It was the Witching Hour, and Draco had only himself and the ghosts to keep him company. His bed, though large, pleasantly warm, and made up with the softest sheets and best-quality goose down comforters money could buy, tonight managed to irritate him, to the point where he considered throwing off the covers in frustration, or pounding his pillow, like one of those irrational people. The truth was this bed—this room—was much too large for just one person. When he was a child he had been frightened at night of the strange shadows the canopy bed threw on the walls, of the wardrobe which might have any number of Boggarts in it. He was all grown up now but the shadows and creaks of an old house were still not comforting.
Outside his door, in the hallway at Malfoy Manor, Ginny was camped out on the velvet chaise lounge there, no doubt asleep. The last night, she had promised him some three hours before, she would ever spend in such close proximity to Draco or any member of his family. In the heat of that terrible fight-their last, they had both known-she had been ready to storm away then and there. Only through insistent coaxing with an injection of common sense had Draco managed to persuade her to at least stay the night.
'First light shall find me happily single in my flat,' she had hissed, clawing a blanket off their bed—my bed, Draco reminded himself—and then settling on the hallway lounge. At the time Draco had merely assumed she couldn't stand him and thus couldn't bear the idea of sharing his bed, as they had always done. But in this moment he wondered if instead her real aim had been punishment: locked in his chronic insomnia, he was sure to find himself, as he indeed had, all alone in the huge, mausoleum-like bedroom. If that was the case, she could consider herself successful, Draco reflected bitterly. He felt punished.
~*~
The next morning Draco awoke as he usually did: groggy, sore, and generally out-of-sorts. He never got much sleep, even when his love life was happily intact. Today was especially bad, as he soon realised he was all alone in the huge mansion. Ginny had been true to her word. Then again, she had always been, right down to the last—stubborn thing. Just like him; and that had definitely been a problem for them.
At six o'clock Draco slid out of bed onto the floor, hardly caring that he was rubbing himself into the musty old carpet. Somehow he was still wearing the nice dress shirt and tie he wore under his robes for work; a rather strange detail, as he always took care to change into pyjamas. Not so nice anymore. The white shirt, usually starched to perfection, was incorrigibly wrinkled, and the fine silk tie had an unpleasant stain on it—oh yes. He had forgotten that particular part of the argument of the night before. A memorable part, actually, when Ginny had rubbed his tie into his dinner of pork roast. He couldn't quite remember why exactly she had done so, but the tie was proof enough it had definitely happened.
He groaned again, well aware it was time to get up for work, and well aware he had no inclination to do so. In fact, it would be rather nice to just lie in bed all day…yes…maybe he'd finally get to sleep…No. You can't take the easy way out, Draco. That's just cowardice. Pathetic. And anyway, aren't you meeting that new girl today? The one who's supposedly a genius at marketing image and public relations? Yes. That was she. He'd been hearing of this 'brilliant' woman for weeks, whose work with the Daily Prophet was the subject of many articles in leading financial periodicals, and today was finally the day he would meet her in person. Depression could be put off for later. Work came first. (Another reason you and Ginny always quarrelled, Draco's subconscious whispered, much to the displeasure of his conscious half.)
Showering, dressing anew and grooming were easy if he concentrated his thoughts onto the day ahead. Off to the Ministry's Department of Public Relations and Magical Liaison to be the golden boy. Well, not the golden boy, exactly. His family's, and his own, reputation would not allow for that. But it could not be denied he was the department's best worker. Doubtless he would have been the Ministry's poster child if not for that spot already being filled by The Chosen One, and that irksome matter of having been on the losing side of a war. No, his efforts—which were consistent and far outstripping those of the mediocre excuses for wizard kind who were his peers—instead only earned an appreciative nod here and there, as Draco was forced to work in a little cubicle, shunted aside into the shadows. Ginny never held your past over you, that tinny little voice reminded him. She thought it was unfair how those pompous blowhards, the department managers, treat you. That was true. But he was trying not to think about Gin—her—wasn't he?
He was very nearly late, so breakfast was a luxury that must be foregone. He twisted on the doorstep and brushed a fleck of lint off his robes as he materialised in the atrium of the Ministry.
'Malfoy!' At once an acquaintance of his, Sillian Falson from the Department of Secrecy, waved to him from across the thoroughfare. Draco strolled over casually, a wry smile playing about his lips, manner cool and collected. 'Have you seen her yet?' were Falson's first words when the two were side by side.
'Who?' Both men walked straight forward, waving over their shoulders to various acquaintances as they went, neither very concerned with the other.
‘Prewett. You know—Vesper.' Falson giggled a bit strangely at the name. Draco turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
'Is that the new publicity girl?' Draco and Falson both stopped for a moment to give their congratulations to Barian Birchram, a wealthy old conservative whose daughter had recently been engaged, hoping to tally up their connections.
When they continued onwards once more, Falson responded with an airy, 'Is that what she's here for?'
Draco waited for a follow-up. None came, so he prompted, 'Yes—she's due to start in my department today, in fact.'
'Lucky, my dear fellow, lucky indeed.'
'Why?' Draco asked, curiosity growing.
'Oh—you'll see. Your day is about to get much better, my friend. Incidentally, I'm assuming you're single once more?' Only practise kept Draco from stopping in his tracks. Damn—the whole place knows! I never expected so soon! How'd they find out, though?
Draco determinedly kept his voice casual. 'How did you know—Ginny and I—?'
Falson laughed coldly. 'I saw Ginny coming in. Arrived just a few minutes before you, in fact. She was a wreck.' Draco breathed a sigh of relief that it was not his mannerism that had tipped Falson off to the fact, and felt a slight thrill of vindictive pleasure at the news. So Ginny was a mess, was she? Only fitting that she should not walk away unscathed.
'Who else knows?' he asked, as if the information was no more important to him than the weather.
'Oh, very few, I should think. But it's not going to stay like that for long, mind you. Ginny's not saying anything, you can bet, but you know she's an open book.' Draco did know. Falson was not a good friend and could not be trusted with confidences, so he diverted the conversation back to a safer topic.
'So—Vesper Prewett, eh?' Falson nodded, visibly losing interest in Draco quickly.
'That's right, old chap. A fine bird too. Well, here's the lifts. Goodbye, goodbye.' He waggled his fingers at Draco over his shoulder and went off without a backwards glance. Draco himself got in the open lift as the cool voice announced, 'Next stop: Level Four. Department of Internal Affairs, Department of Public Liaison, Department of Magical Catastrophes, Department of Illegal Bewitchments…' The metal grille slid smoothly over the exit and Draco stepped to the back of the lift, though it was empty. He checked himself in the mirrors that made up the back and sides of the thing. He had to admit it—Draco Malfoy, age twenty-three, cut a fine figure indeed.
Too soon the lift cranked open again and Draco stepped off smartly, thoughts shadowing between the news of his break-up circulating with frightening speed, and Vesper Prewett, who was apparently worthy of note.
'Malfoy! Just the man I wanted to see!' In the midst of the chaos of disturbingly large stacks of loose-leaf parchment, files, scurrying employees and paper memos whizzing about, a large, sweaty, perpetually-red man bustled towards Draco, clapping him on the back. Inside Draco was disgusted with the slick palms and close proximity of his department manager, a fool if ever there was one, but he managed to fix a good-natured smile on his face. 'That's it, that's it! That's the attitude, old boy! I like to see smiles on Monday!' he said loudly, pulling Draco through the mess. 'Ms Prewett's first day, you know; I know, I know you didn't forget, Malfoy! Now, now, here's the young lady, you must meet her—do me proud, you will!' How Draco prevented rolling his eyes in the face of the idiot he had no idea, but whatever might have showed on his face apparently was lost on Johnson.
‘Just around the bend here—do watch your feet; quite a lot of things about, slipped on one of 'em myself earlier—and here…we…are!' Puffing heavily with the slight exertion and redder than ever, he pulled Draco to an abrupt stop in front of the loveliest woman Draco had ever seen, could have ever imagined to exist.
~*~
Sound was wiped away from the world. Colour faded an instant later. Time seemed to slow, and then stop altogether. There would be seconds, minutes, days after the fact for processing. In this moment outside of space and time he was frozen, couldn't think, couldn't even breathe. All he could do now was stand stock-still, inferior before this woman, lost in daydreams, and hope to be able to say…something, what exactly he wasn't sure.
'Hi,' was the first thing that came to his lips, voice as soft and high as a choir boy's. He blushed and she smiled, perhaps condescendingly, but Draco flushed deeper as those dark red, well-shaped lips parted slightly to reveal even, white teeth. She waited for him to say more, perhaps, but he continued to stand dumbly, the one word having sapped him of all his energy. Remember yourself! a part of him hissed urgently. 'Oh!' He suddenly realised what more he could say to this creature that might somehow be of interest to her, though that was unlikely. 'Draco Malfoy.' She inclined her stately head, seeming to look at him from under her lashes, though there was nothing shy in that gaze.
'Vesper Prewett,' she intoned, voice deep and rich as melted chocolate. She stood in the centre and let her eyes roam around the room. Was it his imagination that they rested on his the longest?
Draco himself glanced around the circle. It seemed his co-workers gathered around Vesper were not immune to her either. Mousy little witches who pushed papers all day seemed to fold in on themselves, unwilling to meet her gaze in inferiority. They adjusted their large, ugly glasses and lank hair, clearly wishing to be gone, or else the woman that stood before them.
The males in the room, however, seemed to be split between two varieties: those who puffed up cockily like prize fighters before his eyes (managing only to look ridiculous), and those who, like the witches, shrank in submission. All were unable to keep their eyes off her, whether they stole glances when they thought she wasn't looking, or stared openly. As for Vesper herself, she seemed to bask in the attention, knowing as well as they did such adoration was merited and only the natural course of things.
Her hair was black and shiny, twisted into an elaborate bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were the deepest Draco had ever seen, a pure, dark green, fathomless and enigmatic, yet oh-so-inviting. She wore an emerald dress to match, floor length and sleeveless, the back dipping suggestively low, the front mussed like taffeta, a thick strand of pearls hanging from a luxuriously long neck. She was as separate and different as it was possible to be from the dreary little Ministry workers in their navy blue robes and crumpled faces netted in fine, premature wrinkles. Her own skin was stretched taut over high cheekbones, youthful and olive-toned, with pink blushes in the right places. She seemed just around his own age. Draco gulped.
'Now that we are all assembled—' she nodded in his direction with a smile, as though enjoying a private joke, '—I'd like to lay out my plans for the department. I have a few well-placed ideas I think could greatly aid marketing...'
The hour that followed passed in a blur, and with a look around at the similarly- dazed expressions on his co-workers' faces, Draco was sure they had caught just as little as he had. 'Revenues and public image,' Vesper finally concluded.
Johnson seemed to rouse himself from a daydream. He cleared his throat. 'Well then! Thank you very much, Ms Prewett, thank you. Yes, by jingo, we're excited to have you on the team! Isn't that right?' The group took the cue and began to clap. Vesper smiled widely. Dangerously.
'I've quite enthused to begin as well.' Was she looking at him again? Draco shook his head. The rich, seductive, yet intelligent way she spoke only served to make the manager seem more of a dolt in comparison. It was clear who would hold the cards in any situation. For a moment Johnson seemed to realise the disparity as well, but then he wiped his spectacles on his robes and was as much under her spell as before.
~*~
That night Draco fell asleep with the vision of Vesper full in his mind. Everything she had said about marketing and public image seemed to melt away, so that she was speaking to him alone. Her lips formed alien technical words, but her eyes spoke far different things. I want you, those dark eyes whispered. You are mine. I will have you. There was no possibility of refusal or hesitation, only utter devotion at her bidding. But yet somehow all dreams of Vesper felt uneasy, troubling, fearsome. The only form of safety appeared in the form of a red-headed figure, but he could never quite glimpse her face, though he tried desperately to take hold of her.
The night was a restless, straining one, and Draco awoke drenched in sweat and decidedly feverish. He stumbled to his feet at a quarter to six but collapsed instantly, head spinning. He attempted to stand but the effort was too much and he fell back once more, a low moan escaping his lips. He rolled onto his stomach so his forehead was pressed to the cool wood floor. He was ill. There was nothing else for it. No possibility he could go to work, either. Not if he couldn't get off the floor, and he was sure about that.
Draco dragged himself to the fireplace and shakily withdrew some floo powder from the vase he kept there. 'Ministry—Department of Public Liaison,' he croaked into the green flames. The head of a woman, one of the mousy little witches who were indistinguishable in his mind, appeared.
'Ministry: Department of Public Liaison. How may I help you?' she recited.
'It's Draco Malfoy.' It took all his willpower not to groan. 'I'm too ill to work today. I'd like to use a sick-day.' The woman looked him up and down.
'Too right.' She disappeared for a moment, no doubt referencing some file, and then returned. 'Alright then, Mr Malfoy. We shall hopefully see you tomorrow.' Draco nodded weakly and then withdrew his head from the flames, dousing them with a little water from his wand.
He dragged himself into bed the same way he had left it, by crawling along the floor on his belly. His head was still spinning and he felt awful but the pillow was pleasantly plump. He was dreadfully tired.
The day passed like the night before, in a blurry, dizzy, uncertain haze. He lingered somewhere on the ragged edge between sleeping and waking, and when the fog would clear for brief moments he would realise suddenly that no, he had not been talking to Ginny, nor had she sat on the bed; there was no dog, there hadn't been any voices, nor a large painting over the mantle—of course there wasn't; why had he thought that?
And always Vesper and Ginny. The two of them, never in the same scene, but one always nearby. I miss you, he wanted to tell Ginny when she would walk into the room quietly, brown eyes sad. But he could only turn his cheek, or remain silent, even in what he realised later were dreams. While Ginny was reserved, and soft, and somehow tired and mournful, Vesper was powerful and vivacious. She would approach him quickly and cup his fevered cheek in her hand, as if he were hers, perhaps another piece in her collection, to be looked on with pleasure in an idle afternoon.
The dreams changed. Sometimes he would draw away from her, become frightened at those scarlet talons clawing at his face, drawing him closer and closer; later, he would submit, seeing clearly that there was no way out at all, so what good was there in resistance?
He awoke sometime in the night and realised he was hungry. That was understandable, considering he hadn't eaten all day. But he was still incredibly cold (though the sweat testified otherwise), so he gathered his comforter around him protectively and some slippers for his feet and set off downstairs slowly, shakily.
'Accio toast,' he murmured to the dark kitchen, holding out his hand to catch the piece that zoomed to him. 'Lumos,' he added as an afterthought. It was then that he heard the tap, tap of a beak on glass outside.
It was true that owls were nocturnal, but it was still strange to see them at your house at such an hour; usually they delivered during times when they knew their recipients would be up to receive them. Regardless, Draco hobbled to the window and opened it wide to let the tawny owl through. The bird landed neatly on the kitchen island, snatching Draco's toast out of his hand, and began to crunch it appreciatively. It saw Draco was watching it in surprise and a little annoyance, and finally shook its leg out to him to take the letter that was tied there. Draco read:
My darling Draco,
Tomorrow I am holding a dinner party at the manor. Now, I heard that you were sick from work today, but that is no excuse; if you are still ill tomorrow morning I shall pay you a visit and have you patched up in no time. Mothers are quite good at that sort of thing, you know. So I want no protests that the manor is unfit for a party, or that you want no guests. When I agreed to let you live there alone after your father died this was part of the bargain. Don't worry, you won't have to arrange a thing. I have worked out catering and a guest list. Your only job is to appear promptly at seven o'clock in your best robes and to be a courteous host. And I hear you are single once more? Bravo.
Much love,
Mother
Even coming out of his fever Draco was annoyed. Mothers! They meddled in everything and knew too much for comfort. Like his love life, for instance. If he knew his mother, she would already have dropped a word here and there in every bachelorette’s house in Britain by now. 'Oh, have you heard? My son Draco finally rid himself of that blood-traitor brat. I'm pleased to announce he's single again.' Once you were an adult parents weren't supposed to know anything about your doings. And, though his mother had stepped around it in her letter, Draco knew the party's sole purpose was to find him a lovely, pure-blood girlfriend—girlfriend for only a short while, of course, because soon afterwards they would fall in love and marry and have many handsome, talented children to carry on the lineage.
Seeing that he had finished reading the letter (evidenced by the way he crumpled it up instantly and threw it to the floor), the owl hooted and then flew out the still-open window. Draco assumed his mother had told it to hang around until he finally emerged from his room.
He was suddenly tired again. Without bothering to Summon himself some more food, he walked slowly back upstairs and collapsed into bed once more. It was going to be a long night. One thing was certain: he had better be well by the next morning, because the last thing he wanted was to have his mother checking up on him. He shuddered at the thought.
Though he wrote a convincing letter to his mother describing his speedy recovery, the next morning Draco stayed home from work again. He felt a bit better, but for whatever reason wasn't ready to see Vesper, as he would have to in the office. One more day and I'll be ready, he told himself. Well, he'd have to face her eventually.
~*~
His mother arrived a full three hours early, faded blonde curls done up elaborately, plum dress robes sweeping and elegant, fingers, ears and neck hung heavily with the rocks of the rich.
'Darling, I simply cannot understand why you refuse to have servants about,' Narcissa declared, not for the first time, as she handed Draco her hat and cloak to see to. 'There're no butlers to attend to the door, no cooks, no maids, no servants to help with serving…I can't imagine how you manage to keep up with these parties and other such details of high society.' Despite the admonition, she smiled smugly to herself, no doubt aware she was the reason he was able to do so. Draco's face twisted itself into a sour expression naturally.
'I prefer my privacy. And aren't you overdressed, Mother?' Draco minced no words as he showed her in to the parlour. Narcissa regarded him sternly.
'It is a formal affair, and I expect you to wear the male equivalent. In fact—' A sudden desperation took a hold of her as realisation set in. 'I can't believe you aren't dressed! Oh, we'll barely have time to make you presentable…' She began to mutter to herself. 'Never mind you assisting me with preparations…you've always been naturally disinclined when it comes to these things. Ah, but Lucius had the subtlety!' A smile flitted over her face as she no doubt recalled the grand balls and striking statements about their position in the world her late husband had put forth with ease. 'Upstairs, now! Go on!'
~*~
By the time Draco thought it safe to emerge from his room, most of the house had been overfilled by guests, all hours early. It appeared his mother had arranged for servers; Draco snatched a flute of champagne off the tray of one passing by and downed it in one quick tip. If he was to play the charming bachelor he had better do the job right and get thoroughly drunk beforehand.
He smiled at the thought. 'Wait—I want another one of those,' he called to the server as he walked away idly.
‘Draco!’ chastised Narcissa in scandalised tones as she appeared out of thin air, snatching the second flute from his hand and downing it herself. ‘I expect you to behave yourself tonight! Many futures are riding on your presentation. So it needs to be flawless! And getting drunk and then making a fool of yourself is the quickest way to be a laughingstock!’ She nodded impressively, bringing to both their minds the image of old Barian Birchram at the last Christmas party, cheeks rosy, grin huge and laugh booming, falling over himself immodestly, accompanied by two young and not adequately clad girls. He had been the talk of the town for months.
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ he smiled wryly. ‘I’ll behave myself.’
He turned to walk away, anticipating a night of lurking in a corner, but Narcissa moved with the lightning strike of a snake, snatching his elbow. ‘Not so fast,’ she whispered dangerously in his ear, guiding him towards the large double doors through which people continued to pour. ‘You will greet them like a proper gentleman, do I make myself clear?’
Resenting the fact that he was still very much under her control, he nodded sulkily, fixing the expression of despicable smugness on his face greatly favoured by those who could afford it.
‘Ah, Madame Linore, so good to see you…And this must be your charming daughter, Eleanor? Delightful, simply delightful to meet you…Oh, Mrs Davenport! Lovely to see you again, my dear! And Elisabeth? Wonderful, wonderful! To the left, please; Jenkins will see to your coats…’ Draco allowed his mother’s fluent stream of greetings to wash over him as he stared out at the faces, eyes not really seeing.
Until.
He tasted her before he saw her: a dangerous yet intriguing taste, like a spiced orange. His eyes dilated, his senses sharpened. The world had shifted subtly; so minutely, in fact, that only he, who was really paying attention, noticed, while all the other guests were focused on their meaningless existences. He alone saw that her arrival had upset the balance, caused the universe to rebel, somehow. She was a force to be reckoned with.
And then there she was, an adder disguised as a London socialite, in his doorway, engaged in frivolous chatter with his Mother. What a perfectly ordinary situation. She was so adept at blending in with the rest of them. But he knew what she really was.
‘Draco, dear, have you met Vesper Prewett?’ His Mother elbowed him sharply, smile painfully stretched.
It was all Draco could do to nod a little as the green eyes bored into his, whispering secrets mortal ears have never heard. He gulped, suddenly very sweaty, wishing he had some hard alcohol in him to ground him to something.
She passed her mink stole to the butler and then strode into the parlour. Draco blinked, the air clearing somewhat when finally her jasmine perfume had dissipated in her wake. The moment had lasted mere seconds. Why did time behave so strangely around her?
He had breathed a few hard breaths, willing himself to calm down and view the situation rationally, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
‘Draco,’ she murmured in his ear softly, seemingly innocently, though he sensed the violent undercurrent there. She had sneaked up on him. ‘I know you’re very busy attending to guests. But when you’ve finished, do come and visit me, won’t you?’ She smiled at his dumbfounded expression and then went off to recline on a lounge in the parlour once more, an enigmatic glance over her shoulder her parting wave.
~*~
Draco, don’t you see, you’re her toy! his inner self hissed in self-disgust. Have you no pride? She’s got you wrapped around her finger, her little show-dog, her slave to come at her beck and call!
It was true, all of it, but still his feet continued forwards, shiny black shoes knowing of their own accord the shortest distance to Vesper.
And there was still Ginny, wasn’t there? You broke up two days ago! the same voice raged. No self respect. And though he cursed himself for it, still Draco couldn’t prevent the guilt that rose up in him, that he could so quickly cast off emotional attachment to months of romance.
But his feet continued onwards, weaving through guests, tables, chairs, and the occasional butler laden with some finger food. He was going to her. He could not stop himself. She had him on a thin line, and was itching him forwards with that beckoning finger, that crimson talon.
‘I’m ready,’ he whispered in her ear when finally he stood behind her. As if from the end of a long tunnel he heard her finish her diverting tale, and then excuse herself graciously from her audience. Without acknowledging Draco, she walked down the hallway and began to take seemingly random turns, up several flights of stairs, further and further into the innards of the house, until the guests could no longer be heard, and it was simply the muffled thunk, thunk, thunk of her heels on the carpet, followed by his shuffling steps, a few seconds behind.
Somehow they had reached his bedroom. Without bothering to wonder how she knew the way to his room, or which one was his, he faced her at last.
You have done well, her dark eyes told him as she took him in hungrily.
This is my fate. This is how it must be. When he was with her it was so much easier to accept the natural order of things. Those eyes left no room for hesitation.
His fumbling fingers seemed so slow as they undid his buttons, lips clasped on hers tightly, her flavour intensified, her presence electrified. She knocked his hand aside and her sure ruby talons discarded the white shirt over her shoulder. Dress, pants, and all other articles of clothing found themselves on the floor as the couple found themselves in the bed.
He had imagined this. Wanted it? It hardly mattered, because it was what she wanted.
For the first time, he had no fleeting visions of thick red hair, matted but soft; earthy brown eyes somehow overlaid onto her rich, dark-green ones. Now he saw only her beneath him, her perfect body and exquisite touch.
When she was done she slid next to him under the thin silk sheets, superbly beautiful, faultlessly, instinctually graceful. Why had he ever felt torn between two worlds, a man enchanted, somehow guilty; unfaithful to an old, forgotten love?
‘You’ll stay here, Draco,’ she whispered into his sweaty hair.
‘Yes,’ he breathed, settling deeper into her scent.
Giving In by Rhi for HP
Chapter Notes: Chapter title inspired by song of the same name by Crooked House.