J'ai reçu une lettre
Il y a un mois peut être
Arrivée par erreur
Maladresse de facteur
Draco Malfoy was not one to tolerate failures or error. He had no patience for the weak-willed or the feeble minded. He especially despised his own faults, and rarely admitted to them, although often reflected on them when he found himself alone. And being alone was something he was used to. After the war, Draco had taken it upon himself to leave the Malfoy Manor for good. It was not a pleasant place to dwell in after all that had happened, and Draco was set on focusing on the future.
That evening, Draco was so concentrated on such thoughts that the sound of a creaking door didn't register in his mind until it was too late.
"You could at least call your mother once in a while. I don't like being the messenger. She shot a hex at me when I announced that your engagement with Greengrass was off."
The male who had spoken was tall and tanned, a hint of an overplayed exotic accent rolling off his tongue as he spoke. His frame took up almost the entire frame doorway of Draco's new flat and his black hair was brushed back neatly, sticking in place effortlessly. Draco muttered a curse under his breath, one hand flying up to his own head of hair, trying to slick down the short mess it was at the moment.
"Please, by all means, do let yourself in Blaise." Draco finally said, his usual undertone of sarcasm notched up clearly for the occasion.
The dark man raised an eyebrow as he took in Draco's new haircut. Lip corners twitching to suppress a smirk, Blaise took a few steps into the flat, letting the door slam shut behind his figure and taking a seat on one of the black leather sofas.
"Yes, yes, please, sit down." Draco grumbled, crossing his arms in resignation and leaning back against the wall where he had been standing earlier.
Blaise rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore the comment as he leaned forward and rested his chin in his open palms, "What happened to your hair?" he asked after an uncomfortable moment of silent scrutiny during which Draco looked everywhere but at his best friend. Draco squirmed awkwardly at the question, his back pressing further into the wall, attempting to disappear and hide from the black orbs which were fixated on him with such intensity that they were practically boring holes into his skull. "What the hell is up with that god awful hair do?"
Draco huffed at the second question, his right hand going back up to his head and running his finger through it slowly, "It is NOT god-awful." He said, his voice clearly indicating the comment had vexed him.
"It's not SO bad. You just look like a baby chicken or something." A third male voice remarked snidely, a snicker echoing behind the words. The door to Draco's flat had once again been opened and a tall, lean man was now shutting it softly.
"How rare. Nott has decided to grace us with his presence. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Blaise remarked, leaning back in the sofa and crossing his legs elegantly. The movement was smoothly executed, right down to the raised left eyebrow. It would have been perfect, had the leather not made a less than discreet sound as Blaise moved against it. The look on his face was enough to send Theodore into a fit of coughing laughter, egged on by Draco's smug smirk that attention had been diverted away from his surprising choice of hairstyle.
Blaise frowned deeply and pointed a finger at Theodore, "Shut it before I throw something your way Theo." He warned.
"Too much of a converted muggle to actually hex me Zabini?" Theodore taunted in reply, sitting down in the loveseat across from Zabini.
There was a heavy pause as the three males looked back and forth at each other, lips pulled tight, eyes cold, and faces frozen in the same identical mask that betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Draco was the one to break the silence, walking to the door and shutting it softly. "Firewhiskey?" he asked, pulling a wand out of his pocket. The other two relaxed visibly once more, nodding their agreement. Some jokes were still a little too close to heart to laugh at so easily.
"It IS rare for you to come out Theo…" Blaise said, accepting the glass of firewhiskey that was nudging insistently against his hand. "We haven't hung out the three of us in a while…"
Theo snickered again, taking the glass floating in front of him with delicate fingers. "Hung out?" he repeated, "Is that new slang you've acquired from those walking-Quidditch players?" he asked, his tone now jesting and friendly.
"I don't believe it's called walking-Quidditch." Draco remarked from where he stood, his stance as straight and elegant as ever, "I believe they call that thing 'soccer' …" he added, a slight grimace adorning his lips.
"It's not a thing, it's a sport." Blaise grumbled back, a small scowl crossing his face, "It's nothing compared to Quidditch, but at least it's something…"
Theodore covered his mouth to stop the jet of firewhiskey that threatened to sputter out of his mouth. He swallowed hastily, the alcohol burning down his throat and sending him into a coughing fit. "Something?" he said indignantly after he had garnered his breath, "I've seen the reports Blaise. It's more than something. You're raking in millions with this hobby of yours!" he exclaimed.
Blaise looked away sheepishly, "Well, what can I say, it pays to be talented." He said in mock-modesty.
"Oh, don't you dare pretend to be humble Zabini." Theodore said, rolling his eyes and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the corner of his lips, erasing all drops of the wasted firewhiskey, "Like you even need more money…" he complained.
Malfoy watched over his two best friends without a word, sipping at his drink with moderation. The past seven years had not been the easiest for any of them; and during rare instances of weakness, Draco would allow himself to wallow in self-pity and determine that he was the worst off of the three.
Before the war, Zabini, Nott and Malfoy had all been Slytherins at Hogwarts. They had all been in same year. They had all been somewhat friends. They had all been pure-bloods. And they had all held the same ideas where muggles and muggle-borns were concerned. But only Draco had directly participated in the War. Theo, despite his father being a Death-Eater, had been too much of a lone wolf to want to get involved in any sort of group, not matter what powerful wizard led the troupe. Perhaps witnessing his mother's death first hand had also served to cool his desires for any sort of battle. As for Blaise, he had always regarded Voldemort with the same lack of respect with which he considered Dumbledore, all the Hogwarts teachers, or anyone else at all for that matter. Therefore, it was truly no surprise that he chose to take his own side rather than stooping down to anyone else's level.
All three boys had returned to Hogwarts for a final year after the Dark Lord had been defeated and the war had ended. "Harry-fucking-Potter." Draco muttered absent-mindedly, following his train of thoughts. The trio had been greeted with jeers and insults, much like all other returning Slytherins. The three had grown closer and become an inseparable entity by the end of the first semester. They had refused to bow down at the mockery, and had maintained their aristocratic pride and elegant demeanors. Standing so tall together had brought them closer, and they had grown to respect and admire each other immensely. Not to say that they had all kept their prejudices and engraved hate against all things muggle. On the contrary, after graduation, they had seeked and found refuge in the muggle world. But they had not been willing to mingle and explain themselves to the angry masses of Hogwarts' students.
Blaise Zabini had moved into a filthy rich neighborhood of London, sharing a mansion almost the size of Hogwarts with his recently remarried mother and her new muggle husband, who looked constantly terrified of even his own shadow. He had given up Quidditch in favor of the muggle sport of soccer, finding it quite amusing, and very, very rewarding.
Theodore Nott had opened up a successful accounting firm, and was now the unassuming, discreet and secretly admired boss of around 50 unsuspecting muggles. He lived alone in a simple town house in the suburbs of London, although his two best friends were aware that a young muggle-born witch from the ministry of Magic was often coming in and out of the house. Theo had assured them that she was simply using him as a private consultant to identify certain potions when they were misused or misplaced. However, the glint in his eyes and the tone with which he had explained the situation had only made his friends even more suspicious that he intended on making the relationship with said young lady anything but work-related.
Draco Malfoy had left the comfort of the large Malfoy Manor in favor of a small flat in downtown London. His father had been tried and charged, and was currently serving his sentence in Azcaban, the wizarding jail. His mother was left alone, due to a favorable testimonial by Harry Potter, for saving his life during the war by lying about his death. She had insisted that it was all to save her own son, but Harry had refused to let her get shut up in a place as foul as Azcaban. Draco supposed he should be grateful to Harry, but hearing his own mother worship the Boy-Who-Lived to the extent that she probably thought the scarred man shat rainbows and unicorns was a little revolting to Draco. "Harry-fucking-Potter." Draco muttered again, not noticing the eyebrow quirk that appeared on his two best mates' faces as a result of his ramblings. Why did the man have to be so fucking noble? It irked Draco beyond reason.
Draco finished his shot of firewhiskey in a thirsty gulp and looked around. His flat was simple and homely enough, decorated with taste and class. The whole place was only in tones of black, maroon and crimson. The ex-Slytherin had chosen not to use his house colors, as he found it easier to forget his years at Hogwarts. Theo and Blaise often ended up at his flat, to discuss their current lives, chew over tidbits of gossip, reminisce on 'the goold ole days', drink themselves to stupor on special occasions, or simply to chat and enjoy each other's company and friendship.
"Draco, tell Theo about the letter." Blaise's voice rang out in its usual commanding tone, his eyes sparkling lightly with excitement as he stared at the blonde.
"What letter?" Theo asked impatiently, his gaze flickering from Blaise to Draco calmly, wondering what had been kept from him.
The blonde man sighed and abandoned his empty glass on the shelf above the fireplace, "It's nothing really…" he replied, sounding uninterested by where this conversation was headed. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his slender chest, staring back down at Theo and Blaise.
Blaise recognized the expression on Draco's face. He had seen the man look like that too often not to be able to tell what it meant. Draco always had to pretend not to care before admitting something was appealing to him.
"The letter or your hair. You choose what to spill your fancy guts about." Blaise warned mockingly.
Draco grumbled moodily, eying the dark boy with a light discontented glare before shifting his legs and looking over towards Theodore. "It's not a big deal." He remarked coolly. "I simply received muggle mail. Just one letter. A month ago."
Theodore gaped and his eyes widened slightly, "Who'd be sending YOU muggle mail?" he asked, puzzled by Draco's statement.
Draco's face flushed a light tint of pink as he looked away, "Actually, no one sent it to me. It was a mistake. The postman delivered it to the wrong address." He said, rushing through the words.
"Oh. Is the whole point of this story to point out to me what a git the postman must have been?" Theo questioned, looking noticeably less excited by the tale.
Draco scrunched his nose and kept his gaze diverted, avoiding the question.
Theo's eyes suddenly widened again, "No. You didn't. Did you?" he gasped, staring at Draco in wonder.
"He did, he did." Blaise stated smugly, nodding his head towards Theo.