break some bread for all my sins

@drarrymicrofic | 834 words | prompt: wet

Warning for depressed day drinking.

Thanks to S for betaing. Dedicated to all the employers who have so far rejected me in my job search.

Draco could and would cast an Impervius, but he’d stand out amongst the Muggles, scurrying past him like downtrodden rats. Instead, he wielded the brolly with more intent, but the dastardly wind flung it about, and a few seconds later, it was warped beyond recognition. 

“Ineffective piece of shit!” He threw the brolly into the nearest rubbish bin and stood there haplessly as the torrent of rain plastered his hair to his skull and seeped through his clothes. The sky, heavy with menacing grey, promised to continue its deluge for hours to come, with the wind its merry companion.

Most people with no requirement to be out were tucked away, safe at home. For once, Draco wished he were sequestered in his shitty Knockturn Alley flat, but instead, he had to pound the pavement in search of a job.

Turned out no one in the wixen world wanted to hire an ex-Death Eater a year after the Battle of Hogwarts.

How shocking.

After closing his eyes to breathe in calmly as his Mind Healer had taught him, Draco joined the hastening Muggles and approached a corner shop with a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. 

He got kicked out for dripping water on the floor and having no experience. The same thing happened on the next five attempts, a mixture of restaurants and shops, the epicentre of customer service hell.

And a rung lower: not even able to get a measly Muggle job.

No amount of therapeutic breathing and positive-fucking-thinking could transform Draco’s mood, now stormy enough to outdo the weather. 

He escaped into a shamble of a pub, slipping onto a seat next to a group of barflies (they had the look and stare at him as if he’s trespassing on private property), and ordered a cider the barkeep purported to be decent. 

Since drinking excessively after his trial, he’d curbed the amount he imbibed—if he even drank at all—because he didn’t trust himself. His Mind Healer had told him so, too. But right now Draco did not give one shitting fuck about trust or Mind Healers. 

His current methods of survival were failing. Abysmally.

He gulped down his too-sweet cider and opted for a neat double whiskey next, which wasn’t nearly as intolerable. The burn cut through the sting of rejection. 

The tempting burn only soothed for a moment because in the next, he heard an unmistakable, unwanted voice.

“Malfoy!”

Draco grit his teeth. 

Recognising it was mandatory for enduring whatever the fuck this situation was, he gulped down the rest of the whiskey and motioned toward the barkeep for another round. 

Draco didn’t even need to turn his head because suddenly Potter was there in his range of vision: stupid fogged-over glasses and stupid bedraggled, wet hair. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

“Drinking, what do you think?” Draco, lips twisted in frustration, nodding to the new tumbler being sat before him by the barkeep. “What are you doing here?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

For a moment, it looked like Potter might say something else, but after a quick appraisal of Draco that left him deeply discomfited, Potter shrugged. There was an intelligence behind his eyes that Draco didn’t like—as if he had been surveyed and judged. 

Potter sank down next to him and ordered a beer. The next quiet moments passed by in surprisingly easy, silent camaraderie, the rain tapping against the window, the door swinging open and closed as one of the regulars left, and the sound of the barkeep cleaning glasses with a mangy cloth.

Draco had it on good authority that Muggles had contraptions called dishwashers.

“I was out looking for a job,” Potter confided out of the blue.

Draco almost fell off his stool. “What?” He metaphorically shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs from it, as if that would allow him to hear something that made an iota of sense. “But you’re an Auror!” He couldn’t help it; he glanced over at Potter and watched his face morph from frustration to amusement. Potter laughed.

Then he cackled. Fully body shudders shake his body until he’s hugging his own torso as he quaked.

“Potter, if you need a Mind Healer, I have a few I can recommend.”

Potter only laughed louder, and Draco did the only thing that made sense: he ordered Potter a whiskey, too.

Potter nodded his thanks after he began to get himself under control. Finally, he met Draco’s gaze and said, “I quit last week, but I don’t do well with boredom.” He knocked back a long gulp of whiskey, throat bobbing.

Draco echoed his swallow, watching the forbidden line of his strong throat.

“Muggle jobs, Potter?” Draco asked, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Potter said. 

It didn’t make any sense, but Potter’s guarded face, so recently cracked open with spasms of laughter, didn’t invite follow-up questions.

After a lingering moment of mutual silence and drinking, Draco found himself opening his mouth and speaking without forethought.

Tomarry | WC: 345 | beta: @narrativenicole | prompt: revenge

Written for @tomarrymortexquisitecorpse

The tie has him in a chokehold. Harry rips at it in offence, loosening it, undoubtedly ruining the perfect knot tied, courtesy of Oliver; and even then, he still can’t get enough air in his lungs.

An unfamiliar scene surrounds him: the gala held in the top-floor lounge of a famous hotel, all chandeliers and black marble decadence, amidst affected interest, fake titters of laughter, and an abundance of canapes.

He’s suffocating on nervousness.

At least when he had worked for Tom – Mr Riddle, he corrects himself firmly – there had been few social events of this calibre. Mr Riddle preferred to work alone and machinate, when required, in private. There were few meaningless pompous galas or requisite Christmas parties.

Chugging down his champagne, Harry lets it fester on his tongue, bright and too-sharp. He misses his regular ale down at his local.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He got the job as Lucius Malfoy’s personal assistant on his own, even though he’s not blind to the fact that he’s been poached for Malfoy’s new company – a rival of Riddle Enterprises – just as a personal ‘fuck you’ to the CEO. But Harry knows he's competent and intends to show it, with a fatter paycheck and less hours spent salivating over his boss.

Lucius is easy on the eyes, but kind of pathetic.

A smirk tugs at his lips. Yes, he'd done this himself – put the wheels in motion in a way Riddle never would have suspected him capable. Tonight, poor, scrawny, good Harry Potter will pull the rug right out from under Riddle’s feet.

Harry can imagine it: Riddle would arrive here, furious to see his competition flourishing, but forced to attend under the premise of social niceties, adopting his picture-perfect facade.

Harry can see it: The chandelier light, expensively kissing his elegant, sharp features. Then, Riddle would spot Harry, laser-focused, and his adopted business smile would flatten, his jaw would clench, and his eyes would blaze in riotous fury.

Yes.

The nervousness morphs to giddiness.

Tonight, Riddle will regret sacking his most competent – and liked – employee.