Draco glances at me, something playful in his expression. "We met by chance. I was staying in the area, and Charity discovered me in her cottage one morning."
Mother's fork stops midway to her mouth. "In Grace's cottage?"
"I didn't know it belonged to anyone," Draco continues smoothly. "I was… between situations, and it seemed abandoned. Charity could have called security, but she chose conversation instead. I've been grateful ever since."
He's telling the truth—just framing it differently. Making it sound charming instead of desperate.
"You were trespassing on our property." Father's voice has gone flat. Dangerous.
"I was," Draco admits. "And when Charity found me, I fully expected to be thrown out or arrested. Instead, she offered me kindness. That tells you everything you need to know about her character."
He's turned it around—made the moment about me instead of his trespassing. Made it sound like I was compassionate rather than naïve.
Mother sets down her fork with precise movements. "Charity, is this true? You found a stranger living in Grace's cottage and didn't tell us?"
All eyes turn to me. My throat feels tight, my hands clammy around my salad fork.
"Yes," I say quietly. Then, because I'm tired of apologizing for choosing differently than they would: "He needed help. So I helped him."
"By hiding him on our property?" Father's voice rises slightly. "By keeping this secret for weeks?"
"By making my own choice for once." The words come out sharper than I intend. "By trusting my own judgment instead of waiting for permission."
The table goes silent. Even the kitchen staff, hovering in the doorway with the next course, seem to freeze.
Then Draco does something unexpected.
He reaches across the table, palm up—an invitation, not a demand. I stare at his hand for a heartbeat before placing mine in it. His fingers close around mine, warm and steady.
"With all due respect," he says, addressing my parents while looking at me, "Charity's kindness gave me more than shelter. It gave me hope. And I understand your concern—you don't know me; you have no reason to trust me. But everything I've learned about worth, I learned from her. She sees value in people, not just their circumstances."
Mother's face has gone pale. Father's jaw is tight. But neither of them speaks.
The kitchen staff takes the opportunity to clear salads and bring the main course—herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted vegetables. The presentation is museum-quality, probably chosen specifically to intimidate.
Draco releases my hand to pick up the correct fork and knife—outer utensils first, working inward—but his gaze stays on me for a moment longer.You okay?His expression asks.
I nod slightly. More than okay. Terrified, but not alone.
We eat in strained silence for several minutes. Mother makes small talk about the food. Father responds with monosyllables. I push lamb around my plate, appetite completely gone.
Then Draco sets down his silverware and reaches into his jacket pocket.
"I know this dinner was meant to assess my suitability," he says calmly. "To determine if I'm appropriate for Charity. And I understand—you're protecting your daughter. Any good parent would." He pulls out a quarter. "But maybe we could skip the formality for a moment. May I show you something?"
Father frowns. "This isn't really the time for—"
"Please." Draco's smile is disarming. "Just a moment of magic."
He doesn't wait for permission. The quarter begins rolling across his knuckles with impossible fluidity—appearing, disappearing, reappearing in mesmerizing patterns. Mother watches despite herself, drawn in by the hypnotic movement.
Then Draco flips the coin up, catches it, and opens his palm.
Instead of one quarter, there are four—each one identical, each one gleaming under the chandelier.
"Magic is about transformation," he says, voice dropping into that performer's cadence I've heard on the Brooklyn Bridge. "About seeing potential where others see only limitations."
He closes his fist around the coins, his other hand clearly empty so my parents can see he isn’t palming anything. When he opens his fist again, they've vanished. Then hegestures toward Father’s bread plate. When my father lifts it, the motion slow and cautious, the four quarters are sitting there, arranged in a perfect line.
