Draco was not happy.
This was nothing new of course. He was often unhappy, and perhaps arguably, even miserable.
"Draco. Sit up straight, please."
Draco instinctively corrected his posture. His mother hadn't even turned to look at him. Somehow, she just knew when he was slouching. Draco assumed if he were in a normal family, he would have rolled his eyes and slouched even farther.
But he wasn't in a normal family, now was he?
Currently, both his parents were in the midst of a nasty legal battle regarding their "innocence" of the multitude of charges brought against them by the Wizengamot. Innocence had a very loose definition in their case, Draco thought grimly. Their participation in the second wizarding war was fact, but their willingness—or lack thereof—was less certain. Draco knew it was his father's plan to prove they had been coerced into supporting the Dark Lord in his return. He had a few very good arguments to use in his favor, and all of them included Draco.
Draco grimaced over his soup. His mum immediately noticed and assumed his soup was not up to par and ordered the house-elf to take it away. Draco carefully schooled his face back into a neutral expression as the main course appeared on his plate.
Living with his parents was like navigating a minefield.
One wrong move could blow up epically in your face.
Luckily, Draco had been practicing his finesse since infancy. Right now, he knew his only role was to do exactly as he was told. Do NOT rock the proverbial boat, his father had warned him, his eyes growing wide—large grey orbs threatening to reveal the cracked mind behind them. Too much was riding on this year. Their freedom, their money, their status. If his parents lost this trial, everything would be lost to Draco as well, even if he was not being put on trial himself.
Draco looked at his parents. They used to be beautiful. Especially his mother, with her long silvery blonde hair, and large dark eyes. So dark they were almost black—the only resemblance she held to her older sister. And his father—once so tall, with broad shoulders and almost the same shade of blond hair, now was so thin a weak wind could keel him over.
As far as Draco could tell, the past year of hell was enough of a punishment for them both. Draco himself could testify to the fact that both his parents had suffered immensely under Voldemort's rule. They had no way out, and they were treated contemptibly by all due to Voldemort's open hostility against them. He knew they did not want to be involved with his campaign against Harry Potter. It was pathetic really. Potter wasn't even of age and Voldemort still couldn't defeat him. Yet, Voldemort was definitely powerful enough to destroy the small Malfoy family forever.
Although all of this seemed obvious to Draco, he did not have much hope in the Wizarding world at large to see this. After the war ended, people seemed to be out for blood. They were desperate for revenge, and Draco knew public opinion swayed toward having both his parents locked up in Azkaban for life.
A throat cleared behind him.
"Master Draco, sir, a letter for you, sir." A house-elf held up a silver tray with a neatly folded letter on top. Draco calmly picked up the letter and put it in his pocket. His father gave him a cold look, which prompted Draco to remove the letter from its hiding place and unfold it.
Dear Mister Malfoy,
It is my pleasure to offer you the position of Head Boy this upcoming year. Please reply promptly with your decision to accept or forgo the offer.
Sincerely,
Professor M.
Draco stared at the brief letter. His first thought was that his father must have bribed someone again, but then he seriously doubted that any wizard or witch in the entire United Kingdom would take his money now.
His second thought was that McGonagall had misrouted the letter, but that was quickly ruled out as impossible as it was addressed using his name. There was no other 'Mister Malfoy' in his year.
His third thought was that this must be some sort of Dumbledore-esque ploy by McGonagall to get Draco to 'switch sides'. He hated it when Dumbledore watched him, as if he didn't see notice! And worse yet, he had tracked him using Snape for years. Was McGonagall playing the same game? Was she trying to keep a close eye on him so she could get more information for the trial?
Draco's thoughts were interrupted by another throat clearing. This time, it was his mother's.
She raised a single well-manicured brow at him.
Draco read the letter out loud.
His parents listened silently and did nothing to betray their surprise, if they indeed felt it. Draco watched his father's face carefully, looking for signs of pride or self-satisfaction—anything that would give him away as the coordinator of the current mischief.
But, nothing.
Eventually, his mother smiled insincerely and said, "Congratulations, dear."
She then continued her meal. Draco assumed she thought this was what good mothering looked like. He internally rolled his eyes. Fake as wedding flowers—that was his mother.
His father was examining Draco carefully. Draco met his gaze without fear, as he was always taught to do. Never let them know your anxieties or insecurities; that was the Slytherin way.
"You should go to your study directly to accept the position."
"Yes, father."
Draco stood to leave.
"Also, Draco—" his father called after him, "Send the new Headmistress our best regards."