Baton Rouge

- 26 -

Why the hell was he sweating?

Draco had already risen from his seat and was now standing indecisively in front of one of the pub's dull windows, which gave him a blurred view of the Baton Rouge's entrance.

He shouldn't be here. He should prepare for his departure and figure out how to track down Potter before Blaise did.

In addition, Blaise had sent him an appointment memo for the next morning, which didn't suited Draco's plans at all. Whatever he wanted to discuss would probably have to do with Potter and Draco wasn't sure how much longer he could fool Blaise. After all, he wasn't stupid. And they had known each other for so long that Blaise saw through him most of the time, no matter how hard Draco tried to mislead him.

He could have cursed himself for not pulling himself together when he had been so upset about Granger. But everyone needed someone they could confide in. And to Draco, Blaise had been that someone ever since they had left school and found their way into the Ministry together. He had never had a reason not to trust him with his thoughts. Now, however, he kept asking himself if he had made a huge mistake. Would Blaise betray him when push came to shove? As much as Draco wanted to believe otherwise, he couldn't be entirely sure.

And then of course he was stupid enough to come back here. He tried to put it down to wanting to make sure Granger had followed his advice. That she had stayed clean. That she was... fine?

Draco shook his head. If he was honest with himself, his motives were probably more selfish in nature. For some reason he just wanted to see her before he left for Cornwall. Just one more time.

The only stupid thing about it was that it would be of no use - neither for him nor for Granger. Maybe she would even laugh at him for being pathetic enough to check on her after they had separated like that.

Despite all his misgivings, Draco started moving again. His steps took him past the pub's packed tables. It was weekend and it was getting late. Diagon Alley's nightlife had peaked again and despite the cold November wind whistling through the streets, many wizards and witches had left their homes to drink away their last Sickles of the month.

"I had three Firewhiskys," he informed the waitress, who eyed him as he took his robes off the coat rack and tossed some Knuts on the bar.

She nodded in acknowledgment and proceeded to polish the glasses with what Draco noticed was not a particularly clean rag. He wrinkled his nose and left the pub. It was his own fault if he had now caught some nasty disease. After all, this time no one had forced him to go to the pub and give himself the liquid courage to do something he wasn't quite convinced of yet.

Still, his decision was made. He approached the front door of the Baton Rouge, entered the brothel through the heavy curtain that blocked the view of the entrance area from the street, and paused at the reception desk to request a seat at the bar. Of course he got it. As always, he wore dark robes with an immaculate white shirt so that even the most simple-minded employee would be aware of his status.

When the wizard motioned for him to enter the Salon, Draco pushed himself off the reception desk and walked towards the double doors, which he was unfortunately all too familiar with. Then he straightened his shoulders and shook off the uncomfortable feeling that had been troubling him ever since he had set foot in Diagon Alley.

+.+.+

Draco eyed the Firewhisky glass the bartender had pushed across the bar to him. It was already the second in the Baton Rouge and thus the fifth glass of the evening. If he wasn't careful, he would soon be drunk again, and that wasn't what he had planned for tonight.