AN: hey yalllll guess whos posting another irrelevant fic even though my wips are stacking dangerously high? me! anyway take this if you will dont be mean about how short it is it's just a prologue.
They call him the Sherlock Holmes of the wizarding world. If he was an honest man, he would say that he deserved that title, what with all the hard work he's put in to maintaining a delicate facade of aloof intelligence. But Draco Malfoy is not an honest man, so he says "yes, thank you very much, it all comes very natural you know, simple men like you wouldn't understand."
Not an Auror, he could never stomach so many rules, Draco is a freelance consultant, usually for the French Auror Department but he's often called around the world at any given moment. He had always wished for a peaceful life, alas, his genius had always called him to a higher standard than others.
Extraordinary detectives have extraordinary cases, the most outlandish and devious schemes to tell your friends in a bar or intrigue a first date, and Draco's begins something like this.
Draco begins his day as usual. His eyes snap open at 6:30 AM— in a poor attempt at the human morning experience, he yawns, stretching his back out like a housecat, and feeling a distinct pleasure at the pops sounding off in his back. He closes his mouth with a click. It's 6:31 AM.
He slips himself out of the tangled mess of his sheets, and glides into the slippers that sit at his bedside. It is, as per usual in his apartment, brisk—borderline frigid, if you were to ask anyone else, 17 degrees celsius exactly—and he can feel the chill of the hardwood underneath his slippers. With a wave of his hand and a tinge of magic, (a rushing electric feeling in his fingertips that leaves a pleasurable hum under his skin) the bed begins to make itself, silky lavender sheets unwinding and straightening, the decorative pillows taking a leisurely flight back to his bed. Draco makes a quick walk to his kitchen, to the right of his bedroom door and surrounded by windows, the sun just barely peeking over the edge of the French countryside, painting the sky a lovely pink. Benedict, his mean and spiteful bastard of a cat hisses at him when he turns on the stove to make the tea.
Draco hisses back.
"What the fuck , Malfoy?"
Draco blinks and turns. Harry Potter, a ghostly grey, devoid of the deep, rich colors that usually paints his visage, is standing in his sitting room, watching him.
He stares.
Potter's ghostly imitation starts to fidget.
Draco stopped having hallucinations a long time ago—and if he's honest his hallucinations included a more angry, righteous image of sixteen year old Potter. The one he thought was dead in that moment in the courtyard. There's usually shame and alcohol in his blood, coursing through his body like a cold comfort to remind him that he's living.
This isn't like that.
Like Peeves, like any other ghost Draco has ever seen, Potter is tangible in a way that his hallucinations never were.
Benedict's hackles are raised, and his Draco feels his face pinch.
"Hello? Anyone in there, you bastard?" he hears Potter mock—it's a rude and childish insult, with a distinct lack of any hard brain power put into it. Exactly Potter's style.
"How shocking," Draco replies unconsciously, relaxing, but only slightly at the banter—it is his most tried and successful strength. "You manage to be uncouth and rude even in the afterlife, Potter."
Potter gapes.
The kettle screeches.
It's 6:38 AM.