was made for this, dancing flowing into foreplay flowing into sex—images he probably should avoid this close to his ex unless they really intended to give the Prophet a scoop.
Harry stepped away from Justin, leaving space for another body between them. In that moment he saw Malfoy finally approach, crossing the dance floor with a malevolent sense of purpose. Harry's suspicions were confirmed when he slipped behind another man and began a slow, undeniably sexual grind.
"What is it?" Justin moved so as to turn around.
"No, stay there," Harry hissed, peering over his shoulder. "It's Malfoy. I want to see what he's doing."
"Merlin, not Malfoy again!"
"Huh?"
But his mind was on Malfoy's target: Ianto Jones. Not someone Harry would ever have pictured with the Slytherin. Ianto looked unsettled, but Malfoy said something and then slid his arms around the Ravenclaw. Tighter than they needed to be, no doubt, and Harry watched for evidence of the other man's struggle. As they began to move together, Ianto apparently a willing victim, Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He moved closer to Justin, using him as a shield to manoeuvre towards the other couple.
"I need to hear…"
"Really, Harry, this was annoying enough when we were together. Now it's just a bore."
"Hmm … what was?"
Ianto's hand sat on the small of Malfoy's back, synching their steps, fusing their bodies with this relentless rhythm. Fire streaked through Harry at the sight—Merlin, he'd never seen Malfoy move like this before!—and inexplicably tightened his arm around Justin's waist. Justin closed his eyes, sighing heavily enough to be heard over the music.
"This obsession, Harry, it's been ten years."
Harry hardly heard Justin's words. The Ravenclaw had just leaned back, obviously shocked by what Malfoy had said.
"Huh? Um, we just need to get a bit closer. Here, let's…"
Harry turned them around, his back now to Draco, so close that, if not for the music, he could have caught snatches of their conversation. So attuned to sounds, he hardly noticed when someone pressed against him. His hips took notice, though, slipping into this new rhythm between the two men like they were born to it. Like his body had been incomplete without the hard press of bodies on both sides. He heard a sharp grunt in his ear and belatedly realised it was Malfoy's. Unexpectedly aroused by the sound, he ground shamelessly against Justin as the song whipped towards its frenzied climax. Fire ignited his feet, the beats obliterated his thoughts, and the acrid scent of sweat dripped down the back of his throat, leaving him ravenous. Merlin, he could come like this, he was sure, if only the song would keep going. And as embarrassing as that would be, he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop.
But then, with a frantic swirl of notes, the song ended. As the band left the stage, Harry gasped for breath and grinned at Justin. His ex returned his look with a surprisingly angry glare.
"Guess you finally got what you want, Harry."
He stomped off, leaving Harry baffled until he realised what had just happened, and with whom. His heart stopped. He really didn't want to turn around.
"Potter."
Reluctantly, Harry turned to see Malfoy. With fairy lights shining down, casting them in bluish light, his rival's face might have been carved from frost, with that same conceit that Harry had hated since he was eleven years old.
"No no no no no…"
But denial could not deflate his body's reaction; nor could it remove the scorn from his rival's voice. "You'd better go after your Hufflepuff, Potter. You wouldn't want him to get away."
Harry had stood against Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters. He'd rebuilt the Auror Department, ensuring that evildoers quaked at the very mention of Harry Potter. He'd faced Molly Weasley, telling her that he was gay and would not marry her only daughter. But all of these feats paled in comparison with the spectre he now faced.
Courage be damned. Harry turned tail and fled.
Halfway out the door, he heard Hermione call, "When I said to dance with Malfoy, that wasn't quite what I meant."
*****
Note: Song lyrics blatantly stolen from Macbeth.
On to Part Four.
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