Morality for Beautiful Slytherins

V.

The day after Potter left his flat, Draco couldn't concentrate, and that pissed him off. He spilled coffee all over the Holyhead papers, broke the tip off his best quill, and flew into an unnecessary rage at Miller. To Miller's credit, he remained mostly calm throughout Draco's mood swings, though there were moments when Draco could see the folders in Miller's hands shaking. Draco also got the feeling that Miller switched his afternoon tea to something decaffeinated, but he wasn't going to call him on it. The last thing he needed was more stress, chemical or not. The Cannons-Prides game was scheduled for the following Tuesday and he had barely looked at the Cannons' starting lineup.

On top of the office chaos, he felt rain approaching. His ribs, hip, and arm hurt and Miller, whose sinuses were more accurate than the weather wizards, complained of a headache. Thinking of Potter, the house, and the Ballycastle-Puddlemere game kept Draco awake for most of Thursday night. He barely made it to work on time on Friday morning.

"The game tomorrow is going to be a mess," said Miller over a cup of coffee and a shared dose of pain-relieving potion at their Friday meeting, their last before the start of league championships. "Valerian still has health issues. Some referees are having travel problems, but I think we're just down to one missing and the rules do state that a qualified impartial party can step in, so it's not a complete loss. We can get someone from the Department, or I can owl whoever is first on the substitute list." He flipped through his papers. "The campgrounds the league rented for the duration of the tournament are overbooked, but there are always some people who don't show up, so maybe it won't be that bad. And you and I both know the weather's going to be complete rot. We'll probably lose some money on door tickets."

"The first game of the championships never goes as planned, so let's do one thing at a time, Miller. Start with Valerian." Despite his distraction over waiting for Potter's decision, which was due by midnight tonight, Draco was still mostly on top of his business. "Ballycastle.... Idiots should have known Valerian couldn't possibly be up for league championships. What were they thinking? I sent them an owl about it at his first sign of relapse and does their coach pay attention? Of course not." He shook his head and reached for the list of reserve Ballycastle Chasers. "Valerian's out of practice and weak and I cannot believe they're pulling this shit with less than twenty-four hours to go before the game."

Blatant disregard for players' health and welfare upset Draco more than almost anything else, and not just because cavalier coaches made his job more difficult. He knew from experience how easy it was for players to hide their illnesses and injuries to the point where a recovery day or three early in the season would have saved them from losing later games. It was one of the most important things he could do as League Team Manager, he believed, to advocate for the players' long-term careers when their coaches were too concerned with short-term wins. "Who are they putting in?"

"Lina Park, but they need your approval first. They said if Park can't go on, they want Christie Hitchings, but I think Hitchings has some eligibility issue or the other."

Draco pulled out Hitchings's file, which Ballycastle had included with their memos. "She's behind on her dues. Not the end of the world. Owl Ballycastle and tell them if they think she has to go on tomorrow that she needs to be paid up. But Park should be fine," he said, initialing her name on his list.

"Off the record?" asked Miller, leaning slightly forward. "I don't think it matters who they put in as Chaser, not as long as they have Harris. Potter is good, but Harris is better, even though Puddlemere's Chasers are superior to Ballycastle's. But like I said, off the record."

"Is that what you're saying to everyone you plan to collect from later?" Draco smiled. Miller regularly put a few Galleons in the office betting pool. He was hardly ever wrong in his predictions and had cleaned out the pool more than once. Draco himself never participated, but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy the gourmet coffee Miller brought him on the Mondays after he won the pool.

Miller maintained an innocent expression. "Me? Place a bet? You know I don't gamble, sir."

"Of course. A fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself would never gamble. So, whom have you bet on?"

"Puddlemere. But I think Harris is going to catch the Snitch. Went double or nothing on it, even."

"Well, good luck with that."

"Yes, sir."

Later that afternoon, an owl flew up to Draco's window. Personal mail always came to him via that window, rather than through Miller. It was probably something from his mother. He opened his window and took the letter. This wasn't a great time for one of her well-intentioned yet nagging letters, but he knew he had to read it now. Notes from his mother were like weeds; if he didn't address them immediately, they would multiply until they took over everything.

"You. Don't go anywhere yet," he said to the owl.

The seal on the back of the parchment wasn't the family crest. It had to be from Potter. Draco stood at his window as he ripped the parchment open.

Malfoy,

I accept your offer. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

Harry Potter

Draco couldn't help smiling. "Somehow I figured you'd do the right thing, Potter."

He took a fresh piece of parchment and a quill from his desk. As he dipped the quill into ink, he hesitated, quill hovering near the parchment. He was at a loss for words. What he wanted was a pointed comeback, but the moment wasn't really lending itself to such. Then again, maybe what the moment really called for was silence. Keeping Potter in suspense as to what would come. Fucking with his mind a little.

He replaced the quill and parchment. It would be far better, far more satisfying, to approach Potter in person. In real time, Potter wouldn't be able to think and rethink before he responded, or erase his thoughts from parchment five times before fabricating a perfect reply. Best of all, Draco could face him one-on-one, not giving Potter the chance to consult with anyone as to what he should say.

"Never mind," he told the owl. "Go."

As the owl flew away, Draco reached for the Ballycastle-Puddlemere papers. Tomorrow's game had to be his primary focus.

Saturday, as Draco's bones had predicted, was gray, rainy, and cold. It was terrible weather for playing Quidditch and even worse for watching it. Draco's alarm clock rang at seven-fifteen. He didn't have to be at the stadium until nine, but his parents had invited him for breakfast, an invitation that was, he knew, not optional. After a shower, tea, and a glance through the morning's Daily Prophet, he Apparated to his parents' home.

"It's good to see you, sweetheart," said Narcissa as Draco straightened his robes in the front hall. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek as she hugged him. "We know you're busy, but you could at least write a few lines. Or come for dinner. Don't you get lonely all by yourself?"

Were the guilt trips starting already? Draco counted to five before responding. Every time he visited, his parents went right for the personal-question jugular. "Not really. Well, not this week, anyway. League championships start today, so I've barely seen my flat this week. I've put in some very long hours and the next four weeks aren't looking any better. Maybe when championships are over I'll be able to come for dinner."

The scent of bacon wafted through the dining room as they sat down. Lucius lowered his paper, removed his reading glasses, and smiled tightly at Draco.

"Nice of you to join us. I barely recognized you."

"Father, this is a hectic time for me." Draco reached for a basket of toast and the butter dish. "I was just telling Mother that this is our busy season. League championships begin today. You know that."

"And then you start national and international recruiting."

"Yes. A couple of people over at the Ministry offices are making noise about a North American tour, but I'm trying to talk my way out of it."

Lucius took a sip of coffee. "Draco, it's not very good business practice to refuse a travel opportunity."

Though he knew his father only meant to offer what he thought was good advice about handling his job, Draco was annoyed by Lucius's chastising tone. Yes, his father was well connected in the Ministry, but Draco hated when he acted like he knew the day-to-day politics of the British and Irish Quidditch League. "We've talked about this before. It might not be good business practice, but the Ministry department knows I hate going to the States. They can send someone else. I've earned enough seniority to be able to say no from time to time and believe me, not having to go to New York or Boston is well worth the minor loss of my reputation." The look on Lucius's face said that he still disagreed with Draco, so Draco tried to lighten the mood. "Besides, have you ever been to New York in the summer? It smells like what London must have smelled like before indoor plumbing."

"Honey, do you plan on taking any holiday time this year at all?" asked Narcissa, sensing the tension forming between Draco and Lucius. "Your father and I admire your work ethic, but you're going to burn out."

"Actually, I was thinking of maybe taking some time off once the international tournaments are done and teams resume their regular training in the fall. I haven't had a real holiday in a while and I was thinking it might be nice to go back to Iceland. I haven't been there in a long time."

Draco stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth to keep from babbling, and the three of them lapsed into silence. He hated talking to his parents about his work. Lucius only thought he understood what Draco did every day and Draco didn't feel like explaining the inner workings of professional Quidditch to him. More importantly, Draco knew Lucius would likely never understand how much the rewards of his work - the freedom and financial independence - were worth to him. Lucius came to wealth the same way Malfoys had for generations: he inherited it.

On his twenty-first birthday Draco had inherited a sizeable sum of his own, but nearly all of it was untouched in his vault in Gringotts, earning interest. He enjoyed the fact that he would never have to worry about money in his life. Since he'd started making his own way in the Quidditch world, however, the pleasure of knowing that he could live off his inheritance had taken a back seat to the pleasure of knowing that he and only he had secured himself financially, that only his earnings and smart investing had put him in the position to buy his own flat. There was something immensely satisfying about being able, if he wanted, to tell his parents to go to hell and still be able to maintain his lifestyle. Not that he planned on doing such a thing, but somehow, even after seeing his parents win the Black house, the Malfoy money didn't mean as much to him as it used to.

House-elves brought platters of eggs, bacon, and cinnamon scones, Narcissa's favorite, to the table. After they returned to the kitchen, Lucius asked, "When do you plan to move into the house, Draco?"

The eggs in Draco's mouth lost their taste. "Well, er, didn't you want to do some work on it first? I thought it needed repairs."

"Oh, it does," replied Narcissa, "but they're not as extensive as I thought they would be." She smiled, clearly excited, ignoring her food. "The framework of the house is in very good shape, as is the roof. I've consulted with a few cleaning and building crews and they said if they work full-time they could probably be done in a few weeks, a month at most. Are you going to start working on selling your flat?"

This was not going the way Draco wanted it to. He had to buy himself more time than his mother was offering. "Not until after league championships, definitely, and I might even wait until after international trials. I haven't got the time to deal with that right now."

"If you wanted, I could talk to Mr. Belov for you. He was instrumental in helping us to get the house, you know, and we're so thrilled to be able to give it to you. You wouldn't even have to worry about selling your flat. He could prepare everything, run the sale, and all you would have to do is sign the papers."

"No! I mean, Mother, really, that's very kind of you, but now is not a good time for me to be dealing with paperwork and cleaning crews and whatnot." Draco put his fork down and made sure his mother maintained eye contact. "The next few weeks are going to be extremely busy for me, and in the evenings I will probably want to curl up in front of my fire with a very stiff drink, assuming I actually get home at night. The last thing I will want to do, I guarantee you, is faff around with real estate. Can we please drop this conversation until after international tryouts are over?"

"Draco, watch your tone around your mother," said Lucius in the voice he used when Draco misbehaved as a teenager. "She's trying to make your life easier."

"Mother, I apologize. It's just that right now, the only person who's going to make my life easier is the substitute referee at the game today. Or someone who can keep it from raining until the game is over." He looked into his coffee cup. Empty. Maybe that was for the best. His nerves were fraying fast enough just from talking to his parents.

"Speaking of the game, any thoughts on who will win today?" asked Lucius.

Checking his watch, Draco was relieved to see that it was a quarter to nine. "Not sure." The terms of his contract with the League restricted him from talking about anything interesting that wasn't in the Prophet or on the WWN, and he didn't like to make predictions about any of the games for fear of being accused of using insider knowledge for personal gain. "I don't know if you saw the papers this morning, but Valerian's ill again and Ballycastle had to put in a reserve. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the team altogether at the end of the season. It's too bad, because he was very strong on defense. Of course, Ballycastle also has Harris, who's arguably the best Seeker in the league. Maybe in all the UK. Put that together with this weather and who knows?"

Draco figured he had about a minute before they started asking if he'd met any nice pureblooded witches lately. He placed his silverware to indicate he was done. "Sorry I can't stay to chat," he said, removing his napkin from his lap, "but I really have to go. I have to be at the stadium early to deal with some...personnel issues."

Lucius and Narcissa nodded. "We'll be watching the games, of course," said Lucius as Draco walked around the table to hug his parents goodbye. "Try to at least owl us this week and let us know you're all right."

"I will."

The British and Irish Quidditch League kept a small office inside the stadium, and when Draco Apparated there he found Miller hard at work sorting papers and answering questions from referees.

"Mr. Malfoy, sir, you're here. Good. The delegation from the Irish national team is set to arrive in an hour. The vendors are getting set up but they're whinging a lot about this rain."

"Tell them to take it up with sales and advertising. Vendors are not my problem." Draco placed his briefcase on the desk, hung up his cloak and took the robes that designated him as league management off a hook at the back of the office. From behind a dressing screen in the corner he asked, "Have any of the players arrived yet?"

"Vakros, Harris, Potter, and Donnelly have checked in. They're in the locker rooms. Park should be here any minute if you want to--"

"You said Potter was here?" Draco pulled the robes over his head and smoothed the front.

"Yes. He checked in not long before you got here. Did you want me to summon him, sir?"

"No, that's fine, Miller, thank you. I'll go see him."

"Is he thinking about trying for a spot on another team?"

Draco nearly tripped on the edge of the dressing screen as he returned to his desk. "Is he what?"

"Some people in the office said you had dinner with him earlier this week. His contract with Puddlemere is up for renewal, isn't it? I think a lot of it is going to depend on how he plays against Harris today, because Puddlemere's--"

"Miller, no one appreciates your views of professional Quidditch more than I, and I mean that sincerely, but sometimes you need to tune out the office gossip. Potter's contract is a matter between himself and Puddlemere. If I wanted our conversation to be made public I would have gone to the Prophet. Understood?" Picking up a folder, Draco headed for the door.

"Yes, sir."

The locker room was humid and significantly warmer than the office. A few other players had arrived. Draco greeted them briefly as he looked down the rows of lockers. Potter sat on a bench in a row by himself, already dressed in his team robes. He raised one arm over his head and stretched to the side, and for a fleeting moment Draco felt a pang of envy. Jealousy of those whose careers had moved on without him, a jealousy strong enough to twist his stomach, was something he hid well until he entered a locker room during championship season. He should be here right now, Potter's equal on the field, maybe even playing against him. But for that freak gust of wind, he could be in his own team robes, doing those same stretches. Just watching Potter made him all too conscious of his tight hamstrings and the stiffness in his arm.

"Potter!"

Surprised, Potter lowered his arm and turned in the direction of Draco's voice. "Malfoy. Um, it's, er, good to see you." In a quieter tone, he said, "I thought we weren't meeting until after the game."

Draco sat down on the bench. "I figured now was as good a time as any."

"Er, I guess, but I really want to get some warm-ups done and clear my head a little before we go out on the field. Can we talk afterward?"

Draco widened his eyes. "Potter, are you trying to negotiate your way around your own agreement? That's not very becoming." He shifted so he was facing Potter, and their knees touched. "We'll talk now. Or rather, I'll talk and you'll listen. Got that?"

Potter scowled, but nodded. He backed away from Draco and crossed his arms over his chest.

"After the game, Apparate to my flat. Don't make any plans to go out tonight." The night before, Draco had decided that his flat would be the best place to meet. It gave him home field advantage, as it were. The place was spelled to protect him, every piece of art and furniture and literature chosen because it pleased him. Potter would have no choice but to know that he, like those possessions, was under Draco's control. Maybe it was a petty thing, making Potter skip what was sure to be a hard-earned celebration just to come over and maybe serve him dinner and clean his kitchen. But the house, Draco remembered, that house was anything but petty where Potter's feelings were concerned.

"Tonight? But we always go out after the game. If I don't join them it'll look suspicious. A couple of people have asked me already how my contract negotiations are going. Seems they saw us together at Palta and they think I'm leaving Puddlemere."

"Your choice. Your teammates or the Black house." Shrugging as though he didn't care which option Potter chose, he said, "Fake a sore throat or something. I'm sure it's not the first time someone had to back out of the post-game drinks." A quick glance over his shoulder revealed no one else in the row of lockers, but Draco bent to speak into Potter's ear. Potter's hair tickled his forehead.

"If you decide to come to my flat, you don't need to bring anything, but you should expect to be there for a good portion of the night. And if for any reason I read about your visit in the Prophet, I move into the house within an hour. Is that clear?"

"But I..." It was obviously killing Potter to agree to anything Draco suggested. He squirmed, taking quick glances around to see if any of his teammates had come to rescue him. "Come on, Malfoy. You've got to let me have this one night. What if I came tomorrow morning? There's no training scheduled. I could be there by... eight? Nine?"

Since Potter seemed to have all the agreeableness of a toddler, Draco decided to employ a little child psychology. "All right. You're welcome to come by on Sunday instead of tonight. But by then, you'll be competing for the house against the highest bidder. I hope Puddlemere plans to give you a raise."

He stood quickly and began to walk away. Potter grabbed his sleeve.

"Malfoy, wait!" came Potter's tight whisper.

"Yes?" Draco asked, turning so they were once again face to face.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'll be there. At your flat, after the game."

"Yes, you will," Draco replied, keeping his smile to himself.

The rain, as Miller had predicted, had less than desirable effects on the game. Door sales for tickets were abysmal. The game went on much longer than expected because both Seekers had difficulty seeing the Snitch. A small monitor inside the administration's tent on the side of the pitch provided Draco with a close, and more importantly, dry view of the game. For much of it he focused on Keaton Harris, who was a graceful, agile player and an absolute joy to watch. The international sports papers all predicted that he was in the running to be the next Viktor Krum. Draco couldn't disagree. He hadn't had the chance to play against Harris, but he'd seen him go head to head with the league's best. Every fight for the Snitch was a challenge, just the way Draco believed it should be. That was what he missed more than the flying itself, he knew. The challenge. Not that his current job didn't challenge him in other ways, but it wasn't anything to match the euphoria of winning.

Five hours after the game began, Harris caught the Snitch. Miller was triumphant in his betting; Puddlemere won by twenty points. The weather had worked in Miller's favor. Even though they couldn't win, Ballycastle leaned heavily, maybe too heavily, on Harris to end the game. Playing in the rain with a reserve Chaser during championships was too much of a burden for them. Puddlemere would go on to play the winner of the Cannons-Prides game.

Draco frowned as he packed up his papers and left the tent for the office. There was no way the Cannons would win. They were the worst team in the league, always had been. The Prides were going to play against Puddlemere in the third round. That game, thought Draco, was just going to be a big Harry Potter media frenzy. Portree had excellent Beaters and a Keeper with a consistent record, but Puddlemere was going to make them look like a Hogwarts house team. Potter was probably going to catch the Snitch in about five minutes and his picture would be all over the sports section of the Prophet the next day.

Back at the office, Miller was in a particularly good mood.

"Excellent prediction on Harris catching the Snitch, Miller. What did you win?" Draco asked as he changed into his day robes.

"Whatever's in the office pool, and Brennan from sales is buying my lunch for a week. I've got it planned already. Indian on Monday, Pret-A-Manger on Tuesday, and there's that new hamburger restaurant next to the ice-cream place for Wednesday..."

Miller's menu recitation was interrupted by coaches and referees bearing paperwork, and for the next hour he and Draco signed, filed, recorded, and sent owls. It definitely wasn't one of the parts of his job that Draco looked forward to, and it was seven o'clock before they could leave.

The latches on Draco's briefcase snapped shut, and he tapped them with his wand. "Have a good evening. I'll see you Monday morning. We'll have to go over some things for the Cannons-Prides game, then it's Holyhead versus Montrose in the other bracket."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

Potter arrived at Draco's flat around eight, his hair still wet. The scent of the aloe soap the Quidditch league kept in their showers filled Draco's kitchen. The two of them sat at the table, a bottle of white wine and two glasses between them.

"So, what's for dinner?" asked Draco, pouring himself some wine and relaxing in his chair.

Draco's question seemed to surprise Potter. He looked up, confused. "Dinner?"

"Yes, Potter, dinner. You know, the evening meal. I expect you're hungry after the way you played today."

"I lost. And I don't feel much like cooking." Potter sulked and ignored his own wineglass.

Draco rolled his eyes. Really? This was Potter's answer? First, he slid his wineglass and the bottle to one side so Potter had an unobstructed view of him. Then he sat up straight and spoke in a cold, patronizing voice. "So. You come here knowing that you're on my clock, and I mention dinner and your first response is that you don't feel like cooking? Potter, where are your brains?"

"I should have seen the Snitch earlier. It wasn't more than five feet over Harris's head at one point," said Potter, not paying attention to Draco.

"I know that. I watched the game. Everyone but you saw the Snitch. Everyone knows that Ryne, not you, won the game by knocking that Bludger right into Harris so Puddlemere had the chance to get far enough ahead to still win when he caught the Snitch. And now the game is over and I'd like some dinner." He paused. Potter was looking down at his hands, still visibly upset with himself. Though he was irritated by Potter's resistance to his orders, there was something in the defeated look on his face that made Draco soften a little. "Look, I'll excuse you from cooking tonight, if you'd rather do takeaway. But I'm in pain and hungry and I was not planning on spending the evening listening to you whinge about the fact that Harris is a better Seeker than you."

The last line seemed to transport Potter back to reality. "Harris and I are equally matched!"

Who did Potter think he was kidding? He was out of his damn mind. "We can have that argument after dinner. Which you're going to procure, one way or the other, right now."

"Hmph." Potter reached for the wine. He poured like a troll, Draco noticed, gripping the bottle as though he were trying to choke it. When his glass was full, he took a few sips. These seemed to take the edge off his attitude. The next time he spoke, the confrontation in his voice was replaced with grudging acceptance.

"Fine. Dinner. What do you want?"

"Pad thai." Indian might have been his default choice for business dinners, but Draco's greatest weakness was for pad thai. It was his comfort food, perfect, in his opinion, for this weather. "There's a place in Copenhagen that'll do--"

"I'm sorry, where?" Potter asked in disbelief.

"Copenhagen. You took great pride in telling me that you passed your Apparition test on the first try, so I know you'll be able to get there. They're quick with takeaway and I also like the panang curry, if you were looking for a suggestion for yourself." He reached for a quill and spare piece of parchment. "Here's the address." Sketching a small map, he added, "And here's a guide. Look for the apothecary shop across the street."

Potter stood and accepted the parchment, though he looked rather bewildered. "You really don't have a place around the corner where you go for this?"

"No, and your questioning me isn't going to make one appear out of thin air. Go."

Studying the map for a moment, Potter replied, "All right. I'll be back, er, soon." He Disapparated straight from Draco's kitchen.

While Potter ran his errand, Draco changed out of his workday robes into dark trousers and a white shirt. Then he stoked the fire in his living room and sat down to read a novel, the rain against his floor-to-ceiling window diffusing the lights of London.