"I'm back," Draco called, setting his broom down.

"And?" Came distantly from somewhere in the manor.

He sighed, trudging towards the staircase. "I didn't get it." Just like he didn't get the last one. Or the one before that. Or the one before that either.

He knew what his mother was going to say before she appeared, sleeves rolled up and paint on her face, "Draco," he'd been thinking the same thing but it still hurt to hear, "Maybe this isn't the right path for you."

He hummed, letting her hug him tight. "Two more tryouts," he told her. "Just two and then... if no one will have me I'll look into something else."

He felt her nod against his shoulder, the both of them knowing that 'something else' was probably just lounging around the manor for the rest of his life. No one wanted to hire him. No one. They had good right not to either. He certainly wouldn't hire himself.

She patted him on the shoulder, drawing back and towards the room she'd told him that morning she was changing into a nursery. It certainly looked different, he gave her that. The dark walls had been replaced with white, and the window at the far end had been expanded so it encompassed the whole wall. Already she had flower pots and raised beds set out, all of it tripping him underfoot as she tried to explain just where she wanted to put them.

At least she was finding something to do with her time. Draco had feared, after everything, she might end up- well frankly he didn't quite know. But he feared something would happen to her. It was nice to see that even without Lucius she could still be happy. Maybe even more so. Father never would have let her make a nursery inside. Or even one at all. That was what the gardens were for, plants. What was the point of tending to them themselves when they had money and servants to do that sort of thing for them.

"I was thinking we could redo the kitchen too," she finished with when the pair of them realised she'd be done with this room in a few more days. "Maybe install a few muggle appliances, or perhaps shrink it down a bit. Merlin knows it's hard to cook when we have ingredients all the way across the room." She laughed, but it rang hollow in both their ears.

Still, "I think that's an excellent idea." He rubbed his fingers together, remembering, "I'll clean up and start dinner. The cook book says spaghetti is meant to be an easy dish so I'll... I'll do it tonight."

She nodded, Draco leaving her to tidy up a little.

The floors creaked under his feet in a way they never would have done two years ago. This whole place creaked in a way it never would have done two years ago come to think of it. His door jammed as it always did when he tried to open it, Draco shoving his shoulder onto it a few times before it let him in. Maybe if he would end up sizing it in properly when he had time. Merlin knew he would once tryouts were over.

He sighed, dumping his gear in his washing basket before journeying across the hall to his bathroom. It took an age to fill the tub, another thing he should think about shrinking, but Draco was willing to wait. If it wasn't bad enough he got laughed at for merely turning up to tryouts the other recruits revelled in who could throw the most mud at him. It was alright today, the ground wasn't all that wet, and since they spent most of their meetings on their brooms instead of on the grounds he only had a few places caked in dirt.

Still more than he would have liked but, well, it could have been worse. That was what he always told himself. Everything could always be worse.

He slid inside the warm water as soon as he was sure it would cover his ankles and leaned his head back. Little by little the water level rose until it came up to his neck, only then did he shut the water off, his arms coming up to the sides of the tub. He could feel the water sliding from his skin, the way it lingered on his fingertips before dropping, drip, drip, to the floor.

It started slowing, moving almost rhythmically.

Like a clock.

Drip.

Drip.

His breath came fast as he sat up, the room coming back into focus around him. His room. His bathroom. Just him. Mother too, she was fine, she was here, somewhere.

His chest grew tight, Draco wheezing through it until he could knock his head against the tub again.

Idiot. He was such an idiot. He couldn't even take a bath in peace. What sort of-

He shuddered through another breath, wiping his eyes and reaching for a sponge. He had dinner to make, and there was no point sitting here since it wouldn't magically make itself anymore for him.

Despite the fact the sauce was more water than anything else their dinner was good. Certainly better than some of the concoctions they'd come up with over the months. He wrote down everything that was wrong with it anyway, telling himself next time it would be better.

"So that's spaghetti," his mother said, crinkling the cook books corner. "The stew was alright too wasn't it?" the one she'd made two weeks ago that had far too much pepper in.

"Yeah," again, something that was better than half the stuff they'd made so far. He wiped his mouth, "Do you want me to look for any more books when I go for my next tryout," since neither of them went out otherwise.

"That would be nice," since they couldn't live off spaghetti and stew forever. "But don't trouble yourself darling. If you don't have time, your tryout comes first."

He nodded, making a note anyway to look through the muggle shops until he found another cook book with easy recipes for them to try.

His next tryout was a week away, which meant seven days of waking up at the crack of dawn and forcing himself to do drills until he either dropped from exhaustion or his mother called him in. Seven days to get himself up to an okay standard for one of the best teams in England letting him come to try out for them.

He knew, before he even wracked up there, that they had only accepted his application the same reason the others had. That being they wanted to see if he'd show up. No one, he was sure, actually thought he was serious, or, if they did they didn't think Draco thought they were being serious about considering hiring him. They wanted to laugh at him. To belittle him. To take their anger out on him because they could now. What did Draco have against them? Voldemort was gone. His father was in Azkaban. Everyone knew Draco was nothing anymore.

Still he went anyway. If only because he hoped against all odds someone would see there was more to him than what he'd done. So he donned his school quidditch gear, just like he had every other time. He polished his boots and his broom and walked into the stadium to sign his name alongside the other potential recruits hoping for a spot on the new team.

It went about as well as he expected. From the moment he got there the talk around him died. More than one person shot a look to his arm, and when it came to picking teams he was last.

He didn't even get seeker, and quite frankly thanked his endless days of practicing when a bludger almost did him in at the goal posts.

At the end, alone while the others huddled in excited whispers, he watched as the recruiter angled himself towards them. He hadn't made it in.

Just one more to go the-

"Malfoy."

He looked up, "Yes?"

The recruiter nodded to where another two people were standing. The ones receiving their new uniforms.

He wasn't serious was he?

Draco hefted his broom up, sure there was something going on here. Some sort of prank maybe. Yet the others waiting for their names to be called out didn't look excited anymore. Instead they were watching with belated horror as Draco ended up in front of one of the other 'official' team members.

"Well done," the woman droned, spirit not really in it as she shoved a horde of blue robes at him. "Practice starts Monday, bring water."

He clutched the robes tightly in his arms, standing there until someone moved him out of the way. He held onto them through the rest of the name call. Through walking outside. He held them all his way home, expecting someone to jump out at any minute and take them back off him.

But they didn't.

Draco walked through his front door, broom down, still with them in his arms.

"Mother?" he croaked. Then louder, "Mother!"

She appeared at a sprint near the stairs, took one look at him and bounded down. Her hands stopped just shy of the robes, hovering, unsure, "Are those...?"

"I start Monday," he recited.

"Monday," she repeated. "Monday." Her face scrunched up and robes or not he had a handful of her now, her arms winding around his neck to squeeze the life out of him. "You did it!"

"I did it," He realised.

"Oh Draco sweetheart you did it," she cupped his jaw, hugging him again before taking his robes off him, "We'll have to figure out how to use an iron. Or look up those ironing charms. I'm not having my son show up to practice with wrinkled robes." she grinned back at him, happier than he'd ever seen her, "Darling you have a job."

"I have a job," Draco nodded. "I have a job." A real job. A quidditch job. "I'm a Quidditch player," he said. A real one. The kind he used to see in newspapers when they were posing for a win. "Mother-"

They celebrated by venturing out to an eatery. It was a small place, a muggle place, but the food was better than anything they could have made at home and since his mother had sort of figured muggle money out Draco didn't feel quite so afraid to be sat there.

"Will you be telling father?" Draco remembered to ask on their way home. He knew she still wrote to him. Draco had tried doing it too. Not so much these days.

"I don't see why not," his mother said. She took his arm, patting it lightly, "Not that it matters. You're finally doing something you love Draco. Don't let anything anyone says to you stop you from remembering that."

He nodded, the two of them spending the rest of the weekend looking up ironing charms, and practicing them on less important clothes, before Draco was ready to go Monday morning.

The stadium was just the same as it had been, if a little damper. Before Draco could even get in however he was taken by his arm to face a man that looked vaguely familiar. Not that it mattered. All the faces these days were familiar, and all of them had something vulgar to say to him.

Except this guy "Malfoy." Smiling at him like he was some rare bird. "Thought I'd catch you before we started. How are you? I heard you played keeper at the tryouts, I told Peter's it was a dumb thing outright to make you play it, but, gotta say I was impressed."

Wait, "What?"

The guy kept on rambling, for a good ten minutes he had Draco standing there going on about his flexibility as a player and how lucky they were that Draco had come here before being swept up by another team.

Did he- did he not understand that this was one of the last tryouts for the season? Did he not care?

Draco couldn't wrap his head around it. Or that, "You talked to the recruiter about me?"

"'Course I did," the guy gushed, the two of them finally making their way into the stadium. "Soon as I saw you I told Peters we needed you."

Draco shook his head, "Why?"

The guy gave him an odd look, "Because you're a good flyer."

"Right," Draco muttered, still not understanding.

"I mean," Thankfully he didn't have to since the guy went on, "I remember how you went up against Potter in school. Always thought he'd go pro but, well, last I heard he was looking into the Auror's. Anyway, Potter was a damn good flyer, and anyone who can go toe to toe with him and almost win needs to be on a team."

Ah. Right. Now he was becoming a little more familiar. "You used to play on the Gryffindor team."

"Wood, Oliver Wood," the guy held his hand out.

"Draco." He wanted to be mad that Potter had something to do with him getting this job, but, well, he couldn't be. Wood hadn't said Potter had put in a good word. Really he'd said he'd been looking at how many times Draco had lost to Potter and was still impressed. Impressed with Draco's flying. Impressed with his flexibility as a player.

Potter may have got his foot in the door but Draco had got this job on his own merit, and that, somehow, made this all the better. That meant that it hadn't been a pity hire. That he really was good enough to be here. To have the chance to be here anyway.

He'd show them too. Draco had been dreaming of going pro since he was five years old, no way was he letting this opportunity get away from him.

That didn't mean it was easy.

Quidditch training was brutal. That Draco learned on his first hour of showing up. After the first speech of alcohol and drugs and all sorts of things none of them should be doing now they were a 'brand', they moved onto the more physical side of things. Five days a week they'd spend training. Not just on brooms either. Laps, push ups, sit ups, lunges, whatever else came to mind he was going to get intimately familiar with as he trained his body into the best shape of its life.

He went home exhausted, barely able to get through the door before he was sliding down and needing a five minute rest. He got fed on the job at least. Well, he got lunch on the job anyway, which just meant it was his evening meal that he had to think about every night. Even then he was on a strict diet.

One that he didn't think he was going to stick to when him and his mother ended up burning the chicken he was meant to eat that night.

He did basically nothing on the weekends but sleep. Often in his mother's nursery, the plants shading him from the sun as he tried to forget there was a bed upstairs that was technically his.

Still, the training was working. After a while he no longer felt as tired. Nor did he find he was as slow on his broom. It turned out his reaction times had been abysmal, something he only realised when he managed to locate the snitch in under two minutes and keep an eye on it the whole hour he was up there.

By the time his first game came around Draco was a high strung machine ready to sit there and wait for his name to be called.

Reserves was boring. Very boring. But reserves were still part of the team, and Draco's name was still called out along with the others at the beginning so he didn't really mind sitting there doing nothing. It also helped him see just how much he had to live up to now he was on the other side of things. It was one thing to just watch a game and another to know at any second he could be called up there so he needed to keep an eye on the snitch just in case.

Wood was good company, if not the rest of the team. Quite frankly he didn't give a damn what Draco had done in his life. To Wood, it turned out, if you were good at Quidditch, or at least liked the sport, then you were okay in his book. A philosophy Draco was sort of wishing others had. He didn't miss the way no one else spoke to him. Or the way the other team at the beginning of the match refused to shake his hand. Nor did he miss the papers that were thrust in his face whenever he was in a crowd of people, all of them proclaiming he was 'up to something'. He didn't miss the cheers that were sent his way, or his team's way, when the commentator helpfully told them that Draco's wand was under lock and key for the duration of the game, and until everyone had emptied the stands.

He didn't miss any of it. But like his mother said, he couldn't let people make him forget this was what he'd always wanted to do. So he grinned and bore it, sitting there with his head held high and listening with one ear as Wood shouted his own comments to both Draco and those playing while keeping an eye on the snitch.

They won, since this was Puddlemere, meaning a big after game party Draco gladly backed out of. They'd earned their victory, there was no need for Draco to make things awkward by making them suffer his company when they wanted to get drunk. No one should have to get drunk around a Death Eater.

Besides. Narcissa had her own little celebration planned for him when he got home anyway. That being another night out at an eatery where the two of them painstakingly tried to decipher a menu that had at least twenty different type of burgers on it.

"My trainer's going to kill me," Draco muttered when the burger came, mouth watering.

"Let him, you've earned a break," She already had her mouth around her own, Draco stifling a smile at her using her hands.

It took a moment for him to do the same, feeling like he was seven years old again and mother had stole both of them out for the day.

It became a sort of tradition after that. While the others would party their win away, Draco would go out with his mother and spend some of that hard earned money on food that didn't taste stale or burnt in his mouth.

He, dare he say, started enjoying it. He started enjoying going outside again, more than just for work. His mother did too. So long as they stuck to the muggle side of England there was a whole host of things to catch their eye. One day they might be enjoying Thai, the next his mother had found a local garden centre with advertisements for pottery classes. "I mean," she said, folding the leaflet over and over in her hands, "It would just be that little bit more special wouldn't it. Having the pots be made by myself." Her little nursery would wholly be hers then.

"Mother if you want to go then go. I'm not going to tell you not to," Merlin knows she'd heard enough 'no's in her life. Gardening was harmless anyway. Pottery was harmless. Besides, if she spent more time outside the manor then she might not spend so long wandering the halls. Draco knew she did. Just like she knew he hated doing so. While his mother looked for the ghosts of what was, Draco wanted to shut them all out and never think of them again. It still didn't mean he couldn't hear her outside his door on an evening. Light sleeper he'd forced himself to be he woke at any sound that creaked outside. It still sent his heart racing, but his mother never dawdled long, and never did she come in.

It would be good for her. All of this was good for them.

They won seven more games. His mother had made three pots by then, all of them the ugliest thing Draco had ever seen. He loved them. More importantly his mother loved them too.

"I got the base right on this one," she said when she brought home her latest. "I need to keep my hand steadier when I start on the neck but I think this one came out alright."

It hadn't. It was as misshapen as they came, yet his mother was happy. She had a project, something to improve on, something other than sit there and look pretty. Which was why Draco wasn't wholly surprised when he saw her looking through muggle architectural magazines a few days later.

"I think she's thinking about renovating," Draco mumbled through their next game.

"Renovating?" Wood asked. "Like the whole manor?"

Draco shrugged, eyes still on the snitch. "She's always hated the place, and now father's not there she has no one to tell her no."

Wood side eyed him, "And you're alright with her knocking down your own house?"

Yeah, if anyone else had known the younger Draco Malfoy they'd probably be giving him that look too, but, "I hate that place. I'd burn it down myself if it wouldn't leave us homeless."

Wood gave him a long look before silently turning back to the game. They won that one too.

Training got a little tougher now they were on a winning streak. Peters wanted no room for error, meaning everyone saw the injury coming long before it actually did.

It came at the worse time as well. Right in the middle of their next game. One second Sarah Roberts was flying easily on her broom and the next she was sailing to the ground. Muscle spasm the mediwitch said later. Her neck had swung too fast and she'd just clicked it the wrong way. Not a serious injury then, but one that definitely had Robert's in a lot of pain while the clock kept ticking.

Which meant, "Malfoy," Peters appeared in front of him faster than he would have thought. Already Draco had his broom in hand, tying up the last of his over robes. "Listen kid," he said, "They're gonna say a lot of mean things to you out there. I'm not even sure they're going to let us have this one if you do pull it off. But you're on this team for a reason."

Draco nodded, "I'll be fine."

Peters motioned to the pitch, yelling at the ref that Malfoy was up to play seeker. The silence that followed the commentator's recollection of it was deafening. For a moment Draco thought he'd simply lost his hearing. Except no, he could hear himself breathe, he could hear the flap of other people's robes. It was just silence. Pure, stunned silence.

Then the booing started up.

He tuned it out, actually preferring it to the silence. He focused instead on the snitch. They needed three more goals before Draco would be safe to dive for it. The problem was the opposite team needed the same.

Except, well, it looked like Draco's presence on the pitch was good for more than seeking. If the crowd was distracted, the players were down right terrified. He saw more than one Arrows chaser take a berth so wide to avoid him they missed the quaffle. It took mere seconds for Draco's teammates to cotton on, and seconds more for them to start ambling the quaffle more Draco's way. With the others too scared to get too close, so long as they kept Draco near Puddlemere had the easiest time of their life transporting the quaffle.

It was all uphill from there.

They won.

Except this time instead of a party, the two teams were set on the ground, Peters and the Arrow's manager yelling back and forth with the ref whether it was a fair game or if they needed to schedule a rematch. Apparently Draco's presence there was unfair to the other team. "Unfair?" Peters yelled, even if he'd warned Draco before he went out that something like this was bound to happen, "Unfair! He's a player just like anyone else. He has a contract he shows up to training. I have his wand in my office under lock and key. Unfair? The kid's a waif. Have you seen those arms? What's he going to do to you? Bitch slap you?"

There were a few titters from Draco's teammates, Wood downright sniggering even as the Arrow's manager fought tooth and nail for a rematch.

Eventually the ref intervened, "Penalties," he decided. "Keep Malfoy off the pitch and we'll decide from here who won."

Not exactly the worst decision, and even Peters had to admit he wasn't going to get any better, so there Draco was, sitting on the reserves once more and watching his team win for the second time. This time they were allowed a party.

"Sure you aren't coming?" Wood called.

Draco shook his head, "You guys enjoy yourselves though."

Sarah poked her head out, neck fine now, "You sure? We have firewhisky."

"My- my mother's waiting for me," something no nineteen year old should have to say to his friends when offered alcohol. "Thank you though."

Sarah shrugged, "see you at practice."

He waved, going home to see his mother, who, as it turned out, had her ear glued to the wireless all afternoon. She whacked his arm as soon as he came in, "You played," she grouched. "I can't believe I missed it. That's it, I'm coming to your next game."

"Roberts was injured, it's not likely to happen agai-"

She held her finger up and that was that. It wasn't like his mother hated Quidditch either. She just hated the mingling before and after the game. Trophy wife and all that as she was. Now however, with the anonymity of a regular seat and enough face paint to put even the most fanatic fan to shame, she blended right in with the rest of the wizards who showed up. It was also nice not having to go back home then go out after every game. He hated waiting around as she found her bag.