Chapter 4: Party Planning
The soft crackle of the fireplace was the only sound competing with the gentle rustle of pages. Remus was ensconced in his armchair, a hefty biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine open in his lap, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. A half-empty mug of tea, long gone cold, sat on the side table beside a precarious stack of student essays. The room held the quiet, concentrated peace of a scholar at work, the air smelling of old paper, woodsmoke, and the faint, clean scent of Remus’s sandalwood soap.
Draco hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching. His daddy’s face was calm in the firelight, his brow faintly furrowed in that way it did when he was piecing together the motivations of a long-dead queen. Draco took a breath, arranged his features into an expression of pure, angelic supplication, and padded into the room on socked feet.
He came to a stop beside the armchair. Remus didn’t look up, but a small smile touched his lips. He always knew.
Draco let the silence stretch for a beat, then he slowly, deliberately, draped himself over the back of the chair. He wrapped his arms around Remus’s neck from behind, resting his chin on the top of his daddy’s head. His long, platinum hair cascaded down, framing both their faces like a curtain.
“Father mine,” Draco began, his voice a low, honeyed murmur right by Remus’s ear. “Thou beacon of wisdom and patron saint of all things historical and bureaucratic… might I trouble thee, in thy boundless mercy, for but a humble request from thy ever-devoted son?”
Remus turned a page, slowly. He didn’t close the book. “The Shakespearean cadence is a new tactic. I’m more used to the wounded kitten or the pragmatic business proposition. What’s the damage?”
“No damage,” Draco cooed, nuzzling his cheek against Remus’s brown hair. “Only a tiny, infinitesimal favour. A errand of such minor consequence it would scarcely register on the moral scales of a lesser man. But for you, a giant of virtue, it would be nothing. A blink.”
“Draco.”
“A party,” Draco confessed, the word exhaled in a warm breath. “At Felix’s. Saturday. His parents are mysteriously and conveniently in Napa. It’s… expected. A rite of passage, one might say. A sociological study in group dynamics and liquid courage.”
Remus finally dog-eared a page and closed the book, setting it aside. He reached up and patted Draco’s arm where it crossed his chest. “And your role in this anthropological field study?”
“Beverage coordinator,” Draco said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice and failing. “It’s a position of trust. I have been tasked with procurement.”
A deeper, more thoughtful silence followed. Remus carefully extracted himself from Draco’s octopus grip, turning in the chair to face him. He took off his reading glasses, his kind, tired eyes meeting Draco’s wide, guileless grey ones. “Procurement. You are eighteen. The legal drinking age in this confounding country is twenty-one. The math, as they say, is not mathing.”
“Hence the appeal to the beacon of wisdom,” Draco said, sliding around to perch on the arm of the chair. He picked at a loose thread on the worn velvet. “It’s not like I’m asking for a keg of vodka. Or even tequila. God, no. The hangovers are apocalyptic. And not gin, that’s for sad poets and my Papá when he’s feeling theatrical.”
“What, then?” Remus asked, his voice devoid of judgment, purely curious. “What does the discerning youth of today require for their ritual gatherings?”
“Hard seltzer,” Draco stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Remus blinked. “I’m sorry, what seltzer?”
“Hard seltzer. It’s like… flavoured sparkling water. But with alcohol. It’s breezy. It’s low-calorie. It comes in pastel cans with names like ‘Blackberry Pom Paradise’ and ‘Cucumber Mint Revival.’ It’s essentially a spa day with a four percent ABV. It’s not booze, Daddy. It’s refreshment with consequences.”
Remus stared at him. A slow, incredulous smile spread beneath his mustache. “Let me get this straight. You want me, a college professor, to illegally purchase for you… alcoholic LaCroix.”
“Yes!” Draco said, seizing on the analogy. “Exactly! Alcoholic LaCroix! You see? It’s barely a transgression. It’s a grey area. A fizzy, lightly boozy grey area.”
“Why can’t someone else’s… beacon of wisdom handle this procurement?” Remus asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Felix’s parents are in Napa. Do they not have a credit card and a questionable lack of oversight?”
“Felix’s older cousin was supposed to do it,” Draco explained, his shoulders slumping a little into genuine exasperation. “But he bailed. Something about a ‘spiritual journey to Sedona’ to ‘realign his chakras.’ We’re stranded. And it’s my responsibility. I can’t show up empty-handed. I have a reputation.”
“A reputation for providing subpar, low-alcohol sparkling beverages?”
“A reputation for reliability,” Draco corrected, a touch of genuine heat in his voice. “Unlike Sarah, who said she’d bring the speakers and then brought a single, weeping Bluetooth pill that died after playing one Lorde song. Unlike Chloe, who probably would have brought a jug of homemade kombucha and a lecture on ethical consumption. I said I’d handle the drinks. I want to handle the drinks.”
Remus studied him. The firelight danced in Draco’s earnest eyes. This wasn’t just about the alcohol; Remus could see that now. It was about social capital, about following through, about being the person who could be counted on in a minor crisis. It was about not being the Chloe, all paper-thin integrity.
“How much of this… sparkly water hell are we talking about?”
“Two cases,” Draco said, hope sparking in his chest. “Maybe three. It depends on the headcount. But it’s light! It’s easy to carry! You could fit it in the boot of the car and still have room for groceries!”
“Do not try to sell me on its portability,” Remus said, but the stern facade was cracking. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Draco, love, you know why the law is there. It’s idiotic, especially coming from a country where you could have a pint with a meal at sixteen, but it’s the law. If I get caught buying alcohol for a minor—”
“But I’m your minor,” Draco interrupted, sliding off the arm and onto his knees beside the chair, clasping his hands in a parody of prayer. “Your carefully raised, morally grounded, tax-paying minor who understands the principles of moderation and hydrate-rotate. This isn’t for a rager. It’s for a bunch of design students who will probably end up arguing about Bauhaus aesthetics and crying over their portfolio reviews. The seltzer is just… a social lubricant for the creatively anxious.”
Remus couldn’t help but laugh. “Good God. That’s the saddest sales pitch for underage drinking I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
Draco let his head thump against Remus’s knee. “Daddy. Please. I’m begging you. I will do anything. I will reorganize all your books by the Dewey Decimal System. I will listen to every detail of your lecture on the Treaty of Westphalia without a single sarcastic comment. I will clean out Papá’s tattoo gun barrels, which is a biohazard I have successfully avoided for eighteen years.”
“The fact that you know what the Treaty of Westphalia is because of me is not the bargaining chip you think it is,” Remus said, but his hand came to rest on Draco’s head, fingers sliding into the silken platinum hair. “It’s my job. And you will not go near Sirius’s equipment; you’ll get a blood-borne disease and sue us for emotional damages.”
“Then name your price.” Draco tilted his head back to look up at him. “Seriously. I need this.”
Remus was quiet for a long time, his fingers absently stroking Draco’s hair. The logs in the fireplace shifted, collapsing in a soft shower of embers. “Do you remember,” he began, his voice softer now, “when you were thirteen, and you wanted that ridiculously expensive pair of Japanese selvedge denim jeans?”
Draco frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “The ones that needed to be broken in by wearing them in a bathtub? Yeah. You said no. Said it was consumerist madness.”
“I did,” Remus nodded. “And you were so angry. You called me a ‘tyrant of the mundane’ and sulked for a week. Then, you came to me with a spreadsheet. You’d calculated the cost-per-wear over a projected five-year period, you’d found three cheaper alternatives and critiqued their construction, and you’d outlined a plan to earn half the money yourself by doing extra chores and selling some of your old graphic novels.”
A slow smile spread on Draco’s face. “You bought me the jeans.”
“I did. Because you’d shown me reason. You’d shown me you’d thought it through, that it wasn’t just a whim. You’d presented a case. You were responsible.” Remus’s eyes held his. “This feels like a whim. A social whim. Convince me it’s not. Convince me you’ve thought about everything. Not the flavours. The everything.”
Draco took a deep breath. He sat up on his heels, the playful beggar vanishing, replaced by the sharp, observant young man they’d raised. “Okay. Right. Everything. First, the location: Felix’s house is in a quiet, wealthy cul-de-sac. No through traffic. The neighbours are all seventy-plus and go to bed by nine. It’s a low-risk environment for noise complaints. Second, the guest list: twenty people, max. All from the fashion and design tracks. We’re a risk-averse bunch; our idea of rebellion is mixing patterns. Third, the plan: no one drives. We’re all staying over. Felix has like six guest rooms. Sleepings bags, sofas, the whole deal. Fourth, the alcohol itself: as stated, it’s low-ABV. It’s difficult to shotgun a hard seltzer. The carbonation fights you. It’s engineered for slow sipping. Fifth, the food: we’ve organised actual food. Not just crisps. We’re doing a proper charcuterie board. And a vegan option. Because of course we are.”
He paused, thinking. “Sixth… me. I’m not a big drinker. You know that. Papá let me try his vile absinthe once and I hallucinated that the sofa was judging me. I like the taste of one, maybe two. I like the feeling of holding a can and talking. That’s it. And seventh… I asked you.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “Seventh?”
“Yes. I could have tried to find a dodgy older student. I could have attempted a truly pathetic fake ID. I could have asked Papá, who would have done it in a heartbeat and then given everyone terrible stick-and-poke tattoos at 2 a.m. But I asked you. Because you’re the voice of reason. And if you say no, I’ll tell them I couldn’t get it, and we’ll drink fancy ginger beer and feel superior. Annoyed, but superior.”
The room was quiet again. Remus searched his son’s face, looking for any hint of deceit, for the frantic edge of someone who just wanted to get wrecked. All he saw was Draco, pragmatic and a little anxious, wanting to fulfill a social obligation with the least messy tool available.
“Two cases,” Remus said finally, his voice firm.
Draco’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Two. Not three. And I’m driving you there. And I’m picking you up at eleven a.m. the next day, sharp. And you will text me if anything, anything at all, feels off or gets out of hand. And you will not, under any circumstances, let anyone who has indulged in too much… Blackberry Pom Paradise… leave that house to wander the streets. They can sleep on the floor.”
Draco launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Remus in a tight, rib-creaking hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are a giant! A colossus of understanding! I will name my first fashion line after you! The ‘Lupin Loom’! ‘Remus’s Ruffles’!”
“Please don’t,” Remus chuckled, hugging him back, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and the cold air still clinging to his clothes. “And it’s not just about the rules, Draco. It’s about trust. This,” he patted Draco’s back, “is a deposit in the trust bank. Don’t make me regret it.”
Draco pulled back, his expression solemn. “I won’t. I promise. No trust funds will be bankrupted on my watch.” He scrambled to his feet, energy returning. “Okay. I need to coordinate flavours. Do you think there’s a market for ‘Prickly Pear Pinot’ or is that a bridge too far? Should I stick with the classics like ‘Mango Tango’?”
“I have no opinion on the orchestration of your fruity ethanol,” Remus said, picking up his biography again. “That is your domain, Beverage Coordinator. My domain is the car keys and the ID that says I am decrepit enough to purchase it.”
Draco grinned, a real, unrestrained smile that lit up his whole face. He bent and kissed Remus quickly on the forehead. “Best daddy. No competition.” He danced backwards towards the doorway, already pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.
Remus watched him go, the smile lingering on his own face. He opened his book, but didn’t read. He stared into the fire, thinking about treaties and promises, about trust and sparkling water. It felt absurd. It felt like parenting. He thought of Chloe and her toilet paper, of Sarah and her borrowed identity, of all the shaky, desperate facades out there in the world.
His son, he thought with a deep, settled warmth, wasn’t building a facade. He was just trying to buy drinks for his friends, and he’d asked for help. However frivolous the request, the act of asking felt like a small, solid victory. It was a thread of honest connection, stronger than any paper stuffing or bleached hair.
In the hallway, he could hear Draco’s voice, bright and excited, talking into his phone. “He said yes! Two cases! No, you philistine, not the lemon-lime, the key lime is superior, it has hints of shortbread… oh, just be grateful I have a father with a soul and a driver’s license…”
Remus shook his head, put his glasses back on, and found his place on the page. Eleanor of Aquitaine was causing trouble again. It was all wonderfully, comfortingly mundane.