Be warned. There is an F-bomb dropped. That is what happens when your life sucks.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It is like a Crucio to the gut.
Chapter 2: Where Draco Acknowledges His Life Sucks and Will Probably Get Worse
With great restraint on Draco's part he manages to not punch the wall of his bedroom. To do so would put his hand's wellbeing at risk and result in a possible trip to St Mungo's. No thank you. Draco refuses to be poked, prodded and given the stink-eye any more today!
Why is Draco not punching a wall but very much wanting to? Your concern is appreciated. Draco, poor, ever misfortunate Draco, did go to work and it was agony. The insufferable fools and dirty looks are just the tip of the iceberg. He has to put up with that almost every day.
Like nearly every morning it started off with a depressed fest, party of one; though it took longer to get over it than usual. Following that Draco spilled his pick-me-up coffee on the front of his precious robes. Nothing not fixed by a scourgify but still, coffee. On his robes! Not in his mouth! And it was hot! Then an attempt to hit on an attractive, wealthy girl ended with her insulting the Malfoy name with a disgusted look on her face. It was humiliating, demoralising and downright unacceptable. That disrespectful witch was lucky Draco gave her the time of day! Then Draco was given mountains of paperwork to do. Then he missed more than half his lunch break because some self-absorbed idiot with a capital leave-me-be-so-I-can-commit-suicide-in-peace held him up discussing the pros and cons of Mister Memphrey's Magical Hair Mousse. When Draco thinks someone is self-absorbed it is the real deal. Then he got paired with Jerry for an assignment. Honestly. Jerry. How he became a Ministry employee is a mystery to Draco and the entire Ministry. Then – oh yes, there is more – the goddamn Slytherin prince Draco freaking, part gazelle he is so graceful, Malfoy tripped. That's right. He fell and landed on his beautiful, pale face (seriously, the man should be a Twilight vampire he's so gorgeous, Draco often thinks to himself. Not that he knows what Twilight is. Pfft. Don't talk crazy) smack bang upon leaving the Ministry. Metaphorical icing on the metaphorical horrible day cake.
Therefore Draco considers his display of such control admirable. A steadying breath later, he rationalises that the day cannot get worse. Normally such a statement would bring irony into play however Draco is cautious. The day has exactly four hours and sixteen minutes left before it concludes and he is not going to leave his bedroom. Surely nothing could get worse in the four hours and sixteen minutes Draco would be spending in bed. He is fairly confident that his anguish will not grow any further. Alas, even Draco Malfoy can be wrong.
Draco's sleep was nightmare free. Peculiar. In fact, he did not dream at all. Yet when Draco awakens from his much needed slumber it is accompanied by a mildly irksome headache. Something is off from before although somehow familiar. It could be the poorer quality of the mattress or the forest green drapes. Draco Malfoy does not have forest green drapes over his bed, they remind him too much of Hogwarts. Even his body feels different. What is this? Draco does not like waking to surprises.
He sits up in the lacking bed with the offensive drapes and glares into the darkness. Something is there. He can hear it breathing. No, wait – multiple things breathing! As well as obnoxious snores reminiscent of a pig with a cold or his once roommate and crony Crabbe. But Crabbe is dead so it cannot be him. His eyes adjust gradually to the dim and he is met with a sight he had hoped would never live again. People, in his room! Except it is not Draco's room. It looks more like the Slytherin dormitories. Actually, it is an exact replica of the Slytherin dormitories complete with three sleeping boys in their respective beds and an empty bed where Blaise Zabini would have slept if it is indeed the Slytherin dormitories. Zabini is a notorious early riser.
Like a ninja, he creeps from the bed, finding himself wearing the silk pyjamas he has not worn since Hogwarts. After all, a grown man needs no such thing. Silk boxer shorts are more than adequate. Disconcerted, Draco locks himself in the bathroom. Why would he be in the Slytherin dormitories again when he had vowed never again to share his living space with anyone other than a sexy female? Four other teenage boys need not know Draco sings in the shower. What he does when keeping up personal hygiene is his business. If only Lucius' petition for a private set of rooms at Hogwarts for Draco had not gone south.
He looks in the mirror searchingly, hoping to find comfort in his reflection. What he sees is the opposite. His face is different. It is wrong. It is the face of a seventeen year old. What. The. Fuck. His face is more pointed and paler. Scotland is not the place to get a suntan. He is also slightly smaller, as he had filled out some more following Hogwarts. A glance at his collarbone and, horror upon horror, there is a pimple. Draco was fortunate enough in his teenage years to not get acne on his face, only his shoulders and back. But he outgrew the nasty pus-filled abominations when he was eighteen. This cannot be. Draco knows every one of his faces with precision that an ordinary person may find scary. He knows with certainty it is his seventeen year old face looking back at him in the mirror. Still handsome but not as handsome as his nineteen year old face. Why does the universe do this to Draco? Give him a handsome face then the next morning take it away for a slightly less handsome but handsome nonetheless face? It is not fair.
But when has the life of Draco Malfoy ever been fair?
Splashing cold water on his face changes nothing except the temperature. Draco bites back a swear when the icy water hits his skin like a slap. He used a little too much water. After some spluttering he takes a trip back to the bed that appears to be his one at Hogwarts but cannot be because that would be impossible to retrieve his wand and cast a drying charm on his silk pyjamas. They may be a relic of Hogwarts past but they were expensive. Geez. This is why Draco turned to silk boxers. Much less expensive area to spill liquids on.
Sufficiently not wet, Draco stalks out of the room. Quietly, of course. He isn't so rude as to wake a man from his beauty sleep; Merlin knows they need it. The entire school does, save a few exceptions. It is hard to match the elegant breeding of features such as Draco's. He goes in search of the Slytherin common room because if it is the actual dormitories at Hogwarts then there would be the common room. However Draco is none too sure whether or not it is Hogwarts. So when he finds the common room in the exact place it should be if this were in fact Hogwarts it is both a relief and unsettling.
Perched on a black settee with silver trim in the otherwise empty common room is Zabini. As per usual his posture is perfect as he reads a thick book, composed yet interested in its pages. This would be an image not unfamiliar to Draco had he been at Hogwarts but he is supposed to be nineteen. It should not be happening. Zabini does not appear different at all, another note of concern as Draco has not seen him since his seventh year. Zabini should be different. How is it they are both seventeen again?
With a schooled expression of boredom, Zabini looks up from his book. "Good morning Malfoy," he says upon seeing him. No hint of anything strange going on from his response. Blaise is a man of few words.
"Zabini, what year is it?" Draco snaps. Zabini raises an eyebrow haughtily. Draco shoots him an 'I will ask what I want and I don't need to give the likes of you a reason because I am a Malfoy so hold your tongue peasant' look. Zabini shrugs.
"1998," he tells Draco indifferently. At that precise moment Draco goes into shock. This is a dream, he assures himself. Since if it was not and somehow Draco went back in time then Voldemort would be alive. Voldemort cannot be alive. This is a dream. Sure.
A/N: This chapter was so much fun to write. It is nice to bring a twist of humour to the dark, depressing chasm that is my writing style. In case you're wondering, this is my take on Draco. I have always seen him as a bit of a drama queen, desperate to remain in the spotlight he has known since birth. Hence his manner. I hope it isn't too out of character. Review!