The Mystery Wife

Breakfast the next morning began as a rather cranky, awkward, silent affair, after what had to have been the most embarrassing game of Wizarding Truth or Dare ever seen within the walls of Hogwarts.

Pansy had had to snog Hermione Granger for five minutes. Potter had been made to strip off and run naked to Greenhouse Three to procure a perfect rose to give to Draco, along with a declaration of his undying love. Potter was the first one naked, but by no means the last; the sight of Ron Weasley's ginger nudity was going to be burned into the tormented rods and cones of Draco's eyes for many years to come.

And, of course, Draco, who had utterly refused to take any dares, bugger that for a lark, had been forced to confess his crush on Professor Snape.

All the girls had looked madly teary-eyed and sympathetic, and the blokes had shifted to get away from him, as if his gayness might be catching. Except for Potter, interestingly enough, who seemed to already be taking the crush as given, and Neville Longbottom of all people, who blurted, "That makes me like you better," and blushed red as a beet.

Needless to say, there is such a thing as too much sharing, and this morning, nobody was meeting the eyes of anybody else.

It was going to be a long train ride home.

"Would you pass the coffee, Malfoy?" Theo asked a bit delicately, all polite formality, as if he hadn't been spanked publicly by Zabini last night.

"Of course," Draco replied, equally formal, and floated the coffee pot over to him. Mostly so he didn't have to pass it by hand and watch any more male friends flinch. Who knew that gayness-- and that hardly seemed a fair cop, as he fancied girls as well-- was the modern version of leprosy?

No one did flinch, though; apparently they were all so royally embarrassed by their own antics and confessions that his own were largely forgotten.

"So," Theo began again, "what happens next? Where are you all going, now that we've graduated?"

"I was planning on being idle rich, thank you," said Zabini, considering his perfectly pared nails.

"Fun, but I suspect I'll get bored doing only that, eventually," Draco drawled with an elegant shrug. "So I've got a Potions apprenticeship. I'm off for Paris tomorrow."

Pansy gasped, all her embarrassment over last night apparently forgotten. "Paris? Oh, I love Paris! I want to visit you and take you to all my favorite shops!"

Draco couldn't quite smother a laugh. "Pansy, I will be elbow-deep in flobberworm entrails or some such thing," he told her, grinning fondly at her. "My time won't be my own, you know. If I go anywhere, it'll have to be with my Mistress' permission. And moreover, I don't care what I said last night-- you are never, ever getting me to wear pink."

She snorted indelicately at him. "You wouldn't look good in most shades of pink anyway. And anybody who was surprised that you crushed on Professor Snape is just blind and stupid. I mean, come on. But seriously, Draco, I want to come visit one afternoon. And I want us to go out shopping, just like old friends. Say we can. And I want to hear all about this new Mistress."

Before Draco could get out a word, however, the owls began flying in with Daily Prophets, and his own was dropped in his lap. Right there on the front page, there was another enormous picture of him in a pseudo-romantic clinch with someone, and this time, it was Sevanna.

It was the picture Draco's mother had taken of them at the Altitude 95 bar in the Eiffel Tower, on Draco's birthday.

"HARRY POTTER JILTED!" the headline read. Draco's eyes swiftly and feverishly scanned the article beneath the picture.

This newspaper can exclusively reveal that Draco Malfoy, recently outed as the love interest of the Savior of the Wizarding World, has just been married to the notoriously reclusive Canadian Potions Mistress Sevanna Prince in a quiet civil ceremony arranged by their families. According to the Prophet's sources, neither of the two newly married parties were present at their own wedding; Narcissa Malfoy stood in for her son, Draco, and an allegedly delighted Octavius Prince stood in for his daughter, Sevanna.

"We're simply thrilled for both of them," a beaming Narcissa Malfoy told the Prophet in an interview held afterward at the Malfoys' sumptuous Wiltshire manor. "They'll be a perfect match. Sevanna is a little older, and can give Draco the grounding and guidance he needs, and our Draco can draw out the hardworking and serious Sevanna and teach her to enjoy life. She's an old friend of the family, and Lucius and I couldn't be more delighted to snatch her up for a daughter-in-law."

"She will give the Malfoys brilliant and extremely powerful heirs," added Lucius Malfoy. "And the recent war has been enough to convince me that the pureblood families have interbred for too many centuries, to the point of damaging themselves. Sevanna Prince-Malfoy is a halfblood, and will assuredly breed... what did you call it, Narcissa, darling?"

"Hybrid vigor," Narcissa said promptly. "Like in roses."

"Yes. Hybrid vigor back in to refortify the Malfoy bloodline," Lucius agreed.

Where the Malfoys blaze the trail, others have always followed, and it may perhaps be hoped that other old pureblood families will follow the Malfoys' fine example.

But what the Boy Who Lived will make of this is anyone's guess, and in a life already marked by such terrible losses and sacrifices, it is sad indeed to think that the world's most eligible bachelor has been so callously tossed back on the market.

Then again, ladies, that may be good news for the rest of us.

Draco set down the paper with hands that he dimly noticed were trembling.

"What is it, Draco?" Millicent frowned.

"It appears I've gotten married," he drawled, his voice sounding odd and harsh and distant through the roaring in his ears. He didn't dare look up at the High Table. Except that he'd have to, sooner or later, and oh, Merlin... "Good of someone to let me know, even if it was the Daily Prophet."

"WHAT?!" Pansy, Daphne and Millicent chorused, and it happened to be echoed by the dulcet tones of Harry Potter, over at the Gryffindor table.

Draco's eyes drifted unwillingly upward to the high table. Severus was white as a blanchroot and trembling with rage from head to foot. He collected himself with visible effort, folding the paper carefully and carrying it with him as he flew over to the Slytherin table.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said impressively neutrally, "it seems you are to be congratulated. Were you by chance aware of these arrangements before this morning?"

"No, sir," Draco replied tightly, suppressing the hideous urge to babble excuses and apologies. If he were lucky, that was all he'd babble-- and he knew what his luck was like. "I wasn't. Do you think I might borrow the Floo in your office, sir? I'd like to talk to my parents. To thank them, of course."

Severus' mouth tightened. "Of course. I, too, believe I would like to look in on my old friends, to offer my felicitations. Shall we?"

Across the room, Potter and Granger were watching them with undisguised curiosity. As was everyone else.

Brilliant.

"Unless everyone wants me to bring up stuff that happened last night," Draco drawled, acidly and loudly, stalking towards the doors, "you can all bloody well go back to your breakfasts."

A flick of his wand sent rose petals showering down around the two most knowledgeable gawkers, just for good measure. White for Potter, the exact colour of the rose he'd brought back from Greenhouse Three, and an eye-searing and meaningful pink for Granger.

Severus soared along beside him, and then seemed to think better of it and veered away to talk to Minerva McGonagall.

"Severus, what..." she began, and he cut her off with an impatient shake of the head.

"Minerva, would you kindly see everyone safely onto the train?" he asked stiffly. "It seems I have a matter to attend to which will not wait."

"Yes, I would say you do," she said shrewdly, her eyes traveling from Severus to Draco and back again. "Will I see you again?"

"I'll call on you directly, and explain everything. I owe you that."

"After the last year, I'm surprised you feel you owe me anything."

"The fifteen before that say otherwise."

McGonagall actually smiled at that. "Go on with ye," she shooed him. "Come tell me everything later, over a dram of scotch."

"Madam," he said smoothly, taking her hand and kissing it, "I look forward to it."

Her eyes widened, not to find the touch of his hands or lips like ice. "Severus, you're..."

"Later," he said, "I will explain everything. I promise."

She peered at him owlishly. "Alright, Severus, I'll sit on my curiosity until then. Beast."

"Shrew," he replied, the ghost of an almost-smile about his lips in spite of everything. "I'll see you later."

"You'd best."

Severus flew out the doors in Draco's wake.