Chapter Text
Draco was very pleased.
He was once again dressed to impress in a set of cream, three-piece dress robes so sharply cut they required a warning. While the front was shaped to muggle styling with a skinny waistcoat, true wizard’s robes trailed like coattails behind. The inner lining was soft and shiny, and his shirt had a tall, starched collar. It was as if half his robe was painted on and the other half was dripping off—ah, and the lilac pocket square! Divine, tip to toe. While Father had religiously used the Malfoy family tailor, as did his father before him, and his father before him, Draco had ordered his dress robes directly from Marseille.
Still admiring himself in the mirror, he was struck suddenly by the brute flash of his blotchy, tear-streaked self reflected in a Hogwarts bathroom moments before Harry Potter nearly eviscerated him. How sunken his eyes had looked, how skinny his cheeks, and how scared he had been. If only that wretched, pointy, ferrety little boy that he’d been at age sixteen could see him now, healthy and handsome, step by step blotting Father’s legacy away like an ugly wine stain, and, in doing so, becoming braver and more self-assured.
Draco had replaced Father’s accountant, his butcher, his baker, and his ancient by-candlestick tailor. And shortly he would stand outside of the gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on official social invitation, replacing Lucius Malfoy himself. It took several minutes to regain his composure, the slight shake of his hands betraying the bladed edge of his memory. Too much like Mother, he thought, and then he apparated.
***
Hermione really did know everybody in the Ministry because Felicity Ruldark was not a real person. She had been entirely fabricated right down to her Ministry I.D. card and a recent photo of her vacationing with her cat, all for the express purpose of ensuring that a bushel of cursed objects and artifacts weren’t mailed to someone living. This was, of course, in anticipation of the decision to invite pardoned persons to the remembrance day celebration. A plan that proved to be very smart according to Ron, since his Auror team had spent the better part of three days detonating things addressed to her postbox.
Learning this, Harry laughed so hard tears leaked out the corner of his eyes because it really explained everything a person needed to know about the Ministry of Magic. Rather than tackling an obvious lack of mail safety, they went ahead and created a completely new, non-existent employee to redirect exploding hate mail. In truth, it was the only reason Hermione had gotten him to change his mind. She was right that he had to make an appearance, but now, confident that he wasn't dealing with the best and brightest of any single Ministry department, Harry wanted to see what he could get away with.
To this end, Ron (gleefully) and Hermione (worriedly) had sent ‘We regret to inform you’ letterheads bearing Harry's name to organizers detailing the ghastly nature of his ill health. Mermadian Throat Bunkles. Not at all contagious, very rare, ate a bad batch of seaweed salad, strict orders from his healer not to strain his delicate voice lest he be mute for the rest of eternity. No speeches or interviews of any kind. Nevermind that there had never been a single known case of mermaid diseases affecting wizards, but who was going to question the great Harry Potter? As added incentive just in case, Ron promised to run direct interference the entire night. It worked very well for the first two hours.
“Ah, sorry, your name was—uh—oh, yes, Madame Rutherford, of course!” said Ron genially to a tall woman wearing a skunk fur stole that still smelled a bit noxious. “I would love to introduce you to Harry Potter—” he gave Harry, who was standing next to him sipping a glass of purple punch from the foyer, a hearty slap on the back. “Except, poor Harry here has got the bunkles. Terrible case of them, too. Comes from mermaids. Yeah, dodgy seaweed. Not contagious, just makes you yack up these big, slimy green balls of—”
“No need to tell me more, boy!” The poor woman covered her mouth with the tail end of her stole and made an awful retching sound. “How uncouth, and at a dinner event!”
“Sorry,” said Ron cheerily, waving at her retreating back. “Maybe next time!”
“You’re having far too much fun,” sniffed Hermione. “Don’t forget I have to work with some of these people. Eventually someone is going to ask questions, you know.”
“C’mon Hermione,” Harry whispered, hiding his moving mouth with his cup. “This is the best fun I’ve had at an event ever. Nobody can talk to me and everyone blames Ron.”
“Hey!” said Ron.
“Well, you best brush up on your skills as a mime, because Ron and I are expected on stage in ten minutes. Stay to the side and cast a glamour, we'll be back when we can.”
Nodding, Harry stepped back into the shadows behind a suit of armor and cast a wandless, wordless version just to show off. Hermione rolled her eyes as his normally black hair faded to a mousy brown and curled snakily around his earlobes. The next bit was trickier so he did use his wand, changing his rather noticeable bottle green dress robes to an ugly grey-khaki to match the castle walls. Lastly, he tapped the sides of his black glasses and turned them invisible. Overall, he looked like a very plain, unremarkable, boring young man. Once Ron and Hermine returned, he would turn himself back for a final appearance before too many people started asking: “Where did Harry Potter go?”
***
“Good evening, Master Malfoy,” came the pinched but familiar voice of Minerva McGonagall. “I trust you have your invitation with you? It is required for admittance.”
“Of course,” Draco reached into his coat and presented his letter, waiting while she scrutinized it, and then tucked it away again with a nod. He would have bet one-hundred galleons on the spot that no one else had had to show theirs. “Lovely to see you, Minerva.”
Draco managed until he was well out of earshot to cackle. The caustic scowl on professor McGonagall’s wrinkled face when he’d dared use her first name without express written invitation was tempered only by the giddy racing heart for having gotten away with it. ‘Father would‘ve belted my hide raw for that,’ he thought, mildly. But no risk of that now, he supposed, since Father had gone and Bombardoed his brains out.
With a passing nod to several important people on his way to the canapes, Draco stopped short. For a moment, he could hardly believe his ears as he overheard Ronald Weasley telling a whopper of a lie to a group of dismayed, overrich witches clamoring for a celebrity encounter. After the fourth or fifth repeat for the same tale, he was downright tickled. To say that he had first-hand experience with the foolish things Potter and his band of merry miscreants had done over the years was an understatement, he’d had front row tickets in most cases, but watching them convince an entire room of well-educated witches and wizards that Harry had a fictitious gill disease now topped the entire list.
As Draco watched on with mounting delight, Potter got joyfully punch-drunk on whatever ghastly concoction the house elves had in the crystal drinks tower near the entrance. He was different than that day at the courthouse, taller maybe, and a bit more square in the jaw. He looked filled out, like a proper grown up, something which clashed immediately with Draco’s many carefully curated memories of them as school children.
Although, some things hadn’t changed. Harry was wearing the same green formal robes that he’d worn since he was fourteen, spelled a little taller, but otherwise identical. He obviously had money for new ones, he just didn’t care. Even his glasses were the same style and shape, just a tad thicker. Contrasted against Malfoy in his flamboyant take-notice outfit, it was like oil and water. Draco was there to delight, dance, and schmooze so that for flashes of time he was no longer Lucius’ son, he was instead the young Master Malfoy, a very important man. Harry, on the other foot, was doing an excellent job avoiding everybody while a rumor circulated that he lived in an rotten, unplottable shack.
“Good evening, Draco.” A smooth, dusky voice interrupted his thoughts. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Dance with me, I’m trying to make a very mean man very jealous.”
Draco turned, it was Pansy Parkinson looking dazzling in a long, black dress that shimmered in the candlelight. She had extended a gloved hand and he took it, stepping into position with one hand on her waist. “Old boyfriend or new boyfriend?” he asked.
“Current husband,” she yawned. “Dreadful old codger, but filthy rich.”
“You’ll get me hexed,” said Draco.
“Unlikely, he’s rather limp in the wand department. Regardless, I had my sights set on marrying you for the longest time until you grew up to be an unrelenting sissy.”
“Well, we could still make an honest sham of it after you’ve divorced.”
Pansy laughed as Draco twirled her around before dipping her low, “Tempting as it is, I’d be cursed off the Parkinson vaults the second I said my vows. My children’s children would be so far removed from the family tree they’d be a branch in another forest.”
“For now,” said Draco. “I hear the Malfoy name is on the up and up.”
“So petty gossip does say,” Pansy looked up at him curiously from under fluttering, dark lashes. “You know, in five years you never even owled. Not even Blaise.”
“I didn’t,” admitted Draco.
“You could have owled,” she pressed.
“You could have owled yourself,” he twirled her again, and leaned in very close, whispering into the soft shell of her ear. “But we both didn’t know who to trust, did we?”
“Do we trust each other now?”
“No,” he pushed a loose curl delicately off from her forehead. “But I wouldn’t mind giving it time, provided that very angry, portly man with the mustache doesn’t intervene.”
Pansy glanced over her shoulder at her purpling husband and laughed.
“My cue,” she said, peeling herself away with a promise to keep in touch and Draco hoped she did. He had few people to call on that weren't in paid employ of house Malfoy.
Even in his Hogwarts days he didn’t have many actual friends, just a posse of bullies that needed a ringleader. Harassing Weasley for being poor, Hermione for being muggleborn, Potter for being Potter; Draco wielded his blood status like a blunt weapon because at that age he would rather have died a squib than admit he envied Weasley his warm, happy family just as much as he’d envied Granger her endless, clever brains.
But, when the Dark Lord returned, Draco's little circle of thugs folded like a house of glass cards. Vincent and Gregory were chomping at the bit to enlist, Pansy and Blaise wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, and Draco? He had no choice. It was the first time that he truly realized that his life was not his own. He wasn’t going to grow up to be any of the thrilling things he daydreamed about: a world-renowned potioneer, a filthy rich cursebreaker, or a famous auror. Draco was a Malfoy, and there was no escaping that.
Father had drilled it into him. If you are hungry, this name will feed you. If you are naked, this name will clothe you. If you are staring down the wand of a enemy, the fear of this name—my name, and now forever yours—it will protect you. It is every favor owed, every oath sworn, every threat issued. No matter the circ*mstance, no matter the danger before you, you stand up straight and you say: the name is Draco, Draco Malfoy.
Realizing he had been standing frozen in the ballroom and was starting to attract unwelcome eyes glancing his way, Draco chided himself for getting lost in his head. What was done was done, but what was yet to be done this particular evening was tracking down Potter. Draco, scanning the ballroom, noticed Granger and Weasley picking their way across to the stage, but where was—? Ah, there. Trying to blend in behind a suit of armor, wearing a slap-together pile of glamors and the most ridiculous curly mop of a hair extension charm he’d ever seen. So much for an accident-on-purpose photo opportunity.
***
“Hiding from your adoring fans, Potter?” Harry startled as Draco Malfoy sidled up beside him, looking like he was peeled off the cover of Britain's Most Fashionable Wizards.
“Uh, sorry—er, you must have me confused with, uh, someone else.” Harry bluffed, reminded instantly—and to his great embarrassment—of trying to convince a stone-faced professor Snape that yes, in fact, all his friends do call him Roonil Wazlib in private.
“As if anyone else in this entire castle would be caught dead in those robes if they weren’t trying to blend into the backdrop,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “I know it’s you.”
For a moment Harry wracked his brain for something smart or convincing to say in his own defense, but in the end he wasn't too proud to recognize defeat. “Fine, okay, it’s me!” he hissed. “Just keep your voice down and tell me whatever it is that you want.”
“Just a chat. If you can manage with all those terrible, fictitious gill diseases.”
“We don’t chat,” said Harry, ignoring the accusation.
“We could,” replied Draco. “It’s been a long time. We’ve grown up.”
“Speak for yourself,” Harry fired back, realizing a fraction of a second too late that he'd gone and insulted himself. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him tonight?!
“I stand corrected,” said Draco.
“Ugh!” Harry flung up his arms, “Malfoy, enough. This isn’t school all over again where you rile me up and we prod at each other until someone throws a punch.”
“That was usually you, to be fair.”
“You broke my nose!”
“You sliced me to ribbons and left me for dead in a bathroom!”
“You were planning a murder!”
“And you had me cleared of all charges,” said Draco, leaning casually forward in a way that made Harry feel too warm. “Unless you still think that at fifteen I had an ounce of actual decision making power or common sense? I was an idiot, Potter. As were you.”
“Don't call me an idiot.”
“Don't be an idiot.”
“See, this—” Harry gestured to all of Malfoy with a waive of his hand “—is why we don’t get along. You can’t even apologize properly, like any other normal person would.”
“Well,” said Draco diplomatically, “As a normal person, how would you apologize?”
“Er—” said Harry, feeling like he'd just been levitated to the front of the Wizengamot and asked to recite the Encyclopedia of Rare Potions by memory. “Uh, I’d probably start by saying I didn’t know how growing up a pureblood could put someone in a rotten impossible position. Er, and that I had some pretty bad misconceptions.”
“Hmm,” hummed Draco.
“About Slytherins, and, uh, certain families.” Harry stumbled out, “And that it was probably stupid to have a seven-year feud with someone after only knowing them for five minutes off the train. Even if you were, well, you. And—er, maybe for the aurors wrecking up your house. It wasn’t Ron’s lot, just so you know. He refused to take the assignment.”
“Hmm,” hummed Draco again, pretending to mull it over for a few moments. “You know what, that is actually a very good apology. I graciously accept.”
“Hold on!”
Draco threw back his head, laughing from his belly until he had to lean on the pillar to breathe. “You make it too easy,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “But, you’re not wrong. I was a pompous little prig. I mean, it didn’t help that you were blamed for all our many problems with the ministry from the time I could toddle. The house elves used to threaten that if I didn’t get back into bed after dark, they’d summon you up like a vengeful ghoul.”
Harry snorted, “Seriously?”
“You weren’t well liked in my house.”
“I wasn’t well liked in mine, either.”
“Well, something in common then. Anyway, I see your darling wife headed this way, so I suppose I should take my cue to exit—it looks like dragon flames are about to shoot out her nostrils and I’d rather not be sent off to the burn unit this evening.”
“My wife—?” Harry scanned the crowd quickly. “Oh, Ginny.”
“Do you have many other wives?” asked Draco without waiting for an answer. “Add me to your floocall network later once you're home, since you know where I live already.”
“Why would I do that?!”
“So you'll know where to meet me.”
Harry blinked at Draco like he’d grown a second head. “Wha—?”
“Malfoy’s make their apologies over dinner,” said Draco, turning to leave with a practiced swish of his robes. “And do close your mouth, you're going to catch flies.”
***
Stock still, gaping like a fish, Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest, squeezing something inside so hard that it felt like drowning. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six. The painful, pantomime minute that existed between when Malfoy left and Ginny arrived felt like it was happening to someone else. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of Malfoy’s sudden lust for smalltalk, but he was even less sure of what to make of Ginny clocking him—in full glamour!—from across the ballroom and coming his way. They hadn’t spoken since her letter, and hadn’t talked in what felt like ages longer. Was Molly sick, had Arthur had an accident? Anything she had to say had to be the worst of news.
“Hey, Harry.”
“ Hulg’nny.”
“Huh?”
Harry cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello, Ginny.”
“You really should consider a new disguise,” she said after a short pause. Harry couldn’t help but notice how nice she looked, dressed in pretty white robes, hair a red halo framing her face. “It’s only going to fool people who don’t know you. Try a lighter skin, blonde hair maybe. And robes that don’t look like they’re made of mold. Honestly.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Ginny sighed. “Harry, can we just talk? Like normal people.”
“Thought we were talking,” said Harry.
“Okay,” said Ginny. “I’ll get right into it, then. I was hoping to run into you at Mum’s but… y’know what, it doesn’t matter. The thing is—well, it’s just that—Merlin! It’s always so hard between you and I, isn’t it? I’m getting married, and I wanted you to know.”
“Oh.”
“It’s Neville.”
“Oh.”
“Harry…”
“Does he—” Harry felt like he’d been hit by stunning spell. He wanted to make words, but they weren’t working. “He is good. Neville. Good. Very good. Very Neville.”
“I don’t want you two to stop being friends.”
“Who?”
“You and Neville!” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. “You must have noticed he hasn’t come around since our divorce, haven’t you? Oh.” Ginny stopped in her tracks. “You haven’t. I’ve… it’s okay, I thought that—it doesn’t matter. This was a bad idea.”
“NO!” Harry exclaimed, feeling like he snapped suddenly back into his body. “No, it’s okay. It’s great! I’m glad you told me. And no, I didn’t notice… but, I don’t notice a lot of things these days. You know I’m not so good with… you just know. I—when did—it doesn’t matter, it’s great! He’s great. And you’re great. And you are both… great. I’m sorry.”
“Harry…” Ginny touched his shoulder lightly, “Are you okay?”
“No,” admitted Harry. “But this isn’t about me. Neville has had a crush on you since what, fourth year? Bad enough that even I noticed, so that says something. He really is good, and nice. And he can… does he…? For you, I mean, and—” Harry made a frustrated gesture at the ceiling trying to find the right thing to say, “I was an absolute sh*t husband.”
“A bit, yeah.”
And for the first time in a long time, they both smiled.
“He really is good, you know. It’s easy with Neville. I don’t mean to make you feel bad saying that, it’s just…” she paused, “I thought we were it, you and I. Until we weren’t.”
“I know,” said Harry. “I did too. It’s why I fought so hard, because I figured if maybe I tried harder, or you tried harder, or we both tried harder. But we were awful.”
“The worst.”
“The worst of the worst,” Harry agreed with a sad smile, because it was funny in an unfunny kind of way. “But I’m still adjusting to us not being an us , Gin. Which I know seems wild since it's me who is…” Harry still couldn’t bring himself to say it, even though she already knew. “Since we didn’t work out. But I am happy for you both, and I really mean that.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ginny but her body language seemed stiff as she shifted from foot to foot. “But it’s not just that I’m engaged. I need you to do something for me.”
“I see,” said Harry, who didn’t see but wanted to find out.
“I need you to make it official, to the press. You and I, divorcing.”
“Ah.”
“You are—well, you!” pressed Ginny almost pleadingly, “And I’m me. And I’m not mad at you, not anymore. I mean, I was mad, but…” Ginny looked him in the eye, “But now I need it to be public. It can be any reason you want, so long as it doesn’t hurt my family.”
“I would never hurt your—”
“Harry, you hurt my family the second you married me,” said Ginny matter-of-factly, and Harry's throat tightened as he swallowed back the sting of it. “But all I’m asking for now is for some damage control. I want to get married in some dirty great greenhouse to a man who actually loves me, in the proper way, and I need for you to make that happen.”
“Okay,” said Harry, looking at her as if for the last time. “I will make that happen.”
***
Fighting the urge to disapparate until Ron and Hermione returned turned out to be a very poor decision on Harry’s part. They had watched not only Malfoy chatting with him, but also Ginny, and the interrogation started immediately. Ron demanded to know if he’d been threatened (by Malfoy) while Hermione prattled on about personal safety at Ministry events and asked if Harry had felt cornered (by Malfoy). Both wanted to know what Ginny wanted: was she okay, was Harry okay, was everything okay? Except, neither of them would let him get a single word in edgewise about either until he threatened to bat-bogey them both—and he'd been married to Ginny, so he was now very good at it.
An hour later, on the promise that Harry would tell them everything at home, they arrived back at Ron and Hermione’s. It wouldn't have taken as long if they hadn't needed to say a thousand different goodbyes to a thousand different people before leaving, but eventually they made it back. Sitting on the sofa with an untouched cheese plate between them, Harry, who felt more than a little embarrassed, recounted the entire bizarre conversation from start to finish, including the grand finale: a press conference disclosing his divorce to the entire wizarding world as well as a cozy apology dinner with Draco Malfoy.
“What?!” yelped Ron as Hermione asked “He asked you on a date, Harry?”
“No! Nothing like that.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “It was more, dunno, he was saying a bunch of stuff about how we’d both grown up, like I said. And then he kinda tricked me into saying sorry for how we were at school, and then I got mad, and he said Malfoy’s say sorry with dinner and—” Harry made the mistake of looking at Ron whose jaw was practically on the floor, before glancing at Hermione who looked worryingly neutral about the whole exchange. “That’s about it. Uh, so. Here we are. Story done.”
“And Ginny really said that she wants you to hold a press conference?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “She said… well, it doesn’t matter. She’s getting married. To Neville. It would have been nice if anyone had given me a heads up on that, by the way. So, if I don’t want her eaten alive in the papers, I need to prepare a statement for us both.”
“We didn’t know, mate. Or at least I didn’t,” said Ron, looking put out.
Hermione nodded, unphased “I think she told you first, Harry. But about Malfoy, did he say anything else when you were talking?” she probed. “Or ask for anything?”
“Well, no, not really.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Er, he did ask me to add him to my accepted floocalls list since his is public, but—”
“Ah hah!” said Ron, “I knew it!”
“Knew what?”
“Well, think about it.” Ron said, getting his stride. “Harry’s house is unplottable. Basically a fortress, for all the wards on it. So nobody Harry doesn’t want to know about it can contact him, right? That was the whole point of him moving to the middle of Morgana’s-tit* nowhere with no toilet or running water, bunch of great dirty bears and—”
“Get to the point,” Harry said, annoyed that Ron was taking pot-shots at Galloway's Stead. It was a good house, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t need indoor plumbing.
“Someone is paying him for your location!” exclaimed Ron, as if he’d just cracked the whole case wide open. “His family keeps getting raided, surely it costs a fortune every time new charges are laid even if they don’t stick. So he’s gone and struck up a deal in exchange for Harry with some dark wizard or another, probably for a mental number.”
“He was wearing a thousand-galleon robe!”
“So? Probably scraping the vault floor to keep up appearances, don’t you think? Point is, galleons or no galleons, it's fishier than the Black Lake that the very first time he talks to Harry in years he wants to stick his pompous, pointy head into his private floo.”
“Well…” Hermione paused. She wasn’t sure Ron was completely right but she wasn’t sure he was completely wrong, either. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t take the chance.”
“I wasn’t going to!” exclaimed Harry.
“I didn’t finish,” continued Hermione. “I wouldn’t add him to your floocall network, too risky. But you could send an owl, and he could send one back. Your owls are routed through the Department of Restricted Properties, so you’d be safe in that sense.”
“You’re not suggesting that Harry actually go, are you?!”
“Well, wouldn’t you want to know more, especially if he is up to something?” countered Hermione. “But maybe he really does just want to be nice. It's been seven years, Ron. We can't immediately assume people are up to evil plots because we don't like them.”
“We bloody well can!”
“It's not about what you or I think,” said Hermione. “What do you think, Harry?”
Harry thought it over for a minute, “I’d like to know what he’s up to. And about Ginny, I guess it’s time. We can’t pretend we’re still married forever, right? Sooner or later someone would take notice we’re never seen together, even if she wasn’t getting remarried. I’m not sure what to say about it, other than ‘surprise, we’re divorced!’ but—”
“Seems like inviting trouble,” sniffed Ron. “And what are you going to do when Malfoy starts asking nosy questions about your personal life, anyway? You’re a rotten liar.”
“Not much to tell,” Harry shrugged. “I’m an unemployed layabout who lives in the middle of nowhere, drinks my breakfast, and wastes my potential. A disgrace, really.”
“That’s not funny, Harry.”
“It’s a little funny,” said Harry.
“I’ve told you a thousand times I could help you apply for—”
Ron groaned, “Not tonight, Hermione. Harry’ll figure out what he wants to do eventually, don’t be a pest. Besides, if my face was a registered trademark I’d think about retiring early myself. Get myself my own castle, nothing too fancy, and a great big—”
Harry tuned out the rest, which although a riveting (and very detailed) account of just exactly what Ron would do with a million galleons, it relievingly was not about him. Hermione meant well, but there was only so much encouraging prodding he could handle. He knew everyone wanted him to get a job, but the problem was, he could get any job. His resume could literally be a blank parchment with ‘Harry J. Potter’ on the top, and he’d be hired. He didn’t want that, which was another thing that Ginny had never understood about him. Sure, he wanted to do something, someday. Just maybe as someone else.
“I’m going to call it a night,” he said finally, rising from the sofa with an exaggerated yawn and stretch. “Try not to arrest Malfoy on suspicion of being a prat tomorrow.”
“No promises,” said Ron, “Floo me tomorrow if you need, okay?”
***
To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,
Ministry Registered Public Address
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, EnglandHey, it’s Harry.
If you were serious about wanting access to my floo, sorry to disappoint. I’m unplottable and intend to stay that way. If you still want, my owls are routed through Restricted.
Ron says you’re probably trying to steal my address and sell it on the black market on account of your vaults being empty. If that’s the case, maybe try wearing cheaper robes.
H. P.
***
To Mr. Harry James Potter,
Ministry Registered Private Address
Owl Delivery Route KRJ9572, U.K.How charming, we’re pen pals.
You can tell Weasley I’m still rolling in galleons, since he’s concerned. In fact, if he needs a donation to remove his skinny ginger head from skinny ginger arse, I’d be obliged.
St. Mungos might do it for free, but I assume there’s a waiting list.
Regarding dinner, any requests?
D. Malfoy
***
To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,
Ministry Registered Public Address
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, EnglandDon’t poison me?
H. P.
