Day Five

Despite Pansy's insistence, I had refused to meet with Blaise for a drink after the shopping excursion. I was exhausted and bored, and well aware that a single drink with the two of them would turn into a dozen more. I was far too maudlin to risk alcohol loosening my lips and spilling forth truths I was barely willing to acknowledge myself.

Such as the fact that I missed Harry. I missed him more than I ever thought I would. I had complained about his dirty socks between the sofa cushions. I had railed at his inability to keep globs of toothpaste from hardening in the sink. I had muttered unkind words at Harry's habit of leaving half-finished glasses of butterbeer all over the flat. Now I missed every one of those annoying habits. I would put up with a dozen glasses of butterbeer on the mantle just to have Harry look at me with his green eyes going soft and dark, to have him carefully pull off his glasses and set them aside before pushing me back against the cushions and pressing his hot mouth against mine.

My mother's words returned to haunt me. "He seemed important enough to you. But apparently not." Apparently not.

I sat down at the desk and dipped the quill into the ink. I watched a fat drop form and slowly fall back into the bottle. I touched the quill to the parchment and it caught on an imperfection in the paper, causing an irregular blot where the H began.

Harry,

Please

I dropped the quill, not knowing what to say beyond that. He would likely not read it, anyway. Four days with no contact, and the papers crowing over his return to Ginny Weasley.

I took off my clothes with the future yawning bleakly before me. What the fuck did I plan to do with my life? Had I even thought past the inevitable moment when he would leave me?

I climbed into my empty bed and curled around a pillow. Sleep was a long time coming.

ooooo

Mornings were evil, even if they began closer to noon. Despite my depressed outlook, I decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and actually work on getting the prat back. Unless he ran off and married the ginger bint (Salazar, please no), then there was still a chance. I only had to prove myself worthy, something that, at the moment, I definitely was not.

I tried once more to send a message, asking him to meet with me or at least write back to me or something. Titan returned with no reply.

I dressed with care, forced down a breakfast (lunch?) of hot porridge and toast, ignored the newspaper on the table (having no desire to see more photos of the "happy couple"), and Apparated to St Mungo's.

An hour later, having trekked from one end of the hospital to the other, multiple times, in search of the correct documentation, signatures, possibly-intentional misinformation, and clamping my jaw shut to hold back sarcastic retorts and lethal hexes, I was stood before the desk of a grizzled-looking woman who would not have looked out of place leading a charge of soldiers up a hillside during the Second Romanian Giant Wars. (Yes, I had sometimes paid attention during History of Magic.)

She glared from the sheaf of papers to me and back again. Her stout fingers flipped through the first three documents, slowly, as though evaluating every word.

"Malfoy," she said as she peeled back another page. "Bit of an infamous name, that."

"Yes," I replied simply, although I wondered. Infamous because of the war, or because of Harry Potter?

"You want to be an intern."

"Yes," I repeated.

"Why?"

I had prepared for that question, at least. "I want to prove myself. I want to show everyone that the Malfoy name is not… what it was." Bizarrely, it was also the truth. "I want to do something worthwhile."

"And how does your relationship with Harry Potter come into this equation?"

I straightened with a glare. "That is a very personal question."

"I take a personal interest in all of my staff members, Mr Malfoy. If this is some sort of publicity stunt, I refuse to be a part of it. I have more serious applicants to consider."

"I no longer have a relationship with Harry Potter," I admitted, ignoring the stab of pain that came from saying it aloud. "And even if I did, it would have no bearing on my decision. I have considered it for quite some time and feel it prudent to wait no longer."

"And you have a bit of extra time on your hands?"

My jaw worked. She reminded me of Minerva McGonagall, but blunter, although I would scarcely have believed it possible. Her hair was steel-coloured and her eyes the coldest shade of blue I had ever seen. "Yes," I snapped.

"What happens when your social life recovers, Mr Malfoy? You are well-known to be a… how shall I put this? A socialite. What will you do if your famous paramour chooses to re-establish your relationship and you find this is no longer what you want? We work long, hard hours here."

"This is not about Harry." My first lie. I ploughed on, lest she call me on it. "And I am not afraid of hard work."

"I accept no weaklings, Mr Malfoy. Have you any experience at all with the concept of work? A spoiled pure-blood playboy such as yourself?"

My fingers clenched on the arms of the chair. I had known it was going to be difficult, maybe even impossible, but I had not expected such obvious disdain from the hospital director. Veiled contempt and snide insults, yes, but her blatant scorn took me by surprise. My naiveté at not preparing for it left me shaking.

"During my sixth year at Hogwarts I was set to a task I thought would be impossible. I worked at it day and night. I kept on when I knew it was hopeless, and I kept on when my body threatened to fail me and my fingers bled. I might have been a spoiled child before that year, but by the end I had left childhood far behind. And even though the results turned out to be nothing I would have chosen, the fact remains that I did what needed to be done."

Her pale eyes seemed to bore into me, stripping away any façade I might have hid behind. I met her stare for stare until I could take it no more, and then I fixed my gaze on the window beyond her shoulder. Real, I noted dimly, and in need of a wash to scrub away the water-hardened runnels and spots left by rainwater.

To my surprise, a smile curved her lips. "Well, well," she said, "a man does lurk beneath that posh exterior. Good to know. You will start tomorrow. I am assigning you to Healer Twist. Report to Spell Damage, Floor Four, at nine-o-clock tomorrow morning. Do not be late. You will not be paid for the first two weeks, at the end of which I will evaluate your progress, or lack thereof. Should you choose to terminate your employment prior to that time, a simple owl will suffice."

My fingers unclenched and I stared at her in surprise. I had been convinced she planned to boot me out on my arse. "Th—Thank you, Administrator Mordant."

She got to her feet and jutted out a stiff hand. I rose and took it, nearly wincing as she pumped it with a snap that nearly dislocated my shoulder.

"Let's see what you're made of, Mr Malfoy."

I nodded and let myself out.

ooooo

I stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor, still baffled by Mordant's acceptance. I was not certain if I felt lucky or cursed.

The doors opened and two healers dressed in lime green entered.

"…back again, the poor dear," one was saying.

"They ought to call it the Harry Potter ward as often as he's here," the second replied with a chuckle. I pushed past them—earning a gasp and a barely-noticed reprimand for rudeness—to catch the doors before they closed completely. I shoved them open and hurried away from the lift to a familiar station. Spell Damage, the same floor I was to report to in the morning.

"Draco, dear! My, you got word early this time. Harry was just brought in. He is in Seventeen." The matronly healer behind the desk gestured towards a long hallway and then turned her attention to a man whose left arm was long, sinuous, and covered in suction cups. It was also bright blue. "Again, Mr Baycastle?"

I paused a moment, uncertain. Had she not heard that I and Harry were no longer together? Did she not read the Prophet? The fact that Harry might be gravely injured drove me down the hallway at a quick walk.

I pushed open the door to room Seventeen and nearly sagged in relief when Harry's bright green eyes fixed on me the moment I walked in. Not unconscious, then. It should not be life-threatening.

Harry's eyes widened, but whatever he was about to say came out as a yelp when the healer on the other side of his bed yanked hard at a… feather? It had been imbedded in Harry's left shoulder, along with several others that Draco could see.

"Sorry," said the healer. "Quicker to pluck them out."

"It hurts!" Harry said.

Harry's entire left side looked as if it had sprouted feathers. I would normally have laughed and called him an idiot for getting in the way of aSurculapluma, but I doubted it would be well-received. And, as always, the sight of him lying in a hospital bed did terrible things to my midsection, making it difficult to breathe. This time it was a simple Quill-Sprouting Spell. What if next time it was a Severing Charm? OrAvada Kedavra?

He glared at me and then winced as another feather was yanked out.

"Can't you at least cast a Numbing Charm?" I demanded.

The healer turned a wry look upon me and then rolled his eyes. "'Cast a Numbing Charm,' says Healer Malfoy. What say you, Auror Potter?"

"No," Harry said without looking at me. "They put me to sleep and I have to get back."

I felt my jaw clench. He had to get back. Of course he did. Harry would reside in the fucking Auror Department if he could, living and breathing his job. Perhaps he was living there now, since he had left me. Unless he had moved in with—

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked. His tone was scathing. "Shouldn't you be with your fiancée?"

For a moment, I thought Harry was talking to Healer Flotsam, but then he arched a brow and I realized he was speaking to me. "What?" I countered intelligently.

The door opened and someone rushed past me to fling themselves upon Harry's bed. "Oh Godric, my poor Harry, are you all right? I came as soon as I heard!"

I stepped back, edging towards the door. The sight of Ginny Weasley sprawled half over Harry and cooing at him like a child crooning at her doll frankly turned my stomach. A wave of possessive rage threatened to overwhelm me. Mine, I thought through a sudden pounding in my ears, he's mine.

And then my own words returned to haunt me, recalled at the worst possible time. Get the fuck out for good, I had said. And he had.

Harry gripped her arms and forced her back. He stared into her face and I closed my eyes. If they kissed, it would certainly kill me. Or I might kill her.

I turned and fled, not stopping until I was safely in the lift with the doors shut behind me.

I was certain it was wishful thinking that Harry had called my name.

I shut my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall of the lift. I needed a drink. Or twenty.

ooOOooOOoo

"Good morning, Draco. Mr Potter," my mother said pleasantly as she stirred her tea with a petite silver spoon.

"Mother," I replied warily and sat down. Potter dropped into the chair next to mine, directly across from my mother. Their eyes met and locked, as if issuing and accepting a challenge. I reached for the tea and then realized I probably would not be able to hold the teapot without my hands shaking, so I changed trajectory and picked up a piece of toast from the tray.

"Good morning, Mrs Malfoy," said Potter. "Look, I just want to say—"

"Did you enjoy the wedding?" she asked and placed her spoon on the saucer.

"Um. Very much. It was lovely." Potter poured a cup of tea. His hands were steady, the bastard.

"Indeed. Valenciana designed such a lovely gown for Andromeda. And the flowers were spectacular." Mother took a sip of her tea.

Potter seemed confused by Mother's small talk. He glanced at me and made a motion towards my teacup with the pot. I nodded and felt a spot of gratitude when he poured and then replaced the silver teapot on the tray.

"About this morning—" Potter said, trying again. Intrepid, he was.

"Although I still think violet would have been a better choice than lilac. I am certain she remained adamant on that front only to annoy me." Mother seemed lost in her reflections and Potter glanced at me as I stirred a large spoonful of sugar into my tea.

"I… the flowers looked fine to me," Potter replied.

I drank my tea. It was slightly too hot and burned the roof of my mouth.

"The cake was lovely, although the canapés left much to be desired. The caviar was substandard and I will definitely have words with Mr March-Stanley regarding that, to be certain."

Potter scowled and I almost pitied him. I held my toast in one hand and began to spread marmalade with the other, holding the knife tightly. It did not tremble in my grip, thank Salazar.

Potter lifted the teacup to his lips.

"My son is not a plaything, Mr Potter," my mother said.

I had been expecting her to fling the gauntlet, so I did not drop the knife onto the table, but my hand twitched and a bit of marmalade glopped onto my thumb. Potter, however, was taken by surprise and nearly choked on his tea. His saucer accepted the cup with a clatter and I thought about patting Potter on the back to relieve his coughing spasms.

"That's not—!" He wheezed.

"I realize you are both young and imbibed freely of the alcohol last night, which often leads to impulsive behaviour and bad decision-making," she stared at me for a moment, "but I must insist that—"

"That's not how it is!" Potter interrupted, finally catching his wind.

"Then how is it, Mr Potter?" she asked in the voice she usually reserved for the times I had done something foolish, such as smashing the picture frame of my Great-Great Uncle Eridanus (twice removed) whilst flying my broom in the east wing.

"It's… I would very much like to see Draco again," Potter announced and then blinked at me as if surprised by his own words. Quite possibly, I looked just as surprised staring back at him. He straightened and then turned his gaze on Mother. "Very much," he repeated in a determined tone. It changed again, shifting into something not-quite-dangerous, but skirting close enough to it that it gave me a strange thrill. "Do you have a problem with that?"

My mother met him stare for stare and I could feel the tension mounting. I glanced at the sideboard and wondered when the china would begin to shatter, as it had on one occasion when she had been livid with Father.

She looked away first and picked up her teacup. "That depends, Mr Potter, on your intentions."

"My intentions are honourable!" Potter said.

I nearly snorted and buried my nose in my cup to hide it. I was quite certain that Potter always considered his intentions to be honourable. To think otherwise would be anti-Gryffindor.

A second stare-down ensued and I began to wonder if they held a silent mental battle, Occlumency against Legilimency. The fact that they were fighting over me made me fidget. I risked a bite of toast, chewed, and swallowed, then washed it down with a gulp of tea.

Mother broke their impasse first, looking away and lifting her teacup. "Draco is old enough to make his own decisions, Mr Potter. I will not stand in the way of his choices, even if I believe they might bring him harm. I cannot, of course, speak for Lucius. He chooses to believe that Draco will uphold centuries of tradition, marry a suitable girl, and beget children to carry on the family name. I prefer to see that Draco is happy." She glanced at me and I saw a hint of amusement in the depths of her eyes. "I have known for quite some time that Draco will never be satisfied with that sort of arrangement, at least as far as the female component is involved."

"I am right here, Mother," I said dryly, although I looked away, vaguely uncomfortable. It was one thing to suspect your mother knew about your sexual preferences, but quite another to have it spelled out over the dining table, especially taking into consideration the scene she had witnessed. "How did you know?"

"You are not always subtle, Draco. I believe you were quite taken with the clerk at Hamblin's until he married that girl."

I blushed. The man had been ridiculously good-looking, and a flirt, as well. I had entertained many a wank fantasy featuring him, until he had gone the way of a good heterosexual and settled down. Such a pity.

I glanced at Potter. The clerk had possessed a messy thatch of black hair, now that I thought back upon it.

"The final decision is Draco's, of course," Mother added. Her tone carried a subtle edge. Of warning?

"Well, Draco, what will it be?" Potter asked with a hopeful expression. "Are you willing to be seen with me in public?"

For a moment I wondered if it was all a strange joke perpetuated by Potter and his friends, possibly concocted by the remaining Weasley twin at his joke shop. I should be the one asking if Potter was willing to be seen with me. He was the darling of the wizarding world and I was a pariah. My parents had become near-recluses after the war, hiding in the Manor under the guise of renovations. I, however, had refused to hide. Pansy, Blaise and I regularly frequented the clubs and watering holes of London and the surrounding environs, earning a reputation for loose coin and looser morals, neither of which would reflect well upon the Chosen One.

"Strange you should ask me that question, Potter. I will have to give the matter some consideration. How do you plan to explain this to your friends?" Not to mention that fact that my own friends would be flabbergasted. And probably mortified. And then laugh their arses off for a month.

"They'll come around."

"But why?" I had to ask. Despite Potter's evident drunken (and non-drunken) attraction to me, it made no sense.

He grinned loopily. "I like you."

I glared at him. Honestly, it was the most ridiculous thing he could have said. And thereafter, I could never get a different answer out of him.

ooOOooOOoo

"Where have you been this time?" Pansy asked, waltzing into the kitchen unannounced. I had left the Floo open to her, lest I be forced into another shopping expedition.

I was sat at the table, morosely nursing a cup of tea. She banged about through the cabinets, opening containers and muttering under her breath.

"I've been out," I said evasively.

"Where is your bloody coffee?" she asked. "You always have coffee."

I blanched. "The coffee was Harry's. He took it with him when he…"

"Oh," she said simply. "I suppose I'll have tea, then."

Harry had acquired a taste for coffee whilst working long hours at the Ministry. Pansy had picked up the habit by drinking Harry's coffee when he was not around.

"Well," she said and reheated the water in the kettle with a flick of her wand, "I'm thinking about going to see Queenie's father. Bloody bastards should not be able to get away with such slander."

I stopped contemplating my tea and glanced at her. She had located a large mug that read World's Best Lover. Harry had bought it for me at a craft fair we had stumbled upon whilst seeking a place to have lunch. I felt a pang, seeing it. Did everything have to remind me of him?

"Queenie's father slandered someone?"

"I might keep this one," she mumbled, still looking at the mug, "since it's true." She set it on the counter and poured water in before sending me a look. "No, you berk. Queenie's father is a barrister, if you'll recall. The bloody Prophet is the slanderer."

"Well, what's new about that?" I rolled my eyes.

She dropped in a teabag and made her way to the table. "You're taking this remarkably calmly," she said. "I thought you would be as upset as I am. Unless you don't plan to refute it." She smirked at that and sat down.

"What are you talking about?"

"Honestly, Draco, haven't you read the paper today?"

I looked over at the Daily Prophet, still folded on the edge of the table where I had left it this morning, unread. I spelled it over and snatched it open.

She slurped at her tea without bothering to remove the bag. Uncouth bint.

I found it on page three. It was a photo of Pansy and me looking at the ghastly ring the previous day. Photo-Pansy leaned her head against my shoulder and heaved a dreamy sigh. We looked for all the world like a couple shopping for an engagement ring, something the wretched reporter had leaped upon. Are Wedding Bells Far Behind? the title blared.

"The jilted lover of the Man-Who-Lived was seen in the company of his former girlfriend yesterday, happily browsing the engagement ring collection at Twinkel's and then disappearing into Twilfit and Tattings, a known purveyor of fine robes and wedding accoutrements. Speculation about the couple's apparent reunion lead some to believe Draco Malfoy's breakup with Harry Potter was prompted by indiscretion. When questioned, one of Potter's close friends admitted, 'Yeah, I could see him cheating on Harry. He never seemed that invested in the relationship. All he did was party. With Parkinson and that Zabini, now that I think about it.'" My fingers crinkled the edges of the paper with the force of my grip. Weasley. I snarled and steeled myself to read on. "Sources close to Lucius Malfoy tell us that he is ecstatic over the news. It is rumoured he hopes to soon hear the laughter of children brightening the halls of Malfoy Manor. Has the playboy finally settled down? Will he become the proper pure-blood heir now that he has sowed his wild oats? Only time will tell."

I crushed the paper in my fists. "Indiscretion?" I shouted. "'Sources close to Lucius Malfoy?' There are no sources close to my father! This is the worst drivel I have ever read! The only bloody 'children's laughter' that will brighten the halls of the Manor will be over my dead body!" I fairly gnashed my teeth in rage and considered smashing my teacup against the wall. Or better yet, the one Pansy held. World's Best Lover. If I had been the world's best lover, he would never have left me.

I sat down heavily. Harry's words at St Mungo's suddenly made sense. Shouldn't you be with your fiancée? Oh god, he had read the paper and thought Pansy and I… He had seen the photos.

I laughed. It was not a pleasant sound and Pansy set her mug down to watch me with a wary expression.

"It's really over," I said in a harsh whisper. To my horror I felt my eyes sting and everything blurred. I stared hard at the mangled newsprint. I would not fucking break down.

Pansy was on me in a moment, holding me tightly and murmuring sympathetic words that meant nothing; she had to be thrilled that Harry and I were finished. I knew she was secretly gloating.

I pushed away from her faux sympathy. "Call Blaise," I said. "We're going out tonight."

~TBC~