Chapter Text
22nd June
Draught of Living Dreams Ball
Nott Manor
Ballroom
This had to be the most ridiculous event Draco had ever been to, and he had been in attendance of that ‘Night of Metamorphose Mystique’ where everyone had to drink a Polyjuice of the person entering before them.
Nott Manor had been turned into a horrific enchanted dreamland. An idea, conceived straight from Theo’s appalling brain, cheered on by friends who didn’t have enough entertainment, and executed with an absurd level of precision and dedication.
There was nothing in here that didn’t suggest ‘draught of living dream’ to Draco. Every surface was iridescent. Enchanted clouds wafted around, trapping people inside. The doors were enchanted to be dreamcatchers, each leading into a different hellscape of Nott-branded fever dream. All the seats were giant teacups, which Draco thought had to have been a suggestion from Granger.
They were in the main ballroom. Granger was on the dance floor, being practically tossed around by Longbottom.
The man had no sense for decorum, but he supposed there was no reason to, given the number of upside down dancing flamingos.
Granger laughed.
Draco sighed.
He knocked back his drink and dodged the gaggle of Gryffindors in colour-changing robes near the dance floor, made a beeline around the group of Ministry dimwits that were milling around, undoubtedly waiting for their chance to pester Granger for her opinion on things, and flat out ignored the calls of Flint and Davies to join him at the bar.
He needed to get out of here.
He found a quiet corner in an abandoned, only moderately glittering room and longed for Granger, falling into his lap.
The door opened and someone came in.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Potter.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re up to something.”
Draco was twelve years old again. He laughed, despite the sickly green feeling in his stomach. “Congratulations, Potter. You’ve just discovered the Fountain of Youth.”
Potter looked around, as if expecting to see an eternal spring materialise.
Draco sighed. He took out a little box and tossed it to him.
The Boy Wonder opened it and grinned. “About time.”
Draco snorted.
“Are you scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Good,” said Potter, still grinning, unhelpful as ever.
“Think she’s going to say yes?”
Potter shrugged. “Depends how much of a dick you’re going to be about asking. What are you doing?”
Draco’s mouth twitched. “I commissioned a painting for her. Worst one yet. Huge, too.”
Potter held up his hands in disgust. “I don’t want to hear about you two and your perverted art kinks. She’s practically my sister.” He threw the little box back to Draco, who snatched it out of the air.
“Congratulations. Welcome to the family.”
Draco smirked. “Ditto.”
Potter half laughed, half gurgled in horror in a way that Draco understood perfectly.
Late that night, when Granger had finally stopped gushing about the painting, and when she had graciously accepted to put up with him for the rest of their lives, and after they had first snogged and then shagged each other absolutely senseless, Draco lay awake, stroking her hair, thinking.
Some of the details here hadn’t gone exactly to plan, and he had a feeling Potter and the Weasel were never going to let him live this down.
He’d thought anyone with a sense of taste, but certainly Granger, whose taste he appreciated on many different levels—all of them enjoyable—would have recognised right away that a regal portrait of that abominable creature was meant in jest.
A hairy orange joke the literal size of a small ballroom.
Perhaps it should have been a warning sign when his mother had it declared to be a fine likeness, befitting of the character, and suggested they hang it in the grand gallery.
The cat itself had strutted around in front of it like the most entitled fucking creature ever to grace the halls of the Manor, and that was saying something.
Actually, it was saying a lot.
Perhaps he’d have to make friends with the bugger after all.
It was either that, or accidentally setting that wing of the Manor on fire.