2003

What was that sound? What manner of creature or object or being could possibly make it? For about the millionth time, those questions ran through Draco's mind. The caterwauling below really was unconscionable and needed to stop.

At first, two months ago, he'd thought that the coincidence of their living assignment was delicious. He's a Malfoy after all- above all things Weasley by right of birth- so it was only natural he was assigned to live above one as well. In theory, it was hilarious.

In practice, it left much to be desired. At the top of that 'much-to-be-desired' list was quiet. Silence. The blessed absence of noise.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for a decent nights sleep, but it was never to be. And he was shite at casting muffling charms, just like he was shite at casting cooling charms. No matter how certain he was of the perfection of both his wand-work and his spell-work, somewhere between his execution and the result, something went pear-shaped, and he was left in an oddly humid flat hearing snatches of conversations no sane wizard would have wanted to overhear.

Four more months.

A little over four.

126 days until he could portkey home, to England, where life was civilized. Where it rained 300 days out of the year and one didn't need to know a cooling charm, because one lived in a drafty (OK, moldering) manor and had house elves to take care of that sort of thing.

At least, he'd had house elves- before the Mudblood had interfered and ruined everything. And though he hated to admit it, Granger had been right about it- slavery was slavery. Regardless of what else Draco Malfoy was and what other values he'd once held, he couldn't quite stomach that anymore, not since the war. It just irked him -immensely- because he really was absolute pants at household spells.

What was really unfortunate was that he had no money to speak of to go with that drafty manor, and that the taxes levied were crushing. It was also unfortunate that he couldn't stand to see it left like that- practically rotting and putrid. Hence his presence in this hellhole outside of Cairo (of all horrible places), being forced to work (of all wretched things).

A giggle floated past him and Draco snarled.

Enough was enough.

He had no issues with his other neighbors, never heard a peep from either of the daffy bastards after 9pm. They might as well have turned to stone in the evenings for all the noise they made after dark.

Sitting at a small table, which had been pressed into service as a desk and clothes receptacle by lack of space and proper substitutes, he contemplated his current surroundings briefly. A shoe box was more spacious than what was laughably called his accommodations. There was a small room with a bed and that small table and a single chair, a walled off area for a "kitchen" and a broom closet that masqueraded as a bathroom. No, the interns weren't allowed to magically enhance their rooms, nor do anything that might make them feel more home-y. This was work. Not super-happy-fun-time.

Despite the miniscule size of his flat, it still took a bit to locate the quill and a piece of parchment suitable for a scathing note. Eventually, though, he located what was needed under his favorite trousers. They were wool and had seen zero use since his current assignment, which saddened him a bit as he looked rather smart in them.

Draco had tried before, twice actually, two perfectly polite requests to soundproof her own apartment, but he'd not been heeded. He brandished his quill.

Ms. Weasley,

Contrary to popular belief, shrieking at an inanimate object like a fishwife will not make it a) go faster, b) heat up, c) work at all. You are, presumably, a witch. Use your bloody wand if something isn't functioning to your standards. In the mean time, would it be too much to ask for 6 hours during the night where you aren't shuffling around in your hovel downstairs, shouting at the top of your lungs like some mad woman?

-DM

He felt much better as he tromped down the stairs to spello-tape the note to her door.

There was a pink envelope all but glued to his door when he returned the following evening. Draco chipped a nail trying to dislodge the buggering thing, and there were still shreds left, shreds of glittery pink parchment fluttering (mocking him) on the scarred wood when he slammed the door shut. He had a pretty good idea who it was from.

Draco would not allow her to provoke him. No, he needed a shower and a soothing fire whiskey and perhaps he would open it. Then again, maybe he'd take up tap-dancing and spend the rest of the night practicing ever-so earnestly.

Chucking the letter, his robes and finally his sandy, dusty shoes onto the floor, he padded off to his bathroom. An hour of scrubbing and his scalp no longer felt gritty. Scourgify just didn't work as well on desert sand as it did for everything else. He pulled on a loose pair of shorts, forgoing something on top as he was as usual expecting no company and because he couldn't think of a reason to dress himself properly. Mother would have been horrified.

Laundry day was tomorrow, a dauntingly muggle activity he sincerely wished he could pay someone else to do, but couldn't as he was on a budget. Simple spells never got all of the miniscule grains of sand out of the seams, so there he was every other Thursday- using a magically enchanted muggle 'washing machine' in the basement that sounded like a wounded gytrash. It was possible all the wailing he attested to the wench below was simply the sound of all of his ancestors spinning repeatedly in their graves.

At least he didn't actually have to pick the clothes up, Draco thought sourly as he waved his wand and swirled the clothes into a bundle and that was then stuffed into a bag. The pink envelope fluttered in the wake, annoyingly sparkly, aggressively chipper as it came to rest at his feet. He gave a huge sigh, tempted to just incinerate the thing, but curiosity won out in the end. He'd always been too bloody curious for his own good.

Git,

The fact that I am here at all, accepted into the same internship as you, should attest to my skill as a witch. If you'll care to recall, I was the one who broke the curse that stumped even you on my second day here.

If you are incapable of casting a decent muffling charm, I am free on Friday after next for lessons. My tutoring rates in Hogwarts were two sickles an hour, but I think we can both agree my time is now much more valuable. I shall have to defer to your judgment in the matter, as I have never had to pay for companionship.

-GW

He sniffed. Then he grabbed for parchment and quill.

Harpy,

And I do mean that in the literal sense of 'you are a harpy'; a terrible, bad-tempered, ravenous, shrewish creature.

I would have solved that puzzle before you had I not been busy trying to divert an entire bloody river from flooding the valley and killing us all, but clearly- my priorities were skewed. I should have opened a tomb full of useless junk instead saving all of our lives.

I'll also have you know that I cast a perfect muffling charm. It's your shrill voice that is unnatural. It cuts right through any barrier as if it were nothing. Tell me, do you make your own ears bleed too, or is it just everybody else that has to suffer?

He stopped himself from including a list of friends and acquaintances that had never received any monetary compensation, but mostly because it was an awfully short list.

In conclusion, allow me to enlighten you on a subject that seems to be a source of consternation for you. Merlin knows you yammer on and on about it often enough. If a gentleman, and I use the term in the loosest possible way having seen the riff-raff you consort with, doesn't get back to you within a few days of a rendezvous, it is generally a sign that he is not interested.

Have as many all-night witch conferences you as want with your friends, consume however however many gallons of wine as you can, but that fact will remain. It only serves to keep me up.

-DM

He used the rest of a nearly full roll of spello-tape attaching it to her door. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that his note could hang on her door for the next two hundred and fifty years- if the adverts were to be believed.

Somehow, during the course of the six-month internship with Gringotts On-Site Archeological Preservation and Safety Division, Draco Malfoy had become accustomed to heat. Desert heat: a sort of searing, baking desiccation that scorched everything and anyone. It had been right handy at the end there, when he'd barely notice it at all, working long past what the new load of trainees were capable of doing, drinking so much water sweat and salt made his fingers slippery.

It was not, however, right handy anymore. Back in blessed England, the sanctuary of civilization and bastion of comfort he'd dreamt of, he found that he was cold. Shivering, quaking, stutteringly numb with cold, if he had to be precise.

Draco was sitting at a desk, a proper desk, not a rickety side table covered in clothes. This space was full of writing implements and books and parchments, all the lovely things he'd missed having available in Egypt. He should have been bloody ecstatic.

He knew without a doubt that he was going round the bend when he found himself wishing for the sun, heat, for that dreadful flat he could simply wear shorts in. That ghastly flat where he'd never once worried about hypothermia.

He recited his expenses which were being tallied dutifully by the Quick-Quotes-Quill, the reason why he was able to keep one hand tucked under his shirt, in his arm-pit where it was warm. It was his new favorite implement, almost as useful as his bloody wand at this point in keeping his fingers from freezing off.

Draco shifted inside the down duvet he'd swaddled himself with, trying to find a position that covered both his toes and the top of his head. There wasn't one. He'd accio his cloak, but it seemed pathetic somehow, as if he wasn't wizard enough to properly heat his own home. And he was- the fire just hadn't quite heated up the room yet.

When a tapping sounded at his window, he was torn between relief and anguish. A distraction from the horror of the paperwork was certainly welcome, but the thought of disentangling himself from the warm cocoon of his blanket was nearly too much to bear.

Tap. Taptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap.

The window squealed as he opened it, and he added it to the mental list of repairs that he needed to attend to while he was home. He'd only opened a few rooms in this one wing, but the list was already… he paused to think of a word that wouldn't fill him with despair- extensive. Surely that word was neutral and innocuous sounding enough not to send him spiraling into despondency.

Even after four years of peace, the devastation that had been done to his home was extensive enough to render it largely uninhabitable in the winter months. Still, he did what he could when he wasn't working, hoping that someday his efforts would have enough of a cumulative effect that his home would be home again. Livable and welcoming, if not the spectacular ice palace of his memories.

The owl was unfamiliar, a sodden and grumpy lump of barely suppressed malice as it hopped around shaking off snow and water droplets, apparently delighting in getting as much of it on him as possible. It finally stilled long enough to sullenly extend a leg for Draco to retrieve the message attached there. The owl pecked his hand viciously, demanding an owl treat before making eyes at the window. Another two squeals of the window and the owl was free and the manor closed off from the world once again. He smirked a little, recognizing the sparkly, pink parchment even before he'd unrolled the missive.

Ferret,

My father apparently spent the last six months of his retirement in the shed, experimenting with some sort of enchanted still. You must be as cold as I am, so I'm including the fruits of his labors.

-G

PS. Only a tea-drinking mummy's boy would dare cut this gift of ambrosia with pumpkin juice. Drink it straight. You know, like a proper wizard would, and not a ponce.

And indeed, there was an itty, bitty ceramic jug spello-taped to the parchment. The wench owed him for the elderberry wine his mother had sent, which he had so generously shared with her. They'd been friendlier with each other up till that point (their little notes having somehow evolved into snarky little treats each enjoyed), but that night, between his mothers wine and her mothers brownies, it seemed as if something about that sharing had actually made them friends.

For Draco, it was still a bit strange to have a female friend, not to mention a Weasley as a friend, so he'd wondered occasionally if they'd actually still be friends when back on their home turf. After a moment he decided that it was nice to see that they apparently were.

He returned the jug to original size and poured a couple of fingers of the clear liquid in a glass. When the sides steamed up a bit, he was naturally hesitant to actually put whatever it was in his mouth, so he gave a quick sniff. Huge mistake, he realized after his sinuses screamed and his eyes teared up. Then he realized that he was, if nothing else, warm again.

When Draco was again able to see, he contemplated the glass he still held and the paperwork mounded on his desk. He took the shot.

She-Weasel,

Oh yes. I am most definitely going there, as you would say.

Firstly, there is nothing wrong with tea. Tea is practically the international beverage of hospitality.

Secondly, don't you know you have to declare dangerous compounds to the Ministries Owlery Services before you send them? I should have you fined and your owl revoked for sending your little gift. I'm not entirely convinced you weren't trying to poison me. If so, after all we've been through I think I'm a bit disappointed I didn't rate a better effort.

I have four days before the next assignment, by the way. Are you up for a trot through Hogsmeade before I'm off? I need a few things before I leave, and I know how much you adore shopping. OK, not funny, but I can offer a relatively decent meal with stellar company after the expedition. And there's always the gallon of cleaning solvent you sent over.

-DM

He was rather gratified that her reply came back with his owl. It was just too bad that she was leaving for Thailand in the morning.