After All

After All

Prologue: In Which We See Illustrated the Importance Improvisation Skills

For everything there is a season

- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

If you asked Draco Malfoy what he was doing outside the famed 'Burrow', last known residence of one Harry Potter, he would not have been able to tell you. Still, standing in the gnome-infested yard while snow fell wet from the sky before melting on the ground, he raised his fist, and knocked firmly once, twice, three times.

There was a sudden silence on the other side of the door, and Draco could only imagine the whispered conversation the inhabitants of the hovel were having.

'Who in their right mind would come calling on Christmas Eve?' someone would hiss worriedly as they put down a half-finished garland of freshly-popped popcorn.

'It must be important,' a more rational voice would insist, cautiously standing, and creeping towards the unlined curtains that covered the windows.

'Or a Death Eater,' someone would say darkly, perhaps Potter himself. Draco had read that the world's Wonder Boy had become even more brooding since the final battle between he and Voldemort a mere ten years ago.

Personally, Draco had bought an apartment in muggle New York, and lived day to day hoping his father and/or mother wouldn't cut off his access to the family vaults, or re-write their wills. Luckily, they hadn't, and, now that Narcissa was dead, having been killed while fighting Aurors in Manchester, and Lucius had been declared legally insane, Draco was the sole owner of the Malfoy fortune, executor of both his parent's legacies, and owner one of the darkest plots of land in all of England - Malfoy Manor.

Which was exactly why he was looking for, of all people, Harry Potter.

The door to the ramshackle house in front of him creaked open, drawing Draco's attention back to the real world; the real world where a woman with short, red hair was standing in front of him with an elegantly plucked and raised eyebrow.

Looking at her, Draco found himself thinking that she was out of place in her surroundings. Ginny Weasely had grown into the kind of woman he was accustomed to seeing in nouvelle restaurants wearing severe black and white suits with low cut blouses, high heels, and chic little purses. Instead, she was bundled in multiple jumpers with a badly knit scarf wound round her neck, and wearing on her head something that resembled a woolly bladder, but Draco presumed was meant to be a winter hat.

'I need to speak to Harry Potter,' Draco said after a moment. Privately, he thought that his chances of finding him had just improved, if the way Potter and Ginny Weasely had been attached at the lips during their sixth year at Hogwarts was any indication.

'And just who are you?' she asked rudely, before being hauled out of the doorway by two other women.

'Never mind her,' said the first, a pregnant brunette with a head full of bushy hair Draco recognized instantly. 'It's what comes from a first pregnancy.' The woman patted her own burgeoning stomach with pride. 'She's only three months along, you can hardly tell.'

Draco had never, in all his years at Hogwarts, imagined Hermione Granger to be the type to sit quietly at home, knitting and popping out babies year after year. She had always seemed like the type to have one or two children, enough for a decent sized family at least, and then continue on with her career. Maybe he was reading too much into the situation.

'I'm afraid I don't recognize you either, though.' She turned to the second woman, a shapely blonde, and asked: 'Is he someone you know?'

The woman shook her head, blond hair cascading around her shoulders in a manner Draco was certain he would have found attractive had he not been a) freezing and b) very, very gay.

''Ee iz not a friend of mine,' the woman said, her French accent strong. 'I theenk 'ee can tell us 'ou 'ee iz?' She looked at him enquiringly, momentarily highlighting the faint lines around her eyes.

Draco sighed, and barely resisted the urge to massage his temples. He knew that he had changed since leaving Hogwarts in his sixth year. Everyone had, judging by Hermione Granger's expectant mother glow, and Ginny Weasley's out of place elegance, but this was quickly becoming ridiculous.

When he had first arrived back in England, Draco had set off to see his old friend Pansy Parkinson, only to find that she now went by the name of Pansy Wood, and was a rising star in the fashion industry. Even Pansy had taken considerable persuasion, and whispered secrets to believe that the blue-haired man in front of her was really her childhood friend.

Sometimes, Draco had trouble believing it himself.

'My name is Hugh,' Draco supplied quickly, not wanting to spend an hour proving his identity only to be turned out on his arse again. 'I need to find Harry Potter. Quite badly.'

Granger and the French woman gave him a final once over before opening the old door fully. 'Come in,' said the French woman. 'Seet on zee couch, 'Arry should be 'ere soon.'

'Merci,' Draco said with a small smile. 'Qu'est t'appelle?'

'Je m'appelle Fleur Delacour-Weasley,' Fleur replied kindly. 'Eet iz good to meet you.'

Draco nodded, and tried to contain his surprise. When last he had seen Fleur, she had been competing in the Tri Wizard Tournament alongside Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, and Viktor Krum.

Draco was led into a cluttered sitting room filled to the brim with red headed children and adults, although there were a few brunettes sprinkled liberally in the mix, and he was certain there was at least one more person with a hair colour as improbable as his own in the far corner.

'Sit here. When Harry arrives someone will tell him you're here,' Granger said pleasantly. 'Help yourself to some - Frederica, Georgina, those better not be real frogs! - Eggnog while you wait.' She turned in the direction to which her motherly warning had been shouted, but Draco reached out desperately and grabbed a limb.

'Wait,' he said. 'Do you know if he has a diary or keeps a schedule?'

Granger looked puzzled, but shook her head. 'No, he doesn't keep either, although he should, what with all the meetings he constantly has to rush off to - why?'

Draco sighed, and stood. 'I don't think he'll be coming tonight. Could I trouble you for some Floo powder, and his address?'

Granger's expression grew incredulous. 'He hasn't missed a Christmas at the Burrow since -' she was abruptly cut off as someone tumbled through the fireplace, and a cheer erupted in the crowd. 'That will be him,' she shot Draco an 'I told you so' look he remembered vividly from Arithmancy. 'I'll go fetch him, you wait here.'

Draco sighed, and slumped into the chair Granger had led him to. If Potter was here then Draco was probably wasting his time, and needed to completely re-evaluate the situation, and all the clues he had which had pointed him in Potter's direction, the most obvious being the two names scrawled in blood on the floor of the Malfoy dining room.

Potter and Granger were cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, and Draco found his mind speeding to create a suitable cover story; anything besides the truth.

'Hello,' Potter said once he'd reached Draco, and Granger had melted into the background noise. Potter spoke with the air of someone meeting an old school chum who one doesn't remember in the slightest. 'Hermione tells me you came here to see me.' Potter's eyes drifted to where Granger was leaning against a tall, red-haired man before focusing on her very pregnant belly.

Draco smiled.

'How did you know where to be today, Potter?' Draco asked amicably, knowing that he sounded nothing like he had when he and Potter had gone to school. After all, it stood to reason that his accent would have faded after all those years in America. Still, Draco was gratified to see Potter's eyes widen in recognition.

'Malfoy?' he asked incredulously.

Draco nodded. 'The one and only, Potter. Now, how did you know you needed to be here today?'

'I - I spend every Christmas at the Burrow, Malfoy. It's not a new experience.'

'Let me rephrase,' Draco sneered. 'How did you know today was Christmas?'

Potter looked so baffled that for a second Draco actually believed that the other man had no idea what he was talking about, but for a moment fear flitted across Potter's face, and Draco knew he had to be right.

'You're not alone, Potter,' Draco said amicably. 'Owl me tonight. We're in this together.'

Draco smiled, tucked a strand of blue hair behind his ear, and Disapparated.

~*~

Draco opened his eyes - Apparation always made him feel a bit queasy if he didn't have them closed - and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for his notebook. Flipping it open, and taking out a self-inking quill, Draco penned a question mark next to Potter's name.

Potter's and his weren't the only ones that were on the list, weren't the only ones that had been etched in blood on the Malfoy dining room. It pained him a bit to look at the list, mostly because he and Potter seemed to be the only people from it who had managed to live as long as they had. Although, Percy Weasley was technically alive - just in a seemingly irreversible coma.

Sighing, Draco strode from the Apparation room of the manor, and wound through the halls and rooms, headed for the dining room to decode more of the complex spell on the floor. He'd never seen anything like it - at least, he was pretty sure he'd never seen anything like it.

Draco wasn't really certain of anything anymore. The last thing he could remember was taking a pain-killing potion, and passing out, which seemed an odd thing to do after taking a potion that was supposed to stop things like that.

When he'd woken up, eyelids heavy, sprawled across a king-sized bed in a penthouse apartment in the middle of New York, he'd been quite surprised. You see, Draco remembered taking the potion when he was eighteen -- nine years earlier.

And that was precisely the problem. He'd been pulled forward into the future, and it looked like Potter had been too.

~*~

Chapter One: In Which Two Ends Won't Meet

And a time for every matter under heaven

- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Harry Potter had awoken one day, and had no idea where he was. The last thing he could remember was buying a drink from... well, from a bar somewhere, and knocking the whole thing back at once.

At first, he thought it was just his usual hangover haze, but then he noticed that the rooms he were in weren't his, his hands were larger, and Hedwig was staring at him from a suspiciously familiar perch in the corner.

His first act upon getting out of bed was to go into the bathroom in search of a mirror. His second had been to look for something with a date on it - well, technically his second had been to scream, but he liked to forget about that. He'd found a crumpled Daily Prophet in the rubbish bin, but it had turned out to be from the previous week. Still, it gave him the year, which was -- horrifyingly enough -- nine years in the future from his last memory.

His first thought was that he'd been in a coma, but a quick search of the suite he apparently lived in showed that he did, indeed, live in it. It also revealed that he taught Transfigurations at Hogwarts, and had at least twenty essays to mark.

Upon finding out the actual date on a small, Chudley Cannons desk calendar, Harry spent a moment contemplating the best course of action before deciding that he might as well try to mark his students essays - he'd completed his schooling until sixth year after all, and if there were any seventh year essays in the pile he could save them for later - and settling in to work. As he underlined mistakes on what turned out to be a third year Ravenclaw named Maria Boot's essay, Harry contemplated his options.

He knew when he was (which sounded odd, but was the only way he could find to put it) and he knew where he was, which might have been slightly more important. Now, if only he could figure out why he'd never listened to Hermione's advice and kept a calendar. People in movies always had a calendar lying around to tell them where and when they were supposed to be. Of course, people in movies generally also found newspapers that weren't a week old.

It was, he supposed, what came from being Harry Potter.

Sighing, Harry looked down, and swore. Maria Boot's essay was now covered in red swirls, very few of them resembling anything he'd seen his own teachers scrawl across an essay. Well, a Ravenclaw essay anyway, Snape had been known to carve frustrated squiggles into his earliest attempts at Potions essays.

Harry's head dropped into his hands. Who was he trying to fool? Obviously, he was screwed.

~*~

A week later, Harry tumbled out of an old fireplace into the middle of one of the busiest Christmas parties he'd ever hoped he'd been invited too. He'd waited for hours for someone to Floo him, yelling at him for missing a date or being late, but when the call never came, took a chance, and tried for The Burrow. Judging by the spontaneous cheer that erupted when he arrived, he'd guessed correctly.

As soon as he had stood, a very pregnant Hermione had waddled up to him, smiling, and told him that Hugh was waiting for him by the door.

Hugh? he thought. Who the bloody hell is Hugh?

Smiling, and trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes off Hermione's belly, Harry followed her to an attractive young man with blue hair looking very out of place in one of the oldest chairs in the Weasely's house.

'Hello,' Harry said, hoping he didn't sound completely clueless. 'Hermione tells me you're here to see me.' Which, he realized after he said it, wasn't what Hermione had said at all.

'How'd you know where to be today, Potter?' the man asked amicably. Harry had to hold in a gasp of utter astonishment. Standing in front of him - no, in The Burrow - casual as you please, was Draco Malfoy. With an accent, and blue hair.

'Malfoy?' he asked incredulously.

Malfoy nodded in an all-together-too-amused fashion. 'The one and only, Potter. Now, how did you know you needed to be here today?'

'I - I spend every Christmas at The Burrow, Malfoy. It's not a new experience,' he managed to stutter, trying to hide his surprise.

'Let me rephrase,' Malfoy sneered. 'How did you know today was Christmas?'

Harry's mind was reeling. Of course Malfoy knew, he was obviously the one who'd pulled him to the future.

Malfoy smiled like a cat that'd gotten away with eating the canary. 'You're not alone, Potter. Owl me tonight. We're in this together.'

Malfoy gave him a superior look once more, tucked a strand of blue hair behind his ear, and Disapparated.

'Harry?' A hand landed on his shoulder.

Harry jumped, and turned. 'You scared me!' he laughed, and was about to say something else, when he noticed who had grabbed his shoulder. 'Ginny.'

Ginny smiled, which surprised Harry somewhat, because in his time he and Ginny had just broken up... again, and smiling was probably the last thing she wanted to do to him.

'We almost started dinner without you!' she exclaimed in a way that made Harry wonder if she'd been at the egg-nog early. 'Who was that nasty American boy who came calling for you, Harry?'

'You didn't recognize him?' Harry asked, surprised.

'I don't know anyone named Hugh,' Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. 'Least of all an American.'

'He's not strictly American,' Harry explained. 'I think he just lived there for a while or something. He went to school with us, Ginny. You honestly don't recognize him?'

Ginny shook her head. 'No, but Harry, don't get involved with him, all right? He's a bad sort, a woman always knows.'

'What?'

'Don't let him charm you into his bed with his American wiles, Harry,' Ginny said seriously.

'I - what?' Harry had broken things off with Ginny, certainly, but he couldn't recall telling anyone about his attraction for his own sex.

'I saw the way he looked at you, all appraising like. Never trust a man who wears a cravat, mum always said,' Ginny said firmly, tucking her arm through his. Harry tried to remember if Malfoy had been wearing a cravat. 'Take me to Hermione and Phlegm. We must protect you from Hugh, if that is his real name.'

Harry thought better of telling her she was, at least, right about the name thing.

~*~

Sitting with Hermione, Fleur, and Ginny, Harry learned an awful lot about what he'd been doing, and what had happened, in the last eight years. For example, Hermione was nearing the end of her second pregnancy, Ginny had just started her first, and Fleur had sworn off kids after her first because of how fat she looked pregnant.

'The 'ormones,' Fleur purred, managing to make the word sound incredibly dirty. 'I did not like them at all, 'Arry. They are what make Ginny act so... strangely, no?'

Hermione put down her knitting, and huffed at Fleur. 'Don't be so negative, Fleur. Children are wonderful things, and being pregnant is a learning experience for everybody.'

Which, Harry thought bemusedly, was an extremely Hermione thing to say.

'So Harry,' Hermione said with a content smile. 'Who was the American bloke? He seemed dead set on seeing you, when I told him you weren't here yet he wanted Floo Powder!'

'Er...' Harry said, glancing cautiously at Ginny. 'No one.'

Hermione and Fleur raised their eyebrows in tandem. 'Are you sure, Harry?' Hermione asked. 'He seemed like your type.'

'Hermione!' Harry exclaimed.

'Oh come on, mate,' a red head giant he assumed was Ron said, coming up behind Hermione, and wrapping his arms around her. 'You know how she gets when she's pregnant; she wants everybody to settle down. Remember last time with Seamus?' Ron chuckled, and Harry smiled weakly.

'Oh hush,' Hermione cooed. 'Is it a sin to want to see my best friend happy?'

'Not everybody wants a white picket fence, Hermione,' Remus said, coming up behind the cuddling couple with his arm around Tonks. Harry was relieved to see that very little had changed there, Tonks' hair was still pink, Remus' hair had gotten greyer since the last time Harry had seen him - admittedly, eight years in the past - and neither of them wore wedding bands.

As the conversation went on around him Harry began to realize that he really was over his head here, and an ally - even an ally with the last name of Malfoy - would be endlessly helpful. 'Hermione,' he said. 'Could I borrow something to write with, and something to write on - I think I'm going to owl Hugh.'

Hermione nodded, turned a triumphant smile on everybody else, and motioned for Harry to follow her.

'Oh, Harry,' she said as the two of them walked through The Burrow, dodging children and animals as they went. 'An American! You simply must bring him to the New Year's party!'

'Er,' Harry said. 'Yes, the New Year's party. Where is it again?'

Hermione gave him a funny look, but didn't question his apparent forgetfulness. 'At Creaver's of course,' she said. 'And try to wear appropriate clothing, Harry. I know you don't like dressing up, but it's really important that we all make a good impression on all the ministry officials who're going to be there.'

'Of course,' Harry said dutifully, wondering what he'd done in the past eight years to make Hermione so nervous about what he'd wear to a black tie event.

Hermione made a doubting noise in the back of her throat, and swung a door open. Harry couldn't remember The Burrow having its own separate letter writing room/owlery, but eight years was a long time.

Harry picked up a quill, and a scrap of paper. 'Where do you think I should ask him to meet?' he asked Hermione. After all, who knew what shops were, and were not, still around.

'How about the new restaurant in Diagon Alley you were raving about the other day? The one in Florean Fortescue's old spot?'

'Oh,' Harry said. 'Yes, of course.' Dipping the quill in ink, he scrawled a quick message to Malfoy, asking him to meet around noon the next day in Diagon Alley, and ... stopped. 'Which owl should I use?' he asked Hermione. None of the three owls sitting on an overly large perch in the centre of the room looked familiar.

'Use Pig,' Hermione said. 'I should get back to the party, Harry. Who knows what sort of trouble Georgina and Fredericka have gotten into with me out of the room!'

Harry smiled like he knew what she was talking about, and watched her leave with trepidation.

Turning to the owls, Harry raised an eyebrow. 'So,' he said. 'Which of you is Pig? Come on, there's probably a gourmet owl treat in it for you. I'm sure Malfoy has a ton of them. And think of all the pedigree owls you can flirt with when you get there.' The three owls gave him a look that said they were thoroughly unimpressed.

'Right. If you don't step forward, Pig, I'll have to summon you.'

One of the owls flew to Harry's outstretched arm, somewhat reluctantly, and gave him a sharp nip on the inside of his wrist.

'Ouch!' Harry said, tying his letter to the owl's leg. 'I'd complain, but I think I deserved that.'

Pig hopped off his arm, and flew furiously into the night sky.

~*~

Draco was toasting marshmallows in the fireplace of his father's study when he heard the familiar sound of an owl scratching at the window. Carefully balancing the antique sword he'd been using in lieu of a stick on the edge of the fireplace, he got up and walked to the window.

"Hello," he said as he opened the window. "Are you from who I think you're from?"

The owl hooted sullenly, and held out a leg with a letter tied to it. Draco chuckled softly, and untied the letter. He read it quickly, before pulling out a pen - one of the muggle devices he'd discovered while in America - and scrawling an affirmative reply next to Potter's lunch invitation.

"Are you up to another flight?" he asked the owl, who gave him a dirty look. "Of course, excuse me." Draco tied the note in place, and watched as the owl took off again. Turning, Draco walked out of the study, marshmallows forgotten.

Malfoy Manor had been intimidating even when it had been full of house-elf, and he had lived here with his parents. Now though, he wished that he had a cat or something to keep him company - the manor was a creepy place to be alone in. The dining room was only a few rooms down from his father's study, and it didn't take him very long to reach it.

The doors were open, the long, oak table he'd eaten at nearly every day before going to Hogwarts overturned against the far wall of the room, and symbols were scrawled in blood across the Georgian floors.

Draco took a moment, not stepping into the room, to read the list of names attached to one side of the elaborate pattern. Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Rufus Scrimgeour, Percy Weasley, Alastor Moody, and Draco Malfoy. It kind of pissed him off - even only remembering two years of his stay in America, he'd managed to pick up the slang - that he'd been thrown in on the end - after Percy Weasley, for God's sake - but he supposed that by the time the Death Eaters had gotten around to casting the curse, he'd already been missing for two years.

Snape had been killed shortly after the end of the war in what would have been Draco's seventh year. He'd only known because he had stopped getting letters from the man - not that he had answered them, mind you, but Snape had understood. The Minister for Magic had died in the same attack that left his secretary and entourage in a coma, Moody had died of old age in Bermuda, and suddenly he and Potter were the only ones left.

~*~

After returning from the Weasleys' Christmas party, Harry had fallen into bed without setting an alarm, and was subsequently running late for his lunch date - meeting - with Malfoy. "Shit," he said, collapsing into a chair across from the irate, blue-haired man. "Sorry, I forgot to set an alarm last night."

"I'm sure," Malfoy drawled in the same disdainful way that had led to many a fight at school. "Up late with the Weaselette?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Oh, come on, Malfoy. That relationship ended a long time ago."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "In recent memory?" he asked slyly.

"I - look, Malfoy, why don't you just tell me what you're here for?"

"Fine." The disdain cleared from his features, and Malfoy's shoulders slumped slightly. "I'll be frank; when I came from America I found a spell at work in Malfoy Manor. It's powerful, and as it uses blood magic, I'm pretty sure it's Dark too."

Harry's mouth was suddenly dry. His last encounters with blood magic had involved an evil overlord.

"Potter, I need to know, are you ... you?"

"I - Malfoy, do you have any idea what you're asking?"

Malfoy nodded, and gestured a waiter over. "I'll take that as a yes. Shall we order lunch?"

Harry sighed, and glanced half-heartedly at the menu in from of him. The restaurant - Scott Free's - was comfortable and family oriented, full of average families with two parents and 2.3 kids on a day trip from the suburbs. Harry found it very relaxing, but he could see that Malfoy was having trouble settling in. He smiled.

"I'll have a cheeseburger and fries," he told the waiter with a polite smile, "and pumpkin juice to drink, please."

"A BLT, hold the pickles," Malfoy snapped, shooing the man away.

"Malfoy, it wouldn't kill you to be polite," Harry said, a small frown marring his forehead. "If we're going to work together on this ... thing, then we need to be able to keep away from each other's throats."

Malfoy's mouth twitched, and Harry, realizing too late what he had said, rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean, Malfoy."

"I do, and let me be the first to drag this thing out in the open. This is the future." Malfoy swept his hand outwards, somehow encompassing the restaurant, the Weaselys, and his blue hair all in one go. "Eight years to the future."

Harry nodded. "Eight years, give or take a few months. Do you have any idea why we're here?"

"Well as I said," Malfoy replied dryly, "there's this ruddy big bloodstain in my dining room that may have something to do with it."

Harry smiled, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "Alright, Malfoy, let's compare notes."

~*~

Potter, Draco reflected, wasn't that bad to spend time with. Granted, he wouldn't do it by choice, or want to be around him for longer than was strictly necessary, but in the end, he was decent company.

"So let me get this straight," Draco said, placing his napkin down on the table. "You remember drinking something just before waking up ... here?"

Potter nodded. "Yeah, I was in a bar, and then bam! I woke up in a strange bed."

Draco smiled. "I assume you didn't immediately know you were in the future?"

"No," Potter laughed. "It took me a while. Apparently, I'm the Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts now; go figure, right?"

"I can see you teaching," Draco said. "You had that club going in our fifth year, didn't you? Dumbledore's Army? Only I would have thought you'd be in charge of Defence classes."

"Honestly, I would have too," Potter replied. "I hadn't finished up my schooling when I got pulled here. I'm hoping that we can get ourselves out of this place before classes start up again, and I have to attempt seventh year Transfigurations."

Draco laughed. "I was lucky, I guess. I woke up in a penthouse apartment in New York with a designer wardrobe, and an impressive bank statement. I came back over here as soon as I could, but the only one of my friends not dead or in jail was Pansy. Did you know she married Oliver Wood?"

"Oliver!" Potter exclaimed. "Really? A Slytherin and a Gryffindor in a relationship together? How odd."

Draco nearly groaned. How like Potter to divide up the world into Houses when Hogwarts was years behind them. "They're people, Potter," he snapped. "Not a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, just two people who happened to find each other and fall in love. I, for one, respect them."

Potter frowned back at him. "I didn't mean anything by it, Malfoy. Even you should be able to see how strange it is."

"And I suppose the only colours you believe in are black and white, is that it, Potter?" Draco spat. This had been a mistake. He should never have gone looking for Potter, let alone suggested working with him, even for a common goal.

He pushed away from table - the restaurant wasn't even his taste, homey and family oriented as it was - and stood. "Obviously, it was a mistake to think we'd be able to get along long enough to get ourselves out of this fucking pantomime of a future. Goodbye, Potter - I'll get the check: can't have the saviour of hundreds breaking the bank over a mere Slytherin."

He turned fast, throwing a handful of Galleons - far too many, he thought with a grimace - onto the table behind him, and marching out of the restaurant as fast as he could without running outright.

Behind him, he could hear Potter's affronted blustering, and none of his fellow restaurant patrons were even pretending not to be watching them.

As soon as he had the door of the tacky place open, he Apparated back to Malfoy Manor for a nice, stiff drink.