October 2000
The whispers hounded Draco. He had given himself a little pep talk beforehand (more like several little pep talks) and had somehow convinced himself that everything would be hunky-dory. Turned out, things weren't one hundred per cent hunky-dory.
If someone had told him a few years ago that he would start his first job lacking confidence, he would have sneered derisively at them. Unfortunately, he'd since learnt that years of being loathed and belittled by the entire wizarding world had a knack of eroding your poise.
'Draco Malfoy,' he told the witch behind the desk at the Ministry. He fought the urge to whisper it, the name he'd once said so proudly. The woman's eyebrows shot up dramatically and she eyed Draco with extreme suspicion.
'And what is it you want, Mr Malfoy?' she asked, toying sarcastically with his title.
'I work here now. It's my first day.'
She barely concealed a snort.
For the past few days his father had kept on reminding him that he didn't have to do it. In fact, he seemed positively bewildered by the idea that Draco even wanted to work, as though worried that Draco had forgotten about the vast quantity of wealth he was due to inherit. Lucius had seemed nervous on Draco's behalf, vicariously dreading the ostracism his son was bound the face. It had made Draco unbearably sad to see what the war and Voldemort and Azkaban and everything else had reduced his father to.
Narcissa had nodded, a fierce pride burning in her eyes; she had always been the strong one.
The woman let him pass but Draco could feel her eyes on the back of his neck as he walked away.
The ministry was barely recognisable, full of bright colours and scenes of friendship and tolerance. The last time he had seen it was in the weeks following Voldemort's downfall when he and his family had been dragged in and put on trial. They were quickly pardoned but it had still been a harrowing experience.
Draco found the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the hiss of gossip in his ears. Even people who had never seen him before knew exactly who he was; it was awfully inconvenient to resemble your father so strikingly sometimes.
Clyde Protheroe, the head of the department, stood up and shook Draco's hand aggressively. Protheroe was a heavily-built man on the later side of middle age; he had small eyes balanced out by a generous nose and the remnants of his light brown hair were straggling from his temples. He was the sort of person Draco would once have delighted in mocking; now he bowed.
'I'm so glad you could start straight away,' Protheroe was saying, or rather booming, as he gave Draco a cursory tour of the floor. 'We're bloody busy at the moment, you know. All sorts of uproar with these new house elf laws, you really wouldn't believe how tightly these old aristos want to hold on to their slaves.'
He speared Draco with a distinctly belligerent look.
'We freed our house elf years ago,' Draco said, careful to keep his voice neutral but not letting Protheroe outstare him. No need to mention that Dobby's freedom had been granted accidentally.
'Good, good,' Protheroe said, instantly jovial again.
They headed back to Protheroe's office, a spacious, woody room filled with pictures of magical creatures which, judging by the camera propped proudly on the filing cabinet next to Protheroe's desk, were probably taken by the man himself. A small golden unicorn threw back its mane and stamped in one, while a lazy ramora floated just beneath the surface of the sea in another. Draco felt a pang of mortified embarrassment as he noticed a very familiar mane of bushy brown hair in the corner.
'And, here's Hermione, my personal assistant. She's been an invaluable asset to this department.'
Hermione looked up from whatever she was scribbling but the warmth in her smile died when she saw Draco, tightening to a cool civility.
'Nice to see you again, Hermione,' Draco said, words which were neither true nor easy to say.
'Draco,' she simply said before returning to her work.
Protheroe was blathering on again but Draco could no longer take in the words. It seemed so desperately unfair that just when he was trying to carve a new life for himself, to try and do something valuable, this sabre-toothed, frizzy-haired little goodie-goodie should show up. A stab of anger at Hermione nearly caused Draco to make the sort of uncharitable comment he would have at school but he remembered where he was – he also remembered who he was trying to be.
'We'll move you around as we need you,' Protheroe was saying. Draco snapped to attention; this was probably something he should listen to. 'As I said, we're so ploughed under.' He waved an airy hand to convey their unimaginable busyness. 'So for today, I'd like you to lend Hermione a hand.' Protheroe was oblivious to the stunned disappointment on Hermione's face. 'I've been inundated with letters, and not even Hermione can answer them all in a day, so it's really a two-wizard job.'
Draco found himself agreeing and pulling up a chair on the other side of Hermione's desk. Protheroe bustled off to deal with something else.
'How have you been?' Hermione asked with pointed politeness.
'Well.' A beat of awkward silence. 'And you?'
'Also well.'
Draco turned to the smaller of the two the skyscrapers of papers on the desk.
'So, letters it is. Let's just write and not annoy each other at all. I'll just keep to my side of the desk and you keep to yours,' Draco said jokingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
'Technically, it's all my side of the desk. You're encroaching,' Hermione said but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
They worked mostly in silence bar the scratching of their quills and occasional cuckoo from Protheroe's ridiculous clock.
The letters were mostly complaints and mostly stupid complaints at that.
'You can't send that,' Hermione said firmly, holding one of Draco's responses.
'Why not?' Draco asked.
Hermione read aloud.
Dear Mr Halfwit,
Whilst I fully sympathise with you losing a finger to your neighbour's hippogriff, might I suggest that leaping over the garden fence in the dead of night to steal his garden furniture might, in some cultures, be considered 'asking for it'. A good set of garden furniture which will stand the test of time is admittedly hard to find but you must always remember that sticky fingers are liable to be bitten off.
Furthermore, my dear Mr Halfwit, you should not have called the hippogriff 'a useless, overgrown pigeon'. I speak from personal experience.
On a final note, I fail to see what you wish the Ministry to do vis-à-vis the hippogriff incident. Perhaps you envisage us turning back time and stopping you being such an idiot in the first place? If so, I can assure you that our time and resources are far better spent elsewhere.
Wishing you all the best with future larceny,
Kind Regards,
Draco Malfoy
Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
'What's the problem?' Draco asked innocently. Under Hermione's stern gaze, he held his hands up. 'Okay, okay, I'll be more professional.'
The day crawled on. For lunch, not relishing the stares and sniggers of the Ministry canteen, Draco headed for the nearest café. It wasn't until after he had ordered that he saw Hermione sitting on the other side of the café, nose in a book. Draco pulled out his own book, The Wonders of Alchemy, and blithely ignored her.
The afternoon was much the same as the morning with Hermione occasionally shaking her head and getting Draco to edit his letters.
'Are you sure I can't tell her she was acting stupid?' Draco asked. 'Because that's really not the same as saying she is stupid.'
And then it was the end of the day and Hermione was telling him to have a nice evening.
At home, Lucius was reading the Evening Prophet in front of the fire. He nodded curtly when Draco sat down opposite him, a distant welcome. As much as Draco knew his father loved him, apart from during the Battle of Hogwarts, Lucius had never been able to show that love. In a strange way, that had been the positive outcome of that night – he had realised how deeply both his parents cared for him, enough to set the Great Cause aside.
'How was it?' Lucius asked.
'Not bad. Protheroe had me answering letters – a bit boring, to tell you the truth.'
Lucius snorted. 'Answering letters! A Malfoy shouldn't be working as a secretary.'
Draco forced himself to remain calm. 'It's a start.' He restrained himself from staying it was better than being stuck in the manor day in day out but, even at the age of twenty, that would have earned him a clip around the ear.