Malfake

No one had ever seen Draco Malfoy in a stretched, holey “The Weird Sisters” T-shirt before, so when the face, though spread in the trademark smooth smile, appeared in the doorway of Malfoy Manor, Hermione didn’t immediately recognize it as familiar. “Am I… not too early?” the voice, losing its affected confidence, squeaked. As if massive white columns on either side of the entrance radiated chilly air, and the portico was about to crash down. “Just in time, Granger, come in. Slackers are always late,” Draco stepped back, letting the girl inside. Holding a cloth bag in her hand, Hermione took a few steps into the grayish silent expanse of the mansion, turning her head in astonishment. In the center of the avant-garde, breaking the surrounding minimalism, stood on a pedestal a gargoyle statue suspiciously resembling Lucius. “Thanks for the invitation, Draco. I thought I wouldn’t…” “Nonsense,” Draco waved his hand, closing the door and catching Hermione’s wary look at his sagging sweatpants. “If you need to change, Dobby will escort you. Hey, you!” Draco clapped his hands, and the hunched house-elf materialized from a small cloud of sparks and mist. “Escort the guest, change clothes.” The absurd pair slipped into the living room and upstairs, and Draco, stretching, glanced at the golden cuckoo clock visible through the remaining open door, behind which the event was about to take place. The unintentional lie turned out to be true: the Salazar’s children squad was indeed late. You can never rely on them, even in such trivial matters as the party’s timing. How to conquer power with such slobs, if Granger, the most dangerous opponent, arrived right on time. Finally, the doorbell rang. “I’ll open it myself, did you not understand the first time?” The host nudged Kiki, the elf, who rushed to open the door. The noisy, and probably already partly drunk, group burst through the door, almost sweeping Draco away. “Keep yourselves in check, puppies,” Malfoy stepped back disgustedly, giving the younger Greengrass a chance to collapse flat on the polished malachite floor, if Blaise’s lifting crane hadn’t grabbed her by the collar at the last moment, slamming the T-shirt neckline into her throat. She coughed, groping for support with her hands. “Thanks for not strangling me,” Astoria rubbed her neck, on which a red stripe was visible, glaring from under long eyelashes. “Autoerotic asphyxiation — later according to the plan tonight,” the mulatto winked. “Merlin,” Draco rolled his eyes, “don’t try so hard; our clown tonight is someone else.” The ridiculous quintet now huddled in the gloomy-triumphant avant-garde, looking as absurd as Neville Longbottom on a broomstick. Colorful T-shirts hid home shorts with elastic bands, exposing only the pale feminine legs of Astoria, Pansy, and Daphne. Theo and Zabini, despite the flashy parade of absurdity, tried to maintain important faces between thrown jibes at the “carefree” girls, suspecting, damn it, that Mickey Mouses and pink centaurs on T-shirts undermine the prestige built up over the years of terror at Hogwarts. “The ancestors are not home until next week,” Draco, stretching his words, followed into the living room, silently inviting the others to follow his straight back, the T-shirt on sharp shoulders of which hung like on a hanger. “So, in principle, what happens in the manor stays in the manor.” This relatively compact space cut through the cold of the desolate estate with the presence of a living fire and a warmer, pleasant color palette unfamiliar to the prevailing interiors. The wall opposite the entrance was occupied by a floor-to-ceiling shelf with exotic books of various bindings and thicknesses. At the far left end stood a velvety chocolate armchair and a tiny table with a lily-shaped lamp on a long stem. A semi-circular S-shaped massive python-red leather sofa, the centerpiece of the living room furniture composition, was directed towards the blazing fireplace, and from the opposite side ran stairs to an isolated floor. Both the living room and the floor belonged directly to Lucius’s son. And here, he always remained in a good mood. “Co-zy!” Pansy sang, circling the back and sliding into the gap between leather and glass table, littered with snacks and bottles. “What about jokes, did you hire a magician?” Zabini chuckled, slipping past Parkinson on the left and immediately discreetly directing his hand behind her shoulder, sitting next to her. Right behind him, with her feet on the seat, climbed Daphne; on the opposite side from Pansy sat Nott, and following him, Astoria pressed against him, leaving a free space on the right edge for Draco. The last vacant seat on the left was crowned by a lonely plastic cup, while others had silver cups more suitable for the home atmosphere. Draco couldn’t bring himself to eat chips from anything less elegant than Abraxas’s alpine crystal tray. If you can, you must. Because beauty is the sister of power, and the ironic post-modern T-shirt only emphasizes the power of greatness. Although, if he were completely honest, it was still a bit repulsive, even though he ordered Kiki to iron the T-shirt until the print practically peeled off from the heat. But now, there were definitely no mass-market germs. However, cotton still slid over his collarbones, not the flowing, specially unwound, measured, and sewn into a shirt by Madam Malkin’s silk patches. Admiring is the prerogative of kings. Commoners don’t have time for that; they need to work, and what will they understand from their tiny, needle-eye world? Beauty is the language of power; it is created by beings like us and for us. Nectar, ambrosia, granting immortality. Everything beautiful is immortal because it is either carefully preserved by the worshipers of the divine essence of aesthetics or lives in the memories and minds of generations, even if it has unfortunately been destroyed. Therefore, Draco is not just a sybarite but a priest of elegance. Aesthetica vitae. Malfoy sat last after his settled friends, in the seat opposite the empty edge of the C-shaped sofa, while the colorful company reached for sparkling bottles, filling cups with amber, foamy, bubbling, or boiling alcohol, depending on whose hand held the bottle. “To a vivid life and a worthy death!” Blaise raised the first toast, subtly slipping his second hand onto Daphne’s own knee. Not beautiful enough, not good enough. The prize of the evening was Pansy, and the competition had already begun. Glasses rose into the air. The effervescence tickled the throat, the first wave of cheerfulness appeared as a light flush on the expressive cheeks of the young host. The performance would start soon; Draco savored the dopamine surge of anticipation for the upcoming circus, lazily playing with the stones on the handle of a silver cup. “We have a special guest tonight,” he whispered, casting a sharp gray glance up the stairs. “But she seems to have vanished. Probably that damn elf got lost in the enfilade again.” Draco picked up a stack of pre-prepared golden cards from the table and handed them to his friends. “Read and play along.” “What nonsense,” Nott looked at the sheet. “Invitation. I invite you to honor me by attending a reception in honor of my birthday, which will take place on July 10th at 6:00 PM. Address: Malfoy Manor, Malfoy Road, Shipton Malgrev, Wiltshire, SN8 2LQ. Dress code: White Tie.” Theo raised puzzled eyes. “Did we come to the wrong party?” “You’ll understand soon,” the blond grinned, enjoying the bewildered faces of the gang. He loved it when control of the situation belonged to him alone, even in such trivial matters. “All you do is intrigue, Draco,” Astoria reached her skeletal fingers towards the canapé of canaries, “is there a summary?” But a summary was not needed because the light tapping of heels sounded behind their backs, and everyone turned as if on command. Soft steps seem embarrassed by the produced echo, making them slow. A compact handle holds onto the smooth wooden railings, feeling the support so necessary now when six pairs of astonished eyes shoot at Hermione, clad in a pearly-tight dress with a train. Rounded shoulders shyly round under attention, with emotions as powerful as the first night under the Sorting Hat. White glints are thrown into the eyes of the spectators, silver threads of earrings… “It can’t be,” Astoria whispers, and only Draco and Pansy hear the exhale because they are on either side of the Slytherin. The words of the friend give an impulse to Draco’s awakening, but it is too weak and drowns in the clatter of the heels. What? He needs to go back, to play his game, but… Aesthetica… His dry mouth has difficulty swallowing, even though it is crucial to make the following words sound mundane, stylish, and masterly. Shaking off the dust of a short-lived hypnosis, he stands up. “Take a seat, Hermione,” a polite hand points to the free space at the opposite end of the sofa, “what would you like to drink?” Brown irises jump from one face to another, descending along necks, capturing glimpses of ridiculous, stretched T-shirts and bare legs. Hermione feels as if she has lost her skin, as if something has gone monstrously wrong. She feels so exposed without her mass of hair, arranged in a high, neat hairstyle, that a chill runs down her spine, despite the roaring fireplace. She sits on the edge of the sofa. “But I thought this was a formal reception…” the adorned guest squeezes out, almost disappearing into a whisper, in the tense silence. And then laughter erupted, tearing the frozen faces, and the five Slytherins turned into a tangle of wriggling snakes, making Hermione’s hands clasp her own hem under the table, paralyzed. “I understand, I understand!” moans Theodore. With effort, not allowing his lips to part, Draco, now fully awakened by the unrestrained Slytherin energy emanating from his friends, though slightly thrown off, leans back, resting his ankle on his knee. “What do you drink among Muggles, Hermione? Perhaps Sprite?” He theatrically surveys the table, maintaining a genuinely concerned look. “It seems we don’t have that. Hey, Dobby, pour some Chandon. It’s not bad.” Daphne, not shy at all, peers into the face of the bewildered girl to Draco’s right. Her black hair is disheveled from the constant bouncing against the back of the sofa. “Is this how you dress for parties in MuggLondon, Granger?” Hermione’s eyes glint with indignation, but the unexpected diminutiveness targeted by six Slytherins in a room with a five-meter stone ceiling forces her to settle down. “But I received an invitation; it said white tie…” she stammers, not reaching for the Chandon glass. “Correct,” Pansy grins. “Don’t you know that 'white tie' is also a colloquial way of saying 'raising the white flag'? It means we’re surrendering, going against any norms.” Hermione helplessly turns her gaze to Draco, going through all the previously combed facts in her mind, finding no suitable explanation. He just shrugs with a condescending smile. “Oh, come on, friends after all. Leave the girl alone; she’s a bit confused. Eat, Hermione.” The aristocratic connoisseur of T-shirts rises, gesturing for everyone to take their glasses. Six silver statues and one made of plastic rise above the tray and dishes. Draco orders himself to pull together and forces his gaze back to his company. Another look at the Gryffindor may burn his retina. “For those who support any endeavors! For friends!” he toasts, emptying his glass in one go and placing it noisily on the glass surface. Hermione barely touches the expensive wine with her lips. Her unsteady hand tries to grip the humiliating plastic cup too hard. She resists, but the characteristic squeak still rings out, fortunately drowned out by the cry of another guest. “Get your hands off my knees!” Pansy throws off, coming to her senses, a large hand that slowly crawls up her leg at a rate of a centimeter per minute. “Hermione, Nott is constantly getting between my legs, and Zabini, that long-nosed git, won’t back off! Tell me what to do; you definitely know what it’s like!” Before Hermione can react, Blaise comes to the “rescue.” “Simply, Muggle games of innocence don’t work, right, Granger? You always said that the main thing is to be honest with yourself, didn’t you?” He sarcastically glances at Pansy. “Pansy is still trying to hide her true self, but it’s time to follow your example.” Taking advantage of the commotion, Nott’s hand returns to her knee. Hermione’s embarrassment, like a wounded bird in a cage, can’t find a way out. Bold eyes pierce around, like hunting bats in the night. Unveiled vulgarity hovers in the air, so uncharacteristic of Draco. Or… why did I decide that? Defending her wounded honor now seems ridiculous because has anyone openly insulted her? Play this game, endure. If you leave, it will only get worse, later, at school. As if her mind forgot what Slytherin was capable of all these years. And how many more vile things does the black, slippery, lacquered soul of Malfoy hide? She always thinks there is some limit, a very high bar far in the sky, and this guy has long broken it, but disappointment with each subsequent revealed level of nastiness becomes more and more bitter. Because it is still surprising. When she wants to believe that he is simply incapable of becoming darker. “I won’t drink it up, will you finish it?” Daphne, without waiting for an answer, pours the contents of her glass into Hermione’s cup. “Allow me, but I don’t want to!” “Don’t be impudent!” Draco growls, rising, and for a moment, Hermione freezes, not understanding which of the two he is addressing. But apparently, it’s Daphne, because he then stands up and goes towards Hermione. The scent of mown grass and licorice briefly penetrates her tiny nose and disappears. Taking the glass from the table, Draco pours the contents into the fire and throws the empty glass there, causing the flame to flicker and hiss for a moment. He can’t stand open disdain. The delicate skill is to balance the victim between doubts in the inflamed imagination and a sense of offended pride. Not so clumsily, Daphne. You’re a lout, Daphne. The clean silver glass is filled with Chandon by Draco himself and lands at Hermione’s face. “Forgive her; they had centaurs in their family,” he sarcastically remarks, tweaking the right corner of his lips, trying not to look at the Gryffindor’s face, and returns to his seat. Granger senior presses her lips tightly but remains silent: Malfoys are not insulted. Under no circumstances. But Zabini clearly did not have centaurs in the family, because he possesses the subtly valued Draco skill. “So your parents are Muggles and make money by putting their hands in other people’s mouths?” he looks genuinely interested and even leans forward, peering into Hermione’s round face. “Ugh,” a disgusted squeak is heard from Pansy, hidden behind his right shoulder, lazily leaning back. “They heal… Like we do in Mungo.” “Like we do in Mungo, you meant,” retorts Astoria, tossing a light lock. There’s no help to expect, but Hermione still throws a glance, like a drowning person, at the last torn shark-infested lifebuoy: at Malfoy. And gets nothing in return. Gray eyes are fixed somewhere below, on the dimple between her shoulder and collarbone. The indentation formed from embarrassment for the inappropriate appearance entices with a light shadow, a smooth iridescent reflex at the bottom of his dress. The girl’s hand instinctively reaches to cover the innocent patch of skin from view, and bitterness suddenly forms in her throat, making her cheeks tighten and her tongue strain. What did she do wrong? Was it such a foolish idea to accept this birthday invitation in the hope that it… What is it? A step toward reconciliation? The first spoonful of hot water on the ice of their inter-house relations? And why wasn’t Harry invited? She only thinks about it now. Either way, she’ll have to endure to the end, find a way to mobilize her strength… After all, it’s his birthday, after all. And why is he staring at her again as if she were undressed? And she really is undressed. With bare shoulders, treated in the mansion of potential death-eaters, Shandon indulged. And the high, elegant, inappropriate hairstyle doesn’t hide the shivers on her delicate neck… If someone did a magical sketch of this absurd crowd right now, it would go straight to the “Humor” section of the Daily Prophet. Nott’s hand goes so deep under Pansy’s top that there is no doubt—tonight, he’ll lead her to bed. And involuntarily “admiring” this, Hermione is able to do it through the transparent tabletop, which is a bit nauseating, because there’s practically nowhere else to avert her eyes. Hermione wants to regain at least a bit of confidence to survive this evening, at least something. A fleeting hug from a friend would help, but there are none here, so at least the embrace of her own hair… It always soothes the witch, as if building a fluffy shield against the outside world. And maybe she can blend in with this disorganized, absurdly dressed, shaggy crowd? Her hand reaches behind her head, finds and pulls up a black hairpin, then another, and a bunch of chestnut waves falls over her shoulders, bouncing off them once to settle on the next landing. “A toast, the next toast!” Blaise shouts. “Let the mud… I mean, our fancily dressed guest say it. Draco, how is she, “fanciful, pretentious, or arrogant? I forgot the most suitable word.” But Draco sits, glassy-eyed. Not a word, not a sound pierced his consciousness. The elegant iridescent corset is strewn with rings of curls, and there are no hollows under the shoulder, but were these hairs, once called by him nothing but a “nest,” always so perfect? Beauty is a conditional reflex—possession. Aesthetica. The heart jumps to the throat for a moment, and, as if that’s not enough, the figure in rustling attire rises, taking the glass uncertainly in hand. “For Draco, I wish you on this birthday,” she gathered her strength to sound warm and convincing, “always to have a reliable rear in the form of faithful friends, and…” “What-o-o?” Daphne howls like a Banshee. “Birthday?! Are you out of your mind, Muggle?” Astoria covers her mouth with both hands, suppressing laughter mockingly. “He already celebrated his birthday; it was on June fifth.” Hermione blushes and again locks eyes with Draco. But this time, with a different focus. It begins to dawn on her what is happening. “You orchestrated all this…” she says, losing her voice. Malfoy unexpectedly loses the ability to speak, opening his mouth like a mute fish, and immediately closing it. The gang silently watches the scene. Someone laughs into a fist, genuinely amused, someone, furrowing their brows, feels a faint, inexplicable discomfort, and some are stunned by the unfolding dance of the shimmering curves of young beauty. “And I… imagined...” For a few seconds, she looks for signs of human emotions in his steel eyes, but finding only confusion, she reaches for her tiny purse and takes out a small black box tied with a silver bow. “With your birthday,” Hermione says bitterly and places it on the table in front of the wax Draco, retreating to the already dark alcove, slamming the door to end the general stupor. The number of exclamations made the glass table tremble. Only the owner couldn’t make out a word. As if an icy spider had woven a cocoon in the very core of his cold heart. “Close your mouths!” he finally exclaimed, jumping up. “This is not a damn brothel, Nott! Daphne, get the utensils off the plate!” Astoria’s hand rested on his forearm, the girl looked up, endowing him with the fire of warmth and support. “Don’t be upset; the Muggle will mope and recover in one evening.” “Get off,” he jerked his hand away. Even in the periphery of Malfoy’s gaze, the black box burned the table, as if it could melt it, like ice. He nervously smoothed his hair, trying to discreetly dry his suddenly sweaty palms. “Open it!” Blaise shouted, but Draco, anticipating the risk of interception, clung to the box and quickly pocketed it, trying to regain his composure. “You didn’t give me anything, Blaise,” the attempt at sarcasm sounded quite convincing. “It seems Granger outsmarted you in manners. Let’s go home; your pig manners spoiled my mood. I won’t invite you to the house again!” Everyone began to gather gloomily. “Do you want me to stay?” Astoria whispered, beckoning, to Draco’s ear, lingering longer than anyone else on the red couch, and her curls pleasantly brushed against the aristocrat’s face. “I will obey,” her languid smile had never left Draco indifferent before. “Come tomorrow. This circus incredibly tired me.” Disappointed, Astoria lowered both bare legs onto the malachite, one after the other. “As you wish, beloved.” “Don’t call me that; you know I don’t like it.” … As soon as the front door closed, the young master collapsed into his chair, which stood by the mini-library, and pressed his fingers with pads to his tired eyes. “Dobby, Kiki!” The elves instantly materialized, already bent to the ground. “You,” he pointed to Kiki, “clear the table. And you,” Dobby’s round plate eyes came to life, “gather all of Granger’s things in the bag. We’ll have to return them tomorrow.” “Dobby could transgress to Miss today…” “No,” Draco cut him off, and anger flashed in his eyes. “Do I need to improve your hearing by dragging those already huge ears?” Timidly, the elf bowed and disappeared. Draco dragged his feet lazily to the second floor. The Manor seemed so huge when emptiness lurked through its enfilades and galleries at night, and it seemed there would be room for at least one ghost, as in Hogwarts. Fortunately, there were none here. Ghosts have no masters, and in the Malfoy estate, such arrangements simply cannot exist. Closing the door to his bedroom, Draco took the box out of his pocket and threw it onto the double bed spread with black satin. The atmosphere of the beloved darkness of his world immediately began to calm the waves in his chest. What a ridiculous situation; everything was going so amusingly if not for those damn hairs… This gift… What could be there, a card for a Muggle library? Undressing, he climbed under the blanket and reached for the box that was fading into the background of the coverlet color. With a pounding heart and a slight hesitation, Draco pulled the bow. Pausing for a few more seconds, he lifted the lid. On the velvety black cushion lay a ringed bracelet of white gold in the shape of a snake. The serpent gazed into space with two green crystal eyes. Touching the piece of jewelry burned not the hand but something deep in the chest. You’re completely insane, Granger. Aesthetica…