The Master of the house was pacing, his black velvet robes tracing the floor with its hem. An eerily green fire was burning in the hearth, and Draco was obviously obsessive about something; Daphne should be about any time, and Draco intended to hear her perspective on the matter vexing him. He had been drinking, but apparently couldn't handle much, since half a bottle of wine rested precariously upon the mantle. Draco was muttering to himself, trying to work something out - and it didn't sound good.
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"So," Draco started coolly, "you think I didn't have a choice." He stopped, staring at her for a moment. "That's what they all think," he said more softly.
"I hate my idiot Aunt," he blurted out, enraged at unspoken allegations, truths and deceptions that only irritated him on a subconscious level. "I want to do something on my own."
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