The wedding itself had gone off without a hitch—the bride was glowing, the groom sobered up in time for the ceremony, and all the old matrons had shed an obligatory tear when the two were pronounced man and wife, witch and wizard. Goyle’s mother had absolutely bawled her eyes out. Blaise had to suppress a laugh when he realized that Goyle’s eyes were glassy with tears and settled for elbowing the best man instead; unfortunately for Draco, that was him, and Blaise had the absolute sharpest elbows known to wizardkind.
And Draco? Draco had just barely made it through the whole affair without fidgeting right out of his skin. Standing silent at Goyle’s shoulder, remembering to hand over the rings at the right moment, and then posing for photos was an exercise in slow, prolonged torture. The photos were especially bad—he was sure that, in the fully developed shots, his photographic self would be flashing a smirk, then trying to escape the frame. He was sure the new Mrs. Goyle—he’d already forgotten her first name--wasn’t going to be too pleased with that.
She probably wasn’t going to be too pleased when she discovered that he planned on ducking out shortly after his best man’s speech either.
Not that it mattered. He was going to make plenty of people unhappy tonight anyway. He didn’t have any patience for the curiosity he knew he’d have to face tonight, with everyone looking, looking and wondering at his shirtsleeves, buttoned all the way down to his wrists when nearly everyone else in the wedding party had already shed their jackets and rolled their sleeves up to the elbow. He’d already determined that he would be insufferably rude, since that was what it would take to get them to shut their fat gobs. Inappropriate questions always following the impertinent gazes. It didn’t even matter that he would not be the only one disfigured with the fading grey scar. If anything, it made it worse that there were others there, with a shared past that he had no desire to remember, even as he knew that he could never be free of it. Walking into the reception, he reflected that the fact on this was a mixed crowd, half people who knew his past and half people who had only heard the rumors, was not at all to his benefit.
Well, not unless you knew how to work an air of mystery like Blaise Zabini did, he reflected—Draco pulled a chair into a dark corner intending to stay hidden until the bride and groom made their big entrance and watched his friend flit about, ever the social maven, leaving women sighing and staring in his wake.
Bloody lucky bastard, that one. His past didn’t haunt, didn’t hang around his neck like a rotting albatross. And Blaise wasn’t even going to take advantage of the fact that he had the attention of nearly every woman in the room, no matter what he had said when he was out with the guys last night; Blaise was just that hung up on Luna. Draco would lay down good gold that Blaise would have made the first overture towards reconciliation by Monday morning. And as far as Draco could tell, Blaise was going to be the next one walking down the aisle, and probably doing it inside of a year at that. Gods, what was wrong with his friends? Next there would be little miniature versions of each of his friends toddling around and he’d be overwhelmed by the snot-nosed little whelps. Blaise’s manipulative little brats were going to be the absolute worst.
Draco snorted at the thought. This entire affair was making him morose and much too contemplative. The sooner he was out of here and back to Blaise’s to collect his things, the better.
He shelved his thoughts for the moment and stood, stalking towards his friend. If he was going to be miserable, he wanted company.
And so he passed most of the night pestering Blaise, occasionally heading back to the bar for another glass of champagne. He found himself forced out onto the dance floor a few times, twice by a nattering old woman with enough wrinkles and mustache to make a walrus proud. She’d called him an “insolent boy-o” and smacked him in the ankle with her walking stick when he’d smarted off, much to Blaise’s amusement. Judging by the bruise already rising on his left ankle, the old woman hadn’t lost any of her muscle tone. He was never going to live that down, but he made it through—through that, and the rest of the night, including the short and simple speech (“Make her happy, Greg—don’t do anything that I would. To the newlyweds!”) and made good on his escape, leaving the party before it had even begun to wind down.
He sighed as he stomped back through Blaise’s foyer and to his semi-permanent guest room. It was a testament to the quality of Blaise’s house elves that the room was near to immaculate, despite the fact that he’d left it in complete disarray. His laundry was already pressed and neatly folded into his leather valise, which had also been neatly polished. He was halfway through changing into more casual clothes when he noticed that the only thing that was out of place was the small gold-foil box that he’d knicked from the entry table last night—now was as good a time as any to partake, he figured. He pulled the ribbon on the package and flipped back the lid to find four chocolate truffles resting in paper nests. He popped the first in his mouth, savoring the sweet rush. It was an unusual combination, the sharpness of lemon breaking through the richness of the chocolate, tempered with…was that chamomile and wormwood? Oddly good. He pulled the second truffle out of the box nearly as soon as he’d finished the first, and it was halfway down his throat before he registered that his stomach was giving an odd gurgle.
Huh. Maybe he should have eaten more with the champagne. It didn’t deter him from snagging the third and fourth truffles, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth as he reached for his valise. His fingers slid off of the leather as a strange wrenching sensation hit somewhere near his thumb; he looked down and squealed in a most unmanly fashion to see his fingers receding into his palms and a thick growth of hair spreading over his skin. In fact, the whole world seemed to be receding, except for his nose, which was growing at an exponential rate and absolutely furry.
This was not good.
Dropping to all fours, Draco was overcome by a shivering sensation as his limbs rearranged themselves with a series of unsettling pops and cracks that ripped through his body. Before it even registered if he was in pain or not, it was all over. He shook his head, trying to force it all to make sense—and then he caught a glance of himself in the full-length floor mirror. Where his sleek, toned physique had been moments ago was a huge, leggy dog with messy pale fur and oddly grey eyes. And was that--surely not-- a tail? And the beast was still in Draco’s pants and had Draco’s socks falling down around his paws. Damn.
Someone was going to have to pay for this.
And Draco? Draco had just barely made it through the whole affair without fidgeting right out of his skin. Standing silent at Goyle’s shoulder, remembering to hand over the rings at the right moment, and then posing for photos was an exercise in slow, prolonged torture. The photos were especially bad—he was sure that, in the fully developed shots, his photographic self would be flashing a smirk, then trying to escape the frame. He was sure the new Mrs. Goyle—he’d already forgotten her first name--wasn’t going to be too pleased with that.
She probably wasn’t going to be too pleased when she discovered that he planned on ducking out shortly after his best man’s speech either.
Not that it mattered. He was going to make plenty of people unhappy tonight anyway. He didn’t have any patience for the curiosity he knew he’d have to face tonight, with everyone looking, looking and wondering at his shirtsleeves, buttoned all the way down to his wrists when nearly everyone else in the wedding party had already shed their jackets and rolled their sleeves up to the elbow. He’d already determined that he would be insufferably rude, since that was what it would take to get them to shut their fat gobs. Inappropriate questions always following the impertinent gazes. It didn’t even matter that he would not be the only one disfigured with the fading grey scar. If anything, it made it worse that there were others there, with a shared past that he had no desire to remember, even as he knew that he could never be free of it. Walking into the reception, he reflected that the fact on this was a mixed crowd, half people who knew his past and half people who had only heard the rumors, was not at all to his benefit.
Well, not unless you knew how to work an air of mystery like Blaise Zabini did, he reflected—Draco pulled a chair into a dark corner intending to stay hidden until the bride and groom made their big entrance and watched his friend flit about, ever the social maven, leaving women sighing and staring in his wake.
Bloody lucky bastard, that one. His past didn’t haunt, didn’t hang around his neck like a rotting albatross. And Blaise wasn’t even going to take advantage of the fact that he had the attention of nearly every woman in the room, no matter what he had said when he was out with the guys last night; Blaise was just that hung up on Luna. Draco would lay down good gold that Blaise would have made the first overture towards reconciliation by Monday morning. And as far as Draco could tell, Blaise was going to be the next one walking down the aisle, and probably doing it inside of a year at that. Gods, what was wrong with his friends? Next there would be little miniature versions of each of his friends toddling around and he’d be overwhelmed by the snot-nosed little whelps. Blaise’s manipulative little brats were going to be the absolute worst.
Draco snorted at the thought. This entire affair was making him morose and much too contemplative. The sooner he was out of here and back to Blaise’s to collect his things, the better.
He shelved his thoughts for the moment and stood, stalking towards his friend. If he was going to be miserable, he wanted company.
And so he passed most of the night pestering Blaise, occasionally heading back to the bar for another glass of champagne. He found himself forced out onto the dance floor a few times, twice by a nattering old woman with enough wrinkles and mustache to make a walrus proud. She’d called him an “insolent boy-o” and smacked him in the ankle with her walking stick when he’d smarted off, much to Blaise’s amusement. Judging by the bruise already rising on his left ankle, the old woman hadn’t lost any of her muscle tone. He was never going to live that down, but he made it through—through that, and the rest of the night, including the short and simple speech (“Make her happy, Greg—don’t do anything that I would. To the newlyweds!”) and made good on his escape, leaving the party before it had even begun to wind down.
He sighed as he stomped back through Blaise’s foyer and to his semi-permanent guest room. It was a testament to the quality of Blaise’s house elves that the room was near to immaculate, despite the fact that he’d left it in complete disarray. His laundry was already pressed and neatly folded into his leather valise, which had also been neatly polished. He was halfway through changing into more casual clothes when he noticed that the only thing that was out of place was the small gold-foil box that he’d knicked from the entry table last night—now was as good a time as any to partake, he figured. He pulled the ribbon on the package and flipped back the lid to find four chocolate truffles resting in paper nests. He popped the first in his mouth, savoring the sweet rush. It was an unusual combination, the sharpness of lemon breaking through the richness of the chocolate, tempered with…was that chamomile and wormwood? Oddly good. He pulled the second truffle out of the box nearly as soon as he’d finished the first, and it was halfway down his throat before he registered that his stomach was giving an odd gurgle.
Huh. Maybe he should have eaten more with the champagne. It didn’t deter him from snagging the third and fourth truffles, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth as he reached for his valise. His fingers slid off of the leather as a strange wrenching sensation hit somewhere near his thumb; he looked down and squealed in a most unmanly fashion to see his fingers receding into his palms and a thick growth of hair spreading over his skin. In fact, the whole world seemed to be receding, except for his nose, which was growing at an exponential rate and absolutely furry.
This was not good.
Dropping to all fours, Draco was overcome by a shivering sensation as his limbs rearranged themselves with a series of unsettling pops and cracks that ripped through his body. Before it even registered if he was in pain or not, it was all over. He shook his head, trying to force it all to make sense—and then he caught a glance of himself in the full-length floor mirror. Where his sleek, toned physique had been moments ago was a huge, leggy dog with messy pale fur and oddly grey eyes. And was that--surely not-- a tail? And the beast was still in Draco’s pants and had Draco’s socks falling down around his paws. Damn.
Someone was going to have to pay for this.
Author notes: So... any guesses on the dog breed? I'm curious to know what you think.
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