If
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn't go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn't be I.
If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I'd be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn't be you.
If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they'd all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn't be we.
-ee cummings
"Draco Malfoy to see Callum Hulbert."
Draco managed to keep a neutral face as the witch behind the Ministry security desk- a tiny, drab thing with terribly mousy hair- audibly squeaked upon hearing him announce his name.
Eyes panicked, the woman spared him half a glance before jerking her head down, hastily shuffling through the pile of parchment on her desk.
"Ah- yes, Mister Ma-Malfoy," she stammered after a moment. "A ten o'clock appointment with Mister Hulbert. If you could just- present your wand for verification, please-"
Draco gave a polite nod, reached in his robe pocket and presented his wand, handle-side first. This action prompted a panicked squeal from the witch. Draco grit his teeth. Stuttering an apology, the secretary gingerly took his wand by her fingertips, hand tremoring, acting as though it were volatile.
Ten minutes, three more flustered apologies and one pounding migraine later, Draco wondered, not for the first time, if this interview was truly worth the effort.
Nearly three years had passed since the war's end. Most days, that past seemed an eternity away to Draco- another lifetime, the memories surreal and fragmented. Other days- the bad ones- he remembered as vividly as if it'd all happened last week.
The worst days followed the dark nights. When he dreamed of wartime and carnage and woke with phantom spells still crackling across his skin. When the screams of the dying and his maniacal laughter replayed over and over like some sort of twisted melody through his subconscious.
Those days, he seldom got out of bed. Just lay there, waiting for time to pass. Simultaneously exhausted yet restless and wholly apathetic.
It was all rather morose, he supposed. But nothing less than he deserved, really.
Junior Assistant to the Head of the International Department of Magical Trading Standards Body. It was an utterly ridiculous job title. At the least, if his application were rejected, it would save him the headache of trying to remember that mouthful.
The Head of the Department, Callum Hulbert, was a squat, portly sort of fellow. Prematurely balding with watery grey eyes. Draco knew within less than a minute of starting the interview that he wouldn't be offered the position.
He was rather good at recognizing the signs of rejection by now, Draco liked to think. After all, he'd had nearly three years of practice. The tentative, limp handshake. Desperate avoidance of eye contact. Uncomfortable fidgeting. Irrelevant questions and hastily interrupted answers.
The pointed looks at his sleeved left forearm.
Draco could tell. Even so, he finished the interview, pleasant and conversational. Shook Hulbert's hand a second time. Thanked him for his consideration whilst looking him in the eyes, head held high.
He had nothing if not his pride.
He had opted to take his N.E.W.T.S after the war's end. Had done quite well too, all things considered. Five passing grades. Not the groundbreaking achievement he had always anticipated for his final wizarding examinations, but he hadn't done it for merit in the end anyhow.
Some students had returned to Hogwarts for an additional year of schooling prior to taking their exams. He'd received an owl himself, from Minerva McGonagall, much to his astonishment, months and months after the trials.
He'd never sent a reply. Elected to study himself and take the exams independently. They were a means to an end by that point. And if nothing else, the war had left him with his sense of self-preservation fully intact. Returning to Hogwarts was never a viable option.
Ultimately, his qualifications didn't make any difference in regards to his employment prospects. Employers didn't much care if he had five, let alone ten N.E.W.T.S. He'd quickly realised that his name alone was enough to bar him from any respectable position. No one wanted to hire an ex-Death Eater. A war criminal. A Malfoy.
The name that had once filled him with such familial pride. It seemed fitting, somehow, that it was now the source of his oppression.
He had thought- hoped, rather- that with three years passed since the war, things might get better. That perhaps his job prospects might improve. That with the passage of time- with hurts less fresh and losses less real- people might learn to forget.
In some ways, things had changed. Strangers no longer outright pointed at him on the street. The Howlers had ceased after the first year or so. The blatant taunting and jeers, and sometimes, outright abuse from passers-by had all but stopped.
But people never forgot.
It was a different sort of injury now. Silent shunning and stares and whispers. People turned their faces, averted their gaze, kept their berth. Crossed the street to avoid crossing his path. Changed tables if he sat nearby. As if he were some type of catching disease.
He'd learned to adapt; to keep his distance when possible and maintain a face when it wasn't. Reciprocated ignorance toward society was the best means to survival. Confrontation was futile.
He had tried that initially- fighting back against his attackers. He had thrown punches in return, retaliated with his own insults and thinly veiled threats. Fought words with words and fists with fists. Fighting made no difference though, neither in outcome nor in calming his inner demons.
And so, Draco stopped fighting back. He'd buried his rage and self-hatred and remorse and every other ugly emotion deep, deep away in the furthest reaches of his mind. In return, society began to ignore him. And with a forced acceptance, Draco had played the role of scorned recluse ever since.
The Ministry of Magic had been all but rebuilt after the war, both literally and figuratively. They'd done away with Thicknesse quickly enough after the Dark Lord's demise. The layers of corruption and infiltration in the Ministry were soon exposed- all the scandal and secrets laid bare to the scrutiny of the public eye.
There had been outrage- rioting and protests and demands for government upheaval. Draco recalled reading all about the Ministry's collapse in the Daily Prophet- a welcome distraction from his own, personal deterioration at the time.
The newly appointed Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was soon sworn to office to appease the masses. Under his reign, the Ministry had undergone total reformation. Gone were the days of Muggle-born registration and Snatchers and totalitarian terror. 'Harmony, Justice, and Equality for All' was the Ministry's new dogma. Trite as it sounded, Draco had to admit that there were worse ideologies to live by.
The Ministry building itself had also undergone extensive renovation since Draco's last visit. Granted, he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind then. Shackled and escorted by wand-point to the courtrooms for his sentencing hearing, he unsurprisingly hadn't been examining the Ministry's interior design too carefully.
However, the vast, glass ceiling of the Ministry's atrium was definitely new, Draco noted to himself on the journey back from Hulbert's office. Seemingly hundreds of meters high, the vaulted, stained-glass ceiling gleamed and shimmered as the high noon sun shone through. Sporadic patches of rainbow-coloured light were illuminated across the lobby's white marble floor.
Obviously an illusion, but very well done- one which rivaled the likes of Hogwart's Great Hall, in Draco's opinion. Interest piqued, he stopped in the atrium's center and gazed upwards, ignoring the dazed stares of a nearby group of witches who'd clearly recognized him.
Draco stood in silent study for a minute, contemplating the spellwork involved in constructing the impressive enchantment. Obviously, some sort of undetectable extension charm to create the illusion of height. But the glass wasn't transparent- how they'd so clearly mimicked the impression of sunlight through opaque-
"Merlin's hairy balls, is that Draco Malfoy?"
Unfortunately use to such proclamations, Draco merely blinked and turned his attention away from the ceiling. Locating the source of the voice, Draco's eyes widened slightly, unable to completely conceal his surprise.
Across the lobby stood Ronald Weasley- looking nearly the same as Draco remembered him from his Hogwarts days, though perhaps slightly taller, and even more freckled, orange hair clashing horribly with his red robes. Red, trainee Auror robes, Draco noted. And then, he noticed who Weasley was speaking to-
Harry bloody Potter. In his own matching set of robes, mouth agape as he stared at Draco with an unreadable expression.
Before he could begin to think of how to respond, Weasley was stalking across the lobby, teeth bared and fists clenched.
Draco frowned and unconsciously reached a hand into his robe pocket, grasping his wand loosely. Surely Weasley wouldn't dare attack him in broad daylight, in the Ministry of Magic of all places. However, Draco reminded himself, Weasley had never been the brains behind the whole Potter-Granger-Weasley operation.
Taking an instinctive step backwards, Draco squared his shoulders as Weasley stopped less than a meter away, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?"
The man's raised voice carried through the vaulted, echo-prone atrium, prompting gasps from a few nearby employees.
Years of practice had Draco smoothing his face into an expressionless mask. "That's really none of your concern," he responded mildly.
Draco's forced-calm demeanor had an igniting effect on Weasley's fury, and across from him, the other man began to sputter in indignation, face turning nearly as red as his robes. It would be almost comical, Draco thought, if they weren't in quite so public a setting. They were certainly catching people's attention now, he noted with a small degree of unease, as more Ministry employees stopped to watch the unfolding spectacle.
"You- you bloody, traitorous Death Eater!"
"Ron, that's enough."
A new voice joined the fray- and there was Harry Potter, ever the noble Gryffindor, with his hand on Weasley's shoulder in gentle restraint.
"But Harry! He-"
"Ron, I know," Potter interrupted, voice unnervingly calm, gripping his friend's shoulder even more tightly. "But this really isn't the place."
Weasley shrugged his shoulders violently, knocking off Potter's hand, but his words seemed to have done the trick. Glancing around at the staring spectators, Weasley breathed heavily, face falling, seemingly chagrined by his outburst.
Pursing his lips, Draco slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, opting instead to fold his arms across his chest. The crowd around them began to disperse now that the prospect of a rousing duel was greatly diminished.
Draco started slightly as Potter's unsettlingly green eyes met his own. "Malfoy," Potter said with a small frown, seemingly lost for words. Like Weasley, he too had put on a few inches since Hogwarts, and though still fairly slender, was more toned and muscled than Draco remembered. His hair was as obnoxiously unruly as ever, Draco noted in annoyance.
He gave the pair a tense nod of acknowledgement. "Potter. Weasley."
"Why are you here, though?"
Potter's voice held no malice or accusation, only genuine bewilderment.
"Probably for another trial," Weasley muttered under his breath. "Who'd you try and kill this time, Malfoy?"
Draco remained silent, unphased by the accusation. His headache was quickly returning with a vengeance. Potter and Weasley continued to stare at him, obviously expecting an explanation to his presence. And though he owed them nothing, Draco relented, too indifferent to argue.
"If you must know, I was here to interview for a position."
Weasley let out a sharp, horrible bark of laughter. "You must be joking! Blimey, Malfoy- as if you'd ever have any chance of working for the Ministry! You're not worth the lowest job here! Why even bother?"
The question was clearly rhetorical, but Draco found himself shrugging in response. "Why indeed." And with that, Draco turned to walk away, though not before meeting the gaze of Harry Potter, whose eyes held something too akin to sympathy for Draco's liking.
Ignoring Weasley's continued heckling from behind, he pulled his robes tightly around himself and strode toward the Ministry's exit.
Face resolutely locked in an impassive expression, he made his way back through security and Apparated from the assigned Ministry checkpoint. Once safely home, Draco allowed himself a shaky sigh, rubbing a hand across his face wearily.
Today, he decided resolutely, had definitely not been worth the effort.
The last time Draco had seen Harry Potter had been at his sentencing hearing. The Aurors had wasted no time in rounding up all the living Death Eaters they could locate in the weeks following the Dark Lord's defeat. Draco and his family had willingly surrendered when they'd come for them, storming the Manor not even a day after the Battle of Hogwarts.
They had been easy targets. The Malfoys were hardly subtle in regards to their support of the Dark Lord. Malfoy Manor was his base of operation, for Merlin's sake, during that last year of wartime. Regardless of their reasons and motives and questionably forced cohersion, the Malfoys had been amongst the Dark Lord's innermost circle, and that sin alone demanded retribution.
Therefore, it was to no one's surprise, least of all Draco's own, when they had come for him and his family.
He had been woken from a restless sleep, long past midnight, to his head pounding mercilessly as the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor were attacked. Draco knew his parents had anticipated it too. He remembered his mother, still wearing the somber black ensemble she'd favoured during that last year of war, freshly starched and laundered. Around her neck and wrists lay her finest jewels. She had dressed with the expectation of company.
And his father, with his eyes dead and skin ashen and face gaunt from months and months of immense stress and little sleep. He remembered his father- a shell of his former self- raising his wand and lowering the Manor's wards willingly. Dropping his wand and raising his hands when the mob had burst inside to attack. Draco and his mother had followed his lead, lifting their arms in surrender- a final, desperate show of compliance.
Theirs had been amongst the most public of the wartime trials. The Malfoy family was one of the oldest and most notorious of all pure-bloods, and their crimes and support of the Dark Arts was common knowledge. The media coverage had been merciless. And when the trials ended, Draco doubted there were a witch or wizard alive who did not know and despise the Malfoy name.
It'd been nearly as bad as the war, those weeks of trials. The interrogation had been relentless. Days and nights of being questioned under Veritaserum, deprived of sleep and water until his eyes burned and his lips cracked and bled. Shackled around his limbs and neck like an animal. Deprived of all basic dignity. Harassed and tormented until his sanity hung by mere shreds.
And then, the sentencings. They had done Draco and his parents in one go, all the better for the media coverage. Shackled and lined them up, one after the other, and led them into the Wizengamot courtroom to read them their condemnations.
The evidence against them was presented- substantial and inarguable. And then, it was the Defense's turn to speak. And to Draco's immense astonishment, it had been Harry Potter- boy wonder himself- who had rose and stood in front of the Wizengamot to speak on his behalf.
Stone-faced, Potter testified to the court and argued in defense of Draco and his mother. Under oath, he addressed the jury and informed them of how Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had aided him during the war.
He explained how Narcissa had lied to the Dark Lord's face, and how her lie had allowed Potter safe passage back into Hogwarts. He explained how Draco had lied when Potter and his friends had been held captive at Malfoy Manor- how Draco's silence had allowed them opportunity to escape.
He argued that Draco had been coerced and pressured into his role in the war. How it was only under the threat of death to his family that Draco had agreed to kill Dumbledore. And how Potter had been there that night in the Astronomy Tower, invisible, and had seen Draco's ultimate inability to commit murder.
Potter spoke simple truths. He spoke of the small actions that Draco and his mother had taken to help him ultimately win the war. Not blatantly heroic deeds, but as Potter explained it, crucial all the same. And they were truths that would have gone otherwise unvoiced. They were truths which Draco had admitted to under interrogation, but no one had bothered to voice aloud in court. After all, what motive did anyone have to speak in his defense?
Then again, what motive did Harry Potter have to speak in his defense?
The Wizengamot had debated for hours and hours. And ultimately, the only Malfoy to receive a prison sentence had been Lucius- life in Azkaban for his wartime crimes. Draco wasn't surprised. His father's sins ran deep, and his crimes against the wizarding world were impossible to deny. For him, there was no possibility of salvation.
His mother was fully pardoned. Draco, though relieved, had anticipated this. Narcissa Malfoy had no Dark Mark, had never participated in the torture of Muggles, nor served the Dark Lord in any truly tangible way. She was the spouse of a Death Eater, and though generally despised, this was not reason enough to condemn her to Azkaban, especially not with the evidence Harry Potter presented in her favour.
Draco held his breath when they read his sentence. Had very nearly passed out upon hearing it. Mandatory surrendering of his wand and no use of any magic for one year. Strict monitoring and restrictive use of spells after that. A probationary hearing in six months. Routine visits with an appointed Ministry liaison to monitor his adherence to these restrictions. Voluntary surrendering of the Malfoy family fortune, the funds to be used as compensation for wartime victims.
No Azkaban.
It was unprecedented. A Death Eater- one who still bore the Dark Mark- allowed to walk away, essentially free. Draco could hardly believe it himself.
They'd had to practically drag him from the courtroom. His mind was numb, his limbs limp and uncoordinated. He'd seen Potter leave, shortly after they read his sentence. Their eyes had fleetingly met, Draco's full of confusion and outrage and relief and desperation and above all, the burning question of why, why, why?
Potter had met his gaze evenly, blinked once, and looked away. Walked out the door without even a shrug of acknowledgement. Draco still dreamed of that day. Of that exact moment- of stoic green eyes and unanswered questions.
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