«I don't need another umbrella
I'm already wet from head to toe
There's no need to wear a sweater
I'm way too deep in the cold»
© Sunrise Avenue — Stormy End
And after the storm came peace and calm. They drove people crazy... ©
deadlight
Randall Wayne
A stack of unfinished reports the size of Fujiyama sat on the desktop. Magical quills were replaced by an ordinary ballpoint pen, a real Muggle pen, stolen from the Potter's drawer. There was no less paperwork, and Moody didn't suddenly change his anger into mercy. Still, Malfoy liked to scribble in calligraphy, on which his honorable mother spent many hours, boring lines, and then immediately crossing them out in one straight line. Boring. The hands of the clock barely crept over the number "twelve", and in the office, there was such silence and the vicious muttering of his colleagues in misfortune that he wanted to bang his head on the desk. Well, or follow the advice of the Weasley - the red-haired excuse for a wizard - and pour something stronger than the Calming Draught into his flask.
Potter - his immediate superior, brazenly fled to St. Mungo's Hospital, to see his wife in labor! Which one it was time around? The third? The second? Potter threatened to outdo his own mother-in-law and father-in-law, Merlin, have mercy on him! Malfoy shuddered involuntarily, vividly imagining that then Granger would become his boss. There was nothing to breathe in the already stuffy office. Malfoy crossed out four lines at once and loosened the collar of his shirt, tore the tie off his neck, put it in a drawer, and pulled the cufflinks off his wrists. Granger would be his boss! Sweet Salazar, what had come into him in the bright dayling?
In fact, after almost eight years of service in the Auror Department, Malfoy rose to the rank of chief adjutant of the Poitou rapid response gendarmerie and still did not understand what on Earth brought him from the north of France back to Mother Britain. Drunken meeting with the same Potter, Apparition after taking Dreamless Sleep, drunk driving, witchcraft in the middle of London at night, foul language (so what, that he was cursing in French? It turned out that Granger spoke it quite well) ... a list of Monsieur Malfoy, the chief adjutant's wrongdoings, could go on endlessly. And she continued, boringly mangling his name in a French manner. He wanted to vomit, and Potter kindly provided him with a bucket.
He himself still did not understand why he had come to London two years ago. Did nostalgia strike him? He would choke if it did. In that black devouring little soul of his, as the British magic newspapers still called him, there was nothing left: no conscience, sympathy, or feelings. And to whom should he show sympathy? To the winners of that war that had driven him to France as soon as the hearings on the case of suspect number 1342 ended... and thousands more of the same cases.
Slytherin honor, once hammered into Malfoy's blond head by his father, dictated that he, in fact, should be grateful to Potter and his friend with a rat's nest on her head for their evidence in court, otherwise, he would not be an Auror now, but fodder for the Dementors. And Malfoydid not care that the Dementors were dispersed around the world just after the war and after Kingsley Shacklebolt took the ministerial chair. Malfoy knew this. About Dementors, not about Kingsley. Because he caught them in emaciated and not very bunches through the forests of France, Belgium, Germany, and Luxembourg. They were starving, after all, damn them. And everything was fine - a common task for Aurors, if not for one unfortunate circumstance: Malfoy never learned how to cast a Patronus properly. And few people knew about this, otherwise, Malfoy would have been ridiculed and sent to the family estate to breed peacocks. However, other spells bordering on Dark magic also helped well for the Dementors. Aurors had a second-order clearance of three existing ones. Therefore, having risen to the rank of chief adjutant, Malfoy sometimes abused his official powers. In the interest of business, of course. Well, he did not like bony creatures in transparent robes. And after Lucius passed away, even more so. And yes, he remembered that there were no Dementors in Azkaban. It didn't get any easier.
More difficult, however, either.
Yes, he was running in circles. Rate race. Ranks, advanced training, scolding from the superiors, a flask of whiskey. Letters from Mother. In a word, it was Malfoy's life after the war. He learned not to wake up from nightmares, hooting into the black haze like a whirlpool, and after that he lay until dawn in a bed soaked with sweat and stared at the ceiling, counted the twinkling stars, then lowered his legs to the scalding cold floor and trudged into the bathroom, barely moving his feet. In the bathroom, he opened the shower, walked under boiling water, and stood like that for a long time, leaning his palm on the wet, slippery tile. The hot water relaxed his muscles and gave him the illusion of calmness. Sometimes Malfoy glanced at the firmly locked door, reminding himself that: "Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away."
Such a mantra was recommended to him by Healer Brown, who was obsessed with Muggle music. He laughed but remembered the lines. Let it be. Let all the problems really remain in yesterday. He was here. At his home in Surrey, safe. And the Death Eaters would not rush in hordes to flood his bathroom, and even Dumbledore would not look reproachfully. And the father will not reproach him for anything. He couldn't blame anyone else for anything. Minutes. Just for five more minutes... And then he turned off the tap and stared at his own reflection for a long time. Over the years, he rapidly lost and then regained weight, refused the help of healers in getting rid of his scars, let a dragon fly over the Dark Mark, which let out flames, setting fire to both the snake and the skull, reconciled with the past, at least until it did not come to knock on his door, and learned to look himself in the eye. There was no longer that suffocating self-hatred, there was no more pain, and only shadows remained, flickering in his gray eyes. A kind of stigma of survivors. So they recognized each other in the world after the war.
The newspapers stubbornly repeated, interrupting each other, that since Potter's scar did not hurt, then everything was fine. Their mantra was echoed by the Ministry, by enthusiastic wizards and witches, and even by Hogwarts professors. Malfoy once dared to appear at school, take a walk through the Slytherin dungeons and personally make sure that the portrait of Professor Snape did not appear on the honor roll of the former headmasters and headmistresses. Until recently, Draco did not believe his mother's letters with assurances that his godfather had survived. But he didn't want to talk about it today. So, the world kept saying that everything was fine as if the future, present, and past of Britain depended on the scar of the Boy-who-lived-to-make-Malfoy-mad. It was pleasant, apparently, to wrap yourself in the illusion of happiness, as in a mantle. And it would have been nice, but it wasn't. Malfoy was convinced of this every day in the DMLE. Murders and robberies in Muggle London had not gone anywhere (yes, he knew local bobbies and often had a pint or two in the pub with them at weekends), dark and not-so wizards who traded in dark and not-so substances, artifacts, and spells had not gone anywhere... The world in which they so believed, meeting the dawn on the ruins of Hogwarts, did not come true. But the post-war reality had come true. For almost ten years he had seen enough of this Greater Good. Well, at least the nightmares didn't come true either.
After resting on the cold bathroom floor until his legs were numb, Malfoy still remembered the ugly emerald terry robe given to him by Healer Brown as a joke present last Christmas, wrapped himself in it and chattering his teeth, he carried off to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. Granger would have been blown away if she knew that in his luxurious mansion Peacock Feather, which he named so, flavoring the decision with a good portion of malice, there were no and never would be any house elves. She would have a fit. And no, altruism did not wake up in Malfoy and he was not inspired by her panegyrics about protecting the suffering and oppressed ones, he had enough of this kindness back in Dumbledore's time, he just fell in love with silence. It seemed, that he always wanted a cozy silence. Not the cold, bordering-on insanity silence that reigned in Malfoy Manor during the terrible year when Voldemort took over his house. Not the indifferent silence that reigned in the Slytherin dungeons, when the only person who cared about them at all, faced the hatred and darkness of Hogwarts on a daily basis, but, as was said earlier, Draco did not want to remember this today. Not the ringing silence that came through in his mother's letters after his father's death. No, today in his house he wanted to be silent and listen to the silence. And, perhaps, the radio on the windowsill, mumbling something in any day and any weather. And also, Draco really did not like house elves jumping out of the blue, because judging by his post-war condition, they would first run into the first spell that flew out of his wand, and then they would be forced to hear the long list of his apologies. If not in front of them, then in front of Granger. Because he had no idea what to do with the injured house elves, and the only person who knew them from ear to ear was the Senior Auror Granger, nicknamed the Mad Fury. Draco grimaced and turned on the kettle. Coffee. Strong coffee with two tablespoons of sugar would help him. And then the work will knock out all the nonsense brought by nightmares.
And so it went on day by day, forming in his life that routine that was only in childhood, and turned out to be so necessary now. Field practice, reports, showdowns, shootouts, practice, home, Chinese food, a pint of beer on Saturday, football at the Potters on Sunday, Moody's bullying on Monday, a quiet evening when he trudged home after midnight and fall right in the hallway, nightmares, showers, old fears and masala chai every morning on the way to work. Sharpness, piquancy, sweetness, and taste that bloomed with every new sip. Once Malfoy dreamed of seeing the whole world, now his whole world was hidden in a cup of spiced tea, in a Muggle cafe, five hundred meters from Diagon Alley. And he was quite happy with that prospect. Although, sometimes he wondered if it would be better to stay in France, in a country where everyone did not perceive his black past so sharply, did not look back, did not spit in his back with contempt or worse, did not throw curses from around the corner and out in the open. On the other hand, in Britain, he had an unexpected friend in Potter, an unexpected Quidditch opponent in Weasley, and a thorn in his side in the face of Granger. Some things remained unchanged. Oh yeah, and a Friday pint with bobbies. And in France, there was Mother, a career, Astoria, a marriage contract, scandals, hatred, and one misunderstanding the size of the Mariana Trench for all. He wasn't ready to face some demons. And even Healer Brown could not yet tell if he would ever be ready.
Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away.
Malfoy continued to scribble the long-suffering report, not particularly caring about his own actions. It was stuffy in the office, his mood was bad, his mother sent a letter again, inviting him to the ball on the occasion of the Summer Solstice, and he wanted to get drunk. And even Potter disappeared into St. Mungo's! Should he go to the pub today? Or leave work early while Granger could not see. Perhaps, he should get a cat. Although, if it jumps out of the darkness at the owner, then the poor fellow would not last long. And Granger would give a thrashing-down. True, already posthumously. Draco snickered at his own stupid joke, winced at the crash of thunder that came suddenly as usual and cursed through his teeth. And this was the chief adjutant! Ugh! He didn't care that Healer Brown liked to say that only the fools and the dead weren't afraid. How this quote resembled his godfather! Draco fiddled with the pen, admired the smeared ink on the report, crumpled it up, and tossed it with a well-aimed throw into the basketball basket attached over the waste bin. This was how they had fun with Potter on a particularly boring day. Not Quidditch alone, as they say.
Malfoy glanced at his watch, took a tie out of the drawer, methodically tied it around his neck, meticulously fastened his cufflinks, checked his watch, wallet, and wand, and resolutely got up from the desk. Now he would enter into the rain, the wind would tear his umbrella away, at the turn from Diagon Alley he would face Granger nose to nose, and she would yell after him for five minutes, threatening to report to Moody about Malfoy's neglect of his direct duties, to which Malfoy would show her an obscene gesture and hide in his favorite cafe. And order masala.
And let all the problems wait. Another day in the post-war world had come to an end.