Written for QLFC Practice Round, Season 8
A/N — I wrote this a while back and well, I was a little shocked to look through it now and find so many SPaG mistakes. It's a short story, not perfect but one of the first ones I wrote. Of course, this is implied Dramione friendship written at a time I couldn't figure out my own OTP. I have got that sorted now but please be patient with this one!
...
Even in such a foggy day, Draco had the energy to go work. Of course, it wasn't like his energy was utilized elsewhere; in a span of twenty-four hours, the only place where he had to stand for more than five minutes was at the Ministry. Not the best life for a twenty-three year old, but he could work with that.
After the war, Lucius had been sent to Azkaban, duly presented with a life sentence, though if he was being honest, his father had fared better than most. His mother had in a way, been pardoned by the Ministry, courtesy of Potter's timely interruption and the fact that she was a woman, but she'd survived the not so glorious fate of spending her next of her years conversing with Deemnetors.
His family name had been tarnished, if not non-existent. He'd expected that, and he was secretly glad it had happened. Draco didn't know why though, why he had developed a distaste for a name he'd once been proud to carry.
Too proud.
There'd rarely been a time Draco had been wrong, at least when his own judgement was concerned and not his father's, and he'd been right in saying that after everything had fizzled out, he'd barely have a life anymore.
He'd been right.
Most people even hesitated to look at him at the Ministry, let alone talk.
He didn't care.
He couldn't bring himself to.
This morning, he'd woken up and spent a good twenty minutes in bed, wallowing in self-pity before he'd grown restless and rolled out of bed, oblivious to the decreasing temperature outside. He considered himself to be a man who could care less about the weather. Lucius had taught him that.
One of the few worthwhile things his good for nothing father had taught him.
He didn't notice the fog when he stepped out to bring the milk in and definitely didn't notice it when he went to the terrace to eat his breakfast.
His mind was elsewhere.
But he did notice when it was time to go to work, and he looked outside the window like he always did because one thing Draco had noticed in his three years as a Healer was that the ground outside determined what came in and with what malady.
And what he was certain for was the fact that today would be a day for a lot of broken limbs.
The fog, he noticed, was so obstructive that it seemed almost bewitched to an extent. It with a heavy heart and knowledge that he'd be assigned to the Breaks and Burns section, with which he made his way to the Telephone Room.
He knew fully well that he might be the only one going over that day. He didn't mind. He didn't care. An empty office to him would make no difference over a full one. Even during a busy day when the ministry was packed to the brim with impatient wizards, no one paid any attention to him.
His mornings were dreary. His mornings were dull. If there were any more adjectives to describe his lifeless day, he couldn't for his life think of them.
Though, to be honest, he was the one who strayed away when an overly sympathising soul came over to talk to him. More often than not, they came because they wanted gossip. Those who were actually genuine, he was more than happy to drive them away.
His schedule was fixed; go to the ministry, floo to St. Mungo's if the situation called for it, work for three hours straight, go out for a smoke, come back and work again.
Part of him yearned for company, and over the years that part had only increased up to a point where he wanted to talk, badly, but couldn't because both sides of the puzzle were too damn afraid to speak to one another.
So it was okay. The ministry being deserted today. It was okay.
At least he wouldn't have to be guilty all the damn time. \
...
He was wrong.
God, he had been so wrong.
The first thing he'd noticed, when Draco reached his cubicle were boxes. Boxes wrapped with a transparent material he knew was celloplastic. No, cellophane. But there were boxes. With treacle tart. And toad in a hole. His mum had made it to him when he was a child and he'd loved it. She'd never made it again.
But what caught his eyes was the biggets box in the middle. With birthday cake.
He stood still. Absolutely still, because for the first time that day, he'd realised that-that he was twenty-four today. His birthday.
Beside the cake was a piece of notepaper. Kept in place under a spoon. Whoever had done this hd apparently thought of everything. He went over in slowed steps, not thinking for a second that it could be a trap. No, he couldn't be botherd to care. It had been a long time since he had had a hearty meal like this.
The note was written in a neat font, curly around the edges, done on purpose and it was addressed to him on the top.
A truce, what about it? I'll admit I did this because my next project is with you and it's a big one, considering it migt take me to the top. I want it to be flawless, Draco and for that to happen, I need your cooperation. This is a truce, okay? It's a beginning.
Eat the food while it's still hot. I had to persuade Mrs. Weasley to make it, I think you'll like it. She's a brilliant cook.
And Draco. Happy Birthday.
Hermione
Granger. He should have known. She was the only person capable of doing this.
A small smile made its way on Draco's face.
It's a beginning.
He could work with that.
He could.
...