New York, New York
Overview: When Harry's classmates are asked to return for an 8th year of schooling in preparation for Ministry positions, there was little idea that it would take place in New York City. But not everyone is ready to face the post-war reality, and Draco must come to terms with his beliefs one way or another. HP/DM slash. Not explicit until later chapters. M for language and sexual content.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor am I affiliated in any way with JK Rowling and her creations.
Draco Malfoy did not enjoy the idea of muggle flying. If anything, being locked in a metal-and-plastic tube traveling at roughly 800 kph in the bloody sky was the epitome of suicide. But if there was one thing that surely meant certain death, it was sitting near the rear of the plane, which he'd heard was the most susceptible if the contraption were to split in half. So, as a precaution, he'd promoted his seat to First Class, along with those of his travel companions. There was no such thing as being too safe. Or too sophisticatedly situated.
Hope that bloody Weasel's in the lav if this thing goes down in flames.
Although everything regarding the war was said and done (well, aside from his father facing twenty years and the majority of his "friends" dead), he still felt it awkward to get accustomed to exchanging pleasantries with Potter and his chosen company. There was a line that Draco wasn't willing to cross. Not yet, at least.
" . . . weren't they, Draco?" Pansy's voice carried on, cutting through Draco's previous effort of recovering from impending take-off nausea. He didn't bother to open his eyes.
"Sure--- yes," he commented passively.
Pansy appeared to be evaluating his answer. "You weren't listening again, Drakey," she eventually decided upon. Merlin, he hated her voice.
"'Course I was." How could I not hear every goddamn word you say? Like a bloody screeching macaw, that's what. "I'm fairly exhausted, give me a break, we can chat when I'm not ready to vomit a good one," he said, leaning his head back against the seat rest.
In truth, it wasn't so much the airplane ride that was causing the sickness that had been harvesting in his system. He'd been unable to stomach much since the school year ended, let alone keep food down at an altitude of a few thousand meters. His father had done enough convincing in front of the Wizengamot to suggest that Draco was under the Imperius curse during his campaign with the Dark Lord, and Draco was lucky that they didn't question the statement further with Veritserum. So by now, he definitely wasn't looking forward to spending another year with the people he'd mostly held company with just for the sake of pureblood interaction. His father always picked his alliances, mostly, but at the moment that wasn't boding well for the Malfoy reputation. The only time he'd strayed outside of a strictly Slytherin introduction was in his first visit to Madam Malkin's, and that was with Potter. Before he knew he was an arrogant git with a hero complex, of course.
Draco dared a look out the window. At the acknowledgement that he was about fifty times higher than he'd ever attempted on a broom, he immediately shut the cover and sighed. Here he was, Draco Lucius Malfoy, eighteen and already a practical failure. He'd already disappointed his father beyond recognition, and his mother wasn't even worth mentioning anymore since she ran off to Sweden with the family accountant. As much as he disrespected her decision, he couldn't help but feel avariced that he couldn't get a woman to do that with him if he tried. Not now, not as long as he was a Malfoy. And definitely not as long as he was as thin, fair, and, well, effeminate as he was. He glanced up at his flanked bangs, which were nearly as long as the rest of his hair. He really did need a trim.
"Malfoy," he heard Blaise say, as he nudged him in the side. "Aside from having Golden Boy Potter around all year, lighten up a little, we're off to a fresh start." Which was exactly what Malfoy was afraid of. Yes, true, he was for the most part fucked if he'd stayed in Britain, but the thought of abandoning his prominence as a pureblood and delving into the actual muggle world was absolutely ridiculous. "We can always stay with my brother in-law if things get unpleasant." Blaise had accented that last word with a motion that directed his eyes back toward the economy cabin. "At least he's got a highrise office in the financial district. Inter-Ministry delegation and whatnot."
"I'm not worried about that in the least. I'm simply curious as to what's gotten Shacklebolt so completely disturbed in the mind to require prerequisite training in another country, not to mention the with most incompetent of our class," Draco said passively. Although the majority of his words were held in conviction, he really didn't feel as strongly about the rest of his classmates as Blaise did. But it was an answer that his fellow Slytherins were expecting, which meant they wouldn't inquire further about his pensivity. No, in reality, there was little that mattered to him at the time besides his family's well being--- he didn't really give a fuck about anyone else on the plane right now.
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when the incompetent is leading. He chooses incompetent support."
"That's why I'm going on this trip, more than anything. The sooner we move into the ministry, the sooner we can get the correct mentality back into its legislation," Daphne added.
"Not to mention all the high-profile events we'll be invited to again," Pansy said. "Oh, it's been a while. Two years? My family hasn't been out to a nice soiree since your father hosted one for the governor," she finished, laying her head on Draco's shoulder. He tried not to shake her off, as much as he wanted to. There was something about having her skin on his blazer that made him consider immediately scourgifying it. Luckily for him, there were a lot of "s'cuse me" 's and "sorry" 's coming up the aisle, and Pansy turned her head to see what was causing it all.
"I'm sorry sir, may I help you?" the stewardess asked a very determined looking Ronald Weasley. "While the 'fasten seatbelt' sign may be turned off, I do advise you sit---"
"Sit my ass, we need some help in the back. Got a girl who passed out, right like that. Takeoff, I reck," he said, making sure he got his point across. At the understandment of his words, she immediately turned to assistance, ushering a couple more of the flight staff down the aisle.
"Is she responding at all?" the stewardess turned back to ask. Ron looked as though he'd been confunded. "No, she's passed out, I really don't think so." Though he didn't want to show it, Draco almost had a good laugh at the stupidity of the muggle's question.
After a quick announcement over the intercom by the pilot and a few passing minutes, the ex-Hufflepuff Hannah Abbot was assisted to the front of the plane, apparently roused by smelling salts. And of course it had to be Potter who was propping her up on his shoulder, always the first to rush to the scene as Superman. Whatever good humor Draco had just gotten out of the situation had spiraled down the drain. He was hoping, at the very least, it was someone they didn't know personally. Then he wouldn't be obligated to care.
Oh wait, he was a Slytherin. He didn't have to.
But recently, it seemed that every thought he had pertained to the Boy who Pissed in one way or another. Harry Potter had the nerve to come to his rescue last year. Like he really needed to be helped. Although he could admit, if he really had to, that the incidental meetings with the Dark Lord had gotten out of hand, Draco wasn't about to call Potter a hero. He had to retain some self-worth one way or another.
"Leave it to a half-blood to make it through half the flight," Zabini smirked. Draco was sure he was the only one who caught Potter's glare, since the other three were now busy leafing through texts (or in Parkinson's case, eyeing the in-flight monitor with disgust). For a moment, he considered saying something to muzzle Zabini from saying anything further, but he decided otherwise. Instead, he locked eyesight with Potter, as though something of a challenge, then turned back to the window after a considerable amount of time had passed. Despite this, he only noticed exactly how magnetic Harry's eyes were for a brief moment. And they were incredibly magnetic.
- - - - - -
"Oy mate, what took 'em so long?" Ron inquired as Harry assisted the Hufflepuff back to her former seat. She quickly climbed over one of the Patil twins and sat down with a pink tint of embarrassment on her cheeks. Harry watched her for a moment to make sure she was all right after all the movement she'd just performed, and then turned back to his friend. "Dunno, had to make certain she wasn't going to up and die on the staff, I guess."
Hermione didn't bother to look up from her novella as she commented under her breath. "You know, you'd think someone with at least one muggle parent would be able to take a plane ride without losing consciousness."
"Yeah, hell, she got through the war with no complaints. This should be nothing compared to that," Ron answered. Hermione then quietly reminded him that Hannah had lost a parent in her final year at Hogwarts, and, if he continued to speak as loudly as he did, she'd get to dwell on that fact for the rest of the trip.
"I'm more proud of Harry than anything," Hermione smiled, looking up from her reading. "I can't say for certain, but isn't this your first vacation outside of the country?"
Harry smirked to himself. "I guess it is. Luckily for me I get to share the experience," he said. Without a doubt, he was beyond grateful for the opportunity to travel with his closest friends--- assuming midnight escapades into secret chambers and breaking into the Ministry of Magic didn't count. He vaguely remembered taking a road trip with the Dursleys to a convention (Vernon's company required it, but the entire Dursley family made a luxury out of the trip), though he was allotted an extra cot in Dudley's hotel room while the fat ass got the California King.
It was funny, really. Over the summer he practically lived in something of a drudgery, assuming that the upcoming year would be nothing but mixed reviews of accolades from the public and death threats from former followers of the dark side. He also assumed that he wouldn't be getting a ministry job at all, or at least not one having anything to do with the Auror department. After the owled return of his N.E.W.T. grades, there was little hope for anything beyond a desk job.
He was invited to stay with Remus and Tonks in July, after everything was said and done at the Dursley's place. Somehow, though, he couldn't take the invitation to heart. His presence, as much as he'd wanted to stay with the only people he could call family, would be something of an unnecessary disturbance. Tonks deserved the time with her husband and son, and he wasn't about to get in the way of that. And Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Remus considered him a reflection of the man's old best friend. Harry wasn't his father; he didn't need to remind Lupin of that. No, Harry always had the Burrow to return to, and he was thankful that he wasn't expected to be anyone but himself there.
"Next time, can we not do it muggle-style? Not that I have anything against them, but I mean come on, twelve hours on this thing to get across the ocean?" Ron added, ever the sentimentalist.
"Hey, I put up with it every summer," Hermione countered. "You want to go to France with me like we talked about, you're going to have to do it the old fashioned way." She smiled, lapsing into what Harry assumed was a daydream. How Hermione could put up with Ron's overbearing negative side, he would never know. Thank Merlin the bloke had a wicked sense of humor.
A flight attendant made her way from the front of the plane with a pushcart, one not unlike that on the Hogwarts Express, only instead of the curious (and often revolting) wizarding snacks that the students were used to having, it was laden with muggle brands of chips and soda. Dean Thomas, seated across the aisle from Harry, requested a whiskey--- although he was of muggle upbringing, he'd shook his head in confusion once he'd realized this was not the wizarding world, and the legal age was eighteen, not seventeen, so he still had a week to go. Ron fumbled through his muggle money (exchanged prior to the flight), handed the attendant a twenty, and passed the glass he'd bought to Dean behind her back. "Thank Merlin, Hermione, I don't know what I'd do without muggle identification," he said, turning back to her. "If I knew you were this good at making fakes, I'd have been at Rosmerta's place every weekend."
"I'm pretty sure Rosmerta knew your age, Ron, you practically drooled butterbeer every time you got near her," Hermione said in a matter-of-fact way.
The remainder of the flight went much more smoothly than it had in the first few hours, now that they were becoming accustomed to the ridiculous altitude and were able to doze off for brief moments. Harry stayed awake for the most part, chatting easily with Hermione whenever she was alert enough about the airport they were about to land at in NYC. " . . . oh, of course, not many people realized that it was a wizarding family, the Kennedys, but it certainly attests to the conspiracies regarding the assasination, big supporters of the anti-Grindewald movement . . . it was only natural that his followers would lash out, even twenty years after his defeat . . ."
Harry nodded, but was straining to look outside the window at the dotted lights below, which were growing larger by the second. Ron woke with a start at the ding of the intercom, which announced they would be touching ground shortly. The runway became visible, not for its pavement but for the strip of reflectors that sidelined its shape, and a quick squeal from Susan Bones signaled that they had made contact with concrete.
In the seven years since Harry had met each of the people he was now surrounded by, he never would have guessed they would be appropriated into an eighth year of study, let alone internationally. It was as though this was a strange dream, one in which his muggle upbringing had collided with all the knowledge and memories of his wizard training. Perhaps it was the stress brought on by his final year at Hogwarts (or rather, his final year of Hogwarts absence), but to be waiting in a busy muggle airport with the most magical of Britain seemed surreal. Once they had headed out into the terminal, many rushed to the restroom (Pansy Parkinson and Hermione seemed incredibly apprehensive to have shared a go in the same toilet) while the others waited.
"Where d'you reckon we're going to be studying at?" Ron asked, turning to a very jet-lagged Harry.
"Dunno. Can't imagine it'd be too removed from the muggles, that ruins the point," he said, staring with fervor at the Cinnabon across the way. Luna interjected, as she made her way over from the newsstand. "I do hope that wherever we go is well insulated." Her comment earned looks of confusion from Ron and Harry, as much as they'd tried to repress it. "Well usually, this region is known for Thwartlekink infestations in the winter, my father published an article about it a few weeks ago . . ."
Before she could continue, however, they were greeted by a flash of bubblegum pink, and the voice of Nymphadora Tonks rose above the chatter. Harry gave a double-take; Hermione screamed in delight. "Oy, settle down, it's only me, it's only me, not Gwenog Jones or some other celebri---"
But before she could finish her sentence, she was grappled into a group hug by the three who knew her best. "We didn't know you'd be coming!" Hermione exclaimed, smiling widely. "When did you get here? What about Lupin--- no, what about Teddy?"
Tonks wriggled her way free of the deathgrip. "Relax, relax! It's as though I dropped off the face of the earth!" She smiled, though, and turning to her sidebag, took out a clipboard that had a hundred too many papers held down. "The ministry seemed to think I needed a vacation," she started, taking a headcount of the group that was regaining in number. "Or, at least in their words. I like to call it a Make-the-Rookie-Babysit assignment. Not that any of you need to be attended to," she added when Ron made a less than enthusiastic face. "Just the aspiring Dark Lords, over there." She glanced apprehensively in the direction of the four Slytherins who were standing a fair distance away from anyone else.
"So, wait, you're by yourself?" Harry inquired. Of course, he knew there would be others assigned to the program, but in terms of her family, did she arrive alone? Lupin spent enough time away from his wife last year, and that was bad enough. Were they that easily separated?
Tonks looked at him and smiled, though it was an analyzing smile at that. Harry picked up on the fact that she was considering his lack of biological parental support. "Actually, they're staying out here with me. We rented a cottage near the school you'll be staying at."
Neville emerged from the bathroom in time to overhear the conversation. "A school? Really? I figured we'd be alone, the few of us," he said.
"Well, sure, we'll be the only group there at the time," she answered, leaving much room for explanation. "The school went under last year, closed up due to the war," she continued. "There's going to be a year of faculty reconsideration, see. Too many showed dark alliance. We're using the facility in the meantime."
Harry mused at the idea of staying in another wizarding school for the year. Though the idea was foreign to him, he was reminded of the hosted Beaubaxtons and Durmstrang students that had stayed while Hogwarts was in session. This time around, they would have the place to themselves, but still, the thought was strange.
"Alright. So, let's get this started." Tonks began yelling names out into the group, and looking down at the clipboard, passed out very ancient looking keys to their corresponding owners. Harry assumed, by the list that was organized into indistinguishable groups (Tonks' handwriting wasn't that bad, was it?), that they were room keys for their dormitories. "Oy, I said MACMILLIAN, c'mon Ernie, your cousin in the ministry's downright moronic, don't take after him," Tonks called out, and Ernie rushed to pay the woman at the counter of the Starbucks. He made his way over and Tonks had no hesitation in tossing the damn thing to him. "Potter--- here Harry, and Ron, while you're standing there," she said, as she handed them two keys. Harry noticed that they were engraved with a three-digit number.
"Three fourteen," Ron commented, looking at his own. "Blimey, Harry, can you imagine? It'll be like our first year all over again."
Harry didn't answer. Ron was still going on, apparently. "--- and, hell, for the first time we won't have to worry about Filch, bloody stomping around the halls at midnight, I mean, did that man get paid?"
"Ron---"
"Makes it a lot easier getting into 'Mione's room, that's what. Reckon they won't care about gender, now that we're of age."
"Ron . . ."
"Oh, come off it, just 'cuz Ginny's not here doesn't mean you need to be upset---"
"Ron, that's not it." Harry waited for his sentence to register in Ron's sporadically moving brain.
"Oh, I get it, you can come to Hermione's room too---"
"Ron, I'm not in your room." The words came out heavy, and they certainly managed to hit the redhead in the face once Harry had finished.
" . . . Oh. Well . . . okay. I guess we'll, erm, just have to trade with someone, you know, make it work out somehow." Ron seemed uncomfortable, and then slightly curious. "What room you in then, mate?"
"Six oh-nine," he said, glancing at his key. "Guess they really space these things out, huh." The comment was something of an attempt to abate the awkward silence that was hanging over their heads. Harry and Ron had never shared different living spaces. Not while they were in school, at least.
"You're probably with Neville or someone," Ron figured. After all, it seemed as though Tonks had made the list, but upon asking (which was a bad idea at the time, since she was currently trying to track down Justin Finch-Fletchley in a rising annoyance) she informed them that it was randomized. Which didn't make sense at all, since the Parvati twins were placed together, and Hermione and Luna were both sharing room four fifty-six.
After much excitement and a load of wasted time, the group was ushered out of the terminal with a brisk pace. Had it not been for a pedestrian traffic jam upon entering the escalators, Harry would've missed noticing the grand size of the airport's atrium, which was designed in an incredibly modern style mirroring that of science fiction, and many of the purebloods who had never seen such grandeur in a muggle environment felt the need to ogle. Only one out of the many did not notice the architecture, nor proceed with nearly as much enthusiasm as the rest. Instead, Draco Malfoy had brushed it all off as he attempted to find an appropriate place to keep his key, engraved with the number 609 on its rusted front face.
