#draco.

Draco truly wanted to be different. Do things differently, change the way people reacted to the Malfoy name. But for all of it he needed money. His father unexpected passing had helped his mother and he to gain sympathy from the purebloods, having turned at the end of war had helped with the muggleborns and even Potter had helped with that.

Putting the foundation together was the least he could do. He was actually proud of it; he was the first thing he was truly proud of. He had also started darkening his hair, wearing muggle tailored suits (they had wonderful tailors the muggles) and had somewhat reached a level of camaraderie with Potter he found almost a little disturbing at times, as if tehy could've been friends if only they would've done things differently.

His job helped too. But if he wanted to keep the foundation and the manor he had to marry, secure the malfoy money before his birthday by ways of acquiring a wife. A witch wife of course, pureblood preferably (not that he had a thing for muggleborns or even muggles in his adult years, his mother could never find out about that particular proclivity of his).

Astoria was married now. There was Pansy, his best friend who would do anything for him. That was going to work, it was a marriage of convenience and could be sold as 'friends who realized that had feelings'.

Unfortunately, Pansy had just backed out because she had fallen in llove, the little shit. And now he was wifeless ten days from his birthday. He could live with what he made from work, he could even support his mother but the Foundation wouldn't survive without it.

And speaking of the foundation, the muggleborn of all muggleborns had made an appointment with him. She wanted money of course, everyone wanted money from him what else could she possibly want from him? Certainly not his friendship or anything remotely in that vicinity.

He was not at his finest head wise when she was eacorted inside his office. She looked great, in a naughty librarian way (the muggle movie the mummy had done things to him when he was a young boy and he was still not over it it seemed).

Draco was bummed--he hated the word but it was one of Scor’s favorites and it was a very good way to explain how he was feeling. He had taken his boy to his ex’s home since it was her week to have him and Draco knew that if he didn’t sink into work for the next 6 days he’d be miserable. Heck, he was already miserable since the one good thing in his life was now probably having pancakes with Astoria and her new boyfriend. 

He was very lonely too, that didn’t help. The divorced was finalized and things were civil between them, even friendly which Draco was thankful for but he couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his ex for finding love again. 

But it was okay, he had Scor and his job and he was making their world a safer place for his son. That had to be enough for him. 

Piss off.

When the blood traitor Black skulked out of Azkaban, such a celebrity, he had a queue of Dementors ready to kiss him dead. On the train. At Hogwarts. In Hogsmeade. An everywhere chill for one filthy dog.

Now Draco knows: when a Dementor feeds, like he has just been fed on, it’s a kind of silver butter knife and a cold flushing holding you still at the ankles. For the briefest of eternities, it was the beak of his father’s cane. Rotten breath, and he wetting himself. He Who—-

His mouth softening, he blinks through tears. To say to you? You brought them here! He wants nothing less than the pleasure of grinding Potter’s face into gravel, all blood.

Gone is Potter’s Patronus and with it, slipped away in a pocket of true dark, the sense that Draco’s hands were beginning to thaw. The thing had crouched over him and pricked his eyes like Firewhisky. Something antlered, so real it had heat. Draco’s could never take shape—the spell would drizzle out of the tip of his wand no better than a memory for store.

He rolls onto the side of his bellyache, so emptied that he’s thankful. No. He’s not. Thankful. He’s not an elf, nor Potter his master. Potter’s moist breath kills the forgiving flatness. He’s got a hard jaw to the eye. Draco’s wandless hand fists up.

with: @pansyp

Draco não correu para a janela. Como a grande maioria. Todos afobados. Quando chegou, outros já estavam lá, murmurando, tentando dar nome ao que viam. Ele apenas se aproximou o suficiente para ter uma visão limpa, sem se misturar completamente ao caos que começava a se formar. E ficou em silêncio.

Os olhos analisavam cada detalhe com uma atenção quase metódica, como se estivesse desmontando a imagem peça por peça em busca de alguma inconsistência. Não havia. Era aquilo mesmo. Três estruturas perfeitas. Três versões do mesmo castelo, ocupando um espaço que não deveria comportar nem uma. A mandíbula tensionou por um segundo. Aquilo não era acidente. Será que ele estava sendo excluído? Não fazendo parte de algum plano em que o Lord não confiou nele para fazer parte? Não podia ser.

Os dedos deslizaram levemente pela manga do uniforme, um gesto quase imperceptível para retormar o controle. Ajuste. Foco. A presença ao lado não surpreendeu. Assim como os dois amigos, ela andava sempre como uma sombra. Ele não virou imediatamente, mas o canto do olhar denunciou o suficiente antes que decidisse encará-la de fato. Pansy. “Barulhento demais,” comentou, a voz baixa, quase entediada, mas sem realmente soar despreocupado. O olhar voltou brevemente para fora. “As pessoas tendem a falar mais quando não entendem o que estão vendo.” Quis fingir que sabia do que estava falando ou acontecendo, mas assim como os outros estava no escuro.

com: @dovemumu quando: na biblioteca, após o banquete.

“Granger.” O nome saiu sem esforço, baixo, controlado, como se não carregasse peso algum, quando claramente carregava. O olhar desceu brevemente até a mão dela ainda no livro antes de voltar aos olhos. “Imagino que não seja coincidência.” acrescentou, soltando o volume por um segundo apenas para segurá-lo melhor, sem realmente ceder. A biblioteca, naquele horário, estava vazia o suficiente para tornar qualquer palavra mais nítida.

Ele inclinou levemente a cabeça, analisando. “Curioso como você sempre acaba exatamente onde deveria estar para… interferir.” continuou, o tom polido, mas com aquela familiar camada de provocação. Os dedos ajustaram a posição no livro, firmes, como se aquilo por si só já deixasse claro que não pretendia simplesmente entregar. “Ou isso é só mais um reflexo dessa sua necessidade de estar um passo à frente de todo mundo?” A sobrancelha arqueou, quase sutil.

com: @inthshadows quando: após banquete

Draco não precisava olhar diretamente para saber. A sensação de estar sendo observado era familiar demais constante demais nos últimos tempos para ser ignorada. Ainda assim, seus olhos deslizaram brevemente pela mesa da Sonserina até encontrá-la. Astoria Greengrass. De novo. E, como nas outras vezes, não desviou rápido o suficiente para fingir que não estava fazendo exatamente aquilo que ele já havia notado.

Draco inclinou levemente a cabeça, o maxilar tensionando por um segundo antes de relaxar. Curioso. A maioria evitava encará-lo por tanto tempo ultimamente. Ou por respeito. Ou por receio. Ou pelos rumores. “Se está tentando descobrir algo,” disse por fim, a voz baixa, polida, mas com uma lâmina sutil por baixo, “recomendo ser um pouco mais discreta.” O olhar se fixou nela, agora deliberadamente. “Ou pelo menos mais interessante.” A pausa foi breve, medida. “Porque, até agora, você está apenas confirmando que ouviu alguma coisa… e não conseguiu entender o suficiente para tirar suas próprias conclusões.”