A/N: Thank you to all of the wonderful people who reviewed! I was blown away by the lovely words I received. I can't even tell you how much it meant to read it. Thank you so, so much!
Enjoy a particularly long chapter. I apologise in advance for the very, very slow burn feel, and the distinct minimalisation of Drarry at this point. I'm a sucker for long-winded plots, so I hope you are too :)
Chapter 2
Two Years Later
(September 2000)
PANIC BUYING PUTS NATION IN SLOW LANE
Hauliers blockaded oil refineries across the country yesterday, triggering a wave of panic-buying by motorists as petrol stations ran dry…
Flicking The Telegraph closed, disregarding the Muggle news not as unworthy but as irrelevant for pursue further, Draco reached instinctively for the magazine alongside it. Radio Times was scrawled in elegant white calligraphy on the front cover, the beginning of the title only partially covered by the head of a doll-like character wearing a stern, fixed expression. New shows are GO is said in block yellow print around the page, and then Stand by for Thunderbirds as autumn TV lifts off.
Draco didn't know what a 'Thunderbird' was in the Muggle world, thought it probably didn't have much to do with a real Thunderbird, but that hardly mattered. He flipped through the glossy pages and absorbed the fine print, half of which he didn't understand for the Muggle references.
Then the next magazine: Cosmopolitan with splattered statements like 'Cosmo's Karma Sutra 3' and '345+ Fall Fashion Finds' across the glaring red cover. The National Geographic magazine bordered in yellow and spread with beautiful depictions of landscapes as often as text, and Good Housekeeping with the lime green glare of 'What Julia Knows' all but shouting at him from the front cover. It was so obviously directed towards a different demographic than himself, but Draco absorbed it all like a starving man scarfed food.
One day. For only one day Draco had been back in London. Little things, little voices, and the differences witnessed even in the spread on the front of Muggle papers and magazines, was very telling. London had changed in his absence. Not noticeably, maybe but to his keenly nostalgic eyes, with the memory of how it had been sharply contrasting Paris of the past two years, Draco could see it. Even more so because he had been bereft of experiencing those changes first hand throughout his sentence.
There was no longer a cloud of foreboding hanging above the city skyscrapers. The thick pervasiveness of Dark magic no longer clogged the air. The tangible waves of fear that seemed to crawl down the roads and weave through buildings as much as it infected the wide-eyed street-goers was gone. And that was just the changes that were apparent in Muggle London. Draco could only wonder just how much more drastic the alterations were to the pockets of the Wizarding world that peppered the city.
It was only when, replacing another magazine back upon its perch and ignoring the watchful gaze of the newsstand attendant, Draco caught a glimpse of his wristwatch and paused in reaching for another. Cursing beneath his breath, he spared one final glance for the knowledge, the titbits, the tiny morsels of information in text format that he'd been bereft for so long, before turning away. He shook his head at his longing foolishness, though couldn't deny the truth; Draco had become something of a miser when it came to news stories. He was almost as bad as Pansy.
Turning sharply on his heel and striding down the busy street, Draco deafened himself to the honking of horns, the revving of engines and the shouts from windows that emitted from the bumper-to-bumper traffic. He wove through pedestrians, dodging around a businessman talking into the palm-sized brick he knew to be a Muggle cell phone, skirted along the edge of a bus stop packed with school children cackling and shouting amongst themselves, and paused alongside the intermittently beeping lights of the crossing. When the luminescent WAIT flickered out, he was nearly barrelled over in the abrupt stampede of crossers.
Draco cursed the bustling, but only in his mind. He'd taught himself better than to utter his disgruntlement aloud. Not only did Muggles show little respect for wizards – if they knew of them at all – but even residents of the Wizarding world would have gone so far as to deliberately shoulder into him should they pass one another on the street. Especially them, even. Draco knew. He'd experienced just such brief confrontations more often than he could recall.
Hopefully, London would be different to the Parisian wizards and witches whose antagonism rode on the coattails of international news reports. It didn't matter that the crimes of the Malfoys and Death Eaters were focused upon London and Britain as the birthplace of their disruption. Capitol cities were nothing if not slaves to trends. Hopefully, Draco would slide beneath the radar in being a newly returning face in London. Hopefully – but his hopes weren't particularly high.
Glancing briefly at his watch again, frowning as the minutes ticked closer to five o'clock, Draco used the advantage of his height to scan his surroundings. Regardless of the upper-class status of Mayfair that he'd swept into minutes before, people were always aplenty.
"Where is that bloody…?" he muttered to himself, turning in place. Only for his frown to smooth and a sigh to slip from his lips when he caught sight of the distant building. Disregarding his watch, he started into the sea of crowd once more.
Afternoon on Bruton Street wasn't as congested as it could have been. The further down the street Draco walked, the less it seemed to be so, too. He was grateful for that, at least. It wasn't only because of the glaring eyes and deliberate collisions that he'd grown to dislike crowds. There was something about spending an increasingly large amount of his time in the company of nameless Muggles that had Draco tending towards anonymity rather than being noticed. Or maybe that was just the weight of his sentence over his head, the final words that accompanied its cessation that had been hollowly bestowed upon him less than a week before.
"You are free to go, Mr. Malfoy. The Gatekeeping provisional charms have been removed from your wand and you are no longer confined to the city of Paris. But be warned: should you think to act in an erratic or concerning manner again…"
The unfinished threat was understood despite its incompleteness. Draco had no intention of acting up. Despite the crowds, the potential for ostracism if not outright acts of hatred, there was something comforting about being back in his own country again. Even if his parents weren't with him this time, and even if unfavourable memories did wash up a little more frequently. Draco was relieved to be home.
Or he would have been if one of his few remaining friends hadn't demanded they meet at restaurant he'd never been to before the very day he returned. Truly, she could have helped him to transition back into London life just a little more. But then, Pansy Parkinson had never been a particularly sympathetic person.
The Square was an unremarkable building situated between similarly unremarkable if regal estates of a consistent height. Draco only identified it from the building at its side that stood out like a beacon, starkly black and white, and contrasting to the pale colours of those surrounding it. He swept past the markedly thinner pavement-idlers towards the building, unmarked but for a rusty-red wall depicting the restaurant's name in minute writing.
Unremarkable. Unlike the interior.
It was chic. Sophisticated. Minimalistic and refined, with dark, polished floors that reflected the soft, bright lighting overhead. Round tables scattered throughout, each draped in rippling white tablecloths and set with wine glasses and glistening cutlery. Throughout, a tinkling hum of music permeated that would have pleasantly offset any murmur of conversation that disrupted a private meal if any existed. It wasn't necessary just yet; there was barely a handful of diners within, and Draco couldn't say he thought less of the restaurant for it. The wide windows showed the sun had barely begun to retreat for the evening.
Nodding at the maître d' and gesturing with a nod of his head across the room, Draco swept towards where Pansy had already seated herself. She fit the scene seamlessly, positioned at an angle with her legs crossed and wineglass raised in hand as she peered down at a sheaf of papers with a blank if heavy-lidded expression. Her poise and aura of entitlement would have left none suspecting she was barely twenty years old.
"You look to be in a foul mood, Pansy," Draco said, stepping up behind one of the remaining chairs and regarding her with a raised eyebrow. "Is the vintage not to your taste? Would you rather find somewhere else to dine this evening?"
Pansy blinked heavily as she glanced up from her papers. A languid smile spread across her lips, painted as deeply purple as the wine in her hand. "Hello, dear. I didn't see you come in."
"Oh, I doubt that," Draco said, shrugging out of his coat. He paused only long enough to plant a whisper of a kiss on Pansy's cheek before taking his seat. "I don't think you've become quite so self-absorbed as to be unaware of every minute detail of your surroundings."
Pansy's smile widened as though Draco had paid her a compliment. To someone like Pansy, it very much was. Everything about her was composed and precise, from the fiercely straight cut of her short hair to the pencil lining her eyebrows, the smooth façade of her make-up and the subtly intimidating high collar of her dress that seemed to somehow lengthen her neck. Pansy's facade was deliberate, just as her distraction with her reading had been. Draco didn't think for a second that she hadn't noticed the very second he'd entered the restaurant.
Before Pansy had the chance to reply, a waiter in a crisp shirt and pressed trousers appeared as though he'd Apparated alongside their table. He offered Draco a formal if dashing smile, tipping his head in a respectful nod.
"Good evening, sir," he said smoothly. "I hope your day has been eventful."
"Quite," Draco replied without inflection. He hadn't much care for posturing these days, even from waiters. "Though it could hardly be constituted evening just yet."
The waiter's smile didn't falter. "Indeed, sir." Seemingly from nowhere, he conjured a menu and presented it to Draco with easy elegance. "Can I interest you in a beverage? Or would you prefer to begin your order?"
Draco spared Pansy a sidelong glance to which she only gave the minutest of shrugs. He accepted the menu as she silently suggested, flipping it towards himself. Only to snort a moment later and roll his eyes. "Really, Pansy?"
"What's that, dear?"
Her tone carried just a breath of amusement beneath her innocent inquiry. Draco ignored it to stare at her flatly. "Was it out of kindness or cruelty that you specifically chose a French-inspired restaurant for my first dinner back in Britain?"
"Oh, come now," Pansy said, humming into her glass as she rested it against her lips. "You should know that one can hardly throw a stone in Mayfair without puncturing a hole through the window of a French restaurant. No offence intended," she added with a brief glance at the waiter. He only tipped his head again in response.
Draco sighed. It was so typical of Pansy. "I take that as an insult to my good taste."
"Good taste? Parisian cuisine is the finest."
"Of which I have partaken far too frequently in the past two years."
"Ah, of course. My mistake, dear."
Draco bit back another snort A mistake? Unlikely. "I'm sure. You're paying tonight."
"I had intended to."
Pansy smiled against the edge of her glass and in that smile, Draco saw the hint of softness. He saw the fondness that so rarely seeped through her cool exterior and felt his exasperation fade into fondness of his own. He'd missed Pansy's company. Her infrequent visits to the Malfoy manor on the outskirts of Paris weren't nearly often enough. He could forgive her teasing in the face of the underlying kindness such jests masked.
Dropping his attention to the wine list, Draco scanned briefly before offering the menu back to the waiter. "I'll have a glass of the 1947 Domaine Huet, if you would."
"Very good, sir," the waiter said, accepting the menu with a slight bow.
"Do you intend to impoverish me, Draco?" Pansy drawled as the man slipped silently towards the bar.
"If only I could," Draco replied. "Your financial burden was far less than my own in the post-war takings."
"That's not to say that they didn't take."
"True."
"I believe my portion was directly funnelled into Ministry refurbishment."
Draco turned his lips downwards slightly. "How unfortunate."
Pansy hummed through a sip of wine. "I agree. Personally, I would have preferred for the funding to be gifted directly to the Prophet headquarters. It has been sorely pathetic competition these past years, and recent headlines have only just begun to make up for its previous pitiful attempts."
Allowing himself a small smile, Draco settled back into his seat and regarded his friend. She was a force to be reckoned with, there was no denying. Crushed and browbeaten after the war, bullied into shame and guilt as much by herself as by the supposed 'light' side, Pansy had rebounded with a vengeance that took the journalism industry by storm. Incredulity for her age wouldn't only arise in the face of the impression she presented; Pansy had made a name for herself that few others in their mutual circumstances could equal, and in precious little time. Her efforts seemed to spit in the face of every shunning word and snide side-eye, only climbing higher for them.
"On the subject," Draco said, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap, "how is work? Do you still leave destruction in your wake?"
Pansy chuckled, smirking. "I have been given another warning, you know."
"I'm surprised it's taken this long, to be honest."
"Apparently my 'attack' upon the Lady Barbara was 'cutthroat and malicious'."
"Well," Draco said, drawing out the word. He let his ensuing silence speak for itself.
Far from offended, Pansy's smirk widened, and Draco couldn't help but reply in kind. "Did you read the article?" she asked.
"Only half a dozen times," Draco replied.
"Only half a dozen?"
"Yes. That was before Mother had it framed and mounted upon our wall." Draco chuckled. "I believe that if you hadn't already been an honorary member of the Malfoy family, that single piece that you bestowed upon the world certainly tipped you into full recognition."
Pansy tipped her head back and laughed. It said something of her genuine delight that, when the waiter returned, she didn't cease nor even spare him a moment of her attention. "I'll write to Narcissa and thank her for formalising the relationship, then."
"You do that. Or, better yet, pay her a visit. She hasn't seen you in far too long, and you know she struggles with house arrest more than I ever did."
"Yes," Pansy murmured, her good humour dying slightly into thoughtfulness. "Well, I do have an interview with that idol Monique Bordeaux in three weeks, so perhaps…"
Draco could only stare at her, shaking his head slightly as she trailed off into pondering. Monique Bordeaux was an up-and-coming fashion guru. Hailing from France, she'd spread her talons throughout Europe in a remarkably swift progression. That Pansy, a journalist and interviewer with less than two years of experience, and the family of Death Eaters to boot, had landed herself a job with the woman herself was nothing short of miraculous. Some speculated that she used underhanded means to achieve her goals. Others that it was her infamy and her family's war crimes that stirred interest in celebrities and thus gained her a foot in the door.
Draco knew otherwise. Pansy's success came from Pansy alone. She so sharply contrasted Draco's own experiences of the past years – confined to the fringes of Wizarding society in a country that wasn't his own, with his magic bound to the simplest of spells – that it was jarring. He might have even been jealous of her for her success, except he wasn't. Draco could only be proud that Pansy had been able to put the past behind her as well as she had. She'd changed, and only for the better, but some things never changed.
Taking a sip of his wine, Draco swirled it around his mouth for a moment as he considered. It was a good vintage, rich and layered, the aroma sweet and fruity with a hint of discernible honey. He wondered idly if Pansy would agree it was worth the pounds.
"Will you regale me with every article of interest that has occurred in London since your last letter?" Draco asked, settling his glass down upon the table before him with a soft thunk.
Pansy blinked, shaking herself from her thoughts. She rested her own glass down in turn. "Oh, but of course. In your absence there has been nothing but riot and intrigue."
Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm sure."
"You don't believe me?"
"Far from it, Pansy. If you claim there's riot and intrigue then I'm sure it exists – only that it's far less interesting than you make it out to be."
Pansy smiled. "Is that so?"
"You're a journalist. It's in your blood to exaggerate every story under the sun."
"You belittle me?"
"Consider it praise. It's a remarkable skill, to polish up a pile of shit and call it gold."
Pansy laughed again. Her fingernails drummed on the table in an echo of the whispering music overhead. "It is indeed a skill. I'm quite proud of myself."
"As you should be," Draco said with a nod.
"I don't believe that Mary Matron would have been quite so popular had I not published that article of her supposed celibacy," she said, raising a hand to tap her chin thoughtfully.
"Without doubt. Abstinence is few and far between these days."
"Isn't it? Although, from an alternate angle, Ewon McAllister would certainly not have been awarded third most-handsome bachelor in Wizarding Britain had I not preached of his skill in wooing."
"Of course not. He's heinously repulsive."
"Isn't he just?" Eyes brightening, Pansy leant across the table towards Draco and, without further ado, leapt into a frivolous tale of the exploits of her latest target, the renowned potioneer Charlotte Nettle, and how she was certain she had a scoop on her latest line of Enhancement Potions. That was how it always was with Draco and Pansy; they rarely exchanged superficial pleasantries because what was the point? Why not spend their time enjoying themselves, as Pansy clearly was? "Nothing works so effectively so quickly," she was saying insistently of Nettle's work, and Draco could only nod in agreement. He couldn't have slipped a word in if he'd tried.
It was like watching a fish swim. Pansy was in her element, in the refined context of The Square, in her role of an official gossipmonger, and in her own skill. She'd always been confident, had always spoken her thoughts, but Draco thought she'd grown into herself since the war. Necessity had demanded she abandon the pieces of herself that luxury had until then allowed her to hold onto. That evolution hadn't been entirely apparent when she'd visited Draco over the past couple of years, but it was starkly so when he watched her across the table. Pansy didn't simply survive. She lived to her fullest.
With a final, contented sigh, Pansy trailed off and settled back into her seat. She readjusted herself, re-crossing her legs and raising her glass once more. "But I could talk about such things forever," she said. "I'm sure I'm boring you to death."
"Not at all," Draco said with just enough sarcasm that Pansy wouldn't be able to miss it.
She smirked into the dregs of her wine. "Alright, Lord Pompous. I'll refrain."
"Lord Pompous?"
"Would you rather I call you Lord Dragon?"
Draco winced. "Salazar, no. Spare me that." He hadn't been called his childhood nickname in years, for which he was truly grateful. "If nothing else, I'm certainly not a Lord anymore."
"But still a dragon?" Pansy teased, though there was a touch of solemnity to her words. The erasure of noble titles was one punishment that had only been escaped by a handful of pureblood families involved in the wrong side of the war. The Malfoy's weren't one of them.
"Mm," Draco grunted. Scooping up his own glass, he frowned into the bronze-coloured liquid, swirling it in idle circles. Then, with another grunt, he downed it in one. It was almost sacrilege to consume the vintage in such a manner, but Pansy didn't bat an eyelid.
Just as she didn't when, planting his glass onto the table before him once more, Draco gestured to the sheaf of papers she'd been reading upon his arrival. "What's this, then? You were certainly making a show of sincere attentiveness."
Pansy regarded him for a moment, slowly swirling her own wine. Her eyes were blank, devoid of sympathy or pity, and Draco was grateful for that. It didn't necessarily mean she didn't feel it but simply that she didn't let it show. Visibly shrugging aside her solemnity, she dropped her gaze to the papers.
"A disappointment, that's what it is," she said with a dramatic huff. "A sheer and utter disappointment."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"They're my potential recruits," she said, and that was it. As though Draco should already know what that meant. Which, after a moment of thought, he abruptly did.
"Ah," he sighed with understanding.
Draco had been removed from London. He'd been set apart from the British Wizarding world. He knew next to nothing of what had become of that world since the war – of the people who had fought, who had been convicted, who had triumphed and became exalted in their fame – just as he hadn't the foggiest clue as to what had happened to key features of his past.
Like his old manor.
Like the ministry, beyond the scarce description of it being 'rebuilt' as Pansy had mentioned.
Like Hogwarts that would surely have required rebuilding of its own for the damage that had been inflicted upon it.
The people, the places, the families broken and destroyed – Draco knew nothing of them, and not because he didn't want to. It was a part of his sentence. He was to retreat to his family home in France for the period of two years exactly, in which he would have no contact with the outside world but for a precious few confidants and no access to the developments of the recovering country. He wasn't to seek knowledge of such developments either, or so was ordered of him. Draco was to be kept in the dark, to be leashed and smothered with his ignorance just as much as his magic had been.
He hadn't realised quite how much that punishment would sting. Ignorance… It was a blow that Draco hadn't appreciated the strength of before it was inflicted.
As such, he greedily horded any information that was allowed of him. Like what Greg had sent him in his letters from his own isolation, as surly and begrudging as Greg had always been. Like Blaise's jovial missives from further south where he'd preached the wonders of his new life with his cousins and that he 'didn't really miss his mother's company that much at all', despite the obvious fallacy of his words.
Like from Pansy, who had given him a step-by-step, real-time rendition of how she had climbed in the reporting world, because she had somehow realised just how much he needed the little titbits that accompanied her story. Her recruitment and subsequent analysis of applicants was a process that she'd been undertaking for weeks with a very similar response to that she offered the sheaf before her at that moment.
"I take it that you've none with potential enough to appeal to you?" Draco asked, gesturing once more to the papers of what was likely resumes.
Pansy clicked her tongue sharply. "There are a few hopefuls. Some even have sufficient experience. But nothing particularly standout, and you know how much I like standouts."
"I do."
"I've a mind to discard them all." She shot a glare at the resumes before smoothing her expression once more. "But, unfortunately, necessity dictates that I must accept one sorry employee."
"Have you actually seen any of their work?" Draco asked.
In reply, Pansy flipped through the papers and extracted a bundle pinned together. "Here," she said. "This is one of them. Daisy, her name is – and isn't that just pathetically simpering? But even without her purely atrocious name, I could hardly hire her as my official photographer when she only produces bloody catalogue shots."
Draco accepted the bundle wordlessly, and even as he flipped to only the second picture he could see what Pansy meant. There was no life to the pictures. They were stagnant, posed, absent of the trembling fluidity that bespoke the subject caught in the midst of action. The only one ever remotely resembling such a shot was just a little blurred at the edges. A little, but enough that Draco couldn't refocus his attention away from the mar.
"It really is pathetic," he muttered.
"Isn't it just?" Pansy replied heavily.
"How many applications have you had? How many are actually better than… this?"
"Altogether?" Pansy tapped her chin with a finger. "About sixty, last counted."
"Sixty?" Draco drew his gaze towards the pile of resumes again. "And yet nothing?"
"Nothing standout," Pansy repeated. "And standout is what I want. I need my photographer to hit as hard as my articles."
"That's surely impossible."
"True. But they could at least hit almost as hard."
"Still impossible, but less so."
Pansy hummed, frowning at the papers. "I may have to look further afield, I think."
"Meaning?"
"Delving into the Muggle pool of unlikely potentials."
Draco allowed himself a small smile. The thought of working with Muggles was a little discomforting still, but nowhere near as aversive as it had once been. Rendered all but a squib for two whole years, Draco had grown a reluctantly healthy respect for the capability of those without magic. He couldn't imagine the struggle of facing every day without it with no promise of his incapacity being lifted.
Besides, Draco had been forced to interact with Muggles aplenty. It was that or share no company besides his mother at all; the witches and wizards of Paris were far from welcoming of him.
"You never know," he said, reaching for the pile of resumes. "You might find one that's actually competent. They have significantly better equipment for technology than the Wizarding world, you know."
"Careful, Draco," Pansy said mildly. "You almost sound as though you're praising them."
Draco chuckled but didn't reply. Flicking through the papers, he barely caught a word or two of each but focused his attention more upon the pictures. Some were moderately acceptable. Some even warranted a brief pause in his flicking. Most, however, were unremarkable, and certainly none were standout. He frowned as he tilted one such image slightly in an attempt to discern just what the image was attempting to convey.
"This is a terrible angle," he said.
"Is that the one with the woman and her baby?" Pansy asked.
"Yes."
"I know. Terrible."
"And what about this one," Draco said, holding up another. "What kind of lighting is that?"
Pansy pulled a face. "I think he was attempting artistry yet ultimately failed."
"Definitely failed."
"Why he would bother when he doesn't have any apparent artistic flair is a mystery to me."
"Your guess is as good as mine."
Flipping through the pictures again, placing potential 'not terrible' ones in a pile, Draco set about assisting where Pansy hadn't asked him to. She didn't chide him for stealing her pile; rather, when the waiter reappeared with quiet askance as to whether they would like to order or not, she waved him away to allow Draco to continue.
Draco hardly noticed. He hadn't any particular interest in the recruiting process, but he'd heard so much about Pansy's work directly from her that he couldn't help but be a little invested. Besides, some of the pictures were truly dismal.
"I'd discard this one right off the bat," Draco said, flipping a stack to the side.
Pansy nodded. "What was his name? Charles Hawthorn?"
"That's the one. He's boring."
"Agreed."
"And this one, too. There's even less life to these pictures than Daisy managed."
"That one…?" Pansy leant across the table to peer at the resume. "Ah, yes. Her CV is just as boring, I'll have you know."
"I could have anticipated that," Draco muttered. He flicked through another few candidates before pausing upon one. "This one might have slight potential."
Pansy peered to where he pointed once more. She nodded slightly. "He's the best of a bad bunch, it seems."
"Where do you find these people, Pansy?" Draco asked, holding up a picture in the air and squinting at with the assistance of the more direct ceiling light. "You need a finer-toothed comb, I think."
"Or two minds."
Draco blinked. Raising an eyebrow, he lowered the picture to turn a sidelong gaze upon Pansy. "Is that a request for assistance?"
Abruptly, Pansy's composure became tinged by an edge of solemnity once more. Reaching towards him, she tapped a long nail upon the back of where Draco's hand had lowered to res on the tablet. "What are you going to do with yourself now, Draco?"
Staring back at the photograph without really seeing it, Draco affected disregard. "I have no idea. I'm sure something will crop up."
"That's the thing, though." Pansy's voice lowered, became suddenly insistent. "Things don't just crop up, Draco. Not for people like us."
"Meaning?" Draco said.
"Don't be naïve. It doesn't suit you."
Huffing, Draco all but glared at the picture pinned between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, Pansy, what do you propose? That I act and seek purpose for myself in a world that hisses and rages at the very mention of the name 'Malfoy'?"
"No more than it does 'Parkinson'," Pansy murmured.
"You're delusional if you truly believe that." Sighing, Draco discarded his pretence, flipping the photograph onto the table and shifting his gaze to meet Pansy's. "You've certainly found a niche for yourself, Pansy. Your family name is something set apart from that."
"It is," Pansy said slowly. "As can yours be."
"After two years of incarceration?"
"House arrest isn't quite incarceration."
"You think that just because I'm locked up in a foreign manor the world would forget that my father is in Azkaban?"
Pansy fell silent. She lowered her gaze to where she still tapped the back of Draco's hand, the pressure of her finger barely felt as it made little divots in his skin. She opened and closed her mouth twice before speaking. "People won't forget."
"No," Draco said, though it was emitted as more of a growl.
"But you, as I did, have the opportunity of utilising the anonymity of the Muggle world to your advantage."
"Which you've embraced so warmly."
Pansy ignored Draco's sarcasm but to stab the back of his hand a little harder with her claw-like nail. "There's an opportunity, Draco," she said. "For you. And for me."
The music rippling through The Square had shifted multiple times throughout the brief period that Draco had been seated, but it chose that exact moment to fall into a lull. The stagnant silence seemed to echo with potential but also something a little more ominous. Draco loved Pansy and could tolerate few others as he could one of his oldest friends, but her offers were rarely made without a few hidden landmines buried out of sight.
The issue was that Draco couldn't find it within himself to care. Since he'd returned to London barely a day before, since he'd accepted that he was a free man – if only physically, for society still kept him imprisoned – Draco had hit a wall. It was a wall that he refused to consider just yet, but even such refusal couldn't be ignored forever when it barred his path so effectively. Draco couldn't even see over that wall to what potentially lay beyond.
Was Draco scared? No. He didn't let himself feel the fear of floundering. But was he wary? Most definitely. The future looked nothing short of intimidating when it was riddled with so many pitfalls and disasters, the nature of which he hadn't even fully contemplated. To take an opportunity the likes of which Pansy offered…
"What are you suggesting, exactly?" Draco asked slowly.
With a final prod at the back of his hand, Pansy withdrew her claws and instead settled for cupping her chin in her hand, her elbow resting easily upon the table. "You've never held a camera before, have you, Draco?"
"Held a camera?" Draco arched an eyebrow. "Pansy, I'm not that incompetent."
"Alright, alright. You've never held a camera and taken a decent picture, then. Have you?"
Draco opened his mouth but closed it again a moment later. What could he say to that? It was, regrettably, somewhat true. Draco didn't favour admitting his own incompetency. He was, if nothing else, a pursuer of perfection.
"What are you suggesting, exactly?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. The words sounded petulant even to his own ears.
The hint of a smile touched Pansy's lips. "I'm saying, Draco," she said, deliberately enunciating each word, "that we could benefit one another with mutual support. And that I could utilise your skills."
"My skills?" Draco snorted. "My photography skills of which you've so kindly pointed out I lack?"
"Yes, you lack, but them?" Pansy gestured towards the papers that Draco had laid before himself with a sweep of her hand. The photos that he could see poking out from behind white slips of resumes were almost an offence to the eyes. Where was the refinement? Honestly, it was pathetic. "These so-called professionals have experience, and this is what they produce. You, however, have no such experience yet can already differentiate the good from the bad."
"Differentiation is far different from being able to produce valuable product myself," Draco said.
Pansy's smile didn't waver. "You're putting up a useless protest, Draco."
"Useless? How so?"
"Say yes."
"And why would I –?"
"Have you got anything better to do with yourself?"
Draco opened his mouth to reply but once more found himself without worlds. He slowly pressed his lips together, dropping his gaze down to the table and the papers spread like a second tablecloth. He didn't know what he was resisting. He hadn't any particular interest in photography, but it wasn't as though he disliked the idea. If anything, that it complemented Pansy's career and would thus support his own attentiveness to news headlines was a benefit.
It was simply that…
"I know," Pansy said. "It's not the future you thought you'd have."
Draco didn't shift his stare. He couldn't. She spoke too much truth.
"But then, I can't say this is the future I saw for myself, either. Bleeding Morgana, I pictured myself a refined lady of the Parkinson family who barely had to lift a finger in her life and pursued nothing but endless leisure." Pansy sighed. "But such is not to be. And I can't say I regret it."
"Can't you?" Draco asked quietly, slowly lifting his gaze towards her.
Pansy's smile had grown quiet. It was a secretive expression, coveted, and Draco knew that few enough people in the world had been given the opportunity to see it. Pansy was sparse with showing even the barest hint of vulnerability to anyone.
"Yes," she said simply. "And, if I'm to be perfectly honest, I believe you can too. You may not have a longing for capturing the photographic image, Draco, but you've always been a passionate person, whether in study or maintenance of your arrogant façade –"
"It's not a façade," Draco muttered.
Pansy's smile became a smirk. "Sure. You keep telling yourself that. Nonetheless, I think this could be good for you. Besides," once more she raised her glass to her lips, "you've always sought to be the best at everything you've attempted. I'm giving you the opportunity, Draco. Take it."
Why Draco felt the need to protest, he didn't know. It could have been that Pansy was right and that it wasn't the life he'd wanted for himself – but then neither had being a Death Eater, or being incarcerated for two years. It could have been because he truly didn't like being incompetent at something and he would have to start from step one if he were to be a photographer – but then, every skill had to be started for the first time once. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, frowning, until –
"Take it, Draco," Pansy murmured again.
With a sigh, Draco allowed his crossed arms to unfold. He snatched up his glass and held it aloft in a gesture to the waiter. "If I'm going to do this for you so you don't have to fish through any more inadequate fools, then you owe me at least another drink."
Pansy didn't argue. She didn't need to. They both knew that she wasn't the one being helped. Not really.
Draco's remaining resistance endured until he finally stepped into his first photography studio. Or a little after that initial step, but it was in the studio that everything truly changed.
The studio itself was situated on one of the upper floors of a soaring building that overlooked a sea of other, less soaring buildings otherwise identical in their blank whiteness and walls of windows. Following on Pansy's heels, he entered a wide, echoing foyer of polished floors and minimalist desks and attentive receptionists. Draco followed her as she bypassed them into a sleek elevator without comment; he didn't question that it was clearly a Muggle building that she'd led him into. Even had he not already known the nature of the grey area between Wizard and Muggle, Pansy's missives had informed him that, outside of the notorious Daily Prophet, most of the media branches of the Wizarding world extended beyond its restricted boundaries.
"You said you've worked with this man before?" Draco asked as they stood side-by-side in then refined elevator, accompanied only by calming, neutral music and the flicking of the numbered light above the doors.
Pansy hummed affirmation. "A number of times, and again only quite recently, so I'm still fresh in his mind. He's a casting director by trade, a photographer when he has the time."
"You, fresh in his mind?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Not the other way around?"
Without turning her head, Pansy drew her gaze towards him. Her lips twitched very slightly. "He's very good, Draco. One of the best, even. It was a lucky break that I caught him when I did, actually; he found me a good couple of photographers and editors that he's worked with before and got them to lay off their prejudice for a bit."
"And you somehow managed to convince him to instruct me in the supposedly masterful arts of photography?"
"I can be very persuasive, dear."
Of that, Draco had no doubt. He'd been the subject of Pansy's 'persuasiveness' many a time through their shared history. What she couldn't coax forth with a smile and a silver-tongued request she acquired through sheer intimidation. Draco could almost pity her victims sometimes.
Nonetheless, he didn't comment further as the elevator pinged and the doors slid silently open. He wouldn't discredit Pansy by asking how she'd managed it – for a master never revealed their methods – and he wouldn't do her the even greater disservice of asking why she'd bothered to go to such lengths. Her assistance was for the same reason that he'd helped her write her essays without question countless times throughout their school years. It was simply what they did.
The hallway that stretched from the elevator was glowingly white, the pristine floorboards just a shade darker. Empty walls made the passage seem wider than it was, broken only by intermittent doors closed and embedded along each side. Following in Pansy's wake, her confident strides slowed not even slightly by her ridiculously high stilettos, Draco instinctively strained his ears through the empty silence. Nothing but a distant click of a door broke that silence.
"A pleasing ambiance," Draco murmured.
"I've always found to be, yes," Pansy replied, flashing a smirk over her shoulder. "This is the difference between the good and the best in the industry."
"What, a quiet workspace?"
"The respect and tangible awe, I rather think."
Draco allowed himself a small smile. He was more appreciative of respectful silence rather than outbursts of pride and arrogance. Or at least he had become so these days; he wasn't so oblivious as to overlook the glaring fact that he'd been one such source of noise in the past. Time, experience, and a healthy dose of debilitating humility afflicted upon him had changed that. Draco had learnt the value of silence and the peaceful safety it could offer.
Turning the corner at the end of the hall, Pansy paused before the first door. She rapped her knuckles in a sort, sharp knock and waited. When the door opened, it was flung wide with the efficiency of the distinctly time-poor.
"Pansy. Right on the dot, as usual."
"Of course," Pansy said, tipping her head in a nod. "I couldn't have you waiting on my beck and call, Dimitri."
Dimitri gave her a crisp smile. He was a short man, slightly plump, and he somehow filled the doorway despite his diminutive stature. His spiked hair, gelled precisely to quilled points, matching the cropped goatee upon his chin, spoke of one who took pride in his appearance. That much was even more apparent from the sleek lines of his trousers, his fitted vest and the folds of his overlong collar. Draco could respect that in a person. He'd never quite understood how anyone could step outside of their house without showing their best to the world. It would leave them far too open to attack.
While Draco eyed him warily, Dimitri spared him a considering glance. His gaze gave Draco a calculating sweep before he met his eyes stare for stare. There was judgment there, but nothing derisive. "You're Draco Malfoy, I take it?" He extended a hand. "Dimitri Nilsson."
Draco shook his hand with the same efficiency Dimitri had opened the door. "Pleasure," he murmured.
"The pleasure's all mine. I owe Pansy more than a favour or two, so consider it partial repayment."
Side-eyeing Pansy briefly, Draco nodded. He didn't question that she used the repayments not for herself but for him. That was something they'd always done, too.
Dimitri ushered them through the doorway with a precise step backwards, sweeping his arm wide. Pansy clopped through with casual strides, the picture of both familiarity and entitlement, and Draco followed on her heels. He paused just inside the door and said nothing for the curiosity that lifted his eyebrows and turned his gaze.
The room was wide, open, and seemingly larger than should have been possible for an indoor space, though without the Enlargement Charms of magic. Windowless, it held none of the closeted gloominess that was often entailed in internal rooms; rather, the glaringly white walls reflected in the simple, similarly white table and the inky dark floor made it seem larger, brighter, and more open. Even the overhead lights beaming down upon the hardwood were white rather than yellow, starkly enhancing a yellow arrow in centre of the floor directly before the desk and seats that was the only mar upon the otherwise empty room. Despite the seeming randomness of it, the arrow and placement of furniture appeared nothing if not perfectly precise.
Pansy spoke. Dimitri replied. Draco heard them both only detachedly, enough to discern the exchange of pleasantries in a familiar manner. He'd never been in a casting studio, and even knowing that his own situation, his own room with his own elements of a photographic career that he could morph and manipulate as befit his needs, would be different entirely, the barest glimpse into an aspect of what Pansy was making of his future was somehow captivating.
Draco didn't have much interest in photography. Not really. But being in the midst of what lay behind the images in magazines and still-frames, the election of the perfect model in a refined selection process, certainly piqued his interest.
"… won't believe that of you, Pansy," Dimitri was saying. "You have far too much rationality to let yourself be taken in by the foolish whims of celebrities."
"Why, thank you," Pansy replied smoothly. "I've always considered myself of a sophisticated class above such trivial personas."
Dimitri laughed. "Careful. Those personas all but write your pay checks themselves."
"Mm. Sadly enough."
Dimitri stepping to his side drew Draco's attention from the studio scene. He offered Draco a small, short smile, curt but not unkind. "So. You're to be my new apprentice photographer."
Draco tipped his head in what wasn't quite a nod. "If you'll have me."
"Hm." Dimitri drew his gaze up and down Draco once more. From anyone else, Draco might have found such assessment disconcerting or even solicitous, but Dimitri was purely thoughtful. "You've got the look for it, certainly."
"The look?" Draco raised an eyebrow.
"Professionalism, Draco dear," Pansy clarified.
"Professionalism will do little if I can't develop the skills and proficiency to perform."
"Too true," Dimitri said, a touch of satisfaction colouring his small smile this time. Gesturing with a nod, he pointed them towards the second door before leading the way. "If you'll follow me. I take it you've an interest in the industry, then, Draco?"
Shrugging, Draco followed him in step. "As much as I can with precious little actual experience in participating."
Dimitri gave another approving nod. "At least you can recognise you're not an expert."
"Hardly." Draco couldn't quite keep the disgruntlement from his voice. It didn't matter that he'd had no prior interest in photography; he disliked admitting his ineptitude in any area.
"Now, now, Draco," Pansy said from behind him. "No need to be touchy. Give yourself at least a day on the job."
"Preferably more than a day," Dimitri said. "Regardless of how naturally gifted you may be or how proficient a learner you are, everything – regrettably – take practice."
Draco grunted in reply. He might have said more, too, but whatever words rose upon his tongue died as he stepped into the adjacent room and caught sight of the spread before him.
The room itself was simple. A leather couch, a coffee table atop a thick rug, something too minimalistic to be a kitchenette with a kettle and one of those Muggle micro-waving appliances. A wide desk with the large square boxes he knew to be a computer positioned to the side, wheeled chair half tucked into it. That itself would have drawn Draco's attention. He'd been exposed to just enough Muggles enough over the past years that he had a certain appreciation for technology.
What truly caught his eye, however, were the pictures. So many pictures. The walls – they were probably white beneath the spreading mosaic, but it was difficult to discern for what all but covered them. Silenced, Draco slowly stepped towards the mosaic wall, gaze drawn to the images fitted perfectly against one another.
Dimitri hummed something distinctly proud. "Is that approval, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco didn't reply. He didn't need to, for he was sure his sentiment was conveyed through silence. Approval didn't have anything to do with it. Approval suggested subjectivity. Draco didn't think there was anything subjective about those pictures. They were works of art.
A woman sat upon a white floor in nothing but an oversized white shirt, her legs elegantly folded around herself as she stared intensely at the camera.
A man gazed towards a distant corner, the hint of a smile upon his lips, the muscles of his bare chest defined in the greyscale gradient of the picture.
A pair of women, young and smooth-faced, smiling at one another sidelong. A man with eyes closed as he rested his forehead against the temple of the woman in his arms. A trio more of men, poised and still but somehow fluid in their stasis. Faces, smiling or blank, cool or warm or something in between. Bodies arranged with perfect precision or seemingly captured in a moment of motion, bodies of art themselves draped in finery of simplicity or complexity, from floral dresses and arching heels to low-slung jeans and a plain shirt.
Barely a one face was repeated. Some, Draco saw, assumed the prestigious right of two or three depictions, but those few were scarce. Draco barely noticed; he was admittedly captured by the sights. This was something different to the pictures in magazines. Something other.
It is real art, Draco thought. It's… near perfection.
That thought itself was enchanting. Stunning, even. Perfection was what Draco had strived for so long to attain in every area he applied himself, something he hadn't thought possible to reach. Now, in a turn that hadn't even been initiated by himself but by Pansy, he seemed to have stumbled across the closest thing to it.
"Merlin's bloody…" he murmured to himself.
"Merlin?" Dimitri asked, stepping up alongside him. "Are you a pagan as well?"
Draco frowned, momentarily drawn from his stupor, and glanced towards him. "What?"
"Like Pansy." Dimitri folded his arms as he too turned his appreciative gaze upon his wall. "She's told me only a little about it."
Draco whipped his attention towards Pansy as she drew along his other side and couldn't help but glare at the smugness playing across her face. The evening he'd met her she'd led him to believe that she didn't associate with Muggles, even in her career. In spite of Muggle technology, photography, and cinematography, she'd seemed positively derisive. But now…
Bitch. She could have given me some warning.
Draco would have to watch his tongue. If he was going to apprentice under Dimitri – who he more than suspected was a master of his trade even without Pansy's recommendation time – he would have to be very, very careful with what he said.
"Dimitri has taken shots of some of the most prominent models in London," Pansy said, as if in explanation. She gestured at the wall with a sweep of her hand. "Beyond that, even, isn't that right, Dimitri?"
"I have had the pleasure, yes," Dimitri replied, that satisfied smile in his voice again. Taking a step forward, he drew his finger across the image of a young man with brilliant curls. "Jamie Armstrong. He was surprising enthusiastic for someone so esteemed." His finger drifted downwards, grazing over a woman staring aloof and heavy lidded into the middle distance. "Fiona McGuire. Excellent model, though she doesn't take to suggestions too well."
"That must be frustrating," Draco said.
"Unduly, at times. How better to learn than by practicing adaptability?" Dimitri's finger drifted again. "Simone Whittaker. Absolutely gorgeous; you don't need to be told that. Just look at her presence. Winona Bellefonte: she's only young but definitely a something. Xavier: he was a struggle at first, but just look at his poise. You could hardly attain such a presence without innate skill…"
Draco didn't know the people Dimitri spoke of. He didn't recognise most of them, though his keen eye and admittedly sharp memory drew forth images he'd happened across in passing. If even he could remember them then they must indeed be prominent.
Not that Draco cared. He didn't care who any of the models were. He didn't care who he was photographing so long as he was practicing what he abruptly decided he wanted to pursue, wanted to perfect, and so long as the subjects in front of his lens abided by his wishes. It wasn't as if he had any investment in –
" – was surprisingly amiable company, and has a way with predicting just what was asked of him," Dimitri murmured a little wistfully, his words snapping into Draco's thoughts like a rubbed band. "He was only a rising star when I first came across him, but you wouldn't have picked it."
"Who?" Draco asked, his voice lashing out more sharply than he'd intended as he snapped his gaze towards Dimitri. "Who did you say?"
Dimitri glanced at him briefly before turning back to his wall, folding his arms once more. "Harry Potter. You've heard of him, I take it? Every John and Jane on the street has, even if they've little knowledge of the world of fashion and photography. Appeared out of nowhere but somehow…"
If Dimitri kept speaking, Draco didn't hear him. He thought he might have done, but he didn't care. All of Draco's attention – his abruptly dumbfounded attention – had swung and become fixed upon the picture that Dimitri had grazed his fingers across moments before. That picture…
Potter? Harry Potter?
Draco almost couldn't believe it. He stared, and stared, and stared at the static, utterly Muggle picture, and even as the features that were all too familiar to him became gradually more apparent, he still didn't think he could believe it. To think that Potter – that Harry Potter –
"He's different, isn't he?" Pansy murmured in his ear.
Draco couldn't even nod. Different didn't begin to cover it. The man in the picture was something else. Something other than Potter and yet somehow still the same. The lines of him, slimmer and sharper than how he'd been in adolescence when last Draco had seen him, were only more enhanced by the lighting of the picture. The angle of his head, tilted downwards as Potter had so often kept his gaze trained, was the same and yet somehow different. The clasp of his arms to the back of his neck in a pose both elegant and natural, the slight turn of his chin as he stared into the bottom corner, the artful curl of his hair sprung loose from a similarly artful shag that didn't cover his eyes as Potter's so often had…
There were no glasses. There was no scar. No messy bird's nest atop his head or sloppy slump of his shoulders. What had once been oversized t-shirts and faded jeans was instead similarly simple attire but fitted, clinging to the contours of his body, emphasising rather than hiding. It was… it was somehow…
Draco swallowed thickly. It was Potter. It was definitely Harry Potter, and yet somehow wasn't. Somehow different. Somehow other, and, if not perfect, it was damn-near close.
"Merlin," Draco muttered once more, and he didn't even care that his voice croaked a little.
Pansy snorted nearly silently, but Draco ignored her. Dimitri stared at him with curiosity, but Draco ignored him, too. He couldn't quite help but reach, nearly touching the image pinned to the wall and so ethereal that it could have been actual magic.
Draco wanted. He suddenly wanted what Pansy had to offer for a different reason entirely. He wanted to capture that almost-perfection in a camera lens even when he'd barely held a camera in his life.
"There," Dimitri said, voice once more thickened with approval. "I think I can work with this. Thank you for finding him, Pansy."
Draco didn't know what he meant. He didn't really care.
"You're welcome," Pansy replied. "I do offer only the best potential for you, you know."
Draco didn't know what she meant either, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't look away from the picture.
"I take it this is your particular brand of enthusiasm, Draco? You're prepared to undertake the role of my apprentice and everything it entails? I'm sure Pansy has briefed you on what's expected of you."
Finally, with a struggle, Draco tore his gaze from the image on the wall towards Dimitri. Even in the face of the bearded man's small smile, his curiosity and blatant approval, the image of the model – of Potter – swum before his eyes. Draco didn't even truly care that his composure had slipped. He nodded shortly, hummed his affirmation, before turning back to the wall.
The studio, the wall of pictures, the artistry he'd gleaned – that might have been enough to entice Draco in pursuit of everything Pansy and Dimitri had to offer. But seeing that one photograph…
It was the nudge that pushed Draco over the brink and he stepped gladly.