Harry Potter belongs to JKR.
Beta by FedererRex
Chapter 3
"Draco Malfoy," the receptionist called. It was a bit superfluous as he was currently the only one sitting in the waiting room, but he supposed they had their protocols. The blonde stood up and moved past the rows of wooden chairs to the window.
"Proceed to Room One. Your probation officer is already waiting there. His name is Brandon Clark," the middle-aged brunette said. She promptly went back to filing her nails.
Draco smoothed his (custom, tailored) robes and made his way to the office to meet the man who would control his destiny for the next six months. Room One was a small interview room, two chairs, a wooden table, and that was it. Brandon Clark, he assumed, was already seated, thumbing through a parchment file. Draco closed the wooden door behind him and took the seat opposite Clark. The parole officer was a slim man of average height, perhaps not quite thirty years of age, definitely not as tall as Draco, with short brown hair slicked back. He wore civilian robes rather than an Auror uniform, perhaps because of the nature of his job, and was immaculately clean shaven.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy, use of an Unforgivable, multiple attempted murders including two which resulted in severe bodily harm, possession of the Dark Mark," Clark said, looking up and making eye contact, "entitled brat, and general all-around scumbag."
He slid the file across the table to the younger man with enough force Draco had to move his hand to trap it and prevent the parchment from falling into his lap and all over the floor. He didn't break eye contact with Clark, showing only a coolly impassive expression despite rising irritation at the situation.
"Make no mistake, Mr. Malfoy, the only reason you're here and not somewhere much darker and with many more bars is because the Chosen One went on record to speak in your defence," Clark said, leaning over the table, "your family are known blood supremacists, how does it feel, to owe your life to a half-blood?"
"He's only trying to get a rise out of you, don't fall for it," Draco thought, keeping his expression neutral.
He pondered briefly whether the question was rhetorical before Clark continued talking.
"You're to report here to the Ministry every Sunday morning at ten o'clock sharp. Failure to do so will be considered a breach of your probation," he said, "your wand will be inspected during these appointments, but you are also to submit for inspection upon request from any ministry official, at any time. Any use of Dark magic, spells which have the potential to cause grievous harm, be it physical, mental, or emotional, or any other suspicious activity will result in a re-evaluation of your probation. Am I understood?"
"Yes," Draco replied.
Clark smirked.
"As part of your probation, you've been assigned to perform community service, at an orphanage," Clark said, sliding another file over to Draco. This one the young pureblood opened and began scanning through as Clark continued speaking.
"If you fail to report for your assignment, or if the administrator of the orphanage deems you're not acting in a satisfactory manner-" Clark said.
"I know, I know, Azkaban," Draco said, without looking up.
A moment passed while Clark glared at Draco. Apparently, the probation officer did not appreciate being interrupted.
"We're keeping the cell next to your father open. There's a pool betting how long you'll last before landing there," Clark said, "honestly I'm a bit gutted I can't take part, conflict of interest you see. I don't care what Potter or anyone else says; letting anyone who's taken the Mark walk free is a mockery of justice, and I'm hoping it'll be me who sends you away for a very long time."
"Duly noted," Draco replied without looking up.
He thumbed through a few more pages of his assignment.
"Hang on," Draco said, "is this a muggle orphanage?"
Clark smirked.
"Fitting, don't you think?" Clark said, "surrounded by muggles, in close contact with them, day in and day out, completely illegal to perform any kind of magic in front of them… you know, you could always take the cell."
Draco ignored him again, pulling some kind of muggle identification from the folder.
"Drake?" he asked.
"Draco isn't exactly a common muggle name," Clark replied.
"This starts today, I'm to be there in less than three hours," Draco said, ignoring the taunting of his probation officer.
"Better get a move on, scion of House Malfoy," Clark said mockingly, "wouldn't want to be late for work on your first day."
"I've never even been to muggle London, aren't they going to, you know, infect me or something?" Draco asked.
Clark's expression darkened.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he growled, "get out. Now."
The slamming of the door echoed down the hall as Draco left the interview room. He swore bloody revenge against the petty man, but even as he thought it, he knew it would be impossible to carry out his fantasies, even if they did help him feel a better in the moment. Thoughts of revenge gave way to apprehension at venturing into muggle London. He'd never been to the muggle side of the city, and having been raised with stories of unclean muggles and their uncivilized ways, he was equally petrified and disgusted.
"Sure, some of the stories must be exaggerated, but there must be some element of truth behind them," he thought.
There was nothing for it though, if he didn't get through this, his life, such as it was, was over.
He took the lift to the main entrance, ignoring the stares he received from the Ministry workers, and recovered his wand from the front desk. The atrium had been repaired, the garish sculpture Lord Voldemort had placed there was long gone, replaced by a fountain, reflecting pool, and an obsidian obelisk memorial with all of the names of those who'd died in the so-called second wizarding war. Correction, all those who weren't Death Eaters who'd died in the so-called second wizarding war. He wondered idly whether his name would have made it onto the wall next to Vince's if he'd perished in that last battle. The faded tattoo on his forearm itched. Probably not.
He ignored the extra attention, and, wand again secure in holster, strode to the floo.
"Diagon Alley," he said as he tossed in a pinch of powder from a jar set on the mantle, then stepped into the green flames.
Stepping out of the public fireplace, Draco brushed some soot off his shoulder before turning left and heading down the street, into the London drizzle. He cast a rain repelling charm to keep dry as he walked the hundred meters or so to Gringotts. The hall where the tellers conducted their transactions had been completely repaired. Unlike wizards, the goblins erected no monument to their dead, those that Voldemort had slaughtered. If the stories were to be believed, the damage Potter and his friends had caused when they'd broken in was substantial. As he queued, he idly wondered if Potter would be made to pay for those crimes.
"Probably not," Draco thought, twisting the knife of bitterness just a little more.
He'd never actually held muggle currency; he couldn't for the life of him understand why they used some kind of parchment instead of coins, but he supposed that's why they were muggles. He stuffed the notes into an inside pocket and stepped back out of the bank. He'd always hated dealing with the goblins; they were less interested in fair trade than in trying to get one over on you, even in something as simple as a currency exchange.
"Damn parasites," Draco thought.
He still had over two hours, perhaps he could find something to eat? That plan evaporated when, with a groan of impatience, Draco realized he couldn't go into muggle London wearing wizard's robes. He walked the five minutes to Madam Malkin's, ignoring the stares and mutters of the few witches and wizards he passed in the dreary weather. He opened the door to the shop to find it nearly empty; school holidays had ended the day before. He quickly found a small section devoted to muggle clothing. Odd that in seven years of attending Hogwarts, he'd not once noticed the section. Shaking his head, he turned and strode up to the front counter.
"Good morning Madam Malkin, I have need of muggle attire," Draco said.
"I'm sorry, we don't carry anything like that," the proprietor replied.
"I can literally see it from here, Malkin," Draco said, pointing to the section where said clothing sat on display.
Malkin shook her head.
"Your gold is no good here, Malfoy," Madam Malkin replied, "might I suggest Twilfitt and Tattings, just down the road?"
Draco pursed his lips and sent a glare at her, which she returned in equal measure. Finally, he relented and turned to leave.
"Fine," he said, sneering leaving the store and closing the door with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.
He grumbled for the entirety of the fifteen-minute walk to the south side of Diagon Alley. The difficulties in interacting and conducting day-to-day business were growing increasingly intolerable. It had started with refusals at some high-end restaurants. Couldn't be seen with such a controversial figure, would drive off the other customers they said, with practiced faux apologies in their expression and tone. Then it was various business partners of his father's. Couldn't be associated a known Death Eater and son of such an infamous criminal. Now he couldn't even exchange perfectly good gold for clothing from an otherwise empty shop!
"At least the rain has let up," Draco thought as he stared up at the overcast sky.
By the time he reached Twilfitt and Tattings, he was thoroughly put out by Malkin and resolved to place her just under Clark on his imaginary list of individuals to take revenge on. How dare she refuse to serve him? He had been acquitted, after all. What was the point of being found not guilty if you were still treated like a criminal? He was yet again disappointed when he arrived, this time foiled by a sign hanging on the inside of the door which read 'Out to lunch, back in fifty-seven minutes'. As he read it, the fifty-seven dropped to fifty-six, but it wasn't much consolation for him; he didn't have that much time to spare. He supposed an establishment like Twilfitt's probably wouldn't carry muggle clothing anyway.
He turned on the spot and apparated to the arrival point on the Manor grounds. Robes fluttered behind his calves with the urgent pace of his steps as he strode up the main walkway. Quietly, he opened the massive front door. The foyer was dark; without any house elves or servants, there was no one to draw the curtains. His mother certainly wasn't going to do it. Thankfully, he made it up the marble steps and down the hall to his room and wardrobe without incident.
He flipped through outfits, each more inappropriate than the last. What the bloody hell was he supposed to wear? Quickly he tried to recall the clothing of the mudblood students he'd seen on the Express. Not Granger, bloody swot. And female. Thomas, what did the Gryffindor wear? Draco seemed to recall him and some of the other mudbloods wearing those blue trousers quite often on the platform, not that he really kept track of what they wore, but it did seem to be some sort of trend. He didn't have any of those, so a pair of black pressed slacks and a blazer over a white shirt would have to do. He glanced into the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.
"Vanitus Capillus," he said, pointing his wand at his hair to untangle it and give it a slight sheen.
Now with only 90 minutes left to go, he crept back out of the Manor again and apparated back to the Leaky Cauldron. He tucked his wand into his inside blazer pocket and leafed through the folder as he walked. There was a muggle (non-moving) map there detailing how to get to the orphanage. He swallowed at the hidden entrance. The moment of truth. He'd seen and walked past the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron dozens of times, but never once stepped through.
Draco took a deep breath and pushed the fake wall, stumbling through as it rolled back, ducked his head through the dimly lit bar without looking left or right, and shoved his way out the door and onto the street. The noise of muggle London assaulted him. Buses lumbered down the street and stationary automobiles lined the side of the road. Cyclists weaved between the traffic.
"Watch it!" a muggle cyclist wearing a blue helmet and bright yellow vest yelled at him and rang a bell as he took a step back. The bicycle continued zooming down the road.
Muggles. Dozens of muggles, all around him, many carrying umbrellas. It was drizzling again. Sodding London. Draco muttered a curse under his breath as he cancelled his rain repelling charm. Then he pulled out the map provided and, after taking a moment to orient himself, pulled his collar up and started walking.
After nearly being assaulted by a bright red double-decker bus at a crossing (wait for the green man, Draco), he finally made it where destination, St. Paul's School and Children's Home, should be. The blonde looked in both directions but the crossing pedestrians, honking lorries and busses coming or going, and cyclists all zipping and weaving about each other was nothing short of absolutely manic. The only quiet in the brick and asphalt cityscape was a children's playground, currently empty owing to the drizzle. Eventually he spotted the orphanage, a red brick, three story building, large enough to house at least fifty orphans comfortably, perhaps a hundred if they squeezed. Curtained windows looked out onto the street from all three stories, some of which had colourful painted or dyed cloth banners hanging from them. He brushed as much water as he could off his blazer, ran his fingers through his now soaking wet hair to give it at least some semblance of not looking like a disaster, and strode into the front door, shoes clicking on the wet asphalt.
It creaked as it opened, and Draco was greeted by a long hallway with chequered flooring and wood panelling walls. Iron chandeliers with electric bulbs hung at regular intervals, lighting the hall. A white and brown reception desk sat to his right, attended by a slightly overweight muggle woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wearing a dark pink blouse. He paused for a moment, confused by the chandeliers, until the woman spoke.
"May I help you?" she asked as the door neatly closed itself behind him.
"Ah, yes, I was told to report here," Draco replied, stepping forward and handing over his probation assignment.
"Right, Mr. Malfoy, we've been expecting you," she said, looking over the document, "my name is Madeline."
She walked out from behind her desk and held out her hand for Draco to shake. Draco looked at her hand, up at her increasingly uncomfortable smiling visage, and back down to her hand. He cleared his throat.
"Ahh," he managed.
"Smooth, Draco," he thought.
"Not good with physical contact?" Madeline asked, wiping her hand on her trousers, which Draco noted were those easily identifiable blue styled ones, "that's okay, follow me, I'll take you to Terry's office."
She set off without seeming to acknowledge the grievous social faux pas he'd just committed. Honestly how had he not mentally prepared himself for having to shake a muggle's hand? On the way to this 'Terry's' office, she prattled on about having something like fifty or sixty kids at any given time. They arrived at a wooden door with a frosted glass window, with the word 'Director' emblazoned in gold and black lettering on the glass. Madeline knocked.
"Come in," a male voice said. Madeline cracked the door open.
"Terry, the new community service helper is here," Madeline said.
"Great, send him in," Terry replied.
Draco entered the office, which really looked more like a lived-in study than a director's office. Several overloaded bookshelves lined the walls, with a comfortable looking chair and reading table set beside one of them. The remainder of the room was dominated by a large wooden desk and two metal filing cabinets. Worn blue carpeting covered the floor. A green desk lamp sat in the centre of the desk, along with a grey boxy contraption of some kind. Behind the desk, a window with venetian blinds, currently raised, looked out onto the rear yard. Terry himself was a man of about Draco's height, with greying brown hair, especially by his temples, perhaps in his mid or late 50's. It was hard to tell with muggles. Draco closed the door behind him as Madeline returned to her post, and this time he extended his hand first, determined to make a good first impression on the director whose favour he needed to avoid a prison sentence.
"Good afternoon sir, I'm Malfoy, Drake Malfoy," he said.
"Welcome to St. Paul's," Terry said, "Terry Macmillian."
The name Macmillian bounced around his mind for a moment. Then he looked at Terry again, eyes narrowed slightly, searching. This time he discerned a slight resemblance to his former classmate, Ernie. Of course he knew all the families of the sacred twenty-eight and their common physical characteristics like the back of his hand, he just hadn't counted on meeting one here.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I know who you are," Terry said, releasing his hand.
"Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting," Draco thought.
"I wasn't aware the Macmillians had a- Terry in the family," Draco said, barely catching himself, "is it short for something?"
Calling his, for all intents and purposes, new boss a squib within the first two minutes of meeting him probably wouldn't go over well.
"Terence, not that that will matter," Terry said, sitting down and motioning for Draco to do the same.
"What are you doing out here?" Draco asked, "some undercover assignment for the Ministry?"
"Not exactly. Employment options were limited in magical Britain, owing to a distinct lack of special ability on my part," Terry replied.
Draco shifted uncomfortably and glanced to the side briefly before re-establishing eye contact.
"I'm sorry," Draco said, "I wasn't aware."
"There's a quite a lot you're not aware of, Mr. Malfoy," Macmillian responded, "something you might want to keep in mind a bit more."
Draco nodded, and Macmillian settled back in his chair and held the Malfoy heir's gaze for a long moment, assessing him.
"Then again, that's probably hypocritical. I don't really keep up with the goings on of the other side," Terry said, "I know there was a war, it was bit hard to miss that, but I don't know the specifics. Whatever you did, whatever you're here for, it doesn't matter to me so long as you're good for the kids. We can always use the extra funding the Ministry provides us of course, but the hands-on is really what we need. Do a good job with that and I'll write you a positive report."
"I'll do my best," Draco said.
"Great," Terry said, standing up, "let me show you around."
"The orphanage is separated on three floors by groups," Terry said, "on the lowest floor are the children who are below school age, and we have several staff on hand to help care for them. Occasionally the older kids will help as well; no fixed assigned chores but they're expected to pitch in when asked or when it's obviously needed. We also operate as a day care for working parents to drop their children off, to help with funding."
Draco nodded, peering into one of the windows set into the door. Brightly coloured carpeting covered the floor, their patterns partially obscured by the various toys haphazardly scattered about. Children's drawings adorned pastel walls, hanging from strips of cork screwed to the walls or simply stuck to the concrete. About a dozen muggle children ran about the room or sat in small groups, playing various games, with two female staff monitoring them. He could see an auburn-haired girl about his age wearing a school uniform hugging and talking to a little blonde girl, perhaps seven years old. He looked up to see Terry waiting by a stairwell and broke into a trot to keep up with him.
"The middle floor houses the primary school age children, from age five to about eleven or twelve, and are overseen by assistant director Stephanie Griggs," he said.
They continued up another set of stairs, Terry's voice echoing off the walls.
"The top floor houses the secondary school age children, up to age eighteen, and are overseen by assistant director Pamela Baker," Terry said, "here she is now."
Draco was greeted at the top of the steps by a tall, tanned, athletic woman in her early 30's with long, wavy brown hair, wearing a light white blouse and knee length blue skirt.
"Pam Baker," she said, giving him a dazzling smile, her teeth perfectly straight and white.
"Drake Malfoy," Draco said, shaking her hand and resisting the urge to wipe it on his trousers. The woman turned to the Director.
"Terry, Mary is downstairs now, she was suspended and sent home from school today," Pam said, "thought you ought to know."
"It's the first week of class!" he said, wiping a hand through his greying hair, "what did she do this time?"
"She didn't say," Pam replied, with a small shake of her head, her ponytail swaying with the motion.
"Alright, I'll talk to her," the Director said.
"Thanks Terry," Pam said, "pleasure meeting you Drake."
"Likewise," Draco said.
She continued past them into the stairwell.
"You'll find all our staff are fairly outgoing," Terry said, continuing the tour, "you have to be, to work here. The pay's not great, and we have more kids than we can handle, so the full-time staff we do have are here because they want to be."
They passed by the dormitories, rows of beds in two large rooms, separated by gender. Terry continued talking as they descended the stairwells on the opposite side of the building.
"This is the cafeteria," he said, "it's where the children take their meals, and you'll take your lunch with them here as well."
Rows of wooden benches were lined up alongside long white tables. The floor had been recently mopped and was still a bit slippery. The cafeteria looked out to a yard of green grass, and to the playground beyond the wooden fence that marked the edge of the orphanage property.
"Right," Terry said, "that's just about everything, any questions?"
"What exactly will I be doing?" Draco asked.
"Working with the kids," Terry replied as he led the way back to his office, "mostly playing games with the younger ones and ensuring they don't hurt themselves, supervising schoolwork, and making sure supplies don't run out. We do have a few staff, but the younger children require more attention, and that's where we need the extra hands. You might occasionally be asked to move or lift something the ladies would have trouble with. Perhaps break up a fight or two between youngsters, nothing serious."
"Alright," Draco said as they reached Terry's office.
"Just to warn you, Drake," Terry said, "the kids are starved for physical attention. We do what we can but nothing can replace a mother and father's affection."
Draco nodded slowly, not quite understanding what all the fuss was about.
"Genuinely try help them out, and we'll get along fine," Terry said, "why don't you head home and get some rest, come back fresh bright and early tomorrow. Any other questions?
"No, no questions. Thank you Terry," Draco replied.
"Excellent," Terry replied, "I trust you can see yourself out."
Draco nodded once and they shook hands, then parted ways, walking in opposite directions, Terry back to his office. Draco walked slowly down the hallway. He was going to have to play with these muggle kids. The thought made his stomach queasy. He didn't know anything about playing with or supervising children, much less muggle children. A door opened just ahead of him and the auburn-haired muggle girl he'd seen earlier exited the room and turned towards him. She quirked a confident smirk at him as she passed, then disappeared into Terry's office.
Somehow Draco got himself turned around and found his way to the back yard of the orphanage. Rather than try to navigate his way back through the building, he figured he'd walk around to the front. As soon as he rounded the corner, however, he nearly ran into three young men standing about and talking near the side of the building. Two of them were on the slim side, while one was a bit stockier. The three turned as one to face Draco.
"Oh, it's just the FNG," the stocky one said. He had a round head and close buzzed red hair and looked to be in his early 20's. He withdrew his hand from behind his back to produce a cigarette and took a drag as the other two visibly relaxed.
"What's your name, new guy?" the smoker asked, puffs of white drifting up out of his mouth as he spoke.
"Drake-ehh, Malfoy," Draco replied, doing a fairly good job of butchering the alias he'd been given.
"Right, 'Drake-ehh'," the redhead said, "I'm Darren Welch, this here is Mack Quaid."
He gestured to a skinny fellow in his early 20's with brown hair at the roots, but blond near the tips which fell to about his ears.
"and this is Alan Young."
He pointed with his cigarette at the third guy, a skinny teenager probably barely older than Draco, with short cropped dark hair.
Draco nodded to each of them in turn. He didn't like the vibe they were giving off; his gut twisted with the kind of wariness he felt when walking through Knockturn Alley.
"So what'd you do?" Darren asked, taking another drag.
"Pardon?" Draco asked.
"Posh boy like you ain't gonna work at a place like this voluntarily, are ya, what'd you do?" Darren asked.
"Nothing," Draco said.
"Yeah, I did nothin' too," Mack chimed in.
"You don't wanna tell us, I reckon that's your business, but we're all in the same boat here, yeah," Darren said, "performin' our 'community service' as punishment. How long you here for?"
"Six months, give or take," Draco replied.
Darren sniffed, he was about to say something but looked up just as Draco heard a scuff behind him.
"Welch, how many times have I told you, no smoking on the grounds," Director MacMillian's voice said.
"Sorry Mr. Macmillian, it won't happen again," Darren said, hastily stubbing the cigarette out against the side of the building.
"See that it doesn't," Terry replied, "I need you three to move the equipment back out into the yard, now that it's stopped raining."
With an acquiescing mumble, Darren, Alan, and Mack walked past Draco and Terry to the rear of the orphanage.
"Drake, I'll see you tomorrow," MacMillian said.
Draco nodded.
"See you at nine o'clock," Draco replied.
He continued around the side of the building until he passed through the iron fence gate and emerged at the front again. He walked to the street and squinted up at the late afternoon sun as it peeked through the clouds. At least it wasn't raining anymore. He started the hike back to the Leaky Cauldron, but then crossed the street on a whim and started walking in the opposite direction. How in the name of Merlin was he supposed to get through six months of this? He could barely shake a muggle's hand and he was now expected to clean up after a scores of snot-nosed muggle spawn? He ran both hands through his hair more than once as he wandered aimlessly, wallowing in his predicament. As the sky grew darker, streetlamps started coming on and both foot and automobile traffic grew heavier. Draco knew the lights weren't magic, but they managed to illuminate the streets and paths well enough. He couldn't help but be somewhat impressed by what they'd built, all without magic. True, it probably took a hundred of them a month to do what one wizard could in a day, but still, the buildings and the lights were impressive non magic work.
Realization that he was avoiding going home came slowly, but if he were honest with himself, he didn't really care; every minute spent walking around muggle London was one less minute he had to spend between arriving home and going to sleep. He looked up from his ruminations and thought he might be in a familiar area when he passed by the playground adjacent to the orphanage again. At least he wasn't completely lost after wandering aimlessly for an hour or more. He stepped into the empty playground, still damp from the earlier drizzle, and sat down on a swing. The metal of the chain was comfortably cool on his hand, and Draco thought about casting a warming charm, then realized it wouldn't be wise even if he thought nobody was watching. He took off his blazer, folded it neatly across his lap, fingered his wand through the cloth a few times, then unbuttoned his cuffs and buried his forehead in the heels of his palms. His life had completely gone to shite and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat like that when he heard someone sit in the swing next to him. His head snapped up to see the auburn-haired girl from the orphanage. She'd changed out of her uniform and was wearing those blue trousers everyone seemed to favour, along with a black leather jacket. Now that he was looking at her closer for the first time, he noticed how delicate she appeared. She wasn't exactly athletic but she was slight of figure, and her eyes were bright and clear blue in the artificial lamps.
"Nice tat," she said.
Draco looked to where her gaze was pointed and instinctively covered his forearm; his sleeve had ridden up.
"Go away," he said, looking away, "I'm not in the mood to talk."
"You're on my swing, so if anyone should leave it's you," she said.
Draco kicked off a little bit and looked forward, determined to ignore her.
"What is it?" she asked, motioning to the Dark Mark.
Draco sighed, it appeared he wouldn't be able get her to stop talking to him without leaving, and he certainly wasn't going to be chased off by a muggle.
"It's a- mistake," Draco replied.
She nodded and apparently decided to drop the topic.
"I'm Mary," she said, "Mary McKay."
"What are you doing out here, Mary McKay?" Draco asked, determined to not make eye contact.
"It's not quite curfew yet, figured I'd get some air while I can, before they lock me up again," Mary replied, "and now I'm talking to you, a bloke who's sitting on my swing, so rude he won't even tell me his name."
There was a moment of silence.
"Malfoy, Drake Malfoy," Draco replied.
Mary nodded.
"Thought I saw you leave hours ago," she said.
"What's it to you?" Draco asked.
The swing squeaked in its hinges as Mary drifted back and forth a bit.
"Just wondering why anyone would come back here if they didn't have to," Mary said.
Draco refused to answer, despite the thought 'it's better than going home' worming its way through his head, so they simply sat there in silence for another five minutes or so. A chime rang from the orphanage.
"That's my curfew," Mary said, "it was nice to meet you Drake Malfoy. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Unfortunately," Draco replied.
"Well aren't you a ray of sunshine," Mary said as she stood up. She caught his eye as she passed in front of him and flashed that cocky smirk again, then walked deliberately back to the orphanage without looking back.
Now thoroughly out of excuses and weary from hiking halfway across London and back, Draco made his way to the Leaky Cauldron, only needing to consult the map once. He tapped his way into Diagon Alley, spun on his heel and apparated home. He crept up to his room, passing by a guest room on the way from which he could faintly hear snores through the cracked door. At least he wouldn't have to deal with Mother tonight. His bed called to him, the next morning and tomorrow's activities less so. Draco undressed and took a brief shower to wash off the muggle stink, then laid down. He was still alive, had managed to avoid his mother for the entire day, and currently resided in a bed and not a cell in Azkaban. His last thought before he drifted off to sleep was the realization that his life was currently so pathetic, he now considered this a good day.