[hp] corridors of power 9
Corridors of Power
Being An Originally Intermittent Account
of the Political (Mis)Adventures
of the Viscount Northallerton, Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon;
and the Rt. Honourable Harry J. Potter,
Member of Parliament for North Southwark and Bermondsey (Liberal Democrat).
Annotated, with Footnotes
ROTHERHITHE TOWN HALL
SE16
Friday 6th May, 3:43 AM
"See, see, what I don't get, right--"
Harry was what Draco liked to call pickled. Pickled as salamander's bollocks in a pharmacy jar. Drunk and talking utter rubbish, but it was diverting rubbish, and besides, most of the faithful had pissed off home. No doubt they all needed an early night so they could get up and do their Pilates and mulch the compost before strolling to the local organic newsagent for the Guardian's post-election special.
Draco was relatively lucid. He'd drunk a lot (he'd chosen the wine, after all), but a couple of sobering charms in the gents had taken care of that. It amused him that half of the people at the party were obviously under the impression he was snorting up vast amounts of coke, but he really did have a cold.
(He blamed Harry, of course, what with the atrocious weather of so-called spring and the number of meetings that Harry's blizzard-hardened staff--Ramblers1, all of them--seemed to hold al fresco.)
"--is why I couldn't have been the peer and you could've done all the hard work and campaigning and stuff, and listened to people rant on about their council tax and crime on the estates and whether that Marco Pierre bloke should have a restaurant on Butlers Wharf, no, wait, you'd like that last one, um--"
"I was the last one, Potter, maybe you want to switch to half-pints?"
"HA!" Harry held up his forefinger and went a bit cross-eyed pointing it at Draco. "That is hilarious coming from you, you lightweight. Although." He squinted. "Although you. You are very un-drunk." A frown, that kind that screwed up his whole face. "Which is not right, because it is four in the morning I have just been re-elected the Member for North Bermondsey and Southwark by at least five thousand--"
"North Southwark and Bermondsey." Draco surreptitiously cut Harry's Heineken with lemonade while he was distracted by a yawning volunteer with the tray of finger-food.
"Whatever, five thousand votes. You should be celebrating. You helped. Extremely weird and scary though it is, you helped." Harry became quite involved in picking out the dill from his salmon-and-dill pastry. "Um."
"Um yourself. You can thank me later," Draco said, leer on reflex.
"Oh, was that your ulterior motive?"
A pause, while Draco considered what Harry had said earlier.
"Wait. Am I to understand your attempts to get me out of the Lords were because you were jealous?"
Harry stopped picking and shoved the whole vol-au-vent in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Hmm. And also you're easy to wind up."
Draco scowled, inasmuch as he could when he wanted to sneeze.
"I mean, and then there's that whole hereditary privilege thing, and that really is wrong. Draco, you should try these pastries, they're bloody nice."
Draco leaned on the back of one of the folding chairs and wondered if he could turn Harry into something small and slimy, because even if this was further wind-up, it really wasn't very fucking funny at all. Harry grinned blearily at him, and mussed over Draco's hair.
"And the wig, you know, you look completely daft in that. That would have been a big no-n--look, isn't that Tony Benn?"2 There were still a few people around the doorway, watching the final tallies on the BBC. The chap who worked part-time doing the accounts for the constituency office did, from a distance, look a little like the ex-Labour MP.
Draco swatted Harry's hand away, irritated. "Tony Benn is not at your election party," he snapped. "Obviously you need new glasses. And you should probably decide what your politics actually are, considering you just got elected to represent a whole bunch of unsuspecting Muggles who have no idea--"
"--like you actually give a shit--"
"--that you're merely practising on them, although why I am surprised that's sIipped your mind I have no idea."
For a second Harry had the fixed stare he got just he lost his temper, but either the beer or Draco's outburst had some effect and he chewed at the side of his cheek instead. "Malfoy, I was only joking." He wasn't very convincing.
Draco looked at the hand Harry had put on his wrist, closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. "Congratulations, Harry. Well done. I'm going home."
"Can we, um, forget we had this conversation?" Harry's brow creased up and he still didn't move his hand, but Draco suspected it was more for balance than any valiant attempt to keep Draco from leaving.
"I rather think I'll torment you with it later," Draco said sharply, wincing as another camera flash went off.
*
This time when Draco went into the gents to Apparate (there was no way he was trying to get a cab at four A.M. on the Rotherhithe tunnel approach road, blood alcohol limit be damned) there were two blokes chopping up powder on the sports pages of the South London Press and discussing swing percentages, although whether it was politics they were on about Draco really couldn't tell.
And Anthony Wedgwood Benn was standing at the urinal, humming something that sounded suspiciously like Keep The Red Flag Flying.3
1. RAMBLERS: Insufferable people who like to trot briskly about the countryside in Gore-Tex anoraks, no matter the weather.
2. TONY BENN: A now retired radical left-wing Labour politician from one of those peculiarly dynastic families. The first Peer (he inherited a Viscountcy) to renounce his title, he did so in order to take up an elected seat in the Commons and spent the next 30-odd years fighting the socialist fight, which one might read about in his seven-volume set of diaries.
3. THE RED FLAG: Once the stalwart anthem of the Labour Party, the 21st century has seen the rousing socialist ditty dropped from its annual hearing at the Labour Party Conference, most likely because Labour is now "not that sort of party".
THE CLOISTERS
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON, WC1
Sunday May 8th, 11:59 PM
Blaise hadn't seemed particularly perturbed by the fact Cecilia wasn't meeting him after his Magisterium viva, which Draco found odd; then, he'd never really understood the whole concept of Blaise and blessed matrimony in the first place.
Or marriage, in general.
Or why one would spend four years of one's life researching a topic that was profoundly theoretical and (in Draco's opinion) utterly unfathomable to anyone but Blaise and his Magus Praetor. It seemed to keep Blaise happy and apparently there was some talk of a book deal in the future, so who knew?
It had been rather gratifying to see Blaise pacing nervously in the Peers' Library yesterday, biting at his normally-perfect fingernails and muttering about the Great Leap Forward and the Long March and occasionally spinning on his heels and snapping something incomprehensible in Mandarin (Bai hua qi fang! bai jia zheng ming!) at Draco4. They'd been officially meant to vacate their offices during prorogation, but the public spaces were still open, and all Draco felt up to was reading the Straits Times and National Geographic anyhow.
And now today Blaise had to present his thesis (all four volumes of it, what a swot) and subject himself to twelve hours of questions and demonstrative spell-casting and, in Blaise's case, show some really nifty Powerpoint slides. All for--
"You may now call me Professor," said a smug voice at his ear.
*
"You don't think you ought to take off the robe?"
They were having some kind of Icelandic whiskey at Oblivi8, the swanky minimalist bar that had opened in one of the old warehouses behind Flourish & Blotts. Draco was rather fond of it; it combined the best aesthetics of Muggle design with the rather more exciting liquid refreshments that the wizarding community had to offer. Not that he got to visit very often; the Ministry was strict about the rules and he was damned if he having an official notice all for the sake of a Zombie Punch.
It was, however, quite warm in the crowded space.
"Gown," said Blaise. "Actual proper academic gown, with actual proper sigillary, which I am now actually properly entitled to wear. Also, not wearing anything underneath."
Draco blinked, because Blaise was not the brazen sort and he was very close, the kind of eyelash-counting close that made it possible for Draco to gauge just how black and huge Blaise's pupils were and admire things like the flush on his cheekbones and the definitive proof that he indeed was naked under the black pleats.
"Really." Okay, so it wasn't a good idea, but he'd known Blaise forever and it wasn't like he hadn't before and honestly, Professor? It was stupidly hot.
"Really," said Blaise, slow and know-it-all. "I think you ought to be taking it off."
4. Translates as: "Let a hundred flowers bloom, a hundred schools of thought contend." Draco has still not figured this out.
THE ATHENAEUM CLUB
PALL MALL
Monday May 9th, 11.30 AM
"Just why did you get the Mirror?" Draco knocked back his macchiato and idly considered eggs benedict. Breakfasts at the club were legendary for their portion size, and he was starving.
Blaise was having fruit salad and some green drink that looked like grass clippings, which Draco thought was gay in the wrong way.
"John Pilger was the quintanus on my thesis apocleti."
Draco blanked. Blaise was speaking gibberish5.
Blaise sighed. "Complete barking radical, but he's been everywhere and knows everything."
The raggy, hollow feeling that had prickled at Draco for days threatened to settle in again, so he looked around for a waiter.
"--speaking of knowing everything, look at this." Blaise pulled out a page and folded it, passing it across the table with raised eyebrows. "That's the woman who came to your office."
And it was: a small picture of Gina McKee amongst the other journalists who had covered London constituency functions, and a small article with a picture of Harry with his hand on Draco's arm. Draco hadn't realised Harry had been standing that close, or that he'd been tilting his head in a way that really, really didn't communicate the snippy conversation they'd been having; rather, precisely the opposite.
IT'S TOFF BEING LIBERAL
Re-elected Member for North Southwark and Bermondsey, Harry Potter celebrated election night at the Rotherhithe Town Hall with party supporters, campaign staff, and Lord Malfoy, the youngest-ever member of the "other place". The Viscount Northallerton, who was awarded his seat on an 18th century technicality even after Labour's sweeping reforms of the House of Lords, has been spotted at other social events with Mr Potter (29), but until now had shown no inclination of sharing his colleague's politics.
Constituency staff present on election night confirmed that Lord Malfoy (29) had assisted in some aspects of Mr Potter's campaign in the weeks leading up to the election but would not elaborate further. Whilst technically a cross-bench peer with no official party affiliation, Lord Malfoy comes from a heavily Conservative background and has made remarks in the House denouncing various aspects of Liberal Democrat and Labour policy.
Until Parliament was prorogated for the early election, Mr Potter had a Private Members Bill before the session proposing an amendment to the 1999 Lords Reform Bill, that would, if successful, force his colleague to renounce his seat and stand for consideration as a Peer Appointment. The dissolution cancelled consideration of the tabled Bill, and it is not known if Mr Potter plans to reintroduce it when Parliament resumes in mid-May.
Neither party could be reached to comment on the nature of their association.
He handed the page back to Blaise and stared at the split yolk of his egg. "Fuck."
"If it's any consolation, he looks terribly short in that picture." Blaise smoothed out the creases in the newspaper. "Although there's no denying the..." he tapped his fork on the table, searching for a word, "cosiness."
"Fuck," Draco said again.
5. Draco never listens, and his Greek is even more appalling than his Latin. John Pilger, political investigative journalist, was the fifth examiner on my thesis committee.
OFFICE OF THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (UNPLOTTABLE)
Tuesday May 9th, 3:31PM
"Half of me," Boris said, balancing his rather compensatory-looking wand on his forefinger and making a face at Draco, "would like to test out Filius Flitwick's assertion that I was the single most inventive hex-creator ever to come out of Hufflepuff--quiet, boy, don't think I don't know how close you were to being one of Helga's--"
Draco folded his arms and slid lower in the seat.
"--and half of me doesn't give a flying fuck if it's true or not, because Spectator sales would go through the roof if you gave me an exclusive."
"I thought you would be pleased we were getting along." Draco went for diversionary, because the thought of relating something salacious about him and Harry for Boris's little periodical just made him feel vaguely tetchy.
Boris sighed. "Not. In front. Of journalists. What part of low profile is difficult for you to understand?"
Draco ignored him and continued picking at the armchair. "Were being the operative word, it seems. Haven't talked to him for days, stupid git."
"That would be the tabloid hounds attempting to get some sort of comment from him. Besides, Potter is quite demonstrably not stupid if he's not being seen with you at the moment. Do you realise how many political careers in this country have been derailed by sex scandals?"
"But there's no s--"
"Doesn't matter. The Ministry basically thinks it is, I had Shacklebolt in the fire all morning telling me to read you both the riot act--you especially, for being so idiotically chummy with Harry during the campaign. And I'm sure Kennedy's going to have something to say to Harry about his choice of... friends. It's not exactly the kind of notice and attention we had envisioned here."
Draco rubbed at his forehead and decided any attempts at explanation were just going to come out ridiculously half-assed and heavily doth-protest-too-much.
"Fine," he said. "Please tell me Potter also gets this charming instructional session."
Boris waved his hand dismissively. "He already has, of course. Do try and stay out of trouble, Draco."
THE PEERS CORRIDOR
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (LORDS)
4:00 PM
He already has of course, Draco muttered under his breath. It wasn't until he'd left the Minister's office and stalked down the entire length of St Stephen's that he grasped the implication behind Boris's remark.
We want you both to succeed, the official line had been. For the sake of improved wizarding politics. For better Muggle-wizarding relations at official levels. You're both important.
Ha.
"Rules," Draco said emphatically to the frescoed form of King Charles I attempting to bully Speaker Lenthall6. "Put you in your place, didn't they?"
"Lord Malfoy?" A woman's voice behind him, amused. Draco turned around to the smiling face of the Baroness Boothroyd7.
"Um," Draco said, every single bit of poise he'd had hammered into him completely abandoning him for the moment, because there were some people who deserved their peerage, and she was one of them. Actually, Draco thought she should be Queen, but apparently things didn't work that way. "Yes?"
"I can wait until you've finished telling off King Charles, if you like." The Baroness folded her lips together, but her eyes were bright. "It's my favourite painting in here, too."
"Um," said Draco. "I'm done for now, ma'am." Manners came rushing back to him. "How do you do?"
The Baroness shook his hand and gestured to a bench. "Sorry to disturb you when we're out of session," she started, but Draco interrupted.
"Is this about Potter?" he blurted.
She frowned. "Don't know who you're talking about. No, I wanted to speak with you because I am convening a procedural group you might be interested in."
"Me?" Draco peered as close as he could to the Baroness' cardigan sleeve, because he was getting tongue-tied and intimidated by a person who looked like someone's cuddly grandmother, and a wand-shaped bump under the lilac wool would make him feel a little less like an idiot.
"I would have sent you a memo in-session," she said, kindly ignoring Draco's inability to string a sentence together, "but I recognised you standing here after Lord Campbell pointed you out to me during the Terrorism Bill debate."
"Select Committee," Draco said, events coalescing into sense. He cleared his throat. "Campbell's an exceptional nitpicker. I have the utmost admiration for that sort of ability."
"Well done!" The Baroness clapped her hands together. "That's exactly what this group is about. Parliamentary procedure. Nitpicking. Alloway said you might have an interest, especially with all this business with ID cards coming up upon us."
"I'm." Draco blinked, grinned. "Terribly flattered."
"Well," she fixed him with the sort of assessing stare that had quelled unruly MPs for eight years, "I must say I didn't approve of your admittance, but I think everyone needs the chance to prove themselves." She stood. Definitely no wand. Draco didn't know if that made him feel better or not.
"I'll be in touch," the Baroness said, and strode off towards the Lobby.
Draco glanced around to check that the security guard was back down the other end of the corridor, snuck his wand out and tapped it on the fresco.
Speaker Lenthall hoisted himself up from his deferent position in front of Charles and doffed his hat outwards. The monarch looked on in puzzlement. Draco nodded back, and he was certain he saw Lenthall wink.
*
6. LENTHALL: Speaker of the House of Commons during Charles I's Long Parliament. The Monarch is not supposed to enter the Commons Chamber, so when Charles did so in pursuit of some rabble-rousing MPs, Lenthall grew a pair and famously said: "May it please your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as the House is pleased to direct me, whose servant I am here."
7. BOOTHROYD: Betty Boothroyd, an elected Life Peer, was the first female Speaker in the Commons. She ruled the House with a twinkle and a gravelly "Right, time's up". Draco buys her shortbread and Gordons and probably wants to be adopted.
End, Part IX ~ Part X
Being An Originally Intermittent Account
of the Political (Mis)Adventures
of the Viscount Northallerton, Lord Malfoy of Wimbledon;
and the Rt. Honourable Harry J. Potter,
Member of Parliament for North Southwark and Bermondsey (Liberal Democrat).
Annotated, with Footnotes
ROTHERHITHE TOWN HALL
SE16
Friday 6th May, 3:43 AM
"See, see, what I don't get, right--"
Harry was what Draco liked to call pickled. Pickled as salamander's bollocks in a pharmacy jar. Drunk and talking utter rubbish, but it was diverting rubbish, and besides, most of the faithful had pissed off home. No doubt they all needed an early night so they could get up and do their Pilates and mulch the compost before strolling to the local organic newsagent for the Guardian's post-election special.
Draco was relatively lucid. He'd drunk a lot (he'd chosen the wine, after all), but a couple of sobering charms in the gents had taken care of that. It amused him that half of the people at the party were obviously under the impression he was snorting up vast amounts of coke, but he really did have a cold.
(He blamed Harry, of course, what with the atrocious weather of so-called spring and the number of meetings that Harry's blizzard-hardened staff--Ramblers1, all of them--seemed to hold al fresco.)
"--is why I couldn't have been the peer and you could've done all the hard work and campaigning and stuff, and listened to people rant on about their council tax and crime on the estates and whether that Marco Pierre bloke should have a restaurant on Butlers Wharf, no, wait, you'd like that last one, um--"
"I was the last one, Potter, maybe you want to switch to half-pints?"
"HA!" Harry held up his forefinger and went a bit cross-eyed pointing it at Draco. "That is hilarious coming from you, you lightweight. Although." He squinted. "Although you. You are very un-drunk." A frown, that kind that screwed up his whole face. "Which is not right, because it is four in the morning I have just been re-elected the Member for North Bermondsey and Southwark by at least five thousand--"
"North Southwark and Bermondsey." Draco surreptitiously cut Harry's Heineken with lemonade while he was distracted by a yawning volunteer with the tray of finger-food.
"Whatever, five thousand votes. You should be celebrating. You helped. Extremely weird and scary though it is, you helped." Harry became quite involved in picking out the dill from his salmon-and-dill pastry. "Um."
"Um yourself. You can thank me later," Draco said, leer on reflex.
"Oh, was that your ulterior motive?"
A pause, while Draco considered what Harry had said earlier.
"Wait. Am I to understand your attempts to get me out of the Lords were because you were jealous?"
Harry stopped picking and shoved the whole vol-au-vent in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Hmm. And also you're easy to wind up."
Draco scowled, inasmuch as he could when he wanted to sneeze.
"I mean, and then there's that whole hereditary privilege thing, and that really is wrong. Draco, you should try these pastries, they're bloody nice."
Draco leaned on the back of one of the folding chairs and wondered if he could turn Harry into something small and slimy, because even if this was further wind-up, it really wasn't very fucking funny at all. Harry grinned blearily at him, and mussed over Draco's hair.
"And the wig, you know, you look completely daft in that. That would have been a big no-n--look, isn't that Tony Benn?"2 There were still a few people around the doorway, watching the final tallies on the BBC. The chap who worked part-time doing the accounts for the constituency office did, from a distance, look a little like the ex-Labour MP.
Draco swatted Harry's hand away, irritated. "Tony Benn is not at your election party," he snapped. "Obviously you need new glasses. And you should probably decide what your politics actually are, considering you just got elected to represent a whole bunch of unsuspecting Muggles who have no idea--"
"--like you actually give a shit--"
"--that you're merely practising on them, although why I am surprised that's sIipped your mind I have no idea."
For a second Harry had the fixed stare he got just he lost his temper, but either the beer or Draco's outburst had some effect and he chewed at the side of his cheek instead. "Malfoy, I was only joking." He wasn't very convincing.
Draco looked at the hand Harry had put on his wrist, closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. "Congratulations, Harry. Well done. I'm going home."
"Can we, um, forget we had this conversation?" Harry's brow creased up and he still didn't move his hand, but Draco suspected it was more for balance than any valiant attempt to keep Draco from leaving.
"I rather think I'll torment you with it later," Draco said sharply, wincing as another camera flash went off.
*
This time when Draco went into the gents to Apparate (there was no way he was trying to get a cab at four A.M. on the Rotherhithe tunnel approach road, blood alcohol limit be damned) there were two blokes chopping up powder on the sports pages of the South London Press and discussing swing percentages, although whether it was politics they were on about Draco really couldn't tell.
And Anthony Wedgwood Benn was standing at the urinal, humming something that sounded suspiciously like Keep The Red Flag Flying.3
1. RAMBLERS: Insufferable people who like to trot briskly about the countryside in Gore-Tex anoraks, no matter the weather.
2. TONY BENN: A now retired radical left-wing Labour politician from one of those peculiarly dynastic families. The first Peer (he inherited a Viscountcy) to renounce his title, he did so in order to take up an elected seat in the Commons and spent the next 30-odd years fighting the socialist fight, which one might read about in his seven-volume set of diaries.
3. THE RED FLAG: Once the stalwart anthem of the Labour Party, the 21st century has seen the rousing socialist ditty dropped from its annual hearing at the Labour Party Conference, most likely because Labour is now "not that sort of party".
THE CLOISTERS
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON, WC1
Sunday May 8th, 11:59 PM
Blaise hadn't seemed particularly perturbed by the fact Cecilia wasn't meeting him after his Magisterium viva, which Draco found odd; then, he'd never really understood the whole concept of Blaise and blessed matrimony in the first place.
Or marriage, in general.
Or why one would spend four years of one's life researching a topic that was profoundly theoretical and (in Draco's opinion) utterly unfathomable to anyone but Blaise and his Magus Praetor. It seemed to keep Blaise happy and apparently there was some talk of a book deal in the future, so who knew?
It had been rather gratifying to see Blaise pacing nervously in the Peers' Library yesterday, biting at his normally-perfect fingernails and muttering about the Great Leap Forward and the Long March and occasionally spinning on his heels and snapping something incomprehensible in Mandarin (Bai hua qi fang! bai jia zheng ming!) at Draco4. They'd been officially meant to vacate their offices during prorogation, but the public spaces were still open, and all Draco felt up to was reading the Straits Times and National Geographic anyhow.
And now today Blaise had to present his thesis (all four volumes of it, what a swot) and subject himself to twelve hours of questions and demonstrative spell-casting and, in Blaise's case, show some really nifty Powerpoint slides. All for--
"You may now call me Professor," said a smug voice at his ear.
*
"You don't think you ought to take off the robe?"
They were having some kind of Icelandic whiskey at Oblivi8, the swanky minimalist bar that had opened in one of the old warehouses behind Flourish & Blotts. Draco was rather fond of it; it combined the best aesthetics of Muggle design with the rather more exciting liquid refreshments that the wizarding community had to offer. Not that he got to visit very often; the Ministry was strict about the rules and he was damned if he having an official notice all for the sake of a Zombie Punch.
It was, however, quite warm in the crowded space.
"Gown," said Blaise. "Actual proper academic gown, with actual proper sigillary, which I am now actually properly entitled to wear. Also, not wearing anything underneath."
Draco blinked, because Blaise was not the brazen sort and he was very close, the kind of eyelash-counting close that made it possible for Draco to gauge just how black and huge Blaise's pupils were and admire things like the flush on his cheekbones and the definitive proof that he indeed was naked under the black pleats.
"Really." Okay, so it wasn't a good idea, but he'd known Blaise forever and it wasn't like he hadn't before and honestly, Professor? It was stupidly hot.
"Really," said Blaise, slow and know-it-all. "I think you ought to be taking it off."
4. Translates as: "Let a hundred flowers bloom, a hundred schools of thought contend." Draco has still not figured this out.
THE ATHENAEUM CLUB
PALL MALL
Monday May 9th, 11.30 AM
"Just why did you get the Mirror?" Draco knocked back his macchiato and idly considered eggs benedict. Breakfasts at the club were legendary for their portion size, and he was starving.
Blaise was having fruit salad and some green drink that looked like grass clippings, which Draco thought was gay in the wrong way.
"John Pilger was the quintanus on my thesis apocleti."
Draco blanked. Blaise was speaking gibberish5.
Blaise sighed. "Complete barking radical, but he's been everywhere and knows everything."
The raggy, hollow feeling that had prickled at Draco for days threatened to settle in again, so he looked around for a waiter.
"--speaking of knowing everything, look at this." Blaise pulled out a page and folded it, passing it across the table with raised eyebrows. "That's the woman who came to your office."
And it was: a small picture of Gina McKee amongst the other journalists who had covered London constituency functions, and a small article with a picture of Harry with his hand on Draco's arm. Draco hadn't realised Harry had been standing that close, or that he'd been tilting his head in a way that really, really didn't communicate the snippy conversation they'd been having; rather, precisely the opposite.
IT'S TOFF BEING LIBERAL
Re-elected Member for North Southwark and Bermondsey, Harry Potter celebrated election night at the Rotherhithe Town Hall with party supporters, campaign staff, and Lord Malfoy, the youngest-ever member of the "other place". The Viscount Northallerton, who was awarded his seat on an 18th century technicality even after Labour's sweeping reforms of the House of Lords, has been spotted at other social events with Mr Potter (29), but until now had shown no inclination of sharing his colleague's politics.
Constituency staff present on election night confirmed that Lord Malfoy (29) had assisted in some aspects of Mr Potter's campaign in the weeks leading up to the election but would not elaborate further. Whilst technically a cross-bench peer with no official party affiliation, Lord Malfoy comes from a heavily Conservative background and has made remarks in the House denouncing various aspects of Liberal Democrat and Labour policy.
Until Parliament was prorogated for the early election, Mr Potter had a Private Members Bill before the session proposing an amendment to the 1999 Lords Reform Bill, that would, if successful, force his colleague to renounce his seat and stand for consideration as a Peer Appointment. The dissolution cancelled consideration of the tabled Bill, and it is not known if Mr Potter plans to reintroduce it when Parliament resumes in mid-May.
Neither party could be reached to comment on the nature of their association.
He handed the page back to Blaise and stared at the split yolk of his egg. "Fuck."
"If it's any consolation, he looks terribly short in that picture." Blaise smoothed out the creases in the newspaper. "Although there's no denying the..." he tapped his fork on the table, searching for a word, "cosiness."
"Fuck," Draco said again.
5. Draco never listens, and his Greek is even more appalling than his Latin. John Pilger, political investigative journalist, was the fifth examiner on my thesis committee.
OFFICE OF THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (UNPLOTTABLE)
Tuesday May 9th, 3:31PM
"Half of me," Boris said, balancing his rather compensatory-looking wand on his forefinger and making a face at Draco, "would like to test out Filius Flitwick's assertion that I was the single most inventive hex-creator ever to come out of Hufflepuff--quiet, boy, don't think I don't know how close you were to being one of Helga's--"
Draco folded his arms and slid lower in the seat.
"--and half of me doesn't give a flying fuck if it's true or not, because Spectator sales would go through the roof if you gave me an exclusive."
"I thought you would be pleased we were getting along." Draco went for diversionary, because the thought of relating something salacious about him and Harry for Boris's little periodical just made him feel vaguely tetchy.
Boris sighed. "Not. In front. Of journalists. What part of low profile is difficult for you to understand?"
Draco ignored him and continued picking at the armchair. "Were being the operative word, it seems. Haven't talked to him for days, stupid git."
"That would be the tabloid hounds attempting to get some sort of comment from him. Besides, Potter is quite demonstrably not stupid if he's not being seen with you at the moment. Do you realise how many political careers in this country have been derailed by sex scandals?"
"But there's no s--"
"Doesn't matter. The Ministry basically thinks it is, I had Shacklebolt in the fire all morning telling me to read you both the riot act--you especially, for being so idiotically chummy with Harry during the campaign. And I'm sure Kennedy's going to have something to say to Harry about his choice of... friends. It's not exactly the kind of notice and attention we had envisioned here."
Draco rubbed at his forehead and decided any attempts at explanation were just going to come out ridiculously half-assed and heavily doth-protest-too-much.
"Fine," he said. "Please tell me Potter also gets this charming instructional session."
Boris waved his hand dismissively. "He already has, of course. Do try and stay out of trouble, Draco."
THE PEERS CORRIDOR
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT (LORDS)
4:00 PM
He already has of course, Draco muttered under his breath. It wasn't until he'd left the Minister's office and stalked down the entire length of St Stephen's that he grasped the implication behind Boris's remark.
We want you both to succeed, the official line had been. For the sake of improved wizarding politics. For better Muggle-wizarding relations at official levels. You're both important.
Ha.
"Rules," Draco said emphatically to the frescoed form of King Charles I attempting to bully Speaker Lenthall6. "Put you in your place, didn't they?"
"Lord Malfoy?" A woman's voice behind him, amused. Draco turned around to the smiling face of the Baroness Boothroyd7.
"Um," Draco said, every single bit of poise he'd had hammered into him completely abandoning him for the moment, because there were some people who deserved their peerage, and she was one of them. Actually, Draco thought she should be Queen, but apparently things didn't work that way. "Yes?"
"I can wait until you've finished telling off King Charles, if you like." The Baroness folded her lips together, but her eyes were bright. "It's my favourite painting in here, too."
"Um," said Draco. "I'm done for now, ma'am." Manners came rushing back to him. "How do you do?"
The Baroness shook his hand and gestured to a bench. "Sorry to disturb you when we're out of session," she started, but Draco interrupted.
"Is this about Potter?" he blurted.
She frowned. "Don't know who you're talking about. No, I wanted to speak with you because I am convening a procedural group you might be interested in."
"Me?" Draco peered as close as he could to the Baroness' cardigan sleeve, because he was getting tongue-tied and intimidated by a person who looked like someone's cuddly grandmother, and a wand-shaped bump under the lilac wool would make him feel a little less like an idiot.
"I would have sent you a memo in-session," she said, kindly ignoring Draco's inability to string a sentence together, "but I recognised you standing here after Lord Campbell pointed you out to me during the Terrorism Bill debate."
"Select Committee," Draco said, events coalescing into sense. He cleared his throat. "Campbell's an exceptional nitpicker. I have the utmost admiration for that sort of ability."
"Well done!" The Baroness clapped her hands together. "That's exactly what this group is about. Parliamentary procedure. Nitpicking. Alloway said you might have an interest, especially with all this business with ID cards coming up upon us."
"I'm." Draco blinked, grinned. "Terribly flattered."
"Well," she fixed him with the sort of assessing stare that had quelled unruly MPs for eight years, "I must say I didn't approve of your admittance, but I think everyone needs the chance to prove themselves." She stood. Definitely no wand. Draco didn't know if that made him feel better or not.
"I'll be in touch," the Baroness said, and strode off towards the Lobby.
Draco glanced around to check that the security guard was back down the other end of the corridor, snuck his wand out and tapped it on the fresco.
Speaker Lenthall hoisted himself up from his deferent position in front of Charles and doffed his hat outwards. The monarch looked on in puzzlement. Draco nodded back, and he was certain he saw Lenthall wink.
*
6. LENTHALL: Speaker of the House of Commons during Charles I's Long Parliament. The Monarch is not supposed to enter the Commons Chamber, so when Charles did so in pursuit of some rabble-rousing MPs, Lenthall grew a pair and famously said: "May it please your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as the House is pleased to direct me, whose servant I am here."
7. BOOTHROYD: Betty Boothroyd, an elected Life Peer, was the first female Speaker in the Commons. She ruled the House with a twinkle and a gravelly "Right, time's up". Draco buys her shortbread and Gordons and probably wants to be adopted.
End, Part IX ~ Part X