The spacious, high-ceilinged hall was filled with wizards in varied but obviously expensive attire. The costliness was apparent even where the style was simple and laconic. At first glance, it might have seemed crowded, but that was merely a fleeting impression—a trick of the eye caused by the drawing room's design and the play of light and shadow from the sconces and the grand fireplace.
A group of wizards standing near the buffet by the wall, sipping drinks and discussing something, didn't stand out particularly from the rest. However, Lucius Malfoy immediately recognized his acquaintances among them. Sweeping his gaze across the hall, he spotted his wife in a circle of friends, socialites, and other ladies of varying "degrees of friendship."
Without wasting a second, though mentally acknowledging the fine selection of quiet classical music filling the room, Lucius headed toward this group of old—and not so old—acquaintances.
As soon as Lucius crossed the invisible boundary surrounding the wizards, he picked up their conversation.
"...thought that you, Hippocrates," a tall, stout middle-aged wizard was smiling as he addressed the well-known Healer Smethwyck, "would never host a social reception again."
Goyle Senior—for it was he—looked conspiratorially at Smethwyck. The others, Bulstrode Sr. and Greengrass Sr., looked at the portly Healer with questioning eyes.
"I assume, gentlemen," Lucius approached them, a smile on his face, "you are referring to his five-year hiatus from hosting?"
"Oh, Lucius!" Goyle, a massive man, threw his arms wide joyfully, though naturally, he made no move to actually hug him, nor did he intend to. "Yes, yes, that's exactly it. Tell the uninitiated."
"Are there any here?" Smethwyck nodded to Malfoy and surveyed the modest company. "Is it possible someone doesn't know about that reception in France, at Dubois's?"
"I believe I am the only one who knows," smirked the blonde William Greengrass.
"Oh, there's not much to tell," Smethwyck waved it off, but seeing the undiminished interest in his old friends' eyes, he continued. "I was once at a reception at the Dubois house. A masquerade ball. Everything was beautiful, lovely. Enchanted masks changed one's appearance to the point of unrecognizability without distorting it... Well, who am I telling this to? You've all seen such things."
"Naturally, my dear friend," Lucius nodded, taking a glass of magical sparkling wine.
"It was a ball like any other—dancing, food, attempts to guess who was under the mask, intrigue, flirtation on the edge of propriety, and casual but free conversation. Just as it always is at such events. You know how demanding Dubois is when selecting apprentices?"
"Eccentric little French potion-brewer," Goyle nodded, eliciting light chuckles laced with reproach from those present.
"Undoubtedly," Smethwyck confirmed. "So, an applicant appeared at the ball, one whom Dubois had been rejecting for years. Naturally, there was a small scandal, another refusal, and this young scoundrel..."
"Dubois?"
"What does Dubois have to do with it?" Smethwyck dismissed. "The lad, the applicant. He somehow cunningly dispersed a potion throughout the house—cunning in its effect, but simple as five Knuts in composition."
"I am curious," Greengrass drawled thoughtfully. "What sort of potion was it?"
"Indeed," Malfoy nodded, smiling slightly. "It is hard to imagine what consequences a potion must have to cause such lasting aversion in a Master Healer."
"I bet," Goyle downed the remains of his sparkling wine in one gulp, immediately taking a fresh glass, "it was something truly bloody and terrible. A massacre, a slaughter, a catastrophe..."
"Curb your wild imagination, big man," Smethwyck smirked. "It was much simpler, better, and... and worse. The entire house, for several hours, turned into... a veritable den of debauchery!"
At such an unexpected yet predictable twist, the company of wizards burst into laughter that was far from aristocratic—perhaps the alcohol was to blame?
"It is not funny," Smethwyck smiled despite his words. "I have a delicate spiritual organization, and my knowledge and experience allow me to clearly understand that people are not as monogamous as they like to think. It burdens me, as does the clear understanding of how many wizards indulge in debauchery with the wrong people... definitely the wrong people."
"Uh-huh," Goyle chuckled. No one would have thought to reproach him for his less-than-high-society behavior—they had all known each other too long. "As an acquaintance of mine used to say: 'My wife and I had sex too often. True, it was in different places and not at the same time. That's why we split up.'"
Taking advantage of the pause created by the simple but timely joke, and having decimated the appetizer platters, the wizards made imperceptible movements to check the quality of the privacy charms around their group, then changed the subject.
"How are international relations?" Smethwyck initiated the topic, though he was the least interested in it among them.
"Not bad," the blonde Greengrass nodded. "We didn't spend all that time initiating the Tournament and preparing for it in vain."
"Agreed," Lucius nodded importantly. "From reliable sources, I know that He is recovering and gathering strength. We need to move funds beyond even our own immediate reach."
"We are working on it," Goyle's face became deadly serious. "Transfers to France, funding, and so on. The contracts will allow... or rather, will not allow access to my own resources for five years."
"Likewise," Bulstrode, a short but sturdy brown-haired man, sipped his champagne. "We have invested fully in reliable ventures in Africa. The projects aren't profitable, but they are secure. They cannot be withdrawn in the coming years either. Lucius?"
"Through France to Asia. Hippocrates, you?"
"Do you think there is something to worry about?"
. . .
"It seems to me," Lucius drawled thoughtfully and weightily, "that this time He will not leave the traditionally neutral forces alone. Try to mobilize the wizards at St. Mungo's. Convey the thought to them that all levers of pressure on them, and anything that might be of interest to Him, must be removed from the country."
"I will try, of course," Smethwyck placed one hand on his small paunch, almost invisible under his robes, "but such fuss will attract attention."
"The Ministry will be blind, as always," Greengrass shrugged, and the others agreed with silence. "And the likes of Dumbledore, I suspect, already know or guess everything anyway. So, soon we will be, on paper, a little wealthier, but in fact—without a Knut in our pockets?"
"Something like that," Lucius summarized, and they all drained their champagne glasses. "Better that than spending half the family fortune on an empty and useless revolution, lining the pockets of bureaucrats. Heaven forbid they become richer and more influential than us with our own money. But let us discuss grim matters in a different setting."
"Agreed. Bad topic," Goyle was ready to draw a line under the conversation. "Started with a toast to health, ended with a funeral dirge."
Looking around at the wizards in the hall—standing in groups, drinking, eating, discussing, or exiting through the veranda into the winter garden—William Greengrass focused on his wife and her female company: Narcissa Malfoy, Clarissa Bulstrode, and two other ladies. This group had moved to another corner of the hall but was still actively discussing something, not neglecting the wine and fruit.
"I wonder," William drawled, drawing the attention of the rest of the company. "What are they discussing so animatedly over there?"
"Oh, Hogwarts," Smethwyck smiled openly, patting his stomach. "As soon as we all gathered, they immediately started discussing the school and events there. And later, when I approached to ask if everything was well and if the ladies desired anything, their conversation was still about Hogwarts. And an hour later..."
"We get it, enough," Goyle raised a hand in a stopping gesture. "But what is there to talk about?"
"Doesn't yours write about the news from school?" Lucius looked conspiratorially at the elder Goyle.
"He writes, of course," the giant nodded confidently and weightily. "But there's nothing that interesting. I don't even know what could be discussed for so long."
"Mine writes too..." Lucius looked at the others, at Bulstrode and Greengrass, but they were in no hurry to share, perhaps thinking, like Goyle, that there was little to share. "True, one Muggle-born boy has begun to occupy too much space in his life. Or rather, ruining Draco's life."
"Don't tell me it's Granger," Greengrass shook his head, dissatisfaction readable on his face.
"Granger?" Smethwyck perked up, as he usually did whenever someone uttered the word 'medicine.'
"You are acquainted with this Muggle-born?" Lucius was surprised.
"My patient."
"Ah..." all the wizards waved him off, letting out a sigh of disappointment.
"So, we won't learn anything," Lucius summarized the general opinion.
"Well, I can say," Smethwyck pretended to ponder, "that he is a strong, healthy, talented, and promising young wizard."
"Mudblood," Goyle nodded with slight distaste.
"My daughter wrote about this boy; he stands out significantly," Bulstrode, who usually preferred silence to conversation, stated importantly.
"And I have a memory," Goyle continued the topic, "where he spent the day studying the Goblet's defenses like a Slytherin, watching students throw or try to throw their names in. In the end, he bypassed Dumbledore's protections and used properties of the Goblet no one even guessed existed."
"My eldest daughter writes almost nothing about him," Greengrass examined the bubbles in his champagne glass. "But the youngest is scribbling dossiers with might and main, expressing her concerns."
"Narcissa has taken an interest in him," Lucius nodded, and everyone else looked at the platinum blonde in shock. "Not in that sense, you old perverts, don't hold your breath."
"Statistically..." Bulstrode began to speak, but Smethwyck interrupted him upon hearing the start.
"It doesn't apply to them, as statistics count couples formed during education or within two years of graduating Hogwarts. How old were you, Luc, when you got together?"
"I was twenty-four, and Cissy..."
"A year younger, yes... Anyway, not a boy and a girl anymore."
"She wouldn't have rushed into marriage, Hippocrates, if not for Andromeda's antics and the relatives panicking because of it."
"Doesn't it seem to you, gentlemen," William Greengrass took a new glass—he was starting to look a bit tipsy—"that lately there is too much talk about all sorts of Muggle-Grangers? No?"
"I'm actually glad he exists," Malfoy smirked. "Draco considered his absolute superiority in everything and over everyone an insult to his illustrious person personally, as well as to all purebloods. I was afraid that after the fifth year, I'd have to forcibly hand him over to tutors under the strictest program so he'd understand that being a wizard isn't just a given. He even harnessed his comrades..."
Lucius looked at the massive Goyle, who in turn clearly intended to get to much stronger booze—three or four, maybe five glasses of sparkling wine were like a pellet to an elephant for him, as Dolohov used to say.
"Yeah, harness mine," Goyle grunted, but everyone heard. "Unless you threaten to cut off his food, there's no dedication to studies..."
"Are you serious?" William Greengrass smoothed his blonde hair, looking at his comrades. "Our children discuss a Mudblood, teachers praise a Mudblood, magical photos of a Mudblood are on advertising brochures, in the Dueling Club—not the school one, mind you—they talk about one of the best who is already in the school club... Guess who? The same Mudblood. Even our wives are discussing the Mudblood..."
"If you think about it," Malfoy drawled, "it truly is sad, and vividly characterizes the degree of degeneration of our society, if we view ourselves specifically as wizards..."
"Here, Luc," Goyle Sr. held out a glass of champagne, "drink some more. You're talking too smoothly..."
The music in the hall continued to play quietly, other wizards conversed, but a fluctuation in space—unexpected to some, but familiar and understandable to everyone in this group—distracted them from the conversation. An invisible house-elf appeared next to Smethwyck and spoke quietly:
"Master Smethwyck, sir, trouble. Speaking as you ordered... Drunken wizards have started a debauch in the small beige drawing room... Just as you worried..."
"Sigh... Well, here we go again, suffering for my delicate spiritual organization."
"Says the wizard," Goyle smirked, "who takes people apart into spare parts and puts them back together in pristine condition."
"Let's find out who is there?" Bulstrode suggested, placing his empty glass on the table.
"We are not seventeen," Lucius shook his head reproachfully.
"Oh, come on, aren't you curious who, whom, and how? What if it's blackmail material?"
The wizards glanced at each other, put their empty glasses on the table, scanned the hall, and quietly, almost along the wall, swaying almost imperceptibly, moved toward the exit. Naturally, such a maneuver did not go unnoticed by the group of witches, among whom were their wives.
"Where do you think they went?" inquired the brunette, Sophia Greengrass.
"Obviously, childhood is playing out in a certain place," Narcissa smiled, twirling her wine glass. "Given Smethwyck's dislike for affairs, he is surely monitoring the moral fiber of his guests."
"Well yes, well yes..." the other ladies nodded.
"And about ten minutes ago," Sophia briefly scanned the hall so as not to be unfounded, "Zabini walked away somewhere, and thirty seconds later—a man unfamiliar to me from the younger families followed."
"Did they go to spy or something? And you aren't worried, given Zabini's reputation?" surprised a blonde guest from France, known to few in the room.
"Regarding worry," Narcissa smiled softly. "Lucius resists the group allure of Veela and Amortentia on sheer will, and in other respects, he is true to himself. As for the peeping..."
The ladies froze in anticipation of the continuation.
"What can I say? The first fifty years of a man's childhood are the hardest."
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