Chapter Text
Draco
He woke with a start and heavy breaths. His entire body was shivering and covered in sweat. Draco swiped a hand across his face and slumped into his twisted sheets. The pounding in his chest seemed to reverberate through his entire body as he lay there, trying to order his mind and focus.
“f*ck,” he mumbled. Another nightmare. His mind shied away from the dream itself, not allowing him to remember, letting it run away like sand through his fingers. But Draco knew all the greatest hits. His initiation, the Astronomy tower, Granger on the Drawing Room floor, Dolohov and the house elves, Nagini and the Muggle Studies Professor, his mother screaming. Oh, and not to forget the countless times he had been left twitching and groaning on the cold marble of the manor after a few rounds of Crucios from Voldemort, or his own aunt.
With a grimace, he stuck his hand under his pillow and rooted around for his wand. It had become habit and he felt safer with it close. He cast a Tempus and cursed when he saw that it was only three o’clock. He pounded a fist into his mattress in frustration. Was this going to keep happening? He occluded before going to bed and yet, every sodding night, he woke up screaming. The only nights he found peace was when he indulged in a Dreamless Sleep Potion. Which he had decided on allowing himself to do two nights per week. He had to, otherwise he didn’t get much sleep at all.
Draco disliked taking Dreamless Sleep. Not only was it highly addictive, but it made his brain feel fuzzy for hours the next day. But he desperately needed sleep. A high yowl had him stiffen and listen.
There it was again, followed by what sounded like scratches on his bedroom door. That bloody cat. Draco sat up and cast another silencing charm at the door, drowning out the noise. He had no idea what that orange beast wanted, or why it kept scratching at his door in the middle of the night. It was bizarre.
With a huff, he peeled himself from his sticky duvet and padded to his desk. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, so he sat down and pushed the unopened letter atop it around with his wand. The meticulous scrawl of his father greeted him and not for the first time, Draco debated whether to just cast an Incendio and be done with it.
Heaving out a long sigh, he gave in and opened the letter by breaking the wax-seal. It told of his father’s connections that he was able to seal his letters this way. Draco had certainly not had any personal belongings during his own stint. But Lucius Malfoy seemed to be offered a sense of comfort. He wondered whom his father had bribed and how much his mother had helped.
Draco shuddered at remembering the place. The cold, dark walls, dripping with moisture. The barren floors and moldy bread. Not to mention, the utter desolation that seemed to have been cemented into the very stones around him. The reek of filth, the ocean, and excrements. He would never be able to enjoy the scent of the sea again, he knew that with certainty.
He unfolded the letter, cast a Lumos and read.
Son,
I am glad to hear you have been afforded the opportunity to take up your education for another year. Your mother tells me you have been made Head Boy, this is excellent, use it well to establish yourself. She has also told me that the Muggleborn witch, Granger, is Head Girl. Now, I was your age once, my son, so I know how your body may betray you if you are in close proximity to a young and beautiful witch. Remember what she is and do not let yourself be lulled in by feminine whiles.
Draco rolled his eyes. Only his father could be so dramatic as to assume he would ever be ‘lulled in’ by Granger’s ‘feminine whiles’. She was pretty, in a certain light, but he was decidedly uninterested. He hardly f*cking slept and needed what little energy he had to focus on his grades, not girls. Not that he hadn’t noticed her long legs peek out from that frumpy bathrobe she wore when she had showered. It was a hideous beige and ended a tad above her knees.
Just a night agon, Draco had seen a stray drop of water sneak its way down her shapely calf, while she had looked over his notes for decorations. Her scent of lavender and vanilla had been—“Salazar’s grave,” Draco muttered. He refused to acknowledge the direction his, clearly sleep-deprived, brain had taken him in. With a dark glower, he dove back into the letter.
If you sully yourself with one from her status, you will bring dishonor on our family. Not to mention, your eligibility will suffer. You might be a Malfoy, but getting involved with a Muggleborn will not leave you with the same options as before.
Draco nearly laughed out loud. Merlin, his father had gone barmy. He could still feel his lower back hurt, where he had received a stinging jinx earlier. People hated him. There wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t hear hissed threats, insults, or straight up hexes being cast his way. Never mind being bloody eligible, he was having a hard time getting by day to day. And even if he wasn’t, Draco was disinterested in being betrothed and chained to a snooty woman who wanted to marry him because of his money and who he married because his parents said so. They would both be miserable. No, his life was his own now. And if he wanted to shag a pretty Muggleborn witch like Granger, he would do so. Not that he wanted to, or that she’d let him.
With a groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then went back to reading.
With that out of the way; I have set up a meeting with Harper Mondunes at the end of this term for you. She has a seat on the Wizengamot and still holds tradition in high value. What is more important, she is open to taking you under her wing and show you what it means to play the game. The meeting will be…
It was enough. With a snarl, Draco ripped the letter apart. Ire raced along his veins and he swallowed repeated, feeling blood rush to his face. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he sat still and breathed against the rage. There his father went again, making decisions, placing him on a board like a Merlin-damned pawn. It had gone so swell the last time, hadn’t it? His fingers found the Dark Mark on his arm automatically and he hissed when he felt it pinch under his touch. Long and deep scars surrounded the mark, where he had tried to get rid of it.
He hung his head and felt the anger disperse a tad. His father was unlikely to change. The problem was, Draco had and Lucius would neither be accepting, nor was he aware that Draco wasn’t the same anymore. He didn’t want, or need, his father’s approval. He would not bend over backwards to please him anymore. He would not be who he was expected to be. And Draco did not care one lick whether that meant being disinherited. Sure, it would complicate things, but he would finally feel unburdened.
A shred of the letter carried the words: ‘…means to play the game.’ He scoffed at seeing it.
Draco knew perfectly well how to play the game. He had learned fast and from the best. If politics were anything like the schemes, intrigues, and betrayals he had witnessed and committed during Voldemort’s reign—which he was pretty sure it was—then thank you, but no thank you. He had been rather good at some of it as lying came easily to him and he didn’t care about many people or things. But it had been draining and left him bitter. The only things truly making him content were brewing or flying.
Flying professionally was out of the question. No team would ever take him on and besides, he didn’t feel like continuing his rivalry with Saint Potter, who played successfully for the Birmingham Bangers. Not that Draco had followed up on the Git Who Lived’s career. It was just hard not to notice when his stupid face smirked at one from countless society pages.
No, but the total focus of brewing? That had been his solace—next to flying—during the years of the war. It was consuming, came with precise instructions, and demanded a certain amount of creativity if one was to experiment. His decision had been made, not easily, but Draco was set on it.
He glared at the pieces of letter before him. Soon, he would have to write back and come clean, whatever that would entail. Probably angry letters and threats. Well, Draco was ready for it.
It was too late by now to try and go back to sleep, so he stood and headed for the door. The moment he opened it, Granger’s cat ducked inside and wound himself around Draco’s legs. His ugly face looked up, yellow eyes wide and stubby nose twitching. “Meow?”
“What do you want?” Draco whispered.
The cat leaned against him and Draco frowned. He peeked from his room to make sure Granger couldn’t see him before he crouched down and held out a hand. The cat nuzzled into his palm and erupted into a symphony of purrs, making the last of Draco’s anger pearl away. Curious. It felt…nice to pet the orange menace. He shook himself and got up. As more and more orange hair stuck to his pantlegs, Draco frowned and walked into the bathroom for a long shower.
***
Draco was surprised when he didn’t have to go to the forest to find Winston. He had snagged a few chicken legs from breakfast, wound them into a napkin and made his way outside to the Viaduct Courtyard, planning to go to the forest before heading up to Divination.
The moment he had stepped through the gothic arches, he had heard a very familiar voice.
“Strut, strut, coiffure! Pale git!” Winston stood on his hind legs, peering over a pot filled with purple flowers.
“Just who I was looking for,” Draco said and waved the napkin with the chicken legs at Winston. “Come along.”
The Jarvey sniffed and bounded over, trotting along at his side. “Posh sod!” he crowed happily, when Draco sat down on one of the stone benches and placed the napkin down.
Winston hopped up next to him and dove in, his incessant chatter interrupted for a bit.
Draco smirked and got out his Advanced Alchemy book. He would have to start on the essay for it soon, but had some reading-up to do first.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Theo said behind him.
Draco scowled into the pages of his book. “What do you want, Nott?”
Theo rounded the bench and yelped when he nearly sat on Winston, who squeaked in outrage.
“Fat buttoxed, buffoon! Foul, foul, foul!” Winston screeched and held his food to his little chest with both paws. “Coiffure like pubic hair. Uncouth! Foul buffoon!” The Jarvey let loose another bout of profanities until Draco hushed him.
He smirked widely, relishing Theo’s derailed expression. “It’s fine, Winston. Theo didn’t mean to sit on you. You can keep on eating.”
The animal huffed and dug in, his velvety eyes not leaving Theo.
“It’s one of them, isn’t it?” Theo asked. “Heard about them…and the jokes they’re making about you because of it.” His former friend tilted his head and pursed his lips in a way that Draco knew was staunching a smile. “They had to give you a white one?”
Draco shrugged and glanced at his Jarvey. “Winston is actually decent company. And your hair does resemble pubic frizz, so he is also right on occasion.”
“Har har.” Theo moved to Draco’s other side. “Scooch.”
A long-suffering sigh left Draco but he moved closer to Winston, who did not seem to mind as he continued to chomp on one of the legs. “What do you want, Nott?” Draco asked again.
“Can’t a bloke talk to a friend?” Theo fired back.
“Huh, so I imagined the letters I got while in prison?” Draco ground out. “Interesting.”
Theo had the decency to look a bit guilty. “It was…Pansy’s idea. I meant it at the time, I did. But you have served your time. I’m also not the one you broke up with, or who you completely ignored. So I thought we could…start over?” He was twiddling his thumbs.
A snort left Draco and Winston looked up. “Tosser,” the Jarvey said around a piece of meat.
“You don’t owe me anything, Theo,” Draco said after a small chuckle. “Least of all the offer of a friendship you only feel compelled to offer for old times’ sake.”
Theo’s brows rose. “Is that what you think is happening? I am your friend, Draco, I never stopped being your friend.” He tugged a hand through his spectacularly tousled curls. “I mean, I was mad at you for a while, because of how you acted, but I never stopped caring.”
“Because of how I acted?” Draco asked, confused.
“Yah. You were a right git during sixth and seventh year. Completely closed down on us.” Theo leaned back and crossed his long legs at the ankles. “Things have changed, though. Even Granger thinks you deserve another chance.”
Another scoff sailed from Draco. “Granger is a bleeding-heart Gryffindor who needs a project. Probably.”
“Is it hard to believe she actually cares? That I do?”
Draco swallowed, not knowing how to answer. Believing that Granger truly cared, yeah, it was hard to believe. He had done nothing but torment her throughout their days at school. The truce they now shared was just that; a truce. But Theo? His ruminations were interrupted when Theo got up.
“You know, Blaise and the Weasley girl are planning a party on Saturday. You should come.”
Looking up, Draco raised a brow at his…friend. “And get hexed? No, thank you.”
Theo smiled. “If Zabini and Weasley can throw a party together, you can certainly attend it.” He pointed at Draco’s chest. “I won’t let this go. See you at dinner.” With that, he was off.
“Pubic-haired, git,” Winston chimed happily, ruffling the empty napkin audibly.
“Absolutely, Winston,” Draco said.
***
Theo seemed to be a man of his word, as Draco sat down for dinner, eliciting shifts and scooches around him like always, the Nott heir plopped down at his side.
“How was your day, darling?” Theo crooned.
“Abysmal,” Draco griped, smoothing a palm over his shin, where some Hufflepuff fifth year had cursed him. Cursed by a bloody Hufflepuff, what had his life come to?
In that moment, Ramona took her designated place across from him. The little blonde always sat across from Draco at meals. She didn’t talk much, only smiled coyly and then faded into the background.
“Well, hello there. I don’t believe we’ve met,” Theo said. “Theodore Nott.” He held his palm out to Ramona.
Her eyes narrowed for a second, then she shook his hand. “Ramona Ollivander. Your father was a Death Eater.” The grave expression on her face, coupled with the certainty of her tone was downright intimidating, but Draco was used to her strange behavior by now and stifled a smirk. The way Ramona was able to off-put people within seconds was amazing.
Theo looked shocked, then grimaced. “Ah, yes. Yes, he was.”
“Like Draco?”
Draco felt the blood rush from his face.
“No,” Theo said to his surprise. “Not like Draco. My father was evil. Draco isn’t.”
That seemed to make sense to Ramona, as she nodded thoughtfully and loaded several spoons of mashed potatoes onto her plate. The girl could eat more than a Troll, by now Draco was certain of it.
“Anyway, have you read the Prophet yet?” Theo asked, sliding the paper he got out of his bag over to Draco.
“Should I have?” Draco asked in a sour tone.
“It should at least entertain you, you moody-Trudy.”
Draco folded the paper and was hit by the most ridiculous headline he had ever read. And he had read many of Skeeter’s headlines before.
Harry Potter: The Boy Who Bangs (around)?
Harry Potter, Seeker and Captain of the Birmingham Bangers, [The Boy who Lived, The Chosen One, Most Notable Member of the Golden Trio, Savior of the Wizarding World, Conqueror of the Dark Lord, and most recently, Winner of the Most Devilishly Handsome Grin in Witch Weekly’s Quidditch Hotties edition] has been spotted in Birmingham on Monday evening, leaving a high-class establishment with several witches on his arms. What does Ginny Weasley have to say?
See page 7-8 for an in-depth exposé on their love story.
The picture shows a clearly intoxicated Harry Potter, groping the supple behinds of both his companions while whispering sweet promises to one and making her giggle. Then the picture repeats.
By Rita Skeeter
At around nine o’clock on Monday evening, Harry Potter was spotted swaying from The White Rose (an ‘invite only’ club in downtown Birmingham) with two scantily clad women. The three continued down the street, groping each other, canoodling, while Mister Potter was heard yelling; ‘This is the life!’. It is clear that the group was looking for a quiet place to continue their party and after our investigators followed them, they discovered that Mister Potter brought them to his townhouse. The scandal!
Ever since the war has ended, from which Mister Potter emerged as nothing short of a hero, he has been quiet about his life. That was until he joined the Birmingham Bangers as Seeker last September and shortly after, became captain.
‘I just want to live my life, you know?’ he said, during the first interview he gave, running a hand through his disheveled black hair. ‘Life is short and now that I have done all I can for the wizarding world, it’s time to let loose. Isn’t it, Rita?’ he asked, his green eyes shining, then winking at this stunned reporter.
Now, while ‘letting loose’ is all well and good, and while being a professional athlete has done wonders for Mister Potter’s lanky physique (see issue 273 of the Daily Prophet page 3-4 ‘Harry Potter: The Boy Who Turned Into a Hunk) this reporter has to wonder; is the Chose One in danger of falling off the bandwagon?
In the past few months, we have seen Mister Potter with a plethora of different witches and must ask ourselves; is the Boy Who Lived taking the namesake of his team to literal? Is his excessive new lifestyle hiding the wounds of war? Will it result in him being banned for the team? Or will he continue until self-destruction? Maybe Mister Potter is trying to drown his broken heart after Miss Ginevra Weasley broke up with him?
The two have been a couple since attending Hogwarts together and there has been no indication of a breakup, but Mister Potter acting out could be an indication to the relationship imploding and ending badly. Sadly, Miss Weasley’s only comment about the whole thing was a rather rude; ‘Sodd off, Skeeter,’ when asked. This reporter is worried, but will have the details on any further developments.
