Disclaimer: It's all JKR's.
A/N: Sorry about missing yesterday. I'm without my notebook for the next few weeks and can only work on this from work. Another update later today.
VIVAASA
by: carpetfibers
One year, Day 89
It is a required portion of the rehabilitation process, and when he leaves his flat that morning, slightly burnt toast gripped in his mouth, he finds no reason to dislike it. His counselor is small and rotund, with full hair and reflexive smiles. The man serves watery tea, with leaves that float to the top and stick to the teeth.
He always refuses and the small man always smiles. "Despite the somewhat nontraditional manner in which your education was finished, you did quite well Mr. Malfoy. I see you did some studying in France?"
He nods and does not expand. He cares little for the brief time spent in France before extradition returned him to his motherland. Three months of unwelcoming relatives and made-up names; three months of a bent back and bloodshot eyes, driven to near blindness from noxious fumes and disagreeable ingredients.
"There are the normal Ministry entry positions available. You are slightly older than the usual entrants, but I'm sure, considering your circumstances, that it shouldn't pose a problem. The Department of the Owlery has two vacancies- how fare you with animals?" The small man smiles and holds his quill poised.
He shakes his head in dissent, and the paper is set is aside. For an hour he continues so, barely verbal, undeniably passive in the face of the man's granite cheer. He finds no interest, no charm in anything mentioned. He remembers, fitfully, afternoons spent outdoors and shoes logged with sand and dried leaves. His hands are restless. "Don't you have anything outside of the Ministry?" he asks, finally.
"Outside of the Ministry?" The small man shuffles papers and squints. "We only have two businesses who opted into the program for consideration-"
"What are they?" He is tired and constricted. His world feels narrow; he is known and named. There is nothing of anonymity; there is no chance to escape recognition. There is no escape. "Just choose for me," he says after ten minutes of not listening. "Nothing at the Ministry. I don't-" he pauses. Once upon a time, he wanted differently, but now he knows differently. "-I would prefer someplace less crowded."
The small man nods and drinks his weak tea. The owl comes three days later, the scroll in its talons terse and pointed. He finds the shop on a corner two streets down from Diagon's bricked entry. The shop's windows are cloudy with soot and age; its owner greets him wordlessly, and he spends his first day sorting books in silence. His second and third day pass in equal quiet, and not once is he bothered or stopped or stared at. He is invisible; he is the background, and on his fifth day there, a small hand tugs on his workman's apron and he stares down.
"Where can I find the book with the dragons and princess?" the little girl asks, her hair in a long plait.
He points to a shelf three stacks down and the little girl skips away, her mother in tow. He spends the remainder of his day in the same pursuits of his previous days, and when he walks home, the air bitter in its wind and breath, he smiles.
End Day 97