The previous night’s memories clawed their way to the forefront of his mind, painful, bringing new waves of nausea and a searing pressure behind his eyeballs. He’d been speaking with Cepheus, maintaining the dignified and aloof behavior his mother had taught him to employ when meeting those with high status. Cepheus was clearly not a man to cede power, and if they were to get any information from him, he needed to respect at least  one  of them. Draco remembered with difficulty the conversation about blood status, cringing at the comments towards Hermione. The  last  thing he could have done would be to correct the King, but the averted glance that Hermione made, picking at her meal,  that memory, it was clear as day. Draco vaguely recalled agreeing to stay for drinks, on the premise that it might be an opportunity to get more information from him, information that the king wouldn’t readily give out otherwise in previous company. 