BAD FAITH

Hannibal didn’t so much as blink as Draco fired back at him, the hostility not abating in the slightest. Watching the teenager glaring, spite and rage practically dripping from his body and radiating in his aura, Hannibal merely continued to smile faintly.

“You can tell me to piss off as many times as you want to,” he replied when Draco paused. “I’ll listen to anything you say, though I may not dignify remarks of that nature with a response after this once. I’m here to help–not to give up because of your hurt and anger, and not to argue with you.”

He sat back in his chair, folding one leg over the other and regarding Draco calmly. “Well, that is a subject we can visit,” Hannibal said promptly. “I can’t say I will advise for your discharge anytime soon–and if and when I do so, it doesn’t guarantee it, unless I were to be a primary caregiver for you.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrow. “I’ll get to the point, Mr. Malfoy, your trauma is apparent–but you tried to harm yourself. That, I would like to talk about. Why did you want to give up on life?”

The other’s BLUNTNESS had his stomach sinking. Avoiding the topic of his self injury with all the providers who had tried to assist him , usually meeting them with silence. And though it was a particularly fatal instance that led him to his placement at Saint Mungo’s , it was hardly the first. A secret he had kept for quite some time. And not once sharing the intimate details of. ( Even in his absence, Draco still feels the THREAT of the dark lords presence , as though he might face some punishment for even thinking about marring the mark he bore upon his forearm ). 

He’s quick to shift, fidgeting with the end of his sleeve. His gaze averts, silent a long while as he scoffs. Struggling to determine an appropriate retort.

Hannibal Lecter had been an unconventional wizard his entire life. He was the son of a very ancient pureblooded line, and the family had hands in almost every political force around the world. But despite that pedigree and the expectations it brought with it, they were not a cold or proud dynasty; Hannibal was raised to know that they had their place in life and so did Muggles, and there was a necessary balance to be adhered to.

He had been intrigued by Muggle medicine all of his life, as a result. His curiosity increased when his family moved to Britain following his younger sister’s death, plucking him from Durmstrang and bringing him to the far more open-minded, culturally diverse world at Hogwarts. He finished his school years excelling–a Prefect, Head boy, top marks, and warm recommendations to any career he wished for.

Hannibal dabbled in both physical and psychiatric medicines…but after the horrifying events of the wizarding war against Voldemort, Hannibal settled on psychology. He joined the staff at St. Mungo’s as a therapist, proving for patients and working to train other future Mind Healers.

Several months after the war ended, as the world was in a suspended limbo of celebrating and trying to pull itself back together, Hannibal was given a new patient–a Hogwarts student, a fellow pureblooded wizard from another very old family…and one who had been branded by the Dark Mark.

His first encounter with Draco Malfoy went just how the other Healers had warned him it would. The teenager wanted nothing to do with him. Hannibal entered the plain white room, merely smiling lightly at the dismissive words fired at him. “Well, I’m glad you’re aware of your surroundings,” he replied blithely, taking a seat on the chair in the room as he examined Draco. “But nothing I say will be a waste of breath. I don’t really need to say anything. I’m here to listen to you, not talk at you.”

DRACO HAD NEVER really seen a therapist. Not FORMALLY , anyway. He assumed the late sessions spent with professor snape discussing the details of the TASK the dark lord had required him to fulfill didn’t exactly count. And although he understood the PREMISE of what therapy entailed , he found himself confused by its PRACTICE.

‘ . . . then you can LISTEN to me tell you to piss off. ’ He retorted sharply, brilliant blues coming to rest on the other’s figure. The sight of him moving to SIT brought a frown to his expression, unsettled by the idea that he’d be staying ( for most of the doctors had made their visits quite BRIEF with Draco ). Though if the man planned to stay, Draco did not intend to make it PLEASANT.

THE WAR HAD ENDED. Though Draco’s recovery from the upheaval the DARK LORD had left in his wake within the Malfoy home was still a long journey ahead of him. Nothing felt quite like HOME anymore. As if a piece of the dark lord still lurked in the walls. His dark mark an ever constant reminder of his presence. The PARANOIA and fear had taken quite the mental toll of the youngest Malfoy. Though soon his mother took notice of the ever deepening scars upon his marked arm, and a close call of a nearly fatal end had Draco quickly admitted to St. Mungos, in their inpatient psychiatric unit. Much to Draco’s displeasure. He refused to talk to a single staff for his first few days of his stay. He refused meals, and remained silent and quiet in his room. Hoping perhaps his father would be the one to have him discharged. Though Draco quickly learned his parents had no intention of discharging him prematurely. And the realization of Draco’s indefinite stay began to sink in.

Still Draco refused meals. A sort of protest in itself, give his means of self injury were LIMITED. Though the first staff that caught his attention was a peculiar man joining him in his room. Draco thinks he heard him announce his title as a psychiatrist of sorts, though he had not really been paying attention. He narrows his gaze at him, looking the other up and down before turning away in disinterest, scoffing as he did.

Comparing him to one’s average house elf bought a sense of disgust to Lyrian - regardless of usually being so open and welcoming of all, the Dalish couldn’t help but be offended at the comparison. In the very least he didn’t look that way; akin to a gremlin. 

“It is my placement to be certain that your every whim is attended to.” As he was told - nothing more, nothing less. His life existed to please those around him and that was is exactly what he would do - there was little use in rebelling. In the very least he was warm and dry the majority of the time. “I am not ones average house elf, after all - consider me a more capable breed-” Ah, it made him almost sick to speak in such a way.

“Is there anything I may do for you, my lord?”

‘ And how CAPABLE are you at secret keeping, I wonder . . . ?? ’ Was that not the DOMINATING trait of a dark wizard ?? And Draco was well on his way to becoming one. There were MANY THINGS he could ask the other to do. Though , perhaps NOT if he would be running off to report to his FATHER. ( He did not wish to face his fathers JUDGEMENT at his attempts to complete the dark lords expected tasks ). The Malfoy’s had failed him once before. Draco was certain not to repeat his fathers mistakes . . .

He slightly tilted his head, keeping his eyes on the other boy. Somehow, at least to him, it seemed that Draco’s attitude had changed after his words, but he wasn’t sure, and that’s why he was still careful with his words. He didn’t want to cause any trouble between them, especially not here. The atmosphere here was already unpleasant, he didn’t need to make it even more uncomfortable by fighting with Malfoy.

“It seems to that we have. My father got out of Azkaban.. not a long time ago, so now we are here,” he told him, keeping a short thinking pause. He wasn’t sure how long his father had been free, but he knew that it wasn’t a long time. But it felt a long time in his opinion as after he got back home, things began to change — and Theodore wasn’t pleased with it. If being alone in the Nott manor didn’t spark joy in Theodore’s chest, neither did his current situation.

Despite their current situation, a soft chuckle escaped from his lips and he looked up at him again. “We Slytherins take care of our own, don’t we?” he asked, slightly raising his eyebrows and a hint of a smile curled his lips. Nott finally let himself relax a little bit, and he put his hands behind his back and leaned against the wall. The mention of unpleasant meetings caused him to glance around the hallway. “I was prepared for that”, he muttered, as he was still looking at the hallway. “Being alone here doesn’t exactly sound,” there was a pause as he was looking for a proper word. There were so many words he could use to describe their situation, but those could be too harsh to say out loud in here. “Nice.”

NOTT MANAGED to elicit the faintest half smile from Draco in spite of their circumstances. And for the briefest moment he feels a sense of relief. If only for SELFISH means, he was appreciative of the others presence. It was nice not to be the only CHILD among the rest of the death eaters. Though there was a piece of him that felt sorry for Theo’s current predicament. ( For he knew sting of it all too well ). 

Draco’s gaze flicked down, silent for a long moment. Contemplating his next words. When he looked back, he swiveled his head to ensure there was no body nearby to overhear their conversation.

@chosenwrong​

     When he had woken up that morning, he had already know that today was not his day. It had started raining that night, and the water had blown in through the window of his bedroom, leaving a small puddle on the floor. That was before he realized him and Emilia had overslept, which had made his whole morning just that much worse.

     In the end, he had barely managed to get Emilia to school on time, but it had meant that he had been late to work. Arriving there, his inbox bulging with memos and requests and a Daily Prophet that was from last Friday. Groaning, he let himself fall down in the chair behind his desk, almost unwilling to start on the enormous pile of work that was in front of him.

     Reaching for one of the folders that were sticking out of his inbox, he looked up and furrowed his brow as a blonde-haired man walked passed his cubicle. A blonde-haired man who looked incredibly familiar.

     Getting up, he stepped out of the cubicle. “Draco Malfoy!” He called out, leaning against the side of the booth and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here?” 

DRACO MALFOY had the same ARROGANT AIR as always , fashioning an all black suit and tie, hair slicked back as it once had in his younger days. ( Though with far more PRACTICED hands ). The starkest difference being that he had recently allowed his hair to grow out, framing delicate features and presuming the resemblance to his FATHER. There was little heard of the Malfoy’s after the TRIAL. For they went through an immense effort to keep their name out of the Prophet’s lettering. Their family had taken to a quieter life, focusing on repairing what had been lost during the war. ( Far more than the preservation of the MANOR , there was the relationship between father and son to mend as well ). Draco had spent quite a long time recovering from the psychological damage the dark lord had undoubtedly left on all death eaters, the Malfoy’s especially. And now he found himself employed at the ministry, in a rather respectable career: an auror.

It had not been an EASY task , and Draco continued to remain beneath the WATCHFUL GAZE of his supervisor. ( For there were still those who feared for the Malfoy’s ALLEGIANCE ). Though it was difficult to dispute his QUALIFICATIONS when he had scored the highest on his written exam. ( Draco was always rather academically gifted ).

He turns at the call of his name, half expecting another reprimand from a supervisor. Who frequently fretted over the Malfoy’s whereabouts. Though relief fills grey eyes at the sight of a familiar face, and he is quick to approach. ‘ Working. Same as you, I imagine. That IS what you were doing , right ?? It’s rather difficult to tell . . . ’ He took a judgmental glance to the sorry state of the others desk, raising a brow.

                              𝖧𝖤   𝖥𝖱𝖮𝖹𝖤   𝖠𝖳   𝖳𝖧𝖤   𝖣𝖮𝖮𝖱   ,  eyes   looking   down   to   his   arm   ,   immediately   tensing   at   what   was   shown   to   him   ,   the   𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖭   igniting   once   more   in   his   chest   .   his   heart   feeling   like   it   was   slowly   being   crushed   the   longer   he   stared   .   ((   his   grip   on   the   door   handle   tightened   before   he   finally   released   it   ))  ‘   …   𝖣𝖮   𝖭𝖮𝖳   suggest   that   i   don’t   care   .   i   have   always   cared   about   you   draco   ,   i   always   will   care   about   you   ,   you   are   my   SON   .   ‘

“I am at your beck and call-” Whatever wished would be gathered and granted; t’was his job, after all; if those above him were not satisfied then his work was not to a good enough standard; he knew the routine. But perhaps the youth before him meant more; “I was a mage - but the metal binds around my wrists use wards to disallow the use of my foreign magic.”

HIS GAZE FLICKED to the metal binds he referred to, curious how his magic differed from that of a witch or wizard. ( For he only had the opportunity to see their PREVIOUS house elf utilize his magic only on a few occasions ). 

@chosenwrong​ asked:  “You don’t LOOK like the other house elves we’ve had? Is there something wrong with you?”

Head bowed, posture and poise stiff - Lyrian had not yet settled into his new placement - the recent transactions regarding his restricted freedom and ownership still largely processing. Unfortunately, it was something he had participated in previously (though not to his will-), though the world around his very person was different and foreign.  How many of the Dalish had ended up here, in this modern world, with thanks to the rifts that were tearing their homes apart? Few. And though only some had crossed his path within the slavery trade, Lyrian knew most would end up like he. Didn’t they always? The prejudice of one world seemed to infect the next.

“I am exactly as I am meant to be,” Quietly spoken, his eyes did not raise from the ground, staring at feet; his own bare. “…I am Dalish- - Consider me more… capable.”