'It doesn't hurt them. They don't even know about it — '
'That's not the point!' Harry shivered. The nausea was receding, replacing itself with a feverish anger. 'If they did know — if Draco knew about this, hell, if his father knew about this — I mean, I hate the bastard, but I can't imagine he'd be any too pleased if he knew that-'
'Well, of course Lucius Malfoy knows about the Midnight Club,' interrupted the boy, looking surprised. 'He owns it.'
Dearest Seamus, Nothing could have made your father and I happier than your last letter.
That you should choose to be so open and truthful with us makes us very proud parents indeed. Although we really don't understand the cause of your anxiety. It's perfectly all right with us, of course, if you're gay. We're just glad you were honest with us so that we can be properly supportive.
Let us know if there are any organizational meetings we should be attending. If there are no existing organizations we'd be happy to start one. And if you'd like to bring your boyfriend home for the holidays, that would be fine as well, we've still plenty of room in the East Wing. And if you haven't got a boyfriend yet, your aunt wants me to remind you that she always thought that Dean Thomas you were friends with was a nice, good- looking boy. And so artistic!
Enjoy your holidays and don't drink too much butterbeer at New Year's -
you remember what happened to your Uncle Eamon. Although we suppose they don't have nearly so many cattle gratings in London.
Love, Mum
Standing in the alley outside the Shrieking Teacup, Tom read the letter over again. It was his sixth reading and still he could not believe his eyes.
Surely the Finnegans had misunderstood his initial missive? But no, it appeared that they hadn't and that in fact he himself had made a miscalculation. Not a grave one, but a miscalculation nevertheless.
He tossed the letter into the air, where it burst into flames. The ashes sifted down around him like a fine dark powder, dusting the shoulders of his cloak and catching in his damp hair.
He bit his lip in vexation. It would not be exactly accurate to say that things were not going to plan. He had no plan for events to either go along with, or at least, if he had a plan, it was not yet a fully formed one.
He had seen Harry in the bookshop and wanted to cause him trouble; that had, he thought, worked splendidly until the Death Eaters who had been chasing Harry had returned, shaking their heads, apparently having somehow lost their quarry. They were not inclined to share the details of their defeat with him, a total stranger, and he did not deem it wise to lose his temper and show his hand at such an early juncture. More importantly, he thought, he had heard them speak a name — the Midnight Club.
Tom knew the Midnight Club. It existed in his day, owned by Lucius' grandfather and run very profitably. During the war years it had been a base for smuggling operations, but at its heart, it had still been what it had been designed to be: a whorehouse. Tom had always found the concept rather amusing. A logical extension of the uses of Polyjuice, to be sure. And a testimony to the venality of the Malfoys. Very admirable.
It would not be difficult to find the club again. In fifty years, the streets surrounding Diagon Alley had hardly changed at all. He began to walk down the alley, fastidiously skirting the banks of dirty snow piled at the edge of the pavement. If he recalled correctly, the Midnight Club allowed the nightly rental of its rooms to patrons, and never asked for any kind of identification. They were not in a business where asking for identification would have been a judicious professional move. He could pay them in the cash he had taken from Seamus' trunk for a room and they would ask no questions. All the rooms were warded by Silencing Charms. In relative peace and quiet, he could read the books he had bought in Diagon Alley -
he could learn his own history. And later…
He glanced down at his left hand, where he had wound the single strand of Ginny's poppy-red hair around his ring finger. Later there might perhaps be time for other amusements. Yes, later. He closed his hand into a fist and drew his hood up to hide his sudden savage grin.
Blaise felt a chill as Draco turned around to look at her. He didn't look pleased to see her — not at all. He looked tense and tired and his face was pale between the dark collar of his coat and the hood that concealed his silvery hair.
'Blaise,' he said. 'What do you want?'
She had seen the two of them from across the street. For a moment she had thought nothing of it. She was always seeing Draco, in crowds of people, from the windows of trains, navigating his way along city pavements. Any slim tall boy reminded her of him — sometimes it was less than that: the spark of sunlight off blond hair, the angle of a pair of shoulders, that certain way of walking, the expensive cloaks he favored.
This time it was only the fact that Hermione was with him that had convinced her it really was Draco.
'I need to talk to you,' she said. She had spent the last two days wondering how on earth to get in touch with Draco safely; bumping into him on Diagon Alley, whomever he happened to be with, was too good a chance to pass up. She had followed him from outside the Leaky Cauldron and had finally worked up the nerve to interrupt them. She was glad she had. Even if he didn't look terribly happy to see her.
He sighed and raised his chin. His hood fell back and she saw that his pale hair had been cut shorter, and was tangled as if he'd forgotten to brush it
— for Draco, an oversight as serious as if he'd gone out with no trousers on. 'What about, Blaise?'
For a moment she just looked at him. She had missed looking at him. She saw the way Hermione moved towards him when he spoke, the unconscious way she reached out and put a hand on his arm. And she saw the way he let her. She took a breath past the catch in her throat. 'It's about Harry,' she said.
Hermione dropped her hand from Draco's arm, her lips parting and her eyes widening. Draco evinced no similar response. His face was a study in utter blankness. 'So talk.'
Blaise tightened her lips. 'Just give me five minutes alone,' she said; it hurt to ask. She hated begging; it went completely contrary to her nature.
Draco knew that, too, and for a moment their eyes met in perfect, if not amicable, understanding.
'Fine,' he said.
She followed him under the shadow of the awning; Hermione, her mittened hands in her pockets, waited for them by the edge of the pavement. Blaise restrained herself from shooting Hermione a triumphant look.
A brass handrail ran down the middle of the staircase. Blaise leaned up against it and turned to Draco. He was staring at her with an unnerving fierceness in his eyes. He put his hand out and caught at her wrist and his gloved hand was cool against her skin. 'What about Harry?' he demanded.
She took a deep breath. 'It's not about Harry, it's about you.'
He went still all over. Then he flung her wrist aside with surprising force.
'Why did you lie?'
Blaise braced her hands on the rail behind her. 'Because it was the only way I could get you to listen to me — all you care about is Harry.'
'That's not true.' His voice cut like a whip coming down on her bare skin.
It took force of will not to flinch away. 'If you've got nothing to say to me-'
'I didn't say that. Just because I've got nothing to say about Harry doesn't mean I've got nothing to say!'
'So you have something to say that doesn't have anything to do with boys, hair or cosmetic charms? It's a bloody fucking first, then. Call out the Prophet reporters, it's a red letter day. Let's make the most of it.'
Blaise blinked. This was unprecedentedly vicious, even for Draco. For a moment all she wanted to do was slap his face and walk away — leave him to whatever the Slytherins had planned for him. But she couldn't. She loved him, she thought, the way he had once hated Harry — with bitter resentment. Why did it have to be him, of all people; there was nothing special or interesting or different about falling in love with the best-looking boy in school, who was also rich, who was also popular, who was also captain of the Quidditch team. It was predictable and stupid. And she had done it just the same.
'Spit it out, Zabini.' Draco swung his arm up and shot a glare at the watch on his wrist. 'You have fifty seconds.'
