AN: aaaaand we're back…sorta…anyway here's a woeful Draco snippet I am so, so sorry
Disclaimer: As much as I would love an imagination to match that of (the now rather problematic JKR), I do not. All original characters and plotlines belong to her and her only.
Checking that the silencing and anti-muggle charms around Spinners End were still in working order, Draco stormed inside, slamming the door behind him. A tension fraught meeting with Shacklebolt had left him fuming. When the Minister for Magic contacted him following his return to England, he had expected to be reprimanded for his criminal record, not told to marry bloody Hermione Granger.
The Minister had summoned him as soon as he had arrived back in England. He was, after all required to inform the Ministry of his whereabouts as per the probation agreement negotiated during his trial; so he hadn't made any effort to avoid the unsolicited appointment. Imagine his surprise (which he hid very well) and utter disgust (which he hadn't hid in the slightest) when Shacklebolt told him he could either marry Granger or arrange for a cell in Azkaban. After a long and tedious speech, throughout which Shacklebolt felt the need to repeatedly remind him of his "duty to the wizarding community" which as far as Draco recalled, did not include marrying preselected witches; the Minister handed him a thick file full of all the necessary information on the law and his fiancé before dismissing him without further discussion on the matter. Needless to say, Draco was pissed.
Dropping the Ministry file on a round table in the sitting room, he strode into the kitchen and proceeded to ransack the wooden cabinets for something alcoholic. He emerged a few moments later scowling and empty handed before remembering exactly where his old potions professor kept his whiskey. Stalking back into the sitting room, Draco paused in front of the bookshelf, combing the shelves for the venom section. Upon locating the desired volume, "The Art of Toxins", he pulled it from the ledge and smirked as the shelf rotated outwards, revealing a previously hidden staircase that descended into an extraordinarily well-stocked wine cellar.
After selecting a bottle of Ogden's firewhisky, he sat at the round table and glowered at the flames spitting in the fireplace. Flicking his wand through the slender fingers of his left hand, he tested the flexibility of the 11 ¾ inch elm and Kelpie hair wand. After losing his first wand towards the end of the war, he had used his mother's until it refused to perform even the simplest of spells by his hand. After returning the magical instrument to its rightful owner, Lucius insisted Draco travelled across Europe to source a new one. It was after several weeks of searching that he was able to locate an artisan who met Lucius' standard of 'quality' wandmaker. The man was old, but skilled in his craft, and selected his current wand on the second attempt. At 11 and ¾, it was nearly 2 inches longer than his first wand, the pale elm wood a stark contrast to the rich reddish grain of his beloved hawthorn. The Kelpie hair core wasn't terribly common either. Difficult to source and even more difficult to perform magic with; most wandmakers regarded it as a second-tier core fibre. Yet it had struck a chord within Draco and he found he was able to harness its power despite the grim implications of the watery demon.
Draco exhaled sharply at the thought of his parents; he loathed to think what his father would make of the situation. Granger would surely be the first Muggleborn to ever marry into the Malfoy family. Even worse, Draco would be the one to break the Malfoy family's pure bloodline. His, no their child would be the first half-blood born into the Malfoy line in generations, something that would most certainly be unacceptable in the eyes of Lucius Malfoy. Letting his wand slip from his hand, Draco poured himself a shot and threw back his head; savouring the scorching sensation of the liquor. The sting of the whisky sliding past his tongue reminded Draco why he was so intent on getting drunk. Granger. Gryffindor's Oh-so-righteous Golden girl. Draco sneered at the thought of being anywhere near the witch, he knew she still hated him and wholeheartedly returned the bitter sentiment. Despite having implemented the self-control to refrain from exchanging colourful insults whenever they met, he'd had plans to avoid her for the rest of his life and now he was being forced to marry the woman.
With a snort of disgust Draco filled his glass again . After completing Auror training in France, he'd had a successful career with the French Ministry and was promoted to Deputy Head Auror a month before his departure. After learning that his skills and status could be transferred into a position within the British Auror unit he was eager to move back to England. But lo and behold, wizarding Britain had managed to fuck things up to the point that he was now being told to marry bushy-haired, know-it-all, mudblood Granger.
Although his problem with Granger hadn't really got much to do with her blood, sure, it was inconvenient and he knew the slur was a sure-fire way to get her attention, but her blood status hadn't really crossed his mind since second year, when she had well and truly proven to him that blood purity meant nothing; pulling that stunt with Potter in the Chamber of Secrets and still placing first in their year was something somebody who had inferior magical abilities wouldn't have been able to do. His problem was that Granger carried herself with an infuriating air of subtle arrogance, believing that she could do everything better than him, purely because she was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age. The way she assumed she knew everything about him and the way her eyes narrowed whenever he entered the room because he was Draco Malfoy; the Death Eater who couldn't ever be trusted under any circumstances. But most of all, he hated that with Granger, there was nowhere for him to hide, and nowhere to bury his guilt. He knew that she would be a constant reminder of all the wrong things he'd done; all the things he regretted; all the things he would rather forget. He hated that Granger, in all her virtuous goodness, would be the reason that he would have to rebuild the walls of taunts and insults and intense hatred; because he knew the only way to keep her out, to hold her away from him at arm's length, was to let her think he hadn't changed. Let her think that he took pleasure in tormenting her, stuck fast in the pureblooded Death Eater approach that had dictated his childhood. Otherwise, there would always be a chance that she would find a way through, and that would be infinitely worse, because there were things that Hermione Granger didn't know about him. Things he didn't want her to find out, because once she knew she would never look at him the same way again.
Draco gritted his teeth and scowled at the flames. He knew couldn't go back to France, as easy as it would be to leave Shacklebolt and his marriage laws behind. He couldn't leave his mother alone. She had been relieved to have him back in the country, and although pureblood etiquette didn't allow her to express it, she was thankful for Lucius's imprisonment. Narcissa was lonely, that much was apparent. Many of her fellow pureblood associates had been killed during the war, and the few that were left stopped visiting after Lucius had been sent away. Slamming the shot glass down, Draco swore loudly. There was no way out. If his father hadn't tainted the Malfoy name associating with dark wizards and investing in illegal projects he would still be able to exercise the political influence previously synonymous with the Malfoy name to unseat Shacklebolt and push a different candidate into the Minister's office; But while Lucius had been successful in expanding the enormous Malfoy fortune, Malfoy Incorporated had suffered greatly after the Ministry's post-war investigation into their financial affairs following Lucius's incarceration. The results had unveiled a host of unlawful felonies that obliterated the remnants of the company's questionable reputation.
Consequently, the Malfoy's had been stripped of almost all their political power within the Ministry as well as the last remaining shreds of dignity Narcissa could muster, leaving her with no option but to channel her efforts into salvaging the Malfoy name. Draco had by this point fled England after serving his probation attending Hogwarts; having obtained 8 N.E.W.T.S and eager to begin a life in France.
Ignoring the glass, Draco took a swig from the bottle, how did the Ministry expect them to function? He and Granger hardly spoke to each other without engaging is some form of verbal abuse; it was only when they'd been forced together in class during their 8 year at Hogwarts that they'd been able to hold a vaguely civilised sort of discussion. Grasping his wand, he summoned the Ministry file Shacklebolt had forced upon him during their meeting. Flipping it open, he scanned the official letter and sneered at the meaningless jargon the ministry had crammed into the document. Useless information that did nothing to justify their ludicrous arrangement. It was however, a relief to find that he wasn't alone in ending his pureblood lineage, all other English purebloods seemed to have ended up with a halfblood or a muggleborn. Wouldn't Lucius's generation be thrilled with the prospect of halfblood children sullying centuries of blood purity.
A/N
So…It's been a couple years…and this is really short…and difficult to come back and read.
Honestly, I saw Emma Watson at the BAFTAs last night and remembered that one lockdown where I decided to plan out a dramione fic. Now that I'm isolating while my sister has covid, I figure that if this gets an okay response I'll try and pick this story back up. I re-read my original plan and will workshop it a bit, but I didn't hate it as much as I thought it would, which was mildly reassuring, I guess.