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What a silence when you are here. What a hellish silence. You sit and I sit. You lose and I lose.
Janos Pilinksy
It’s exhausting quite frankly. The pretending and such. And it, for lack of a better word, sucks to see Potter ignoring him. It’s what they agreed on of course, but it is almost as if Harry was all too eager to forget him, forget what they had. For nearly two months, Draco has had to deal with Potter’s indifference. He almost wishes Potter was avoiding him in a more direct way. Eyes glazing over when his gaze fell in the direction of Draco, pointedly looking in the opposite direction when Malfoy was near, the obvious way. The kind that says, I know I see you but I’m going to have to act as if I don’t. Unfortunately it seemed natural the way that Harry treated Draco, almost as if he had truly forgotten he existed at all. Even the angry banter they had been exchanging back and forth since first year had dissolved in favor of silence. He’d kind of assumed once they had returned to Hogwarts, he would receive sometime of sign, a language of sorts, one that would prove that he hadn’t just imagined the entire holiday. Perhaps a couple of fleeting, longing glances, if he were lucky maybe Harry would go out of his way to brush against Draco’s back, whilst passing him in the corridor. It’s what he expected. However his expectations are infamous for ultimately disappointing him. He’s playing with his food again, trying desperately not to look in Potter’s direction. He knows what he’ll see if he does. The charisma Harry oozes, everyone at the Gryffindor table hanging off his every word, the easy way him and little Weasley interact; flirtatious, and jovial. Draco watches the whipped cream atop his bread pudding melt. “I can feel the intensity of your teen angst from here Draco,” Blaise remarks rolling his eyes, proceeding to take a large gulp of the goblet of pumpkin juice in front of him. “I’m not angsting Blaise, I’m just not interested in partaking in conversations as trivial as the status of Celestina Warbeck and Gilderoy Lockhart’s whirlwind romance.” Draco remarked indignantly. He had overheard them gossiping over this month’s Spellbound magazine. “Don’t act all high and mighty Mr. Malfoy, I’ve actively witnessed your owl delivering each month’s issue like clockwork.” Pansy replied, clearly satisfied with herself. She was right, but she was still a cunt. Draco scoffed and continued toying with his now cold desert. “Is this about that summer romance of yours again?” Blaise asks, faking indifference. Both Blaise and Pansy had been dying to know the identity of his summer fling since July when he first hinted at a budding romance. If it were anyone but Potter, he probably would have spilled the beans already, but naturally it’s more complicated than that now. “No,” Draco answered, trying his hardest not to meet their judging eyes. Pansy makes a sound that resembles both a scoff and a laugh. “Yawn, you are truly a terrible liar, which is embarrassing considering you’re a Slytherin.” Draco feels his cheeks heating. All of his friends seemed to go through both men and women like it was nothing, and it brought him a quiet sense of shame to still be holding onto something that had “ended” over two months ago. “Listen, Draco. I know the whole first love thing is dreadful, and essentially impossible to get over, but it gets better, I’m pretty sure.” Blaise says, taking the more empathetic route. Blaise had never been in love before, not that he knew of, but Draco secretly appreciated his friend’s misguided attempt at comfort and sympathy. Now that Draco thinks of it, he’s not even sure what he and Potter had could even be considered love. They had never said it after all, and he’s reluctant to admit feelings that intense, even to himself, without confirmation that Harry feels the same way. All he really knows is that he simply cannot get Potter out of his head, despite his best efforts. And that it leaves a quiet ache within him, to not know where they stand. If this is love, he hopes he never experiences it again, it’s routine torture. ______________________________________________________________________________ Draco finishes dinner with his friends in a daze, his mood unchanging. And watches students slowly get up and file out of the great hall in a chaotic sort of order. Draco hangs back, waiting for the crowd to die down so he can sneak off to the kitchen, and irritably request raw carrots from the house elves to feed his owl, Fide. The corridor is empty when he emerges from the kitchens, nursing a tiny burlap sack of vegetables wrapped in napkins in his hand. Everyone has gone back to their respective common rooms, to catch up on homework or play wizard chess, or whatever else people at this school do. The only sound in the hallway on his way to the owlery, is the laughter echoing from a group of fifth year Ravenclaw girls on their way back to the tower. When he arrives he notices it’s just him and the owls. Most likely because everyone feeds their pets in the early hours of the morning or right after their break for lunch. Draco likes it this way though, the calm. Fide is perched under his arch, waiting for him in what seems to be vague annoyance. Draco had forgotten to visit him this afternoon, and had no treats on him when he had delivered a parcel from his mother the day before. Sensing his bad mood, Fide calms and nudges Malfoy’s arm, alerting him to open the bag, already aware of its contents. Draco lingers there for longer than he probably needs to, reluctant to return to the Slytherin dungeons where he knows he’ll be greeted by nosy, but well-intentioned friends. He gives Hedwig the remainder of the food Fide does not finish, grateful that the white owl still remembers him. Draco stares at the ground almost the entire time back to his common room. He looks up when he hears the familiar click of shoes hitting the stone flooring, curious as to who would be in this wing of the castle at this hour. Draco’s breath hitches, and he nearly freezes in the spot. Of course, the shoes belong to none other than Harry fucking Potter, because the universe hates him, or loves him, depending on how this interaction ends. They’re aware of each other. For once, that much is obvious. Draco is almost scared to proceed. In a way, this is what he has been waiting for all of this time. A moment alone, in which Harry would either be forced to acknowledge what they had. Or, the more realistic, and admittedly depressing outcome; in which Harry would once again ignore Malfoy and he would be forced to accept the confirmation of Potter’s rejection. They are steps away from one another, and Draco’s mind cycles through his wildest fantasies. He imagines Potter stopping him right then and there, tearing up from sheer emotional intensity, screaming “I LOVE YOU” and proceeding to run towards Draco, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. He imagines Potter hoisting him into the air by the hips, spinning him around in circles and kissing him until both of their lips are bruised and the sky is falling into pieces around them. Malfoy is nothing if not theatrical. The reality of the moment lies in a troubled look on Potter’s face, their shoulders just barely brushing, as he pushes past him in a rush of motion. He stops in his tracks, trying his damndest to catch his breath, and imagines the floor opening below him, and swallowing him whole. He feels his cheeks heat. Oh. So that’s it, Draco thinks to himself. And then in a blur of motion, Potter turns around, grabs his wrist, pulls him around the corner behind a rusty suit of armor, and kisses him so hard he thinks his nose might bleed. It’s messy and kind of (ugh) perfect, and Draco wishes the moment would hold itself. Both of their hands frantically roaming the others body, both trying to absorb as much of each other as they can with each touch. Draco’s breath hitches into the kiss when he feels Potter’s hand rub the small of his back, slipping past the waistband of his trousers. Draco is nearly sure he will never be able to get close enough to Potter. He wants him so bad that even now, having him here, his fingertips ghosting over Harry’s stomach, it’s not enough. Their bodies, pressed so tightly against each other it feels as if their one person, he’ll still always want more. When Potter pulls away, Draco is sure he takes a piece of him. Potters nose is pressed against his, green eyes boring into Draco’s. It feels so strangely intense that Draco almost wishes he could look away, but he would never. Harry’s clutching his jaw, and Draco hopes it’s because he’s afraid to let go. “I see you,” Potter says gruffly. And then the fucker straightens his cloak and walks away nonchalantly. Draco stands behind the wall for a bit longer, still in disbelief. He steps into the corridor, confirms there is no one around him, and pinches himself. So he sees me, Malfoy thinks on his walk back to the common room. He presses extra hard on the ground with each step to his room, afraid that if he lets go he might actually float. He wakes early the next morning for breakfast, and resists the urge to dance to the great hall. He takes extra time to shower, brush his teeth, and spends an unbearable amount of time brushing his hair. If he’s being honest, he’s not entirely sure if Potter feels strongly about him in any sense besides physical. So he takes extra care of his appearance, afraid that anything less than would drive him away. God, he sounds so pathetic, he stares at his reflection in the mirror and resists the urge to spit at it. Draco can not believe that someone like Potter has enough influence over him to affect his mood in such drastic ways. He thinks of Blaise and Pansy and all of them gasping for air, laughing at the dialogue of cheesy romance novels they discovered in the fiction section of the library. He thinks of his father, his steely gaze, and hard exterior, of how none of them would understand the logic behind his feelings for Potter. Perhaps because there isn’t any. Malfoy’s stomach churns at the lengths he goes to for Potter. Regardless his heart still flutters on the way to breakfast. He sees Pansy and Blaise next to an empty seat at the Slytherin table, most likely waiting for him. Though he takes a moment to steady himself outside of the doorway. Draco lifts his head and proceeds into the hall, staring pointedly at the podium facing the students. He’s careful not to look in the direction of the Gryffindor table, fearful that if he catches a glance of Harry Potter, his defenses will fall. He smiles at Blaise and Pansy as he takes the seat next to them, and it feels genuine, to their surprise. He listens to them ramble on about some random Ravenclaw they say is getting around, and occasionally responds around spoonfuls of oatmeal. His entire table sat gossiping in hushed whispers and what sounds like hisses of outrage. The majority of Slytherin with cloth napkins over their laps, their salad and breakfast fork separated before them. He tries to stop himself, but gives in, chancing a glance towards the Gryffindors.It's genuinely a different world over there. Everyone talking over one another, chewing with their mouth wide open. They have such social grace, Draco thinks, choking back a laugh. Blaise and Pansy glance over, vaguely interested in what has managed to make Malfoy laugh. He waves them off still smiling softly. Granger is spoon feeding Weasley eggs like the child he is. He finds the laugh she gives him when the fork misses Weasley’s mouth insufferable. He notices Dean Thomas chatting with a random sixth year girl with curly brown hair down to her back. That means him and little Weasley are no longer. Great. Draco's luck could only be described as deplorable. His eyes settle finally on Potter, his hair’s extra messy today, pushed away from his forehead, his scar in full display. He’s got his arm settled lazily against the small of little Weasley’s back, as she throws her head back in laughter at something the Irish cunt Seamus says. Draco looks away quickly, he wants to vomit at their easy show of affection. He wants to vomit at the way the entire table communicates, with no expectations of one another. It's disgustingly genuine. Malfoy thinks a healthy amount of competition and judgement is imperative in order to remain your best. Maybe. Draco continues to quietly seethe while observing the Gryffindors, in an attempt to push his thoughts of Potter away. He's just so damn hard to read. So hot and cold. Draco has been told that in reference to himself a fair share of times, but he finds himself heartbreakingly transparent. Yes, his guard is up, but that fact alone is enough to tell anyone who’s paying attention, everything they need to know about him. He would never admit it, not even to Blaise or Pansy, not even to Potter, but he finds the Weaslette beautiful. He understands what Harry sees in her the appeal in her, her wide open smile, long red hair, gorgeous warm eyes. Each time Draco looks at her, he sees everything he secretly wants to be and all that he is not. In that way, he fears her. He sometimes wonders if Harry would give him a second glance if he were anything like her. He has realized that Ginny is most likely Potter’s endgame but a small part of him hopes that he’s just using her to make Malfoy jealous. A terrible thought, to wish heartbreak on someone, but he’s done worse. Draco finishes breakfast quickly, thankful Pansy and Blaise don’t notice his adjusted temperament. Well, they don’t comment on it at least.The rest of the Slytherin leisurely finish their breakfast while Malfoy leaves in a rush. When he's through the doors he roams the hallway, trying not to drag his feet on his way to History of Magic. He thought he would be the first one in class, but to his utter delight he hears Potter and the Weaslette giggling behind him like children. He whips around, slaps and pushes her to the ground, and envelopes Potter into a fiery kiss. Just kidding, he doesn't do that, but he wants to more than anything. He's a drama queen if anything. Instead he picks up his pace, eager to distance himself from the fucking happy couple, and resists the urge to glance back at them and spit. And god, they go on like that for what feels like ages. It's despicable. He can still hear the echo of their voices around the corner. What could they even have to talk about? What on Earth could possibly be so funny?Malfoy refuses to believe they actually connect on an intellectual level, his superiority complex will not allow it.After what feels like forever, Potter puts Draco out of his quiet misery and drops the Weaslette off at Professor Trelawney’s. He’s thankful when he doesn’t hear the telltale sound of them kissing goodbye. It would be just like them to engage in such unavoidable public affection. It does make Malfoy feel better to be a bitch honestly. However, in reality his mind is still plagued by a million questions, all about Potter of course. Yawn. He's grossly predictable. Are him and the Weaslette even together? If so why did Potter kiss him. He's a lot of things, but Draco would never take him as a cheater? What did Potter even mean by the kiss? If he “sees him” doesn’t he see how painful it is for Malfoy to watch Potter flirt with Ginny, whilst he treats him like a non factor. He wishes all he felt was blinding fury and rage, but alas, his emotions come in the form of a sad little pit resting at the bottom of his stomach.Draco wants to kick himself for such weak, insecure thoughts. He’s soft now. Potter broke his heart wasted his time and was sure to transform him into an emotional puppy in the process.He arrives at History of Magic in a dreadful mood, and naturally, the class passes at an intolerable rate. Professor Binns droning on about the origin of veela, which he had learned years ago, his mother part veela herself. Draco shifts between staring off into space and copying notes disinterestedly, eager to escape this class and Potter. The golden skinned boy staring blankly at the front of the room, a sleeping Weasley at his side. Snoring, might he add. The bell finally rings after an hour and Draco packs at lightning speed. He tells himself it's because he really enjoys astronomy, but he knows it's because even being in the same room as Potter breaks his heart a little. He finds it sad, and vaguely amusing how easy it is to go from spitting in someone's mouth, to probably never speaking to them again. It is what it is, he guesses.Draco is so deep in thought while gathering his belongings that he doesn't even notice whose holding the door until he bumps into them. Potter of course. Maybe it's a sign from Merlin that they keep meeting like this. And by meeting like this he means in the most mundane ways possible, which every human experiences with every other human, all of the damn time. Malfoy resists the urge to roll his eyes at his own desperate search for meaning. He doesn't even get the chance though, before they're meeting Potter's. They make, what feels like, searing eye contact. Though it's most likely just eye contact. Draco wants to think that it meant something. He keeps swearing to himself that if the entire building had collapsed around them in those two seconds, neither of them would have bat an eyelash. He tries to pretend his heart isn't pounding in his ears when his shoulder grazes Potter's hard chest. Draco imagines what'd he'd look like with two heart eyes on his way to his next class. The left broken, the right, beating steadily. The rest of the school day passes as one does, in a blur. That is until Defense Against the Dark Arts. The class is composed of Gryffindor and Slytherin, which always leaves a strange sort of tension over the room, the kind that used to excite him. Professor Dawlish, a retired auror who had replaced Snape this year, had given them a list of defensive spells to study the class before, and expected them to practice today. Draco had always liked Defense Against the Dark Arts, he found it a perfect way to healthily release aggression. That is, until Dawlish assigned everyone in the class dueling partners, and he was paired with Potter. Draco had thought about it, while listening to his professor drone on in astronomy, that the kiss was nothing more than a product of Potter’s nearly insatiable sex drive. “I see you,” three words that Draco had spent hours and hours replaying in his mind, trying to make meaning of the vague statement. He thought woefully of how the event had most likely not passed Potter’s mind since it happened. Draco couldn’t tell if he was just being melodramatic again, or if Potter actually took a strange satisfaction in hurting him. Why must Draco delve so deep into the dark, gross, sad corners of his mind in fucking public, he thinks, shaking himself out of his stupor to see Potter standing before him expectantly (and attractively). Draco inhales deeply, vowing to himself to forget about Potter. He’s always been shit at keeping promises. Malfoy rolls his eyes, wearing a mask of indifference. He hopes Potter doesn’t notice it slipping. “So,” Potter starts awkwardly, “shall we get on with it.” Fuckyoufuckyoufuckfuckyouiloveyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckfuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou. If it were anyone else, Draco is sure this is the part where he would give a weird small fake smile and say sure. Unfortunately Potter is not anyone else. “Why’d you kiss me?” “Do you want me as badly as I want you?” “Do you remember any of it?”All of the stupid things Draco wants to say. In reality he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he says nothing, in favor of nodding. The two boys take their respective place across from each other, and Draco hates that in this moment there is no way for him to avoid eye contact with Potter. His eyes are so green, he thinks to himself, trying desperately to focus on their assignment. “Expelliarmus,” Potter all but yells, and Draco is sent flying across the room, his wand in the other direction. He had let his guard down, naturally. Malfoy regained his balance, Potter standing over him clutching the discarded wand, extending it to him. He felt a familiar sensation that he had gotten used to over the years when it came to Potter. Blind, hot, white, raging fury. “Are you okay?” Potter asks, his eyes watery and genuine. If Draco weren’t so damn angry, he probably would have had to restrain himself from legitimately cooing at Potter’s concern. “ Expelliarmus,” Malfoy replied. Potter’s on his feet now, but before he can even steady himself, Draco shouts Levicorpus. Potter, now suspended in mid air, manages to choke out a quiet liberacorpus, seemingly confused. They go on like that for what seems like ages, everyone around the class’s duels come to a natural end, and they hover around Draco and Harry, eager to decipher the winner. Draco can’t even hide how impressed he is when he notices Potter using wordless magic, he must have practiced since they’d last seen each other. Potter wins, because, of course he does. He always does. He had disarmed Malfoy for the third time that afternoon, and before he could scramble for his wand, Potter had his pressed against the underside of Malfoy’s chin. He thinks he might even hear a roar of approval from the Gryffindor in the room. “Fantastic job boys,” Professor Dawlish rasps, clapping hard. His thin gray hair flopping back and forth. “You put up a good fight,” Harry remarks with a soft, almost adoring smile. Draco wants nothing more than to kiss punch it off of him. His friends begin to gather around, congratulating him on a job well done. Yawn. “Fuck you,” Malfoy spits indignantly. He's humiliated for reasons that extend far deeper than some stupid fucking duel in class. A small part of him want to break into a teary tantrum like the petulant child he is, and cry and scream until his voice is hoarse and his eyes are dry and puffy. Instead he rises to his feet quickly, grabs his textbook, and rushes out of the classroom. He doesn’t look back this time, but he wants to. If he did, maybe he’d notice how much Harry wants to chase after him. _____________________________________________________________________________________
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
SUMMER
It took almost a week for anyone to give Harry any work. Or to remember his existence at all, even though the post nearly shouted his name in its daily publications. However, Harry’s photo had slowly but surely decreased in size, week by week. The morning before Miraphora Mina remembered Harry existed, Ron had called Harry, griping as he did, about the cover story that very morning. Glenda Roundsill had glowered up at the headline, her divorce to a benchwarmer for the Wimbourne Wasps announced that May. The subheading read “There’ll always be love.” Ron had been beside himself. Harry had assumed because Ron was a closet Wasps fan and was therefore sad to learn of Bram Aaldenburg’s (Glenda’s now former husband)'s misfortune. Not only was Harry on the second page, news of the boy no longer warranted a photograph. “It’s rubbish Harry, celebrity garbage, I mean Roundsill’s got the voice of a krakken and I can play better than that Aaldenburg fellow. The wasps oughta give me 50,000 galleons a year.” Harry soon realized Ron was only thinking of himself. If Harry’d been off the headline for a month, Ron must’ve been off for three.’ And his friend, despite the humble trajectory of his life, was still a Leo, regardless of his overall Weasliness. But yes, it’d taken Miraphora an entire week to notice him. Although she had the final say in Harry being hired at all. When she spotted him – he’d been mid bite -- taking advantage of the limited perks of working in the office: free bagels. Or, at least, bagels that were not obviously anyone else's. “HARRY POTTER!” She’d exclaimed, and even her shrill voice wasn’t enough to wake the living dead. Only one man popped his head over the top of his cubicle to see what all the fuss was about; his name was Harrison. He thought he’d been called. Mina’s tone was scolding, with hints of playfulness. Hands on her hips, she demanded that Harry stood up straight so she could get a good look at him – doting maternal type that she was. “Follow me.” Miraphora twisted her finger then, made a waving motion. Her wrists weighed down with ornate bangles. Miraphora Mina had an outré way about her, which unnerved many of her colleagues, but only added to Harry’s adoration of the quirky lady. As a Gryffindor, he’d always had a secret appreciation for theatrics – which is perhaps why he was best friends with two of the most dramatic people at Hogwarts. Mina’s heels, formerly silent on the office’s-stained carpet, announced themselves when they reached the tile of the bleak break room. It wasn’t until Harry heard a clickclackclick did he notice Mina’s sandals had golden butterflies. Adorned with purple and green jewels at the center, they flapped their wings with each step she took. She really was fascinating, as were her shoes. Harry assumed the door they’d arrived at was a broom closet. Briefly, he feared Mina would make him clean -- he was terrified of the office sponge. Harry, by now physically cringing, held his breath as Mina opened the door. He hated the smell of stale cleaning products and forgotten mop’s mildew. To his complete surprise, what lay behind the door was not a mop, his gag came out as a soft gasp. Mina’s heels now clacked on the shining floor of perhaps the most ornamented lobby he had ever seen. While the ministry’s entrance had black floors so shining you could tweeze your eyebrows in them, under Harry was perhaps the most gorgeous tile he’d seen. It was pristine; vining pastel tulips ran through the marble white tile’s grout, giving it the appearance of walking along the forest floor – save the fallen branches. The lobby was monumental in its grandiosity; it reminded Harry of his primary’s school trip to Italy in their 5th year. The vaulted ceilings, jewel tones, and gilded columns were on par with Versailles. Like the Sistine Chapel, an intricate painting lined the rounded roof – and rather than having a point at the tip of the cupola, the ceiling opened at its top, which was covered in glass. Above the employees of the Department of Runes and Symbols, the comers and goers of the ministry’s primary lobby – walked above them, completely unaware of the museum below their feet – they themselves only noticing the glint of onyx flooring, well maintained. No wonder Matt had seemed miserable, Harry thought. He’d gotten placed on the shite side of the office. And Harry took a moment to resent Matt with decided purpose, for he had spent two minutes on the intricacies of the muggle coffee machine and ignored the entire world which lay just to its right. To each side of Harry there were doors designed in the fashion of what lay beyond them. Mina nearly sprinted ahead of Harry, as his legs had stopped moving – paralyzed by his own awe. Harry stared – slack jawed – at a man attempting to wrangle an enchanted statue of a lion. It must’ve been old, as its nose had crumbled slightly – similar to the sphinx. It looked as if its face was punched inward – especially as he roared up at his handler who attempted to quell the raging cat. “This way!” Harry ran to catch Mina – nearly missing the elevator. Arriving at -3 floor, Mina all but jogged, in heels, to a narrow iron staircase, spiraling up to a treehouse-esque hutch. “Harry!” All of her words came out as demands. “Yes…” “This will be your new office.” “Okay…” Even a treehouse made by a child would be an upgrade from being Matt’s cubicle partner. “I didn’t know what to do with you at first. I hadn’t forgotten you.” Harry nodded, what did he care. He doubted his new office came with much more responsibility – what could anyone do in this department but look at old stuff. “Well, anywho, come!” Mina continued her regularly scheduled demands, before mounting the iron staircase. The hutch door, like all things in the wizarding world, held decidedly more impressive things than one would expect. The room was attic like and painted a green so dark it almost appeared blue in the right light. The right light being that which filtered in through floor to ceiling windows. The central window gave a view of the rainy London streets -- the glass as clear as another kind of day. To its left and right, stained glass windows – depicted ancient wizards at battle. They made prisms of color on the vaulted ceiling, where a quirky chandelier hung. So strange it reminded Harry of a ginormous, flammable baby monitor. Harry’s eyes trailed down to survey the room, blinking at a snail’s pace when he noticed a shock of blonde hair. The blonde head in question, bobbed distractedly, scribbling some note or another with a green feathered quill. It wasn’t until Miraphora cleared her throat – demandingly, as was her way – that Malfoy looked up, his pale blue eyes instantly meeting the muddy green of Harry’s. “Potter.” “Malfoy.” “Great! You all know each other!” If Mina had felt the tension in the room, she hadn’t acknowledged it. Malfoy looked… different. Harry supposed he’d never seen him out of his robes much. And when he had he’d been sporting his usual white button down, rolled up at the sleeve and half untucked. The way he wore his uniform contradicted Malfoy’s otherwise neat appearance. Hermione, who’d gotten to know Malfoy better during her time as his lab partner, said it had something to do with Draco’s music taste. They’d been sprawled out in the Gryffindor common room studying for their Charms exam. “Malfoy – well he’s actually a bit more complex than we’d assumed. He’s very interested in music, and classics. And what we might’ve assumed was a spirit of vindictiveness, could be attributed to his stoicism. He’s a bit elegiac when you get to know him – and he has a veiled sensitivity which often presents as rage.” Harry’s eyes had glazed over as Hermione ranted about her adventures with Malfoy. Ron had scoffed at Hermione’s subtle praise of Malfoy, before asking her to pass him a dictionary for all of the poetic terms she’d used to describe the wanker. The little Harry remembered of Hermione’s monologue on Malfoy’s taste and manner hadn’t served much purpose until now. The moment served as an explanation for the ridiculous leather corded necklace dangling from Malfoy’s thin neck. Harry supposes his fashion taste had shifted since Lucious wasn’t lording over him daily. Malfoy wore the sort of relaxed business attire that one would see in a coastal town. Particularly his loose khaki pants, and thick starchy shirt, which would look excellent if he were a guest at a beach wedding. He looked down, half expecting to see sandals on Malfoy’s feet -- which Harry assumed resembled the pale talons of a boiled chicken – but he wore his usual fancy Italian leather shoes. A horrible decision for the weather they were having, as was the rest of his attire. The DRS internship was the only one Malfoy could get – on account of his unsavory family history. Little of their fortune was lost, meaning, Malfoy was still filthy rich – and wholly unaffected by the persecution of his father’s prejudice. However, being a Slytherin, Malfoy was ambitious. And the reality of his never having to work again, did little to abate his desire for recognition. His father’s former ministry connections were all but kapoot, but a distant aunt (by marriage) had given Malfoy an idea... Malfoy had few of his own dreams, seeing as his father had surveilled his entire being – down to his thoughts which for the better part of his life, were polluted with desires of unyielding power. Draco had been groomed for a vague ministry position which made up for what it lacked in an official job description in its power for persuasion. The Malfoy name being tarnished, now made this allusive career choice, an impossibility. So, when the quirky and agitating Camilla Lillybog (that aunt by marriage) had boasted of her position at the Department of Runes and Symbols, a light bulb had turned on right above the halo of platinum blonde hair on Malfoy’s head. The remainder of the LeStrange/Malfoy family found Camilla utterly dull but continued to extend holiday invitations to her out of respect for their late brother. That April she’d sat with them to celebrate Merlin’s escape from his tomb. “Right, so just last week we uncovered relics which show that formerly the primary material used to create wands had been mandrakes! And of course, based on what we’ve been able to decipher of rune, they genuinely believed that the cries of the mandrakes increased the power of their wands. I mean how inhumane to chop those little creatures up.” Camilla swallowed her lamb, and the lump was visible sliding down her meaty throat. “Of course we don’t know all the details, still developing a more functional lexicon, which – has taken years up to this point right. But progress is progress.” “Yes...” Narcissa was bored by Camilla yet fascinated by the rate at which her mouth moved. “This lamb is rather overcooked is it not?” “I see no problem with it! Thank you again!” Camilla smiled wide, and the sides of her teeth had exposed the lamb packed down into her molars, the carcass not yet chewed. She is utterly humiliating, and totally non-threatening , Malfoy had thought. In order to be non-threatening, must a person be humiliating? He pondered his own question and observed his mother’s distaste for Camilla’s unpolished and sloven aesthetics. Camilla was tiringly benevolent – to the horror of his mother and aunt, who spoke only the dialect of negativity and complaint with fluency. His mother had seemed appalled at Camilla’s lack of taste, or ignorance of the gaminess of the lamb chops that night. And his aunt, to spite Camilla’s amicability, had slowly and very deliberately took her time sawing into the lamb – which really was quite tough. This is the exact person I will have to become to retain any possibility of success or acclaim. And Malfoy made a mental note of the rough texture of Camilla’s pants – they were canvas. Nearly everything in Malfoy’s closet was lined with silk, so he had some difficulty processing wearing burlap sacks sown together as trousers. Well, I suppose I would do well with the woo-hoo sort. They’re dramatic in their own way, which is to say they ooze drama but don’t verbalize it like this lot. There was perhaps nothing more dramatic than Aunt Camilla’s sort of person – who wore their very beliefs in the fabric of their trousers. Everything about Aunt Camilla could have been guessed by the crochet tote bag she carried back and forth. Yes, this is how I will put all of this Death Eater, eugenicist, genocide debacle behind me. And there will be little harm in befriending a few Hufflepuffs, though their humor is a bit bovine and disgustingly physical. A beatnik, relaxed lifestyle was the only choice left for Malfoy, whose wealth and prestige could do little more than isolate the survivors of such devastating violence, which was due to the actions of people who walked and talked like him. So, when Draco saw Harry Potter, for the first time since the war, he was wearing linen pants. Hunched over an endless piece of parchment, Malfoy sat jotting notes on the contributions of Squibs and Mud Bloods (Muggle Born) to the Magical Persons of Marginalized Birth or Ability Labour Party Coalition. He’s sure he looked quite ridiculous in Harry Potter’s eyes, or at least very different from when Potter had last seen him. Most significantly, Malfoy had a man bun now. And, written at the top of his parchment was m*dbl**d. If the word was in Potter’s line of vision, he might recognize that Malfoy had changed, as asterisks were indicative of an awareness of the slur, although it was uncouth to use it – bleeped or not. “Now, Mr. Malfoy, would you mind telling Mr. Potter what you’ve been working on the past week?” Harry expected a sneer or icy comment from Malfoy, but he shrugged off his distaste for the boy – following Miraphora’s instructions. He sounded bored. “We’re deciphering dead languages yeah? To chart the pattern of historic resistance movements.” He had to turn back to the parchment at his desk – glanced over his notes. “Namely, the political paradigms habitually occurring following the ascent of Muggle Born Ministry executive members.” “But there are hardly any – never even a minister how --” “Yes, but it matters.” Malfoy’s familiar chill made the hairs on Harry’s arm stand up. Miraphora interjected. “Year by year the minister’s cabinet has had one or two more... Oh! And Mr. Malfoy remind me, and inform Mr. Potter of the theories you mentioned...” Her eyes nearly sparkled. “So, theorists believe that there’s a direct correlation between perceived diversity to identity-based extremism. So, the more public muggle-borns are, the more likely we are to see pureblood radicalism.” “You’d know all about that wouldn’t you.” Malfoys brows knit together – his expression flashing between confusion, hurt, and finally back to its stoney resignation. He turned his back to the room, and in turn his back to Harry. He was not in the mood for his usual insults, Harry noticed. Or perhaps, he had crossed a line. Miraphora cleared her throat. “Well, we do recognize it’s bit obvious, but it’s been turned on its head by recent relics discovered in the Netherlands.” Malfoy did not turn around, Harry had to strain his ears to hear what he said. “We’ve found record that the oldest and subsequently the most...” Malfoy mewled, “prejudicial wizarding families have been destroying evidence of Muggle-borns and squibs in their lineage in order to preserve political power amid purists.” He scribbled notes as he said all of this. “This destruction mostly due to a fear of political power lost if muggle borns gained equal rank to old wizarding families. Especially as their wealth has increased.” “Well, looks like you all have got it figured out... where do I come in.” Miraphora smiled, as if bracing Harry and herself for the bad news about to be delivered. “You’ll be assisting Mr. Malfoy in his studies – only until you’ve gained your footing of couse.” “Assisting?!” “Yes Potter... Assisting,” Malfoy turned towards him – smirking now. He tilted his head slightly with an arched blonde brow, as if to say problem? “ Well Mr. Potter,” She chewed her lip, pretending to think deeply. “I suppose I could send you back to the main floor, Matthew has so enjoyed getting to know you thus far.” She knew this was not an option for Harry. Harry was silent. “I must be going!” Miraphora walked towards Malfoy and grabbed the shorthand notes he had prepared for her documenting his progress. She rushed out, likely to nowhere particularly important, but it was her way to appear abrupt – and therefore to never seem worth bothering. It was a defense she had learned in her years of working in such an environment. The angrier or more confused or more rushed she appeared, the less likely she was to have to speak to her more unsavory coworkers – namely Connie, the archaeological record keeper who worked in the Mayan sub-department of the DRS. She was addicted to bon bons and had a bit of a lisp. Connie, being very talkative, had often spit flecks of coconut into Miraphora’s face in her passionate spiels on 3000-year-old brick textures.