Draco Malfoy

everlastinglavender​:

Lavender resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the ‘just one more question’ attitude, why were so many purebloods so dramatic? Luckily the questions Draco was asking were easy to answer but she wondered what’s really going on behind his thoughts and why he seemed so afraid to give money, it seemed less about the game of numbers like some of the people she would get money from, it came from a different place for Draco. 

Since he leaned back, Lavender instinctively moved closer over the table, leaning against the table slightly as if Draco was telling an interesting story. 

“Well, I am not a part of British Wizarding Front technically,” she said giving a little laugh, “even with the whole our Lavender, they seemed to nickname me,” she said smiling a little smugly and moving joyfully in her seat as if it was a funny question. “I’m a lobbyist first and foremost to get money where it is needed to go.” 

“Oh Draco,” she said, making sure to maintain eye contact with him even though he seemed to be a bit jumpy about this whole situation, “I can assure you I do not hate you if that’s what you’re worried about but I can’t speak for everyone, I just try and find people who I thought would want to support the school. Do you not want to support Hogwarts? Is there another cause you’d like to support, maybe hm?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, her smile turning tight. 

Draco didn’t think that that technicality merited comment -- one didn’t not only lobby for a group but allow them to use one as a mascot if one was “not part of” said group -- but Lavender Brown seemed to think he ought to be more impressed with the distinction. He wasn’t; he raised an eyebrow and drawled coolly, “Yes, well, by that same technicality my mother was never a Death Eater, and yet...” He shrugged, seeing no reason why either of them should need him to finish that statement, and rose to his feet.

Looking down on the werewolf who had once been a witch ready to give her life for everything she now opposed and which he’d once supported, Draco said, “I’ve had my fill of causes, thank you.” Part of him -- the distant, calculating part that stood to the side of his emotional turmoil and offered pithy commentary and criticisms -- found her lack of subtly the most offensive part of all of this. ‘Don’t you want to support Hogwarts? she’d chirped -- like he was an imbecile who couldn’t see through clear glass. The rest of him just wanted to get out -- to escape, fleeing the dangers of her cause like a hare running from the wolf.

Oh, goodness, Zacharias coos in his head. It seems he’s touched a nerve. How terrible, how awful! He can’t even begin to imagine how he’s ever going to make it up to Malfoy. The theatrics only last for a moment, though, just enough to make his amusement skyrocket, and another easy grin spreads on his lips. That’s something he’s very aware of, actually, that his grins are never vicious, and he feels it makes for a nice contrast with the bite of his words; never let it be said he has no style when it comes to all that. “Oh, come on, Malfoy, don’t be like that. I’m just a guy trying to catch up with his old classmates. Don’t tell me I have to wait until Potter decides to organise a reunion where we can all hold hands and cry.” Because that’s precisely what he imagines Potter and his Merry Men do in their spare time. Oh, Harry, Weasley probably cries, either of them, You’re just so wonderful! So dashing and heroic yet so humble! and Potter, in all his glory, would reply, Why, yes, Ron-or-Ginny. I am in fact all of these things. But you know what makes me so great? Having friends like you. Cue the waterworks. And it’s not like Zacharias wastes his time thinking of that shit, but it just seems like an obvious thing.

He’s getting off-topic, though, he thinks as he turns his attention back to Malfoy who seems to be brooding. Not unusual by any means; most if not all of Zacharias’ memories of Malfoy have him either brooding or snarling or a very odd mixture of the two. And there it comes again, as he talks about Parkinson and her little crush. “Guess she should’ve stepped up her game then. Ooh, was she invited to the wedding? That must’ve been fun. Did I congratulate you you’ve finally noticed someone would be interested in marrying you, by the way? I’ll be sure to send over a gift basket.” He will not be sending any baskets, of course, but when has it been more than empty words with him?

And while not even a moment ago Malfoy was struggling with the word muggle-born, apparently he has no problem pulling shit like self-immolation and oblique out of his ass. Go figure. “You must be so much fun at parties.” Zacharias rolls his eyes. “And yeah, nothing’s sexier than saying Hey, wanna fuck? to someone who thinks you sitting in their lap is the height of friendship. Besides, if you’re interested enough you’ll notice the signs. You’ll be looking for ‘em. I guess the point is you just weren’t interested, which is a whole different thing.” Unfathomable hints, Malfoy calls them, but all Zacharias sees is willful ignorance. It does make him wonder though, somewhere in the back of his mind, just how many people have unsuccessfully tried to get with Malfoy that he’s so sour about flirting. “How did you even get married at all? Did you think the girl was giving you friendship rings or some shit?”

And as if his inability to understand why flirting is so fun isn’t enough, Malfoy apparently is also a stranger to the thrill of the chase. Poor sod. “It’s the tension, mate, the whole push and pull, the games. It’s not about not being wanted; if they don’t want you, they don’t you and that’s that. It’s about them trying to resist the fact they do want you and then eventually giving in. No sweeter victory.”

Draco meets Smith’s saccharine smile with a sulky stare. “I doubt that any of the people for whom you’d come to me for social updates would be invited to any reunion thrown by Potter and his lot,” he says coolly, trying to bury the wound of his friends’ absence with his usual scorn and derision toward his oldest enemies, but it doesn’t really work -- possibly because his feelings towards Potter are so conflicted, now that he owes the man not just his freedom but that of his parents as well; possibly just because he’s grown tired of the vitriol that boiled between them for so long and used to be such an ingrained part of his every day and deed.

Zacharias’s commentary about Draco’s lack of interest and his marriage inspire a withering glare that would probably be more effective if it wasn’t half-pout and half simmering confusion. “You sound like my father,” he grumbles, and for once in his life he doesn’t mean that statement as a compliment so much as a complaint. His amorous pursuits -- or rather, his lack thereof -- were one of the few areas in which he had utterly and abjectly failed to live-up to his father’s expectations (one of the few areas that wasn’t a direct result of the Dark Lord and the war, at least, for all that Lucius insisted that it was and thus was no fault of Draco’s own for which he should be judged) and what rankled most about that was the fact that Draco didn’t really mind that failure. It just wasn’t something of which he’d ever seen the point -- which was, of course, precisely what his father said was the problem. Whatever that meant...

“And yes, of course Pansy was invited to the wedding, why wouldn’t she have been?” he continues waspishly. It hadn’t been a very large guest list -- Astoria had never been a gregarious woman, and most of Draco’s friends had deserted him in the aftermath of the war -- but while his parents had lamented the smallness of the affair, Draco had been quite satisfied not to have a large party; he no longer craved a spotlight the way he once had. “And I got married because Astoria didn’t drop stupid hints, she just came right out and said what she meant. Which is the way things bloody should work. How is it that everybody but me is so fixated on the idea that the best way to express your feelings is not to express them?” he whines. How many times had he sprawled across Goyle’s legs, or Crabbe’s, or both of theirs in the Slytherin Dungeon? That hadn’t been a marriage proposal -- or a proposal of any other sort -- they’d just been there, so Draco sat. How was he supposed to know that when Pansy did the same, it came laced with hidden meaning?

“Think Merlin that Astoria’s not like that,” he mutters, not really meaning to talk to Smith so much as he is musing aloud. “I suppose that’s the upside to needing rather than wanting. If she’d been ‘subtle’ about needing help with her potions back at Hogwarts she’d be dead now...or at the least still impoverished.” Draco’s pointed nose wrinkles in a grimace, less over the dusty old shop that his wife had once called home -- he might be a snob, but he can appreciate the sort of products they offer, and Astoria’s subsequent expertise, regardless of the trappings in which they’re sold -- than over the idea of not being wealthy. He doesn’t know how Astoria put up with it for so long, but he supposes she didn’t really have a choice...not until she found a suitable subject (himself) to approach with a deal to solve that problem, anyway.

magicterrence​:

Terry’s office door opens quietly, a tray of tea and biscuits glides skillfully through the air before placating itself on the sturdy desk between them. The teapot is piping hot and has steam pouring out of its snout. It levitates itself to pour some freshly brewed tea into a matching cup. Terry’s tea set was anything but presumptuous. The handles of the milk jug and sugar pot turn instinctively towards Draco, encouraging him to take matters into his own hands. Terry’s mother always used to say, you could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear and the way they take their tea. Even though the statement was simple, he always presumed it to be some convoluted metaphor pertaining to divination rather than observation. His mother was a master of divination, and while Terry didn’t inherit her skills, he certainly had a passion for observation. 

And here he observes hesitation, in Draco he observes doubt, and moves to squash it, “Can you name a better potioneer in our reach than yourself?” In is more a statement than a question, “You’ve proven your loyalty to the Ministry of Magic by being a law-abiding citizen, and even so, Harry Potter doesn’t vouch for just anyone.” He pauses momentarily. As is the nature of politics and his own predilection for assuming the worst. He wonders if there’s something else tinkering behind the surprise of being chosen for this task. His eyes meet Draco’s before continuing, “Should we have any reason to think otherwise? The past is well…the past.” Even if some members of your family don’t want to let go of it, he adds silently in his head, pointedly at his Lucius Malfoy, “We have to deal with the trials of today, so will you lend us a hand?”

The question is asked directly and pointedly at him, a small smirk is splaying across his lips as he speaks, “There’s Clause 12 under the Magical Drugs and Safety Act of 1978 that stipulates the that the distribution of magical drugs and substances outside of the Magical Drugs Registry is considered to be punishable by a limited term to Azkaban.” Terry reaches for the second teacup on the tray, watching Draco sip his tea has enticed him for one too, “Clause 45 of the same Act conditions that if the distribution of illicit magical drugs causes inherent harm to its consumer, and the distributor is aware of it’s…” He pours tea into the cup manually, pausing as not to spill, “…fatal nature, that the punishment is more severe.” One spoonful of sugar or two? He thinks while pouring a very small amount of milk to turn colour from dark brown to tan. He looks up to lock eyes with Draco, trying to read how his outwardly nonchalant behaviour may be perceived as, “The Wizengamot is posed with a question of which Clause to enforce in an upcoming trial and to ensure surety of our results need an expert opinion on the contents of a magical substance.” Terrence mixes in one spoonful of sugar, and asks intently, “So, are you in or out?”

For all the times over these long years that Draco has enjoyed the “hospitality” of the Ministry of Magic, he’s never been able to decide if adding milk and sugar makes their brusque tea more palatable or just highlights the bitterness of the cheap black leaves by adding a cloying note of sweetness. He usually fiddles with the sweeteners just to give his hands something to do, one more excuse to delay a reply without looking like he’s stalling -- at least not in any way to which the agents of the Ministry can reasonably object.

He might have done the same today, but Boot’s words startle him -- not his nonsensical and inaccurate “the past is the past” rot, which both of them are surely smart enough to know is so much claptrap -- but rather the name he drops: “Potter?” Draco repeats, his eyebrows arching toward his distant hairline. “Potter’s involved in this?” There is no love lost between the two wizards -- never has been -- but if Harry Potter has his fingers in this mess, then Draco can at least be assured that it’s on the up-and-up. Potter is not, has never been, as squeaky-clean as his devoted fans believe and Draco knows that better than anyone (still has the faint scattering of hair-thin scars to prove it) but he also knows that Harry Potter is not the sort of person to approve of hexing someone when their back is turned; knows that Harry Potter is not the sort of person to approve framing somebody. He wonders why Boot waited so long to mention the involvement of Draco’s old nemesis. Was he trying to see how far he could push Draco on his own, without throwing Harry’s weight into things? Or was he saving the revelatory statement that Potter had vouched for him as a coupe de grace?

Either way, it works: between guilt over his past, the debt he owes Potter for his and his parents’ current freedom, and the fact that their sons are best friends, Draco in in less of a position to say no to “the Chosen One” than possibly anyone else on the planet. “Yes,” he says slowly, meeting Boot’s eyes and half-wishing he were either brave or stupid enough to try Legilimency on the man to figure out what he’s thinking in all this, “yes, of course I’ll assist. I would never turn my back on my civic duty.” His smile is as thin and false as the statement it accompanies.

hannahgrace-abbott​:

Stepping into the private lab that Draco preferred to use over the main Mungo’s lab, Hannah bit her lip, a habit that she often did when nervous. She had already tried to have this conversation with the Head Potioneer, but he had no interest in doing what needed to be done in order to secure information about this potion. Not that Draco Malfoy would necessarily be more inclined to stick his nose in anything sketchy, not after his history, but considering said history, he might have the connections or the knowledge that would actually help. Still, she was nervous to broach the subject with him. 

Hannah had watched these last years as Draco tried to keep a professional face in the midst of a world that was determined to throw hatred towards him, and she respected the way he kept his head down and continued to make a difference despite the fact that many of the workers at Mungo’s held the majority mindset when it came to the Malfoys. Hannah was a healer at heart, and to her, helping people was the most important thing, and Draco’s willingness to continue consulting, even in an environment where he wasn’t always treated the best, won him points with her. 

Closing the door behind her, she nodded, reaching up to push some hair out of the way that had fallen into her line of vision at the movement of her head. “Will you still be able to focus all right with me in here trying to pick your brain?” Of course, she knew he was well talented enough to focus on brewing and talking at the same time, but it wasn’t as if he was usually working on routine potions. He was too good for that –– the things he worked on were the really hard ones, which often meant the most needed ones. 

Being the curious witch that she was, Hannah stepped forward to examine what he was working on, while being sure to keep enough distance that she wasn’t hovering awkwardly. Things had never been exactly…comfortable between them –– Hannah wasn’t sure how to act around Draco, and she got the feeling that he wasn’t too confident about it either. After all, he had once been a complete terror to the man she was married to. And while he hadn’t really picked on her specifically, he had always been quick to laugh at Pansy Parkinson’s jabs. How did one act around a childhood bully who had turned out to be just as much of a victim as the very people he had once preyed on? 

Draco shrugged dismissively and nodded. “Yes, of course I can. The blend is finicky and requires close monitoring, but it’s past the investigatory experimentation phase. I don’t need to think about it at this stage, just pay attention. I can certainly do that while you speak,” he said, turning away from her to gently stir the brew in front of him with absolute unconcern for the subject of her picking. Whatever it was, it surely wasn’t going to distract him. Draco had learned a great many lessons since his youth, most of which had contributed in some way to a certain level of self-improvement, but modesty was not a trait he had acquired -- or was ever likely to master.

At least Abbott was easy to ignore -- less obtrusive a presence than many of the other Healers who populated St. Mungo’s, and much less obtrusive (and obnoxious) than most of the wix who had always constituted her social group. Draco carefully wiped the silver spoon clean and set it aside before leaning down to sniff the simmering draught. “More tumeric,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hannah, and reached for the shelf on which a jar of the vibrant yellow powder sat nestled among an assortment of bottles that seemed haphazard at a glance but was in fact arranged to Draco’s precise specifications of organization.

“So, what is it you wanted to ask me about?” he prompted as he trickled a careful pinch of the ground roots into the brew, when it seemed that she was too distracted by what he was doing to continue on her own. Draco replaced the jar and reached for the spoon again, folding the addition into the viscous liquid with care. He set the spoon aside and sniffed again; much better. “And hand me that platter of chopped iguana spleens while you’re at it,” he directed, not at all abashed to be ordering around a Senior Healer; she might be his superior within the hospital but here in front of his cauldron, Draco ruled.

everlastinglavender​:

She smiled brightly at Draco’s answer at not wanting to be a supplier. “Well great! So does this mean you will contribute financially then!” she said, phrasing it less like a question. 

She nodded, “ I can’t say I was ever much gifted at potions so I can’t imagine the feeling you’re describing but I understand it. No need to fret and worry about every little detail, it would be very micromanaging.” she agreed.

“It can be in payments that are spread apart monthly, or one lump sum and can be anonymous, can be known publicly or will be known just by the need to know people.” It’s weird, Lavender thought, how normal and level headed Draco seemed, when she really only remembered him as a hot headed boy. Although I guess throughout the years, she really learned a lot more Slytherin’s aren’t what they seemed at all. 

Once upon a time, the Malfoys had been an integral part of Hogwarts business. There had been a Malfoy on the board of school governors for generations -- almost since the board was founded, some few hundred years ago. That had ended in 1993, when Lucius’s attempt to use the Chamber of Secrets to kill a Ministry bill he didn’t like had not exactly backfired, but had certainly caused some unwanted repercussions for them. He had had every intention of reclaiming his seat once the fervor died down in a few years...but then the Dark Lord had returned, and the Malfoys had fallen into first one disgrace and then another. There was no chance of Draco reclaiming the position now and little chance of that changing in his lifetime, or even that of his son. The Malfoys were quite simply not welcome at Hogwarts.

That didn’t necessarily mean their money wouldn’t be...but that didn’t necessarily mean that Draco wanted his money going through Lavender Brown to get there.

He leaned back in his chair, attempted to affect an air of calm that he did not feel. “Yes...well, I suppose I’m left with just one question, then.” How to phrase it that wouldn’t have Brown lunging across the table for his throat? Draco folded his fingers together on the table in front of him, a gesture that both made him look thoughtful and more importantly had the added benefit of placing his hand very close to the wand holstered in his sleeve just in case. “What is the British Wizarding Front’s purpose in serving as middle-man for these donations? And why,” he asked, meeting her eyes firmly and trying not to think about the beast that hid behind them, “approach me for such an endeavor? Your people don’t like me.”

aurorburke​:

Sipping her tea she listened to what he said. When this was over she was going to let him walk out, there was nothing to hold him there. Not that the younger Malfoy was there for that, it was true her brother had tipped her of about this. Or well, tipped their father off who asked her to deal with it. So there she was, sitting in her office with Draco Malfoy shaking in his expesive trousers. Had she been there to intimidate him, she would have acted way different than she did at that moment.

“I don’t think whoever did this would get to three people with that, it tastes terrible like you said,” perhaps it would be something there, but she didn’t know any better. It was currently gathering dust on her desk. It weighed on them and there were pressure to get it solved. If they had more cases land on their desk, it would be worse for them. This wasn’t why she became an Auror, but here they were.

Watching him as he seemed to be a bit more comfortable, Violet sipped her tea again. Either he was playing her or he was just trying to drag this out. She wasn’t going to beg.

“That’s the thing Malfoy, we don’t know what it is. It’s not possible to find anything when we can’t figure out what the poison or potion or whatever it is.” it was true, they were stuck and it seemed like the man in front of her had the answer.

.

“Murtlap tastes terrible,” he corrected her, unable to stop himself; Draco could not abide people being wrong about potions any more than had been his long-dead teacher so many years ago in Hogwarts where the highest stakes any of them had had to face were test grades and class rankings. Now the stakes were so much higher -- so much more final -- and yet, he couldn’t sit back and do the prudent thing and let her think his information useless. “But you wouldn’t be feeding people straight Essence of Murtlap. You’d be putting a few drops -- a teaspoon, maybe -- into your brew as a cushioning agent. Hardly enough to affect the taste. And most poisons...” He should really shut-up now, but he couldn’t; this wasn’t just a subject he knew, it was a subject he liked, and Draco liked sharing what he knew. 

“Most poisons do not inherently taste pleasant anyway. Oh, in many cases the recipes you’ll find have a final product that does -- but only because they’ve been specifically tailored to taste that way. There are a few naturally-occurring substances that both taste pleasant to human senses and can hurt the human body quite badly, yes, but in many cases we’ve evolved not to like the taste of things that can kill us.” He paused and thought about some of the nastier addictive draughts he’d come across over the years; thought about the toxins of the alcohol that people drank and the even more toxic things they smoked and amended his statement: “Well, not to like the taste when those things are unadulterated to appeal to our senses, anyway. But that’s exactly my point.” He leaned forward, hands pressing down on either side of his half-forgotten mug of tea, his grey eyes glittering with excitement. 

“If you’re going to slip someone a poison, there are limited methods: one, you either put it in something they have to consume, like replacing a medical draught with something fatal -- or spike the teapot of some cantankerous old biddy whose invitations you can’t get away with refusing,” he joked. “Two, you put it in something they want to consume -- which usually means making it either taste pleasant or innocuous enough to be masked by whatever the prevailing substance is. Or three, you put it in something where it won’t be noticed -- in which case, innocuous is the only way to go if you want to be effective because even a pleasant taste will be noticed and potentially questioned under those circumstances.” 

He’s put it in mead, the one time he’d tried to truly poison someone. Mead that was meant to be a gift, which combined the “tastes pleasant” factor with the “social pressure” one -- even if Dumbledore hadn’t liked mead (and Draco had done his best to determine that the headmaster did before he’d chosen which beverage to spike) he would likely have felt obligated to down a glass or two so as not to offend the giver. It hadn’t been a very good attempt at a poisoning -- desperate acts so rarely were -- relying as it had on an unreliable and unwitting middle-man to get it to the victim, but it hadn’t been an altogether misguided one either.

Draco didn’t think it was a good idea to share that sort of expertise with Burke, however. What he said instead was, “Your best bet is going to be tracing their actions in the hours preceding their deaths and finding any common threads; that will give you something to tug. Say...five hours, at the outside; there’s not much chance of delaying the onset of symptoms that severe even that long, let alone any longer. Other than that...” Draco hesitated, but Burke had asked. And he was becoming more and more convinced that it was a genuine question, not a trap. The Aurors wouldn’t need to go to such elaborate lengths to trick him into incriminating himself if they wanted to manufacture an excuse to send him to Azkaban, would they?

angelinaweasley​:

Angelina is still walking around in amazement ten minutes after watching Dunkirk. To be quite fair, Angelina had watched it when it was originally released, sneaking in with her husband into a muggle theater in suburban London. Still, it had been quite awhile since 2017 and frankly she didn’t pay enough attention in her Muggle Studies class to collect enough information about World War II to consider herself versed in it. Everything in that movie looked so real. Wix might possess the real magic, but when it came to technological magic, especially movie magic, it was all in muggles’ hands. 

That’s why this fair is so important. The Wizarding World needs to see everything they are neglecting. Especially whoever that man who was speaking behind her was. Merlin. How could some people be so clueless? However, when Angelina turns around, it all makes sense. She should have been able to identify Draco Malfoy from the easily agitated tone in his voice. Of course she shouldn’t have expected her old classmate to understand anything about muggle life. Well. He doesn’t know what he is missing, even with the excelling number of muggle born and halfblood students entering Hogwarts each year, including her oldest child. So, for Freddie’s sake and the fact that she isn’t ready to have a row with the press around, she relaxes, laughing instead. 

“I’m not sorry about that,” she says, because frankly, it might be the only semi-jab she’ll be able to get in during this conversation. She may be more benevolent than the rest of her family by marriage, but it’s already evident that the margin is not by much. “But it’s definitely not alive, if that’s what you’re asking. Inanimate muggle objects are never alive. Like their paintings? The people just stay still,” Angelina deadpans. “Wild. Who would’ve thought their lives are so different, yet, somehow so similar?” Crossing her arms, she makes sure to look him right in the eye as she says, “Imagine that.” 

.

Draco doubts that Angelina Weasley née Johnson is sorry at all, but he’s not going to call her on it; while the closest the two of them ever came to direct conflict was on the Quidditch pitch (perhaps most memorably during her captaincy her final year of school, when Draco quite rashly -- but effectively -- baited some of her teammates into physically attacking him after a Slytherin defeat, resulting in three of her players being banned for the rest of the season) there has still never been any doubt that the two of them were always on different sides -- and he doesn’t just mean in Quidditch.

Angelina is a Weasley by marriage, a Gryffindor by sorting, a member of Dumbledore’s Army by choice, and a half-blood by birth. Draco Malfoy is very much none of those things, and he knows that if either of them have anything to be “sorry” for, it’s not her. So he just smiled thinly, brushes his robes off in an attempt to restore his dignity, and starts to say “Ah,” as though both grateful and enthralled by her words rather than simultaneously disinterested and confused -- but then her words continue.

Similar, she says? Their lives are similar? In what possible way? Nothing that she’s describing sounds like it has similarities to anything that Draco considers ordinary life. The concept of static, motionless paintings in particular takes him several seconds to come to terms with; once he manages to conjure a simulacrum of what that would look like in his brain, he shudders. “What, like they’ve all been Petrified?” he asks -- not wanting to say aloud, or killed? The mental image of hundreds of immobile figures frozen in unmoving paint for all eternity, unable to speak or move or react to the illusory winds or rains or anything with which they’re sharing their frames makes him feel nauseated.

Draco saw a painter’s studio -- a wixen painter’s studio, of course -- once when he was younger, when he accompanied his paternal grandfather to a sitting for his own portrait. The unfinished paintings had all been creepy in their motionless, but they’d been unfinished -- it would have been strange to see a half-painted form moving, not to mention making the whole process unfathomably difficult for the artist if their subjects kept twitching every time they touched brush to canvass. But to be stuck like that after being completed, for all time...

zachariashsmith​:

Drunk Malfoy is just as annoying as regular Malfoy, except much less aware and honestly, Zacharias is almost fascinated as he watches him talk around in circles in an attempt to follow a single train of thought. “Fucking hell, mate, you’re bevved,” he laughs, his mood improving by the second. This is entertainment gold and what’s more, a great opportunity to see what goes on in Malfoy’s fucked up mind.

Apparently, it’s at least half insults – though for whatever reason, it’s hard to take him seriously when Malfoy’s talking shit about Zacharias’ wit, calling him contrary, all the while dangling off him like a baby. Shit, he has a baby now and even Aaron doesn’t cling to him quite this much. “Am I just supposed to nod along and agree with you, then? I think you’ve got me confused with your little fanclub. And speaking of, how are Goyle and Parkinson doing these days?”

The implication that he’s in any way, shape or form selling himself short has Zacharias throwing him a look that’s almost indignant. “Of course I can’t damage your reputation, Malfoy, you’ve done that well-enough yourself. What part of I’m a catch did you not get?”

And he has more to say, naturally, but then Malfoy goes off on a tangent about his love life? His family drama? Zacharias has no idea what he’s talking about and he can’t remember when did he fucking ask about his entire tragic background, but he’s not about to stop him now. For one thing, Malfoy seems to be on a roll and interrupting would be rude – which Zacharias never is, of course – and for another thing, well. It’s just good fucking information.

“What, so you’re telling me you never noticed Parkinson trying to jump you? Damn, dense is an understatement, I’m pretty sure literally everyone knew about that. And that includes the professors.” But that’s hardly the most important takeaway from Malfoy’s mini-rant and Zacharias shakes his head at the poor sod’s fucked up understanding of flirting. “And how do you know you wanna shag someone if you don’t test the waters first, genius? Imagine you’re at a pub, some good-looking wix is throwing you looks and you decide to just go for it ‘cause you’re so straightforward and direct. You wake up at their place next morning and they have a fucking Harry Potter shrine or some shit. I’d wanna set myself on fire, personally.”

Not his best argument, sure, but Zacharias feels it gets the point across. No matter how hot someone is, if they’re straight-up weird or the chemistry’s not there, what’s even the point? No sex is better than bad sex, is the hill he’ll die on; he’s a man of principle, after all.

“And then there’s the thrill of the chase,” he adds with a snort because apparently yes, this is the conversation he’s having with Malfoy. “Don’t tell me you’ve never chased after someone whose entire appeal was they didn’t give you the time of day.”

The haughty, indignant denial of his supposed inebriation is already half-formed on Draco’s lips when Smith mentions Goyle. The name lands in Draco’s guts like a solid block of ice and he pushes away from the other wizard -- the motion made stiff and awkward by the drink, yes, but also by the suddenness of the unexpected shift of emotions from light banter to deep, cutting guilt and pain. “Write them yourself if you want to know,” Draco says shortly, and while the step away from Zacharias makes him stumble enough that he has to sit down on the edge of the table, his glare doesn’t waver. “I’m not your...your gossip secretary.” He folds his arms in tight across his chest and tries to ignore the uncomfortable contrast of the fading warmth left by Smith’s body against his skin with the icy gooseflesh now prickling across them both.

It’s not fun anymore, talking to Zacharias; Draco has been reminded too sharply of what he’s lost, of who he should be talking to today -- of who should have been at his wedding but wasn’t; of who is nothing but ashes and a tombstone over an empty grave and of who he had been waiting for, hoping for, tonight who never came. Zacharias was a good distraction from the latter for a time, but now that he’s raised the specter of Gregory’s absence -- and consequently, of Vincent’s absence -- that time is over. Draco’s ready to give up and go home...but he’s not quite ready to retreat. Not quite ready to admit how much it hurts that both of his best friends are gone, one dead and the other wanting nothing to do with him because of it.

So he pulls the battered old mask of haughty indifference over his pointed features and says, as loftily as he can with his heart twisting in his chest like a Bludger, “Yes, I was unaware of Pansy’s attempted flirtations until they were pointed-out to me after the fact, that’s correct.” He hopes he doesn’t sound as tired as he feels -- but perhaps if he does, Smith will take it as exhaustion at being asked these things over and over and not as the bone-deep weariness of grief. “I am aware that this revelation has proved highly amusing to many people, and continues to be disbelieved by others. Nonetheless, it’s true: I had no idea. And we never dated, no.” At least, not in the sense of Draco having been aware that they were ostensibly dating; that meant it hadn’t happened, right?

He wonders fleetingly if Greg had noticed, if Greg thought it was funny, if Greg or Vince might have mentioned it to him if he hadn’t become so caught-up with the Dark Lord’s orders and short of patience with which to indulge any other topic so quickly into their sixth year...

But there’s no point wondering, and that’s certainly not a topic on which he wants to speculate with Zacharias, so Draco forces himself to pretend he cares about the other wizard’s rant enough to reply, “I expect you could avoid urges toward self-immolation if you didn’t go about shagging people you didn’t know, which seems a bit of an odd choice anyway I have to say. Ordinarily one might expect at least a brief period in between ‘hello, nice to meet you,’ and ‘let’s go for a shag.’” Not even Draco’s father progressed that fast when he was flirting, and Lucius Malfoy had been famous in his day for the number of partners (sometimes multiply) he’d taken to bed. “I’m not suggesting skip straight from introductions to sex, Merlin,” Draco rolls his eyes. “But when a person has decided that they do want to shag someone -- or snog them, or whatever -- it might go better if they actually came out and said it, instead of being vague and then getting cross about it when the other person fails to decode their oblique and unfathomable hints.”

ministergrangerweasley​:

A proper professional. That fact that they were at a place where Draco Malfoy could call a Muggleborn that while denying himself the same title was astonding, really. Even during the times of upmost hope, Hermione hadn’t expected a world like this. A world where Muggleborns could unite as one and be taken seriously. She’d imagined it, yes, but had been pragmatic and realistic enough to never let herself believe in the eventuality. It seemed, however, that it had caught up with her. Draco Malfoy was speaking amicable, Draco Malfoy was complimenting her, Draco Malfoy was listening.

He’d come a long way and Hermione could see that, even if Ron could not. “I don’t do it on my own,” she said, her voice a bit more clipped than she would’ve liked it to be. She was once tortured in his house, after all. She was once called Mudblood for the first time from his lips. He had a tattoo on his arm to prove how much he’d hated her, once. “Ron is a parent just as much as I am.” More so, usually. That didn’t need to be said.

She opened the door to her office with a flick of her wand, the lock specifically for her and a few other people she’d allowed through the wards without her there with them. Draco wasn’t one of those people. He would have to follow her in or else the door would not allow his entry. She walked through the threshold first, given her steps ahead of him, and the door easily let him through. She turned and gestured to one of the cushioned chairs in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat.” She walked to the other side and did as well, leaning forward to fold her hands in front of her. “Now, what is it you had to speak to me about? The children, yes, but what exactly about them?”

Draco could -- and often did, if often with an accompany rueful or apologetic shrug -- admit that Hermione Granger was a talented, intelligent, competent witch, much though that reality had rankled in his younger days. Ron Weasley, on the other hand...well. He wasn’t going to insult the man in front of his wife (again) if he could help himself, but Weasley was a different story. He was a coattail-rider, a lesser wizard trailing in the wake of giants and letting their proximity elevate him above his station, and he always had been. Draco was sure that Weasley did his best to help Granger...he just wasn’t sure how much the man’s “best” was worth. Granger had always evinced an inexplicable affection for the Weasel, though, even when furious with him, so Draco kept those thoughts to himself.

Instead he settled for a neutral, polite, “Yes, of course.” Draco still couldn’t leave well enough alone, though -- or maybe it was just Granger who made him too nervous to keep in mind all those painful lessons he’d had on the subject of keeping his mouth shut -- because he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Still, I can’t imagine it’s easy. There are four of us at the manor and only one child to look after, and none of us have what you’d call a full-time occupation, and yet sometimes I still feel like I’m barely keeping up with him.”

Yes because bringing up his parents around Granger was such a good idea, especially with what he’d come here to ask...idiot. Draco winced as he settled into the offered seat, and not from lack of cushioning. Searching desperately to change the subject, he landed on the rather outlandish comment of, “It’s a shame the Ministry lost all their Time Turners. Perhaps you should prevail on the Department of Mysteries to attempt to fabricate some more,” he joked. “As Minister, I’m sure you’d be able to claim the use of one. That would have to make parenting easier, no?”

“A cuppa it is.” Terry takes his own place, sitting down at his desk and scribbling on a charmed piece of parchment to alert his assistant of his dear guest’s needs. It was a more effective method of communication than shouting or fire messages; he’d been inspired by what the muggles call ‘texting’. At Draco’s words his lips tighten into a smile, “Oh, it’s nothing I’m sure you can’t handle. You’re a remarkable potioneer, and the Ministry of Magic doesn’t just approach just anyone for consultancies on important cases like this…” Nothing sits easier on a politician’s tongue than flattery. Words very carefully selected to wind around you, so lovely and refined. So easy to get lost in your own ego that by the time he grows silent once more you can hardly feel the noose tightening around your neck. “The details are simple but the task itself is complex, that we recognise. It requires skill and experience, which a wix such as yourself has in abundance. We require an independent and trusted potioneer to conduct an investigation into the composition of a magical substance to that the Wizengamot can make an informed judgement on the accused.” He couldn’t say anymore, not unless Draco agreed to take on Ministry business. Terry nods, Draco was starting to put two and two together - and now the trial was public knowledge already, perhaps he should give him a hint. “Officially, I’m not at liberty to say whom just yet,” he says, reaching into the depths of his pockets for a cigarette, “but I’m sure you read the news, Draco.” 

Unending Trials

Draco’s strained smile thins a little as Boot speaks -- he knows full-well that the Ministry of Magic doesn’t always hire the best, but rather the most available, so Boot’s assurances that he’s not being approached as “just anyone” ring a bit false -- but the the words around them are almost undeniably true; there are few feats of potioneering that Draco can’t handle, after all. The Ministry would be lucky to have a wix of his talents working on their behalf...if their request is indeed on the up-and-up, and not a smokescreen meant to entrap him.

The fact that Boot goes so far as to call him an independent and trusted potioneer rings like warning bells in Draco’s ears, and he can’t stop himself from raising his eyebrows skeptically at the words. “And the Wizengamot trusts me to offer them the necessary information for this important investigation?” he says, his voice wry. A bitter, crooked smirk crawls onto his face like a devoted house-elf creeping back into the family parlor after a beating. “That seems...unlikely,” he observes delicately. But that comment about the news...

LOCATION: Museum of Muggle Curiosities, London DATE: November 10, 2020 @angelinaweasley​

Draco did not want to be here. He quite vehemently did not want to be here, in fact. The only reason he had come was the one reason that always trumped all others in his world: his son. Scorpius had written home as soon as he’d heard about the Muggle Technology Fair, pleading for his parents to attend. As Draco well knew (his son wasn’t shy about sharing his feelings...or complaints), Scorpius often found himself confused by things that his two best friends -- unabashed half-bloods Albus Potter and Rose Weasley -- took for granted, things that they knew about due to their greater connection to the Muggle world.

Things like Muggle technology -- an arcane and unfathomable thing, and not one about which Draco had ever been curious. But his son didn’t like not knowing things (there was a reason the boy had been a Hatstall with Ravenclaw) and he especially disliked when he had to admit to ignorance, as was regularly the case when he struggled to explain a concept or gadget that he barely understood himself to his even less-aware parents. Scorpius hoped that this “Techno-Fair” might alleviate some of those issues by giving his parents a chance to learn about Muggle technology for themselves -- and it wasn’t as though Draco had it within him to refuse a request from his only child.

So here he was, in the middle of this erstwhile fair surrounded by unfathomable Muggle devices. Draco just wanted to grit his teeth and get through the event without any disasters -- or disastrous encounters. Alas, the latter at least was clearly not to be because here was Angelina Weasley turning to laugh at him as he jumped-back from a sudden shrill, tinny sound that emerged from the bulbous ends of some long white tentacles sprouting from a little pale box when he grudgingly tapped the “press here” sign affixed to its center.

sixthbrothcr​:

     Malfoy wants him to keep a secret from Hermione? A secret for Malfoy from his best friend and life partner? The sound of it is bloody mad, but the seriousness in Malfoy’s tone is intense and he’d shown up on his doorstep for help out of all people. Then again, who else was he supposed to rely on, some slimy former Slytherin to help him out? Did Malfoy even have friends anymore? Ron didn’t know or really care. 

    Except it’s about the kids. And despite that his main concern were always going to be Rose and Hugo, he didn’t mind Ferret Jr that much. Besides, if he didn’t agree with Malfoy he’d just fucking tell Hermione anyways. What did he care breaking a promise to a former Death Eater? He wasn’t Harry. 

     Besides, apparently it was referring to illegal activities to fix something his kid did, and there’s a pit in his stomach that he has a very accurate suspicion of what the fuck Rose went and did. “ Fine, I won’t rat you out. ” 

     Ron agrees, his face pinched uncomfortably and he crosses his arms in front of him as if protecting himself from the bloke out of habit. Though he’s not sure if it’s emotional or physical in his subconscious. “ Fucking get on with it though, will ya? What’d they do? ”

It’s not a very encouraging response, but Draco figures it’s also the best he could hope for from Ron Weasley -- and it’s not as though he has any other choices. The people whom Draco knows who understand the Muggle world well enough to navigate it are few and far between and mostly all tied to the sprawling mess of Weasleys...and all have good reason to hate and distrust him. He’s not expecting that to change any time soon, but he doesn’t need Ron to like him or even to trust him; just to believe him, and to help him. Even that would be asking far too much of course, if Weasley’s daughter wasn’t involved.

“Involved” is putting it mildly; the whole situation is because of Rose. Draco hopes that will be enough to compel the girl’s father to do what needs done; if it doesn’t, he’s going to have a devil of a time finding the people he needs to find for starters, let alone doing it without ended up arrested himself at the end of it all...

“She took Scorpius to meet her grandparents,” Draco says simply. “The Muggle ones.”

He doesn’t know if those words come as a surprise to Weasley or as an inevitability; he doesn’t ask. The man has never been all that good at concealing his emotions so it’s possible Draco will get an answer to that question anyway -- even if he doesn’t much care. Weasley’s feelings don’t matter; only what he’s going to do about it.

everlastinglavender​:

Lavender shrugged slightly, “They didn’t give me any sort of list of banned contributors,” then she looked seriously at Draco, looking into his eyes. “The war was hard on everyone, we just have to continue with our lives and make amends when we can,” she said before sighing and turning back to her more default happy demeanor. She nodded and was thinking. “I’m looking for just a financial contribution for the ability to purchase the potion ingredients themselves although you’re more then welcome to specific ones you would give them the most bang for their galleon. She looked at him curiously though, “Do you think it would be better if were a supplier? Were you looking to get in on that business?” She asked, unsure of what the benefits would be. “Forgive my ignorance but does that make more sense for you to give ingredients instead of an amount of money?” 

“Yes...I suppose we must,” Draco said, but his smile felt thin and hollow even to himself. Something about her reaction struck him as...off. Was he reading too much into it, because of what he knew about what the war had done to her -- what she’d become because of it -- and could not imagine ever being so sanguine about a similar fate himself? Or was it because he wasn’t used to someone who fought for that side being so blasé about his part in it when talking to him? Of course, most of the people who had fought alongside Potter and Granger weren’t now serving as a mouthpiece for the British Wizarding Front...

Draco couldn’t deny being intrigued by Lavender Brown’s about-face; it was part of the reason why he’d come here today instead of brushing off her offer...instead of giving-in to his (utterly reasonable) desire to stay as far away as possible from all things like her. He had wanted to look her in the eye and see what she was going to say, to see if he could gauge whether or not she believed it. The war had changed everyone, yes...but while Draco had had his eyes opened to the idiocy of the bigotry he had grown-up believing sacrosanct, in Lavender’s case the change made less sense. How does one go from risking one’s life to defy a Dark Lord and stand-up for Muggle-borns to helping to lead the British Wizarding Front? It was...intriguing.

aurorburke​:

Seeing the look on his face she raised her brow. “I’m afraid we don’t keep the fine china on hand for visitors,” she joked as she sipped her tea. If he wanted fine china he should visit her mother. Hers were so thin, if you didn’t pour milk in first it would crack. Violet called her mother’s china relics from a lost time. Then again, sometimes it seemed like she still wanted the days back when the purebloods were close to royalty in their world.

One good thing about having mugs nobody cared about was if they broke and nobody could be bothered to fix them, nobody cared. Nodding as he spoke while she sipped her tea, Violet looked at the man sitting on the other side of her desk. She could assume it was scary coming to the Auror office without much information about why. “He had heard from someone he knew, that you were good with potions and such. I’m afraid we’re scratching our heads at this one,” she explained as she sat up in her chair.

“Well, this is the third case that’s landed on my desk. I know my potions to the degree I need to, but this one I don’t know. It seems like it takes a while before it starts affecting the victim. We don’t know if it’s straight-up poison or a potion of some sort. Sadly none of them has lived long enough to tell us when they could have ingested it.“ Violet sipped her tea again. "He said you have extensive knowledge about these things, I thought I would ask if you had any inkling about what it could be?” perhaps he thought she was trying to bait him into something? That was the cause of his shaking hands.

“I’m not trying to lure you into anything Malfoy, it’s a genuine question about an investigation.”

The smile Draco gave back in response to her jibe about fine china was sour and insincere. Visitors, indeed. As if this were a social call...yes, on the surface it actually bore a few hallmarks in common: chatter about a sibling, the gossip trail of talent, the insincere compliments served-up in hopes of enticing the subject to offer assistance rather than from any genuine feeling...but while one often made social calls out of obligation more than desire, being summoned by the Ministry of Magic was a very different sort of obligation. And Draco was under no illusions that he could get out of this meeting by pleading a schedule conflict or an aching head.

What the Ministry wanted, it got. At least if your name was Malfoy, and you knew that you were one bad day away from a frame-job straight to Azkaban.

In spite of himself, in spite of the warning bells going off inside his head, Draco was intrigued by her description of the case. “Essence of Murtlap,” he blurted before he could stop himself, and then there was nothing to do but continue. “Tastes vile, of course, and it’s not exactly something one would promote for regular ingestion, but it won’t actually hurt to drink -- won’t even cause discoloration, not in small doses -- and blending a little into the brew would act as a perfect binding agent to delay the onset of the poison’s effects. The downside is that it also mitigates the level of harm the potion can cause...but with a virulent enough poison, that’s irrelevant.” Draco leaned back, trying to downplay his interest belatedly. “Could be a whole host of other things, of course -- it depends on precisely what the poison is. But that’s the first thing that comes to mind. If I were...” He realized the danger of what he was about to say too late, and had no choice but to finish the sentence, incriminating although it sounded even in his own head: “If I were aiming to poison someone and wanted the onset of effects to be delayed for some reason, that’s what I would turn to as the easiest and most obvious method.” Most obvious to a certain level of potioneer, at least; the layman wasn’t likely to come up with such a scheme. But then, if Burke wanted ideas about what a layman would do, she wouldn’t have sent for him.