Morality for Beautiful Slytherins

III.

An owl delivered a personal letter to Draco the next morning, and he opened it before the owl could leave.

Malfoy,

I'll meet you, but don't expect too much. Seven o'clock in front of Gringotts.

Harry Potter

"Well I'll be damned," said Draco as the owl flew away. "Potter came through." He sat at his desk, rereading the letter and grinning.

The prospect of tonight's plans was going to drive Potter insane all day, if Draco had any grip of the working of Potter's mind. He would second-guess every thought and inclination for the next ten hours and sneak off the pitch to write to Granger and possibly Weasley, asking them for their opinions. Which, of course, was exactly what Draco wanted. The more he could break Potter down, the more he could make Potter wonder what he was planning, the greater his advantage.

Someone knocked at Draco's door. "Enter!"

"Daily meeting, sir?" Miller clutched his portfolio, looking like he'd consumed one too many cups of coffee that morning.

"Yes. Close the door and come sit down." Draco hid Potter´s letter in a drawer and pulled the papers for the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game to the top of his pile. "Let me guess: Owl from Puddlemere this morning regarding the miraculous recovery of their Seeker?'

Miller's brow narrowed. "Ah, yes, we did get an owl this morning about that. Sir, would you prefer that we meet later in the day? You seem... Are you all right?'

"I'm fine, Miller. Your concern is appreciated.' He dipped a fresh quill into ink, making notes on the game forms. "Did Puddlemere say anything else?'

"Not really. Harry Potter is back at practice as of today, though he's still not playing at a hundred percent. They say he should be fine for the game, though, so I figured I'd update you on the plans for that.'

"Go ahead. Any major changes?" Draco tried not to sound bored though the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game was the last thing he wanted to talk about. In his effort to keep Potter distracted for the day he was doing exactly that to himself.

"No, nothing major. Ballycastle sent in their final starting lineup, and the referees are still on just like you planned. We finally heard back from Callaghan, that recruiter from the Irish national team, and," said Miller, taking a piece of paper from his folder, "he'll be there. Said he had a cancellation elsewhere so he'll be at the game. I already reserved him a box seat and lined up someone to escort him to the stadium."

"Brilliant work as always, Miller." Most everything Miller did was brilliant, even if Draco did have to remind him to lay off the caffeine.

"Thank you, sir. I also have the final list of advertisers..."

Draco tuned out the majority of what Miller said after that. Instead, he planned conversations with Potter and perfectly timed dramatic pauses in his speech, all against a backdrop of white tablecloths and crystal water goblets. Meeting over dinner was definitely a good idea, Draco decided. Potter was a recognizable figure and was therefore less likely to do or say anything stupid in public. Also, if Potter was as distraught as everyone else seemed to think he was, he might be more inclined to listen to, and accept, Draco's offer. But even if Potter said no to the sale, the sight of him pondering Draco's offer would be priceless.

Sure enough, when Potter showed up in front of Gringotts at seven o'clock, freshly showered and wearing dark blue robes, he looked like he hadn't slept well. Draco, on the other hand, was calm. When Potter Apparated in front of him, he finished the sentence in the book he was reading and stowed the book in his bag, fastening the latches with steady hands.

"Evening, Potter. Pleasure to see you."

"Nice to see you, too," replied Potter in an impatient tone. "Why are we meeting here instead of at Palta?"

Draco hesitated at Potter's directness. "My letter did not specify a choice of restaurant. Why do you assume we're going there?"

"Call it an educated guess."

"I'm surprised you've even heard of it. It's quite exclusive." Annoyed with himself for letting Potter begin the evening with the upper hand, Draco turned and started walking up the street. The restaurant was several blocks away, but an early spring breeze made the walk refreshing.

"Everyone who's ever worked on a contract with you has had dinner at Palta, Malfoy." With a smile, he added, "Everyone who's ever worked on a contract with you also says you order the tikka masala." Potter, though he kept up with Draco's pace, seemed a little peaked. Maybe he was still hung over from yesterday.

Palta was small but not cramped, with brass décor and hanging plants everywhere. Draco was on a first-name basis with the owner and contrary to Potter's belief, he had tried most of what was on the menu. In fact, his familiarity with the setting was the reason behind his choice of restaurants. Palta had another advantage: the two of them eating dinner together looked like nothing more than a discussion of professional Quidditch. No one would bother them, except maybe, noted Draco with a twist of his upper lip, to ask Potter for his autograph.

The host led them to Draco's usual table, a two-seater near the back of the restaurant. Draco, never forgetting his manners, held back, indicating for Potter to go ahead of him and take the seat facing the dining room.

"No, thanks. You can sit there." When Draco looked at him, curious, Potter said, "I don't like to have people looking at me when I'm eating. Can we please sit, because there are people staring at us?"

The temptation to make Potter sit where people could see him was almost too great for Draco to resist, but he held back. There was no sense in antagonizing Potter.

"It's interesting that you do that," said Draco, deceptively casual, after they placed their drink orders. "I would think you would want to watch your back at all times." He set his napkin in his lap and scanned his menu, determined not to order the tikka masala.

"We all have our idiosyncrasies, I guess. Mine is sitting with my back to people in restaurants. Yours are writing mysterious dinner invitations and doing yoga in your office."

"I do yoga in my office under a Healer's orders. Given the choice of shutting my door and refusing visitors for twenty minutes while I stand in triangle pose or not being able to move, I'll take the former. When half your body is put back together from the pieces of your bones, you don't question what the Healers tell you." Draco stopped himself after the third sentence. Potter knew perfectly well that his mid-afternoon yoga routine wasn't done out of idiosyncrasy. He scowled, pushing back a pang of jealousy.

Their drinks and bread arrived, and Potter thanked the waiter when he took their dinner orders.

Draco pointed to Potter's wineglass. "You should not be drinking that. League championships are next week."

With a look up at Draco over the rim of his glass, Potter took a long sip of wine. Draco could tell Potter was suspicious of him, though exactly what Potter suspected Draco didn't know. "Unless you're planning on owling my coach and telling him, I don't think one glass of wine will hurt anyone. But if you're going to tell him, I suppose it's only fair you mention that I had two cups of coffee and a Mars Bar yesterday. While you're at it, feel free to tell him about my Wednesday night beers with Ron."

"Speaking of your coach, what do you think your chances are against Ballycastle?"

"Is this the 'strictly business' part of your letter?"

"It might be."

Potter broke off a piece of naan, chewed, and swallowed. "This is really what you took me out to dinner for?"

"Potter, you are the worst conspiracy theorist I've ever met. I asked you a relatively simple question. I have numbers and statistics on all the teams, of course, but I'm interested in what you think."

"Well," replied Potter with a raised eyebrow, "it's Ballycastle's home field, so that's a strike against us, but I think we have better Chasers. They've got Becker and Donnelly, but Valerian's been ill a lot and his fatigue shows."

"Perhaps. What are your thoughts on Harris?" Ballycastle's Seeker, a Muggle-born who was an experienced equestrian when he got his Hogwarts letter and still rode horses on his parents' farm in Scotland, was one of the few in the league who could compete with Potter on a consistent basis. Harris had a jockey's build, compact and light, and his size gave him a natural advantage in the air.

"Harris is tough competition. He still flies a Firebolt, though."

"And wins a hell of a lot of games on it. An old broom isn't necessarily a bad broom."

"True."

Their dinner arrived, and they ate in silence for a short while.

"So what did Granger and Weasley have to say about my letter?"

"Who says I talked to them?"

"Oh, Potter. You seem to forget that I'm not one of your adoring fans. When I'm standing next to you, I not only remember how to speak English, but I actually think in complete sentences."

Potter's shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. "Hermione thought you might try to hex me, or that you were setting me up to be attacked. Then she figured that since I already knew you were behind it and you figured I'd talk to her, that you probably weren't planning anything like that."

"Good conclusion," said Draco. "I knew Granger might put those brains to use someday. She didn't figure anything out beyond that?"

"We didn't really have the time to discuss it. She's pretty busy."

The clink of their forks against their plates filled the gap in their conversation. Draco noticed Potter stealing glances at him.

"If you have something to ask me, I would prefer that you ask me directly instead of checking to see if the answer is written on my forehead."

"I'm just...wondering." Potter reached for his wineglass but didn't drink from it, content to trace semicircles around the bottom of the glass.

"About what?"

Draco was prepared for Potter to ask why they were here, but not for "Did you really think your side was going to win the war?"

Swallowing just in time to keep from choking and spitting lamb on the pristine white tablecloth, Draco responded, "Excuse me?"

"I mean, didn't you ever lie awake at night wondering what was going to happen, if you'd survive the next day? I know the war's over and--"

"And what? The oh-so-righteous side of light won? Because everything in a war is always black and white with no questions? You are an idiot, Potter, if you think that war solved anything or made anyone's affiliations clear." His tone was harsh and bitter, but he kept his volume low. "You're a bigger fool than I thought you were if you think I didn't lie awake at night wondering if I was going to make it out alive." He was irritated with himself for showing Potter he had pressed a sore spot and irritated with Potter for having the balls to ask in the first place, but he couldn't stop now. This rant was a long time in coming to Potter. "You think I enjoyed watching the people I cared about and respected and...." Draco couldn't say, "loved." Not in front of Potter. "We lost just as many as you did and don't you dare think for a second that I regretted my decisions. Side of light versus the side of dark, my arse. I made the best decisions I could with the information I had. Does that answer your fucking question?"

"We had Dumbledore and you had--"

"You had shit for brains is what you had."

Potter's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "We had what?"

"You of all people should know Dumbledore did not equal all that is great and powerful and right. Dumbledore manipulated the hell out of you and gave you the ridiculous notion that the side I fought for was evil. We fought just as hard for what we believed in as you did. In the end, does it really matter? Does it make the people we fought with any less dead?" As he spoke, Draco pointed with the tines of his fork, emphasizing his words.

Stunned, or maybe satisfied, Potter said nothing.

"But we have another matter to discuss," said Draco, laying his fork across the top of his plate. This opportunity, to hit Potter off his guard even when he had another hour's worth of lectures to give, wasn't something Draco could ignore.

Potter still looked off-center when he responded, "And that is?"

"Sirius Black."

At the mention of Black's name, Potter blanched and put his fork down. "What about him?"

Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts. He'd planned all day for this moment and had to get it right on the first try. "My mother signed the Black house over to me."

Potter looked surprised but not shocked. "Hermione said that might happen, but don't your parents want to live there?"

"What for? They've lived in their house since before I was born. It's bigger than the Black house, which needs extensive repairs, and they've got everything they need there. They filed all the papers yesterday, and now my name is on the deed."

"Congratulations." Potter finished his wine and pushed his glass away. "Did you invite me to dinner so you could gloat over this?"

Draco wasn't about to let Potter provoke him. He said his next words gently, in a way that told Potter he was sympathetic to Potter's loss. "Sirius Black meant a lot to you."

Expression softening, Potter said, "Sirius was my...godfather."

"I know. I know Black was important to you and your family in a way that no one else was." He let Potter think on this for a moment, then continued, "I have something you want, Potter, something that has more significance to you than it would to anyone else, and I'm willing to sell it to you. Right now, the only thing standing between you and the Black house is the question of how much Black is worth to you, how far you're willing to go for him."

Potter was slow to answer, and he didn't sound sure of his response. "It's not about what Sirius is worth. This is about what it's worth to me to not have you living in Sirius's house."

Triumph soared in Draco's heart, but he wasn't giving in just yet. "Maybe that's part of it."

Draco said nothing else save for refusing coffee and dessert when the waiter came back. When the bill arrived, he reached into the pocket of his robes. So did Potter.

"I can pay for my own dinner."

"Don't worry about it," said Draco, pulling out his small purse. "Everyone at work thinks I'm taking you out for business reasons. I'll expense it."

With a muffled clink, Potter's money hit the table. "No." He reached for the check and slid it back toward Draco, hand firmly placed over his Galleons. "I'll pay for myself."

Figuring there wasn't much he could do, Draco shrugged and added his coins to the pile. He could allow Potter this one resistance. It wasn't like Potter would get the chance at many more. "At least you tip well," he commented.

Once Potter had his cloak on he tried to leave the restaurant, but Draco took his arm and spoke quietly in his ear.

"Come with me."