"Stop looking at the prices," Sirius says firmly, and Harry lets out a little groan as he glances back at his godfather. Sirius and Remus stand together, letting Harry pick out his own furniture in the odd little shop: Harry had said he'd prefer to get secondhand pieces than new ones, and Sirius had been glad to comply, but... Well. Harry doesn't know that he sees the sense in getting a wardrobe worth more than a Nimbus 2000.

"Sirius, I-"

"Look, Harry, whatever takes your fancy, we'll get," Sirius interrupts him, looking at Harry as sternly as he can manage. "Think of it as picking out new heirlooms." Harry glances at the wardrobe, tracing the runes carved neatly into its wood and shifting uncertainly on his feet.

"Are you sure?" Remus steps forwards, leaning and reading the card beside the wardrobe. It's a beautiful old thing, carved of mahogany, and it's enchanted with extra space so that one can fill it with as much clothing as one needs. "It's-"

"Harry," Remus says quietly, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "This price is very reasonable for a cabinet of this quality, even secondhand. Besides, this furniture is well made and will last you years upon years - when you live alone, you'll likely bring it with you. It's an investment." Harry bites his lip, glancing at Sirius again.

"I'd like this wardrobe," he says. "Please."

"Finally!" Sirius declares, and Remus tuts at him.

"Calm down. He hasn't picked out any other furniture yet, nor sheets, nor paint." Sirius' euphoria drains away, and Harry feels a little bit bad for being so picky and uncertain, but over the past few years he's done his best not to spend his money stupidly or rashly. Sirius has no such qualms - he'd already offered to buy Harry his own motorbike, which Remus had scolded him for.

In the end, Harry settles on the wardrobe, a dresser, an escritoire, some bookshelves and a bedside table, all made of roughly similar mahogany wood: the desk is to be settled in front of his window, which overlooks Argyle Street, and the rest will settle easily around the walls. Barring his apparent distaste for the "boring" colour of Harry's furniture, Sirius is quite happy to buy it all - Harry's colour scheme brooks less approval.

"Silver and green," Sirius repeats, both of his hands on his face as he stares down at his godson. "Silver and green? You want silver and green? What, do you want me to buy you a dado rail carved with snakes?"

"What the bloody Hell is a dado rail?" Harry asks.

"It's a wooden separation between one part of the wall and the other," Remus answers. "Rather like a paper border, but in three dimensions."

"Oh," Harry says. "Then yes, actually, that sounds quite nice." Sirius lets out a loud and dramatic groan. "Don't give me that! Your room is so red and gold you could sell it to a Chinese emperor!"

"That's different! I'm a Gryffindor!"

"Well, I'm a Slytherin, and they're nice colours!" Sirius looks at Remus for help, but the other man just shakes his head, refusing to join the dispute. In the end, Sirius lets Harry pick his colours, and Harry chooses a dark ivy wallpaper to put on the lower part of his room's wall, with silver paint to go on the upper part. Sirius arranges for all of the new things to be delivered, and they make their way down to Madame Malkin's.

"Dress robes," Sirius says in disgust, shaking his head as he reluctantly follows Harry inside, and Remus laughs. "Why don't you come, Moony? Why must you force me to go alone, with only my godson and his girlfriend to protect me?"

"She's not my girlfriend, Sirius," Harry says. "I barely know her."

"All the better!"

"I can't come," Remus says simply, and Harry glances back at him as he and Sirius share a look. "Don't worry. I'll be fine on my own." Harry frowns, wanting to ask what exactly they're talking about, but then Madam Malkin's assistant points him over to a rail of dress robes, and Harry begins to sort through.

---

"Oh, look at you!" Sirius says, putting on an accent uncomfortably similar to Lucius Malfoy's, "Oh so refined, Mr Potter!"

"Shut up," Harry says, and he looks at himself in the mirror. The dress robes are nice, he thinks, in a deep, simple blue, and they don't have any of the lacings or ribbons or excessive silver clasps a lot of the other sets do. "These will be fine, right?"

"No doubt all the girls will swoon at your arrival," Sirius promises, and Harry rolls his eyes. "But not as much as they swoon at mine."

"Didn't you say were going to wear those orange and purple robes that look like they've been copied from curtains?"

"I don't believe that's how I described them, dear godson," Sirius says, ignoring Remus' laughter. "But yes, indeed." Harry chuckles, shaking his head, and he goes to take the robes off and change into his normal ones. He has no idea how the gala is going to go, but he has the sneaking suspicion he won't be able to go the whole evening without one disaster or another.

Especially with Sirius in tow.

---

"You got me a dado rail," Harry says as he enters the room, and Sirius bows with a flourish, grinning at him. All of his furniture and decorations are now in place, with Harry's trunk at the foot of his bed, his record player on his dresser, his letter organizer on his desk: Sirius has even hung Harry's poster of Lixie Pott on the wall over his new nightstand, and she seems ridiculously out of place amongst the sombre decoration in her little white dress.

The dado rail is made of the same mahogany as the furniture, and Sirius has had little leaves and flowers carved into it to match the ivy wallpaper: it's nice, and Harry lets Sirius pull him into a hug.

"Nothing I would have picked out, obviously," Sirius says.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep in a room that you picked out," Harry says. "I'd be afraid a lion was going to jump off the upholstery." Sirius scoffs, but he presses a kiss to the top of Harry's head: he doesn't do that all that often, despite being obviously tended towards physical affection, and it's... It's not something Harry's ever experienced before, before Sirius came to advertise his newfound freedom in Diagon Alley, and not something he ever expected to experience. The Malfoys or Mrs Weasley will hug him like Sirius does, but it's not the same, not quite.

"Speaking of upholstery," Sirius says, and he slides forwards, across the room. Reaching out, he grabs at thin air, pulling back Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and Harry laughs. The armchair is black and made of some sort of corduroy fabric, and Sirius has settled it across from the shelves to make a little reading nook. "Surprise!"

"Is that my Christmas present?" Harry asks, and Sirius gasps, looking horrified.

"No. Merlin, no, Harry. I spent much more on your Christmas present."

"Sirius!" Sirius starts to laugh, and Harry realizes that he's just joking. "You're too casual about money."

"So you keep telling me," Sirius says, dropping himself into the new armchair with his legs dangling haphazardly over the arm. "But if you think I'm too casual about money, you're in for a shock this week."

"At the gala, you mean?" Harry asks, sitting on his trunk to face his godfather, and Sirius nods his head, looking serious for once.

"Gala is the big clue, as a name," he says. "Let alone that it's hosted at Malfoy Manor."

"Is it actually a mansion?" Harry asks, and Sirius considers the question for a few moments, searching his mind. Harry can tell he doesn't immediately remember, can't recall automatically, and he opens his mouth to change the subject, but Sirius waves his concern away.

"It's a fairly big house. A dozen bedrooms, big kitchen downstairs, that sort of thing - a lot of it's built out of stone, and it's belonged to the Malfoys for centuries, maybe even a millennium. Don't completely remember. Most of the effort's put into the gardens, of course. There used to be a huge maze pruned of all different bushes, then the fields, several greenhouses, and Lucius' pigeon coop."

"They're doves," Harry says with a mild amount of reproach, and Sirius shrugs his shoulders.

"He's a strange one. Bloody bird fancier. Well, bats too, I suppose - he virtually adopted Snape when he came into Hogwarts." Harry frowns at Sirius, leaning forwards. Sirius notices his renewed interest, and adds, "He was in his final year when Snape came in, I think, but he really took to him. Made it bloody hard to get at Snape, to begin with."

"What do you mean, get at him?" Harry asks, frowning, and Sirius chuckles.

"We took immediate dislike to each other, me and James against Snape. We'd hex each other, get at each other, any chance we got - he was bloody vicious, too, but if we tried to get back at him, Uncle Lucius would normally step in. Gave me the worst cuff upside the head, once, nearly knocked me down." Sirius gives a little, wistful sigh, as if that's the sort of day he longs for, and then he looks to Harry. "Let's get something to eat. No point talking about the Malfoys. We'll be seeing them soon."

"You'll be polite, won't you?" Harry asks quietly. "I know you don't want to come, but for my sake-"

"I'll exercise myself with all decorum," Sirius promises. "Within reason."

---

"Cissy!" Sirius yells loudly as the cross the threshold of Malfoy Manor, throwing his arms around his cousin's neck and delivering a loud, sloppy kiss to her cheek. "So good to see you, dear cousin," he says, and Harry can see Narcissa stiffen slightly before she brings a smile to her face, engaging in the same faux affection as Sirius is, albeit with less passion.

"Sirius," she says warmly, patting his cheek. "So good to see you free at last." Lucius looks ready to break his champagne flute between his fingers, and Harry mouths a Sorry at Draco as he steps forwards. "Merry Christmas, Harry."

"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy," Harry says. "Ma'am, Mr Malfoy, this is my friend Luna." They'd picked Luna up from Ottery St Catchpole and taken the Knight Bus up to Malfoy Manor, and Harry had hovered at the gates, staring in with utter wonder. The snow-dusted pathway up to the house had been lit with real fairy lights, floating three metres in the air and illuminating the gravel: in the distance, Malfoy Manor had looked like some French palace with its snowy roofs and wide windows shining with light from inside. Harry is no less enamoured with the place from the inside.

"Luna," Lucius says, holding out his hand and shaking hers: Harry notices the broadness of his hand in the dainty one of Luna Lovegood, despite the fact that they both have skin the colour of porcelain. "Luna...?"

"Lovegood, Mr Malfoy," Luna says sweetly; Malfoy's eyes widen a fraction, but he keeps the polite smile firmly on his face. "My father says you're quite the man." He coughs delicately, giving a nod of his head, and he lets Narcissa shake her hand instead.

"Do speak with us later in the evening, Harry," Narcissa says affectionately, but she catches Draco's shoulder before he can follow Luna and Harry into the main hall. "We've still guests to greet, Draco." The youngest Malfoy presses his lips together, obviously annoyed, but he just gives Harry a small wave and stands between his mother and father once again.

The main hall has a high, square ceiling with dark brown beams spanning across its surface: from these beams hang gold-lit lanterns, and around the edges of the room are white-clothed tables holding all manner of different finger foods. The décor is more of the same white and gold decoration, and it's tasteful, pleasant. It's much warmer than he'd have expected for a party hosted by the Malfoys, but by no means is the surprise a bad one. He glances at Luna, who's peering around the room with interest.

"Quite the man, huh?"

"He's not actually a man at all," Luna confides in him quietly. "The Malfoys come from a long line of male Veela."

"Can you get male Veela?" Harry asks.

"Oh, yes," Luna says in an authoritative tone. Sirius, standing behind her, shakes his head no, and Harry smiles, giving a nod of his head. "Excuse me, Harry," Luna says, and she walks off into the mix of people towards the bathrooms: she's wearing the most bizarre set of blue robes decorated with red mushrooms, but despite the oddity of them they're rather beautiful, and they fit her perfectly.

"Go on, then," Sirius says, giving a little wave of his hand. "Off you go."

"You don't mind?" Harry asks.

"I'll go chat with Cissy," Sirius says resignedly. "Go on, my snake-ish little socialite. Go be the little terror I'm raising you to be." Harry snorts, and he steps back from Sirius and into the crowd.

---

Harry's head is awash with information as he looks around the room, doing his best to recall names and recognize faces and crests and styles: he sees reporters from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly and Quidditch In Colour, high-end politicians and Minister Fudge himself, top healers, herbologists, potioneers, inventors, writers, chefs. In the past few years, Harry has truly come to be fascinated by all the big names of the wizarding world, and now?

Everyone is at the Malfoy Christmas Gala. Well, that's not strictly true. There are no Weasleys, obviously, and-

Harry stops short, staring across the room: he's standing beside a man Harry recognizes as Bartemius Crouch, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. They're in deep conversation, but Harry can see the freckles on his cheeks under his flush, see his carrot-red hair curling around his ears, sees the way his dress robes hang from his skinny, beanpole body. Percy Weasley at the Malfoy Christmas Gala, like a cat among the pigeons - or a gnome among the doves, really.

"Hey," Harry says, joining the conversation, and Percy glances down at him, keeping his chin in the air. He's doing the whole pompous thing, and Harry wishes it didn't make him shiver. "Alright?"

"Mr Crouch," Percy says, reaching out and putting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "This is a schoolmate of mine. Harry Potter."

"Ah, Mr Potter!" Crouch doesn't really smile, but he puts out his hand, and Harry shakes his hand. "A pleasure to meet you in the flesh."

"You too, Mr Crouch," Harry says warmly, "I saw you in the paper the other day, with Mr Moody." Crouch's lip twitches, and he lets out a noise that's almost a chuckle without really letting his lips quirk.

"Alastor was reluctant to pose," Crouch says, giving a nod of his head. Percy, beside them, looks utterly flabbergasted by the fact that Harry's talking to Crouch like this, and Harry decides to take mercy on him and bring him into the conversation.

"Are you guys talking Ministry business?"

"I was telling Mr Weasley my assistant is retiring this summer: he and his wife are going to have children, and he wants to raise them," Crouch says with a quiet tut of sound, as if spending so much time on raising children is a bit of a waste. Percy holds his breath, forgetting how to speak for a moment.

"Oh, make sure you take down Percy's details then, sir," Harry says firmly. "He's head boy at the moment, and he's a stickler for organisation. You won't find a better assistant elsewhere." Crouch blinks, peering down at Harry for a second, and then he glances at Percy.

"I, er. I'm- well, as he says, I'm head boy, and I shouldn't say I'm a stickler, but I am rather organized, focused, even, and I'm quite capable of-" He coughs. "That is, I know my way around a filing system and I can keep books in order and-"

"It's alright, Percy," Harry breaks in. "You can send him your CV. Right, Mr Crouch?"

"Right," Mr Crouch says. "Indeed." He walks away, leaving Percy and Harry stood together, and Harry looks up at the older boy, raising his eyebrows.

"Does your dad know where you are?" Harry asks, and Percy scowls at him.

"Does my mother know where you are?"

"I won't tell if you won't," Harry says, and Percy's lip gives a little twitch. He pats Harry on the back, and he slips into the crowd. Harry wonders who he came with, given that he knows Malfoy wouldn't have invited him on his own, but then he drops the thought for the time being. He can ask later, after all, and there are more people to talk to.

"I should doubt it, Ms Lovegood," he hears behind him, and he turns, approaching Luna when she appears in sight. She's methodically eating a small cob of corn, one piece at a time, and in mid-conversation with, of all people, Snape. His dress-robes look exactly the same as his Hogwarts robes at first glance, but even looking closer Harry can see they're made of a slightly sleeker fabric than usual, and that's all. "Though you might always experiment."

"I wish there were more potions texts based in experimentation in the library," Luna says softly. "I have a great love of certain effects. Hello, Harry. Professor Snape and I are discussing bubbles." Snape arches an eyebrow at Harry, but he doesn't offer any actual greeting, so Harry doesn't either.

"Bubbles?" Harry repeats. "In potions?"

"Out of potions," Luna corrects him. "The sort that rise up and out of the potion, you know? They look so beautiful in the light, but then they pop... My current formula is unfortunately rather acidic. It leaves terrible burns." Harry laughs despite himself, and he gives Luna a little grin. She must be extremely clever, he knows, to be able to actually put together her own potion to do something, but... It seems an odd effect to work towards.

"You can't just use the Muggle ones?"

"Bubbles formed of soap and water lack the long-lasting effect, and there's no latent magic in them to affect them to traverse a room," Snape says dryly, "They merely sink with gravity." Harry glances at Snape, who seems completely serious, and Harry wonders if he's stepped into some alternate reality. He doesn't even look the slightest bit annoyed at the conversation, and when Luna rushes off to greet a pop star Harry's never heard of, Harry peers up at his head of house. "Can I help you, Potter?"

"Do you like champagne, sir?"

"No," Snape says, and takes a sip from the golden, bubbling liquid in his glass. Very few people in the room are wearing black, and subsequently Snape, despite his average height and his obvious disinterest in idle chat, stands out amongst the crowd. Harry leaves him be, though, and speaking to a white-haired woman with bright, amber eyes, he sees Gladys Gudgeon.

"Harry!" she says loudly, and Harry gives her a polite, awkward smile. "Come. Jacqueline, this is Harry Potter."

"Oh, is it?" Jacqueline says, her amber eyes settling on Harry's face, and Harry glances between the two of them, furrowing his brow. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You too, Mrs...?"

"It's Miss," she corrects, "Flockhart."

"Flockhart," Harry repeats. "Right. Well, nice to meet you, Merry Christmas, I'll just be right back-" He reaches for a glass on a table, taking one of the ones marked for those under the age of seventeen, and he takes a sip, scanning the room. He sees the ridiculous flower pattern easily enough, and he makes his way towards Sirius.

Sirius and Lucius are both talking to a rather old, corpulent gentleman in dress-robes that are somehow even more dated than Sirius': despite their ugly paisley pattern, Harry can see the fabric is well-cut and expensive, even if it's made to stretch a little. "Ah, here he is," Sirius says, looking relieved as he sees Harry. "My godson, Prof- Er- Horace. Harry Potter, this is Horace Slughorn."

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but he stops short for a few moments, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He coughs quietly, reaching up to massage his neck, but when he breathes in next he feels the intake of air scratch over his closing throat, and he tries to cough to clear it, but he can't. He chokes out a strangled noise, dropping the glass to the ground beside him, and he stumbles a little leaning on Sirius.

"Severus!" Lucius yells sharply across the room, and Harry grabs desperately at his godfather's robes as he tries to breathe. Lucius disappears from view for a second, and then he returns, putting his hand on Harry's jaw.

"Get off, Malfoy-"

"Hush, Black," Lucius bites out, and he presses something odd and bitter tasting against Harry's lips; he tries to lean away from it, but Lucius pushes it into his mouth, holding his jaw shut tightly as Harry tries to struggle away, but Harry can feel his throat beginning to slacken, and he heaves in a gasp of relief, nearly choking on the stone on his tongue.

He spits it out onto his palm, and he stares down at it as the burning in his throat begins to slowly recede.

"It's a bezoar," he says hoarsely.

"Yes, Potter," Snape says, murmuring a diagnostic spell and looking at him seriously. "A point from Slytherin for stating the obvious."