Chapter Text
*Flashback
The platform was awash in early morning mist and well-bred panic. Lucius Malfoy stood like a statue carved from blond arrogance, his cloak swirling with the breeze of departing luggage trolleys, watching his son as though he were sending a Horcrux off to war. “His hair is flat,” Lucius whispered, horrified. “I told the elf to style it with lift.” Narcissa, radiant in silvery grey did not look up from adjusting Draco’s collar. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s tragic,” Lucius insisted. “He’ll look like a half-blood. They’ll think he wears Muggle hats.” Behind them, Severus Snape leaned against a column, watching the entire performance with narrowed eyes and a faint curl of his lip. “He looks exactly like you, Lucius. The damage is done.” Draco stood with his spine perfectly straight, wand tucked into a snake-skin holster under his sleeve, his trunk floating dutifully beside him. He looked, to an unbiased observer, like a tiny aristocrat preparing for a political battle. To Lucius, however, he looked like a child in mortal danger. “Do you remember the four Houses?” Lucius asked urgently. “You must recite the family motto when Sorted.” Narcissa said lightly, “Let the boy breathe.” “He’s my only heir, Narcissa!” Lucius protested. Severus added dryly, “Your heir is trying not to vomit. He’s also eleven. And you’re terrifying.” Lucius muttered, “I’m not terrifying. I’m… prepared.”
Draco turned to face them, his voice thin but determined. “I’ll be fine.” Lucius crouched down and insisted, “Son. You must look down your nose. Speak slowly. Pronounce your Rs.” “Lucius,” Narcissa warned. “No one respects a wizard who rushes their Rs!” he insisted. Severus looked to the heavens and muttered, “Please let him be Sorted Slytherin. For all our sakes.” The train gave a low whistle. Draco turned to board. Lucius straightened, attempting—and failing—to hide the wobble in his voice. “Write to me the moment you arrive. Use the family owl. Not the school one—it’s common.” The train whistle let out another warning burst. Children scrambled, trunks levitated through the mist, and owls hooted indignantly from their cages. Lucius crouched once more in front of Draco like a general delivering final orders to his most trusted strategist. “Remember to write every evening as well,” he murmured, clutching Draco’s shoulders with a fervor that suggested the fate of wizarding society depended on timely correspondence. “Updates. Observations. Gossip. I need everything. Use the Malfoy stationery—not that plebeian parchment the school provides. And always sign with your full name and title.” Draco, pale and resolute, nodded stiffly. “Yes, Father.” Lucius’s voice dropped to a soft, urgent whisper. “You are my most precious heir.” “I’m your only heir,” Draco said flatly. “That doesn’t make it less true,” Lucius replied, eyes shining with unholy emotion. “Now go. Go forth and be feared.” Draco gave one last look—half pride, half nausea—and stepped onto the train. Lucius called after him, “AND IF ANYONE TRIES TO BULLY YOU, THREATEN THEM WITH ANCESTRAL CURSES!” “LUCIUS,” Narcissa snapped. The train began to pull away. Draco appeared at the window—spine still straight, gaze cool, trying not to cry. Lucius stood in silence, watching the red steam engine vanish into the mist.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Lucius straightened and spun toward Severus, eyes blazing like a man who had just lost a dueling tournament and decided the referee required legal action. “I want letters,” Lucius declared. “Regular reports. Daily, preferably. Weekly, if your ridiculous job gets in the way.” Severus didn’t blink. “He’s not a diplomatic hostage, Lucius. He’s a child. At school.” “Exactly!” Lucius hissed. “Which is why I’m running for the Board of Governors. Effective immediately.” Narcissa sighed gracefully. Severus pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose in a gesture of pure, simmering despair. “Merlin preserve us,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Lucius wasn’t finished. “I want to be informed if he’s cold, if he’s warm, if he eats something suspiciously seasoned. If he makes enemies, I want their names. If he makes friends—heaven forbid—I want bloodlines and magical affiliations.” Severus replied, “I’m teaching students, not hosting a bloody cotillion.” Lucius turned away from the tracks with dramatic finality. “Fine. If I’m not granted intelligence, I’ll gather it myself. I’ll owl the ghosts. I’m sure the Bloody Baron is still on our Christmas list.” “I’m sure the Bloody Baron’s still on a watch list,” Severus muttered. The train pulled away, and for a brief moment, silence held—Lucius, Narcissa, and Severus standing together like a Renaissance portrait of parental trauma. Lucius exhaled a single, shaky breath. “What if he befriends someone who doesn’t know what a cravat is?” Narcissa patted his arm. “Then he’ll educate them or hex them, either is fine.” Lucius’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “They grow up so quickly.” “He’s gone for ten months, not ascending to the afterlife,” Severus said. Lucius narrowed his eyes. “You are not to traumatize him, Severus.” “Oh, no,” Severus replied dryly. “I shall lull him gently into academic rigor with a proper bedtime.” Lucius didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. “I knew I could count on you.” As the last of the red engine disappeared into the mist, Lucius Malfoy squared his shoulders, reached into his cloak, and pulled out a leather-bound planning journal embossed in silver with HOGWARTS: SURVEILLANCE & STRATEGY.“Come, Narcissa,” he said solemnly. “We have petitions to file.” “Darling,” she replied, linking her arm with his, “at least let me have my tea before you re-launch your shadow government.”
*Several Years Later*
Draco entered Malfoy Manor with the kind of force usually reserved for dramatic stage entrances, the front doors slamming open with theatrical finality, followed by loud steps and huffing through the halls. Lucius, seated in his high-backed chair by the hearth of his study, set his glass of mead down with a quiet clink, not bothering to look up. He didn't need to. By the time Draco returned home for the summer after first year, Lucius had received no fewer than forty-three letters detailing the various flaws, offenses, and psychological war crimes of Harry James Potter, each and every school year. He just finished his 6th year at Hogwarts.
These letters ranged from:
“Potter Was Named Quidditch Captain, It’s Nepotism”
“Potter Thinks My Hair Has ‘Volume,’ Like That’s A Compliment”
“Potter Has A Scar, Not A Personality”
…to several slightly singed pages reporting an incident in Charms class where Potter had allegedly smiled “with weaponized gentleness.” Lucius had once even found himself offering polite nods during a gala while secretly reading an owl from Draco hidden inside a wine menu titled: “Potter’s Stupidly Chivalrous Nature: A Threat to Wizarding Decorum.” He had sat through rants. He had skimmed essays. He had been handed a color chart showing the various green hues of Potter’s eyes. So when Draco stormed into his study with a dramatist’s energy and the words “we need to talk about Potter,” Lucius merely reached for his mead and braced for impact. The only difference now? Lucius was beginning to suspect his son was not ranting about Potter but waxing poetically.
“Father,” came Draco’s breathless, already outraged voice, “we need to talk about Potter.” Lucius answered dryly, “Welcome home, Draco. Did the train journey survive you?” Draco flung his satchel onto a nearby fainting couch with all the grace of a cursed drama student. “Barely. Do you know what it’s like to be forced into close quarters with an unbearable, self-righteous lunatic for seven hours?” Lucius sipped calmly. “One might call that parenting." Ignoring him, Draco began pacing across the marble floor. “He’s insufferable. He walks around Hogwarts like he owns the place—always doing these heroic, shoulder-squared struts like some tragic statue.” Lucius blinked. “Who?” “Potter,” Draco growled. “Obviously.” He continued describing how Potter had stood in front of an angry Hippogriff as if trying to be a martyr, insisting the creature wasn’t even targeting him. Lucius raised an eyebrow at this but let the rant unfold. Draco collapsed dramatically onto the chaise, listing Potter’s expressive face, heroic posture, and “awful, soul-bearing vivid green eyes." Lucius leaned back. “Yes, that does sound dreadful.” Draco concluded, “I hate him.”
Lucius allowed the fire to crackle for a moment. Then he asked, “Did Potter say something to you?” Draco huffed. “No, he just looks, all the time.” When Lucius questioned the meaning of “looks,” Draco explained with increasing despair: Potter watched him across the Great Hall, on staircases, in corridors—“with his eyes.” Lucius observed gently that this was a common way of seeing. Draco insisted it was intentional staring, brooding, possibly Potter imagining himself to be some tortured muggle poet. When Lucius asked how often this happened, Draco struggled before admitting: “Every time I’m near a reflective surface.” The examples worsened: Potter appearing after Draco sneezed in the library—offering a handkerchief. Following him back from the greenhouses in the rain. Offering him a cloak in Care of Magical Creatures after noticing his sneezing. Lucius clasped his hands gravely. “I fear you may be the object of Potter’s affection.” Draco insisted Potter likely saw him as “fragile and sickly.” Lucius muttered, “You’re built like a porcelain swan, he’s definitely in love.”
Draco suddenly brightened. “Anyway, I’ve taken steps.” Lucius hesitated to ask, but Draco proudly unfurled a massive scroll across the table. The title announced, in calligraphic dramatics: REASONS HARRY POTTER IS AN ABSURDLY OBVIOUS EGOMANIAC. Lucius approached it as one might approach a howler. The scroll included charts, tables, and hair-misbehavior rankings. A full-page diagram analyzed Potter’s smiles and their “weaponized impact” on Draco. “Did you color-code his eye contact durations?” Lucius asked. Draco answered, “It’s science.” Lucius examined a pie chart tracking Potter’s glances during Transfiguration and learned Draco had catalogued his own wardrobe’s impact on Potter’s attention. Returning to his chair, Lucius sighed. “You are not being hunted, Draco Perhaps he has a crush.” Draco flinched, insisting Lucius was making leaps. Lucius gestured at the scroll. “This is a love map.” Still insisting he “hated” Potter, Draco folded the scroll away. Lucius pressed: “Did he throw himself in front of another Hippogriff for anyone else?” Draco snapped that it was “a one-time thing.” Lucius reminded him Potter had offered him his cloak—“That’s wool.” Draco tried to excuse everything as coincidence or Potter having a lazy eye. Lucius inhaled deeply and stated, “Potter is not just interested. He’s performing a courtship ritual so old it predates language.” Draco called him delusional. Lucius calmly replied, “He’s going to propose some day.”
Draco stormed out, trailing silk and indignation, leaving the manor doors to slam shut behind him. Lucius stared at the scroll before slowly unrolling its hidden final section: a hand-drawn sketch of Potter on a broomstick, annotated with Draco’s furious admiration—“Infuriatingly balanced on a broomstick,” “Who squints like that on purpose?”, and “Shoulders too broad—rude.” Lucius took a long sip of mead and whispered, delighted, “He’s going to marry him.” The echo of Draco’s dramatic exit had barely faded when the fireplace flared emerald and Severus Snape stepped through, robes rustling like a threat. “I passed three house-elves weeping in the corridor,” he drawled. “Has Draco come home again?” Lucius nodded. “He’s upstairs. Ranting. About Potter.” Snape muttered, “Of course. It’s June.” He conjured himself a drink and waited. Lucius finally said, “He’s catalogued Potter’s flaws on parchment, with charts and little illustrations.” Snape blinked. “Does he include eyebrow movements?” Lucius paused. “Yes.” Snape nodded. “Then I’m calling it. Fifty Galleons—they’ll be married by twenty-five.” Lucius scoffed, insisting Draco loathed him. Snape replied, “He loathes his own feelings. It’s much worse.” Lucius countered: “They’ll be married by thirty.” Snape clinked his glass with Lucius’s. “All the more reason to prepare for the inevitability, old friend.”
*
In the quiet hush of the east wing, Draco Malfoy stormed into his bedroom and threw open his wardrobe as though it had personally wronged him. Dobby, perched faithfully beside the desk with his enchanted notepad and a steaming plate of biscuits, looked up nervously. “Did Master Draco have a difficult day?”
“I have had,” Draco declared, flinging a pair of dragonhide gloves to the floor with great vengeance, “a bewildering term.” He turned to face Dobby, chest heaving. “Something is wrong with Potter.” Dobby blinked. “Wrong, sir?” Draco resumed pacing, hands flailing with precise indignation. “He’s… he’s inconsistent. Last year I could predict him. He’d glare. Throw a hex. Flounce around with his tragic scar and give some noble speech about friendship. This year?” Draco threw his arms into the air. “This year he smiles. He waves. He offers me chairs.” Dobby gasped softly. “And that time I tripped coming down the staircase,” Draco continued, glaring at the floor like it owed him an apology, “instead of laughing like a normal nemesis, he caught me. Caught me, Dobby. Like some gallant idiot from an opera.” Dobby scribbled excitedly in his little green notebook. “Then he had the audacity to say—” Draco’s voice dropped into a mocking growl, “‘Careful, Malfoy, wouldn’t want you bruising those delicate ankles.’” Dobby’s ears quivered. “Master Draco… that sounds like—”
“It sounds like manipulation,” Draco snapped. “Strategic psychological manipulation. He was distracting me. Complimenting my… extremities.” Draco shuddered. “That is advanced warfare.”
With a dramatic flop that would have earned applause in any theatre, Draco collapsed onto his fainting couch in a tumble of satin and despair. “He’s trying to soften me. To disarm me. He’ll attack when I’m vulnerable—likely at breakfast, when I’m enjoying my scones. No villainy is too low.” Dobby toddled forward with the biscuit plate. “Would Master Draco like a ginger snap?”
“I’m not fragile, Dobby,” Draco muttered, taking one immediately and dunking it in the tea Dobby had also pre-prepared. “I’m just… very emotionally taxed.” His gaze drifted toward the desk, where Dobby had carefully arranged Draco’s growing Potter dossier. Among the items lay the handkerchief from the infamous rain cloak incident; a copy of Witch Weekly with a fold-out Quidditch feature—an in-flight shot of Draco and Harry reaching for the Snitch, Harry smiling while Draco glared directly into the camera; and newly added, a still from the trip-and-catch moment, Potter’s hand on Draco’s elbow, his expression alarmingly soft. Dobby had written beneath it in curling gold ink: “The Great Harry Potter Saves a Noble Heir from Gravity.” Draco stared at the photo, aghast. “Look at him. With his offensive eyes.”
“Green like spring meadows,” Dobby sighed dreamily. “Green like hypnosis,” Draco snapped.
He turned back to the biscuit plate with sudden venom. “Do you know what he said in Herbology last week?” Dobby shook his head, wide-eyed. Draco’s voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. “He complimented my very elegant hands.” Dobby gasped. Draco narrowed his eyes at the photograph of Potter mid-Quidditch match, hair windswept, gaze laser-focused. “He’s definitely plotting something,” he muttered. “I haven’t figured it out yet, but it involves... kindness. And prolonged eye contact. And possibly feelings.” He stood up abruptly, biscuit crumbs cascading like tragic snowflakes from his lap, and pointed at the door with the solemnity of a cursed prince.
“We’re going into lockdown. No Potter. No letters. No feelings-themed pastries. It's a Potter Free summer!
*
It was not, in fact, a Potter-free summer. Draco went on no fewer than six impassioned tirades about Harry Potter before the end of June — two over breakfast, one in the garden, one during a tailor fitting, and two in the middle of ministry ball night, much to the despair of those in hearing distance. He wrote three pointed letters to Pansy and Blaise, attempting to dissect the “menace” that was Potter’s smile, his “suspicious posture,” and his “unholy Gryffindor characteristics.” He sketched Potter’s face in obsessive detail — and then, in an act of high drama and low denial, folded the entire portrait into an origami swan and charmed it to float mournfully across his bedroom. Draco was, by all measurable standards, in deep, florid denial. Lucius and Narcissa suffered nobly, with the air of people who had lived through worse — but only barely. Severus, meanwhile, fulfilled his godfatherly duties from a dignified, heavily warded distance, claiming he had developed a “Parchment Sensitivity” and could no longer receive Draco’s owl essays titled things like “Potter and the Myth of Modesty: A Crisis in Tight Quidditch Robes.” And then, just when it seemed the madness had reached a manageable simmer…Harry Potter sent Draco an owl. A polite, perfectly punctuated note inviting him to his birthday party. Draco stared at the parchment for ten full minutes before whispering, “He’s escalating.” Then nearly passed out into a settee. After exactly ten minutes of silent horror, interrupted only by the occasional sound of an origami swan flapping nervously above the tea tray, Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, stood with great purpose, and declared to the empty room, “My father should hear about this.” With that proclamation, he stormed out.
Downstairs, Lucius Malfoy sat in the drawing room, enjoying a rare hour of brandy, solitude, and not hearing about Harry Potter—three luxuries that were about to collapse in rapid succession. The doors burst open with familiar melodrama. “Father!” Draco snapped, already mid-rant. Lucius did not flinch. He merely swirled his drink once and sighed. “Let me guess. Potter.”
“He’s invited me to his birthday party,” Draco said, brandishing the invitation as though it were a court summons. “His birthday, Father. As if we’re—friends or co-workers, or humans who speak socially.” Lucius set down his glass and folded his hands with the weary refinement that only a Malfoy can convey. “And you are… upset about this?”
“I’m conflicted!” Draco shouted, beginning to pace. “It’s clearly a trap.” Lucius arched an eyebrow. “A social one?” “Exactly,” Draco snapped. “He’s luring me in with politeness and… and casual punctuation, and then I’ll be surrounded by people who like him—and then what? Small talk? Games? Cake?” Lucius blinked. “You enjoy cake.” “That’s not the point,” Draco said, spinning dramatically. “It’s the principle.”
He flung himself onto a chaise and pulled a scroll from his robe. “I’ve made a list. Pros and cons. We’re workshopping it.” Lucius took a long breath through his nose. “Pro,” Draco began, reading with gravity. “Attending would be unexpected. Keep him on his toes. Could establish mystery. Allure.” Lucius nodded slowly. “Nothing says alluring like showing up to your nemesis’s birthday with strategic intent.” “Exactly!” Draco said. “Con: Exposure. Proximity. Risk of Weasleys. Risk of dancing.” Lucius muttered, “Merlin preserve us.”
“Pro: Opportunity to assess romantic—I mean tactical—vulnerabilities.” Lucius tilted his head. “Romantic?” “I said tactical!” Draco barked. “I’m clearly losing my mind, and I blame him.” Lucius reached for his brandy again. “Of course you do.” Draco exhaled, fell back against the couch, and muttered at the ceiling, “Why is he being so… kind this year? It’s suspicious. It’s like he wants me to… feel things.” Lucius murmured under his breath, “God forbid.” Draco sat up suddenly. “What do I wear? What does one wear to a Gryffindor’s celebration of birth? Something understated? Dramatic? Some awful crimson?” Lucius sighed and summoned a tailoring book with a flick of his wand. “I’ll have Narcissa weigh in but if you’re going, you are not wearing black. You’ll look like you’re mourning his life, not celebrating his birth.” Draco blinked. “I am mourning it. He turned seventeen. It’s practically over.” Lucius took a deep, steadying breath. “I will inform the family elves that we’re entering a state of Potter-related emotional emergency. Again.”
*
Draco Malfoy entered 12 Grimmauld Place like a suspicious guest on trial for crimes of aesthetic superiority. The house had been aggressively cleaned for the occasion; enchanted lanterns floated over a crowd of Hogwarts students, snacks refilled themselves with alarming enthusiasm, and a highly questionable cake topper featured a miniature Quidditch Harry heroically punching Voldemort into frosting. Draco took in the scene with narrowed eyes and came to one silent conclusion: Gryffindors had no sense of subtlety. Across the room, Hermione spotted him first. Then Ginny. Then Ron, who immediately leaned toward Harry and whispered something that unmistakably resembled, “Are we sure about this?” Draco ignored them all and smoothed the front of his dove-grey robes. “Relax,” he muttered to himself. “You’re not here to duel. You’re here to do… social things. With Potter. Whose hair is a public offense. And whose voice makes your chest feel weird lately, but that’s likely indigestion.”
Just then, Harry appeared at his side. “Malfoy,” he said softly, smiling with all the sincerity of someone blissfully unaware that he was currently dismantling a centuries-old Malfoy coping mechanism. “You look… really good.” Draco blinked. “Well yes. I own mirrors.”
Harry found Draco in the hallway outside the kitchen, where the latter had taken temporary shelter from the Gryffindors, the birthday banner, and Ron’s increasingly aggressive punch refills. Harry leaned against the doorframe and said, in that maddeningly casual Gryffindor tone, “Hey. Come walk with me?”
Draco turned slowly, suspicious. “Is this a trap? I’ve read horror novels. This is how people get lured.”
“It’s a hallway,” Harry said, amused. “If you feel unsafe, I can hold your hand again.”
Draco flushed to the tips of his ears but followed him anyway. They walked together down the corridor toward the darker end of the house, where the noise faded and the candles floated quietly in their sconces. Harry turned to face him, a nervous but excited energy buzzing beneath his skin. His hair was slightly damp from earlier—someone had charmed butterbeer to explode over the gift table—and his shirt collar was half undone, like he was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t devastatingly attractive. “I wanted to say thanks again for coming,” Harry said, his voice softer now. “And for not hexing anyone. Especially Ron.” Draco sniffed. “It was very close at one point. He said my waistcoat looked ‘pretentious.’ It’s bespoke.” Harry laughed. “Yeah. You’re definitely... you.”
The hallway outside the kitchen was dim and quiet, lit only by flickering sconces and Harry Potter’s absurd proximity. Draco stood still, spine straight, watching Potter with open suspicion. Harry shifted a little closer and said, voice softer now, more careful, “I wanted to ask you something.” Draco tensed immediately, bracing for something mortifying — a duel, or worse, a compliment. But Harry simply looked at him and said, “Would you go to the first Hogsmeade weekend with me after the term starts? Just us.”
There was a pause. Draco blinked. “As in… together?”
Harry smiled. “Yeah. You and me. A date.”
Another pause followed — much longer, much heavier. Draco’s brain cycled through every possible meaning of the word date and landed, incorrectly but with great confidence, on the idea of a scheduled best friend activity. He cleared his throat and replied, very calmly and very properly, “Yes. I accept your invitation to this structured outing.” Harry’s smile widened. “So… that’s a yes?”
“Obviously,” Draco said, as though he had not just experienced a full emotional earthquake. “I’m not a savage. I respect calendars.” Before he could retreat into a dramatic monologue about etiquette, Harry leaned forward and kissed him. On the mouth. It was soft, warm, brief — a moment suspended in candlelight. When he pulled away, Harry looked delighted. Draco blinked as if trying to decide whether this was a joke, a test, or both. “I’ll take that as another yes,” Harry murmured. Then, with a casual confidence Draco would resent for the next seventeen years, Harry placed a gentle hand on the small of Draco’s back and began escorting him toward the party. Draco did not short-circuit. Not entirely. He was simply… processing. “This is a very tactile friendship,” Draco muttered. “Is that a complaint?” Harry asked, smiling as he opened the door for him. Draco sniffed. “It’s an observation.”
From the moment they re-entered the room, Harry stuck close. He didn’t hover — it wasn’t a hover — it was more of a devoted proximity event. He brought Draco a butterbeer before he could ask. He handed him a chocolate frog with a subtle, teasing, “You look like you need something sweet.” He even sat beside him on the lounge during games, legs brushing occasionally, a hand grazing Draco’s knee once when passing a bottle of pumpkin fizz. Draco, naturally, took detailed mental notes. “Highly attentive. Possibly compensating for previous Quidditch fouls. Must investigate further.” At one point, Ginny raised a brow at Harry. “You two good?” Harry just smiled. “We’re great.” Draco gave a proud little nod. “We’ve entered a new stage of our relationship.” Ron spat out his drink.
*
Later that night, Draco journaled about his day.
**“Potter has upgraded our friendship contract to include gifts, beverages, physical warmth, and cheek proximity.
He also walked beside me, hand gently against my back, like some kind of knight escorting a fragile royal.
Obviously this is high-tier friendship behavior. Possibly Gryffindor friendship rituals, but surely platonic.
That kiss was likely symbolic. A trust spell. Possibly cultural.”**
He set his quill down, rang the bell, and summoned Dobby. “Dobby,” Draco said gravely, “he’s escalating.” Dobby nodded, already handing him a biscuit. Draco took it thoughtfully. “We’re best friends now. And I’m going to Hogsmeade with him. Alone. Where he will likely give me more sweets and possibly more confusing mouth gestures.” Dobby offered him a second biscuit. “Should Dobby pack a handkerchief just in case?” Draco stared. “Pack two. He might get emotional.”
Later that evening, Draco finished his journal entry, changed into silk pajamas, and slid beneath his emerald-tufted duvet with the solemn air of a man entering emotional recovery. “Dobby,” he murmured from his pillow, “remember to keep notes. I need to understand this Gryffindor behavior.” Dobby bowed, already placing a calming tea on the nightstand. “Yes, Master Draco. Sweet dreams.” Draco was asleep within minutes, snoring delicately, mouth slightly open.
Dobby did not hesitate. With the quiet stealth of a well-practiced informant, he popped into the upstairs salon, where Narcissa Malfoy sat reading Witch Weekly and sipping a glass of starflower cordial. “Madam,” he whispered reverently, “Draco has been… touched.” Narcissa did not look up. “By Potter?” Dobby nodded solemnly. “The mouth.” She closed her magazine. “Oh dear.”
Exactly two corridors and one dramatic stair descent later, she found Lucius in his study, arranging a new display of ancestral daggers. “Lucius,” she said, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder. “Our son was kissed tonight.” Lucius dropped a blade. “By Potter.” Lucius stared into the middle distance, fingers twitching. “…Is it too soon to summon the wedding seamstress?” She patted his chest. “Sleep on it. He’ll be down for breakfast with a full report. Pace yourself.” “Of course you’re right,” he murmured with the gravity of a man planning a political coup. “We need the betrothal contract first.”