Archive of Our Own ^beta

15 February 2010

Dear Stranger,

However you’re feeling today, regardless whether you’re sad or content, okay or just numb, whether your world is too quiet or too loud, I do hope that you had a reason to smile today. Sometimes even this one thing can help getting through the day.

After the first few lines, Draco is tempted to screw this piece of parchment up into a ball and toss it into his hearth. Must be some kind of scam. Maybe it’s a hackneyed promotion for an upcoming charity event. Preaching about kindness and altruism and how empathy saves the world yada yada. But it’s the next line that brings his eyebrows together in a frown.

Draco tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear and drops down in his velvet upholstered armchair—one of the few luxuries that he could save before the better part of the Malfoy family fortune had been confiscated by the Ministry. Contents of the Gringotts vault along with the Manor. There’s a pattering sound and Draco’s head snaps up to see the owl that has brought this strange letter. It’s obviously waiting. Draco scowls but resumes reading.

The apothecary always looks neat and tidy. Never have I seen only one item askew. I have no idea why this is so fascinating to me, but I think about it every time I come around. I like to imagine that your sense of tidiness means that you are in control. That you have things in your life just as much in order as in your shop.

However, I’m not so sure about that. Every time I see you, you look so indifferent and tired that I just wish you would smile.

-A Stranger

What kind of wicked joke is this? Draco discards the parchment on the coffee table for now, frowning. In his mind he skims through the few persons he’s generally on speaking terms with. The letter doesn’t really give anything away about the sender. Neither the content nor the choice of words.

A short sequence of sounds interrupts the silence of the room and causes Draco to leap to his feet. He rushes downstairs into his apothecary shop and into the backroom, his potion laboratory. With a considered look into one of the cauldrons, he starts to stir the clear liquid. Four times clockwise, once counter-clockwise. It turns a teal colour. Thrice clockwise. And with a pleased smile Draco watches his concoction turn a deep blue.

When the potion is properly cooled off, he adds some fresh peppermint leaves. The smell fills his nostrils and reminds him of his breakfast tea, resting on his coffee table and probably cold by now. But the tea doesn’t matter. A Monday morning is the perfect time to finish a fresh batch. He raises his wand, Accio on the tip of his tongue, but withdraws it with a sigh. It was only last month that he summoned his parcel of empty vials. A breath of carelessness with his wand work was all it took to send three Galleons down the drain.

Draco goes into his storage chamber and collects the package manually. The soft clinking noises of the stacked glass vials are dulcet to his ears. The tender chimes that sound the bell for the fruits of his work. It feels good, Draco thinks. Getting a potion finished that has been simmering for hours, others for days and weeks is a satisfying moment. Finally, after a few practiced hand movement, the mixture paints their vitreous container.

It takes the better part of the morning for Draco to fill up the whole batch. Every now and then he interrupts his work and casts a quick Tempus. He’ll have to open the apothecary soon. But once he’s done and diligently labelled each single vial Calming Draught, he smiles.

~

Knockturn Alley is rarely busy these days. No one wants to be connected with everything that the street full of curious, yet sometimes Dark or at least Pureblood-related, little shops once stood for. Naturally, it is the only place in the wizarding world that has room for Draco Malfoy.

After the War and one humiliating year of community service, Draco needed another whole year to find an apprenticeship. At least it was potions, he thought at the time. Working as a merchant wasn’t ideal but at least it was potions. Back then Draco was still digesting that all his applications for just any Ministry position were crushingly fruitless. He would have appreciated the chance to be of service to the government.

Wilbert Dankworth was probably the only Halfblood with property in Knockturn Alley, even after the War. The first time that Draco met his new Potions Master, he deemed him dreadfully uncouth. Draco was sure that the only reason he'd been accepted to learn and to work in the apothecary shop was due to the crotchety wizard’s do-gooder mentality. So Draco spoke through gritted teeth and bit back his annoyance whenever the old man laughed at Draco in a way that he probably thought was amiable. Or when he intervened to show Draco how to add a little character to the potion although following the recipe would have worked out perfectly alright Or when he paid Draco’s wage in advance so he wouldn’t lose his flat.

Sometimes Draco misses Bert, the old git.

The doorbell snaps Draco’s head out of his musings. He straightens his posture, hands clasped on his back, when he sees his customer. Mrs Henderson is a Halfblood witch in her fifties or sixties, always dressed in precious robes and enveloped in an elegant fragrance. She moves smooth and flowing, but with her nose up high and a piercing, icy gaze that reminds Draco of Mother when she was talking to someone who, in her opinion, lacked decorum.

“Good afternoon Mrs Henderson,” Draco greets her as she approaches the counter.

“Mr Malfoy,” she says coolly, and her tone tells Draco that a complaint will follow. “Mr Malfoy,” she repeats as soon as she stands right in front of him. “I hope you do appreciate your loyal customers enough to sell them potions with an actual effect.”

“Pardon—was there something wrong with a potion, Mrs Henderson?”

“There was. I’ve been giving Father his Painless Potion against his Osteoarthritis—just as usual, just as prescribed—and nothing! His hands are stiff, he complains. And his poor hip! He only barely got up from his armchair yesterday.” Mrs Henderson and Draco look up when the doorbell rings again and Harry Potter scuffs into Draco’s apothecary. Mrs Henderson greets him politely, her eyes full of eagerness, and Potter nods back, busying himself with looking through the shelves.

Mrs Henderson turns back to Draco. “And the pain only started last week. It’s got to have something to do with this Painless Potion you’ve been selling me. Perhaps you brewed the potion at new moon—I’ve heard Painless turns out utterly ineffective when brewed at new moon.”

“I certainly did not, I assure you,” Draco says, managing to keep his voice levelled. He isn’t a bloody amateur. “Did you happen to bring the vial? I could check its effectiveness if you wish.”

“You see—on Fridays Father always listens to the Quidditch game on the Wireless with his old colleagues from the board. Father took the rest of the potion this morning in the hopes of enjoying a pleasant and pain-free afternoon.”

“I see.”

Draco waits a moment in case the witch wants to add something. But she only looks at him expectantly. “Mrs Henderson, I will give you another vial of Painless Potion, for free, of course. I highly recommend consulting a Healer about your father, though. It’s rather probable that he has slowly, but surely grown immune to the potion, seeing you’ve been a regular customer on his behalf for years now.” As if bowing in deference, Draco reaches down for the drawer where he finds an array of few brown vials. Draco must remember to restock Painless later. Swallowing down a sigh, he hands the vial over to Mrs Henderson who leaves the apothecary without spending a single Knut during their whole transaction.

Potter still eyes some of the ingredients currently in stock. He looks at the bottled Armadillo Bile and runs a hand over the precious unicorn horns, standing in a neat row on their display shelf. There’s only a small selection of ingredients in the apothecary. Most people shop for their brewing supplies in Diagon Alley and precious few find their way to his little shop.

It is in fact the presence of Potter who boosted the number of customers when they began to decrease from the mere presence of the youngest Death Eater, who, Draco thinks wryly, had been the only one on probation instead of withering away in Azkaban. Once Potter became a regular here—Bert was still alive then—the shop wasn’t exactly overrun, but it was better. Much better. Draco should send a thank-you note, he thinks half amused, half serious.

Potter is probably oblivious, though. The Saviour and Star Auror comes in on Fridays, collects his prescriptions, pays, and leaves. He certainly has no clue about his importance as a business-saver. Yet another title imposed on the wizard who fought like the true lion he is for Draco not to be sent off to Azkaban these twelve long years ago. The only one who was ready to give testimony on his behalf.

“Potter,” Draco says while the man is still looking at the small assortment of potion ingredients without showing the slightest inclination to come up to the counter. Or say hello, at least.

His gaze turns to Draco at the sound of his name and he shoves his hands into his crimson Auror robes. “Hullo Malfoy.” He sounds pensive. Maybe just bored.

Draco fetches a bag of discretely packed vials that has been waiting right under the counter. “Two Sleepless Dreams, two Calming Draughts—brewed just yesterday, by the way—one Peaceful Draught. Can I get you anything else?”

“Thanks, Draco. That’ll do. Keep the change.” It’s three Galleons and two Sickles and Potter pays almost a whole Galleon too much. But Draco doesn’t protest or say anything else. Potter always rounds up rather generously. Without another word Draco watches how Potter turns around. The doorbell rings and for a brief moment Draco can hear the whistle of an icy draught, sweeping through Knockturn, before it creeps beneath his robes. A shudder jolts through his body while he watches Potter Disapparate.

~

It is only the next Monday morning that Draco is reminded of the anonymous letter that lies buried and forgotten underneath a few books on his coffee table. What reminds him is a tap on the window. Hardly anyone writes to him—and certainly not this early—so the letter flashes into his memory like a Lumos when he hears the sound.

He opens the window with a quick spell and regards the owl properly this time. He thinks it might be the same creature, but he can’t be entirely sure. It’s a tawny owl; plumage coloured like hazelnut, dotted with creamy whites and darker browns. Eyes like smooth, round onyxes. For a moment the bird only stares at Draco before it stretches a leg with a letter attached to it.

With pursed lips and a heavy exhale through his nostrils, Draco unbinds the parchment and unfolds it. Dear Stranger. Of course. Whatever else would it be. Draco slumps down in his beloved armchair and starts to read.

22 February 2010

Dear Stranger,

I hope that you smiled today. Because when I saw you this week, you didn’t. You looked stiff and uneasy. Maybe you were worried about something. You cannot imagine what a relieving feeling it is to tell you that. Even given that I’m nothing but a faceless customer to you and that’s probably best this way. Still, writing to you lifts a weight from my shoulder.

-A Stranger

Draco frowns at the words and turns the parchment in his hands as though it might reveal anything else. He doesn’t know what to make of this. The addresser neither requests anything nor do they threaten Draco. The letter says nothing much at all, actually.

Perhaps that’s even more so alarming. Draco finds the other letter and rereads both. Nothing particularly worrisome is said. He feels uneasy all the same. Maybe he should see some Aurors about this, just in case... But then again—Law Enforcement hadn’t proven to be much of a help, even at the time Draco still received hate letters, nasty Howlers, and packages full of Flubberworms and offsetting Stink Pellets. Which were very tame and almost laughable, really, when compared to the venomous snake, Transfigured to resemble Nagini and Charmed to enlarge the moment the package had been dropped off in front of his former flat.

With a quick Tempus Draco realises it’s time to open the apothecary. He chases away the tawny owl, checks whether his cuffs are neatly buttoned, puts on a sleeveless jumper over his shirt, and checks the knot of his tie in the mirror before he settles his robes around his shoulders. Agreeable, Draco thinks while tying his shoulder-length hair together in a low bun. Through the door of his narrow corridor, the quiet of his shop awaits him.

~

Sundays are reserved for lunch with Mother. Not always to Draco’s delight.

She’s too civil and thin-lipped over their Turnip Tartiflette today and Draco eats deliberately slowly to stall the discussion that will only be held once they’ve finished eating. Mother takes even smaller bites, only to finish after Draco out of decency, then she dabs the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, eyeing it with only the slightest frown after she’s finished. Mother wears the loss of the family fortune worse than he, Draco thinks.

“Draco, darling,” she says at last. When she regards him, an unexpected hint of warmth flickers through her blue eyes. “My dear boy,” she adds. Draco feels a little awkward; Mother isn’t usually one to show much affection.

“I can’t believe your thirtieth birthday is fast approaching.”

Draco sees where this is going. “Yes, Mother. Time flies.”

“I can only imagine where you’d be if…” Her voice trails off, ensuing an uncomfortable silence for a minute. “The thirties are an important time in a wizard’s life, dear. Your father turned thirty only shortly after the First War. At the time your father became well-acquainted with Minister Bagnold’s son and advised him in his career. It was his ticket to the dinner table of the Minister for Magic, this well-considered friendship.”

Mother lapses into silence again, her eyes dangerously teary all of a sudden. Draco swallows the lump in his throat.

“You were three then.”

The pregnant silence rings in Draco’s ears. In lieu of saying something or waiting for her to speak again, he clears the table and does the dishes in the kitchen. He uses an Aguamenti when the tap water runs copper over the porcelain plates.

~

1 March 2010

Dear Stranger,

How was your week? I had a weird one. Lots of words without meaning and sometimes it infuriates me so much that I lose my temper. Kept my mouth shut today, though.

I’m sure you must know the feeling. Hearing big words and promises that sound so compelling that you wish you could believe them.

Again, I hope that you had at least one reason to smile today.

-A Stranger

“Enough,” Draco says out loud, too irritated to care about the startled owl. He slams the letter down on his writing desk and slides a piece of parchment from his stack. Then he starts to scribble down a note, forgetting about everything he’s ever learned in his childhood calligraphy lessons.

I’ll have to ask you to stop harassing me and I resent the presumptuous implication that you have any knowledge about my life. If you so desperately wish to hear what a Death Eater has to say about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, please contact Azkaban.

Draco leans back and rubs his eyes. However annoyed he is, there's still a crippling guilt that weighs heavy as a stone in his chest whenever he thinks about The Dark Lord. Draco cannot deny that he’s rather well off, considering his role in the war. Sure; the Manor is gone, all the Malfoy money and prestige gone with it, Father in Azkaban, family friends in Azkaban. Friends abroad since they were not sentenced with a two-decade-long probation that included the condition of never leaving the country under any circumstances.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. He is all right. He has an apothecary to run. Support Mother. Make enough profit to pay the rent for the shop and the flat above. Maybe he can even buy the whole house from Bert’s ungrateful daughter one day. Bert would have enjoyed that.

After reading the letter and his own note again, Draco tries to think of possible senders. They know that he runs an apothecary. Then why in Merlin’s name address him with Dear Stranger? Everyone with at least one working brain cell can find out his name. Read it on the sign above the shop or right at the door. Truth be told, most of the wizarding world simply knows his name. They see his fair skin, his platinum-blond hair, his grey eyes and they know he’s a Malfoy. A Death Eater. If he only weren’t so content with his damned looks, Draco would gladly colour his hair and tan his skin or gain some weight perhaps. Keep his head under radar.

On a whim Draco adds, You know my bloody name under his letter. He’s not surprised to see that the tawny owl has stuck around. He grabs the calm creature and tilts it in his hands to have a better angle at its talons.

“Off now,” he tells the owl. “Away with you!” Draco slams the window shut as soon as the owl has made it through. He has no time for these ridiculous shenanigans; he has a shop to open to his Monday morning customers. And it’s only fifteen minutes to opening hours which translates to Draco’s sense of punctuality as tardy.

~

Monday goes by in a rush. Some customers come in and pick up their prescriptions. The Murtlap Essence is ready for bottling. Draco spends some time using thorough Cleaning Charms on the shelves before his closing hour arrives. His stomach is growling when he locks the front door and climbs the stairs up into his flat.

His well-deserved salad is only half-eaten when there’s a tap on the window and he rushes from his kitchen into the drawing room to find the tawny owl outside the pane of glass. Draco hesitates only to realise he’s curious despite himself. So he opens the window and draws a small, folded piece of parchment from the stoic creature.

Dear Draco,

Very sorry for the confusion. Didn’t mean HIM. Was talking about the Prophet and Ministry and just people. Hope I didn’t offend you. Sorry for my short answer, just needed you to know.

Your friend,

-A Stranger

For a while, Draco just stands there, parchment in hand. Watching the spot in the dark night where the owl had disappeared. Not thinking. By the time he resumes his supper, his green tea is cold and bitter, and the salad soaked with tarragon vinaigrette.

~

“It’s a Friday night,” Pansy drawls. “Let’s go out and enjoy ourselves a little. What are you a business owner for, if not for some leisurely fun at the weekends?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Stop frequenting my apothecary. You'll frighten the customers.”

“Frighten? You’re in such a mood again, darling.”

“I am not going out on a Friday night. Full stop.”

“You are absolutely no fun. What is there to live for, pray tell, if not a Friday night at Blaise’s mansion? A light supper. Elven-wine. Chopin—oh, maybe some flashier music in case the company allows for it.”

“Extraordinarily tempting, Pans, but I'm afraid I must decline. The shop won’t run itself simply because it’s a Saturday. And I am not spending my Saturday behind this counter, hungover and stinking of Bouillabaisse.”

“Sweet Circe, calm down. I hoped you’d meet my brother-in-law. Very easy on the eyes. You’d love him.” Pansy sighs and leans with her back against the counter, her gaze directed at the grey weather of early March. “Seriously, Draco. Live a little.” She sounds bitter now, but this is even more so infuriating.

“Pansy,” Draco hisses. “I have nothing, nothing, to contribute to the company you’re inviting me in. Blaise thinks too highly of himself even to invite me personally, not to mention write or speak to me at all if he can find a way around it. But this doesn’t even matter—I don’t belong anymore, don’t you see? Old money gone, Pans! I can’t spend my evenings joining your merry soirées because I must work. I’m thoroughly sorry if common work isn’t en vogue.”

The doorbell rings before Pansy’s retort and Draco already knows who it would be. It’s Friday past noon. Shooing Pansy away has taken too long.

Potter stands like a deer caught in a Lumos when he spies Pansy. Draco’s not even sure why precisely, but he just knew that he would be startled to see her.

“Potter,” Draco greets him and beckons him to the counter. When he reaches under the counter to grab Potter’s supplies, he makes sure that everything is as discreetly packed away as always, and that Pansy couldn’t get a glimpse at the contents.

“Hi,” Potter says, his eyes darting between Draco and Pansy.

Pansy pushes herself off the counter and indicates a courtesy. “It’s my pleasure, Mr Potter.”

Potter just nods a little awkwardly and drops four Galleons on the counter. He takes his bag. “Keep the change. Bye,” is all he says before he turns and leaves without another word.

“If you just scared off Potter,” Draco intones after the doorbell has chimed and Potter has Disapparated, “then I will seriously sue you for compensation, Pans.”

~

The brisk draughts wouldn’t suggest it yet, but Draco knows that spring is about to bloom. If not in the weather, then at least in the minds of his customers, for Easter is just around the corner. So he rises early one grey morning in mid-March and begins to remove the very few Valentine’s decorations that have somehow survived his efforts to spell away any unwanted knick-knacks.

The glitter-throwing fairy imitations are finally banished from their place in Draco’s one and only shop window, and stored away safely until next year, when the tawny owl alights on the windowsill outside, directly in front of him. Its wet plumage looks thoroughly dishevelled; its feathers scattered in the raging storm.

Right. It’s Monday.

Draco squeezes through the small space between the window and a display of herbal ingredients to open the door for the owl. The creature looks relieved by the pleasant temperature of the apothecary when it alights on a shelf beside Draco. It holds out one leg, feathers still sticking in every direction. Maybe it’s because the owl did not beg for it, but Draco summons a biscuit. The bird happily starts to peck on the treat.

Draco doesn’t bother to sit down. Instead, he rips the envelope open like a tax notice, ready to search for clues that prove someone was trying to incite him to say something risky. Trying to trick him into building the wrong bridges. Trying to show that he’s exactly the Death Eater society takes him for. His irritated expression dissolves into a confused frown while reading.

8 March 2010

Dear Draco,

I’m very sorry again for the misunderstanding. I hadn’t thought about how the words might come off to you. I can see why you jumped to this conclusion. But it also pains me to know that you’re so quick to think that my letters would mean any harm when they are supposed to achieve the opposite.

Hope you had a good weekend and a reason to smile. I must admit that I’ve been thinking of you a lot the last few days. Even more than usual.

Your hair looks ridiculously soft.

-A Stranger

It hits Draco like a Bludger to the head. He is receiving love letters. They may be vague and somewhat shy and utterly unpoetic, but that’s exactly what they are.

He eyes the box of the Valentine’s decorations and then the letter again. It’s the third Monday in a row. That means the first letter arrived the Monday after Valentine’s Day. Something inside his chest swells at the thought that someone had looked at him this last week and thought about his hair. And liked it, apparently. This is utter madness.

He can’t help himself but to look for some more hints in the letter. The first thing he’d be thrilled to find out is whether this is a witch or a wizard; though he’s not even sure which he would prefer. The script strikes him as rather simple. Hardly any letters are joined, which may not give him a clue about the gender of the addresser but leaves him under the assumption that the writer had no such thing as calligraphy tutoring. Draco’s lips curl in a frown. He puts the folded letter in the inner pocket of his robe for now and shoos the owl away.

~

Monday drags on aggravatingly slowly while Draco feels jittery. Customers walk in and out and the whole time it feels like something must be about to happen, but it doesn’t. He groans when he allows himself to look at the grandfather clock in the corner for the umpteenth time, only to find that it’s another hour until he can close the shop. Draco is annoyed with himself for being bored like a schoolchild.

When Tuesday isn’t any better, Draco thinks, fuck this. The shop is quiet in the hours of midday and after checking in on two potions, peacefully simmering in the backroom, Draco gets the kettle on. He Accios ink and a quill and sits down over an Earl Grey and a piece of parchment.

It looks awfully bare.

Draco starts with the obvious.

Dear Stranger,

All right.

Draco’s mind is just as blank as the parchment. He has no idea how to do this. How did this secret admirer come up with anything to say? Then again, the letters don’t say all that much. Still, it takes quite some courage to put the top of the quill down and to just write anything at all. The doorbell rings and Draco’s hand jolts at the sound, leaving a blue stain that slowly wicks into the parchment while Draco hurries to serve his customer.

~

It’s late in the evening when Draco finally finds the time to sit down again. This time round, he puts the inked tip of the quill on the parchment and the words flow from it without much trouble.

9 March 2010

Dear Stranger,

It is shockingly intriguing, bearing the knowledge that someone thinks about me. About the two things that matter the most to me, in fact—my apothecary and my hair.

Responding feels truly odd, though. Your letters are vague at best and while I have a thousand questions about you, I take it that you wish to remain anonymous for the time being. You will have to offer me something, though. Your thoughts about me are enchanting indeed but I have nothing to reply to you. Or, as the past has shown, your cryptic ramblings will cause misconceptions.

I’m writing this letter well in advance. Your Monday owl reaches me about half an hour before I open. That’s too little time for me to reply so we’ll have to reschedule if you do wish to start a reciprocal correspondence. Evenings or Sunday mornings will work best for me.

Sincerely,

Draco

Calmer and somewhat pleased with himself, Draco sits down by the hearth and starts filling out his next order for ingredients and some potions. He would have almost a whole week to decide whether he’d send this letter or not.

~

Mother is in distress when Draco arrives through the Floo for Sunday lunch.

“Draco! You’re early.”

He looks at his wristwatch while Mother whirls around to fluff the cushions on the settee and drape the quilt over the backrest in a voguish fashion. Five minutes early, as per usual. Perfectly acceptable.

“Greet your son,” Draco says when Mother doesn’t show any inclination to stop her frantic fussing about. He watches as she rearranges the flower bouquet on the side table. His heart sinks when Draco realises that his voice reminded him of Father.

Her eyes are filled with surprise when she looks up at him. It's as if she's just remembered that he is there at all. “Yes, of course. Hello my darling.” She holds out her cheek for Draco to kiss. There’s a slight tremble in her fingers which causes Draco’s own heartbeat to quicken. He tries to soften his voice and expression.

“Now, why don’t we sit. What’s the matter, Mother?”

They sit on the settee and Draco summons the tea service which magically gets to work. Of course, Mother wouldn’t admit to anything.

“Why, it’s nothing, dear. Nothing. Lunch isn’t quite ready yet, I’m afraid. I must have lost track of time. How ill-mannered of me…”

Draco purses his lips and regards her warily. “Well, there’s no need to worry about that. I might as well help you. I suggested so before.”

“Oh, Draco, you mustn’t. Kitchen work is hardly worthy of a Malfoy.”

Draco inhales deeply to calm himself. After a minute he decides to prepare lunch. On the threshold he turns around, seeing only his mother’s prim shoulders and her flawless updo above the backrest. “Mother, there is no house-elf to do the work. Only you and I.”

Only when Draco is about to Levitate their sandwiches over to the dining table does he find the probable source of Mother’s dismay. Shabby wooden chairs, painted in pastels, surround the elegant dining table. Before he calls Mother to lunch, he spends the better part of an hour Transfiguring them back into charcoal, velvet upholstered dining chairs with a quilted finish across their backrest. It’s not as soft to the touch as the Transfiguration used to be. But it’ll have to do.

~

On Monday morning, Draco waits for the tawny owl to arrive at his window and so it does eventually. He unbinds the new letter only to find that his heart is pounding.

15 March 2010

Dear Draco,

Last week was lonely. It’s so good to write this down because it feels like I couldn’t tell this to a single soul without creating drama, one way or another.

The arrangements of daffodils and bluebells in your shop both look and smell lovely. I never thought much about what it means to own a shop, but when I saw the flowers last week, I realised that you must have ordered or picked them yourself.

Don’t forget to smile today.

-A Stranger

Draco fetches the letter that he had written the week before and quickly adds some lines before he sends his reply off with the patient owl.

15 March

P.S. I’m looking forward to adding lilacs to the flower arrangements. It’ll have to wait another two or three weeks. They are not in bloom yet.

~

It’s Thursday when Draco gets a huge delivery. While smaller deliveries usually reach him via owl, every few weeks the delivery wizard carries in a chest the size of a picnic basket, heaves the enchantedly lightened weight on the counter, and starts to unpack loads of potions, empty vials, ingredients, and occasional free samples.

The delivery wizard, Dave Perez, is a fit young man in his early twenties with rippling muscles and an unbothered smile across his face. More often than not, Draco finds himself staring when the man helps him in sorting the new supplies for a modest compensation.

“Followed this week’s Quidditch game, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco looks up from his note, where he is checking the delivery for accuracy, to watch Dave pour the beetle eyes into their corresponding container. He tries to remember what the Prophet said about the game. “Arrows versus Lancashire? I only checked the scores yesterday. Didn’t listen to the game in the Wireless. If somebody had told me a few years ago that Lancashire would be in the upper third of the league one season, I would have advised them to get their head checked at St Mungo’s.”

Roaring, impressed laughter follows Draco’s words. “Fair enough,” Dave says, still grinning. “It’s all their Seeker. He’s brilliant. Precise and quick. Wouldn’t be surprised if Puddlemere or the Bats offered him a pretty penny next season.”

“A pretty what?” Draco checks off the last few potions after unpacking and counting them.

“Oh! Sorry, I always forget,” Dave chuckles and leans on the counter. “It’s just a Muggle saying. I mean- they’d pay him a lot. To change teams.”

Draco nods, mildly distracted by the wizard's large, strong hands. “Yes, well… Fancy a tea before you leave?”

“Sorry, sir, gotta run. Everyone’s stocking up before Easter.” Draco nods again and watches the muscles in Dave’s back work while the man slips in his parka; a Muggle piece of clothing that would still look inelegant even if Dave had bothered to put proper travelling robes above it.

Dave is already at the door when Draco calls him back to collect his pay. When he puts the Galleon in Dave’s hands, Draco is embarrassingly aware of the warm heat of Dave’s palms. “Thank you, sir!” Dave says with a disarming grin. He leaves Draco with an unwelcome wave of heat in his nether regions.

~

The next letter arrives on the same day as goods delivery. It is long past supper and Draco only realises that he was about to doze off when he hears the now familiar tap at the window. He rubs his eyes and cards his open hair away from his face before he lets the tawny owl inside.

This time Draco makes himself a nice, hot cup of tea and breaks off a corner of bread for the owl—he shoos the brash bird off his good armchair when he comes back from the kitchen—before he sits down at his writing desk with the letter.

18 March 2010

Dear Draco,

I can't tell you how happy I am about your reply! And I’m sorry if my timing caused you any inconveniences. I’ll try to write on Monday nights then—Monday is usually my day off!

So, about me. I don’t dare to tell you my name, I’m afraid. I’m male. I went to Hogwarts. I have three young kids, the mum and I have been separated for two years, but we’re not officially divorced yet. My job takes up a lot of my time, usually more than I would like. Sorry, this doesn't sound very promising, does it? I do hope that you give me a chance, though. Reaching out to you feels great and I do regret that I haven’t tried earlier.

How was your week so far? Found anything that’s worth a smile yet? My days went by much too quickly. I forgot to run a thousand errands because of my excessive workload. Sorry for complaining so much, but it’s just been one of those weeks. Your reply brightened up my Monday a lot, though.

-A Stranger

Draco smiles. This man sounds like a troubled soul and Draco would be lying to say that he isn’t taken aback about the fact that an overworked family father of three finds comfort and solace in a crush on his apothecary shopkeeper. Regardless, Draco feels moved and pensively sips his tea before he writes a reply.

18 March 2010

Dear Stranger,

Your brief introduction does sound dreadfully unpromising indeed. Here I was, hoping for my gallant knight in shining armour, and all I get are letters from someone who sounds like an actual human being. Way too depressingly real. Not what I’ve asked for.

There was much to do this week. I received some deliveries and I started brewing a fresh batch of Sober Ups—Easter is a high time for wixen to drink away overbearing aunts and nagging children. If you’re in need of such a Solution yourself, you know where to find it.

Having three children and being separated sounds like a lot of work to me. How do you get along with your ex? Do you see your children as often as you wish? As you may be aware, I don’t have children or much family. I visit my mother on Sundays and we have lunch together. The rest of the week I spend in my shop.

May I ask the name of this boorish owl of yours so that I can yell at it properly the next time it’s about to defecate on my favourite armchair?

Sincerely,

Draco

P.S. Smiled because you managed to apologise thrice for nothing in merely three paragraphs.

~

Potter comes in on Friday, “No, thanks. Keep the change,” and Saturday is the busiest day of the week, just like it usually is. By the time Sunday rolls around, Draco is exhausted, but brews some Murtlap, cleans the shop, and listens to Mother’s opinion on the new tea leaves she’s trying this spring. It’s not before Monday night that Draco realises, he’s been waiting for Monday.

22 March 2010

Dear Draco,

You wouldn't believe how refreshing it is to hear you being so smug and sarcastic. We don’t know each other all that well and I see you in your shop only very briefly, but I feared that this part of you had died somewhere along the way. You look so pale and unhappy sometimes. I hope that it’s not because of my face, now that I think about it.

My ex and I are very good friends. She has a boyfriend who is like a second dad to the kids and I’m very grateful for that. It’s hard to write that down, but it’s true: My kids don’t see all that much of me. I take them on Mondays and sometimes I can manage to take off Friday afternoon. That’s about it and while I feel terrible about it, there’s not really much I can do. My job requires a lot of responsibility.

The last week turned out to be successful, though. I like the feeling of getting something done rather than to sit it out and that’s exactly what happened workwise.

My owl’s name is Horntail. My eldest picked the name because I was foolish enough to tell him all about Hungarian Horntails the day we went to find a new owl.

Best wishes,

-A Stranger

~

Easter Sunday is one of the first bright and clear days this year. It’s the first week of April and Draco brings Mother pure white lilacs that fill her drawing room with the cloying scent of spring. She thanks him exuberantly and looks genuinely excited about the delicate flowers and their day ahead.

“Let’s go out for a walk, my darling,” she says and links her arm into Draco’s own. “The weather looks marvellous. Take us just anywhere.”

Draco is happy to see her eyes gleam in a way they rarely do these days, and Apparates them onto the green. They walk along an avenue, lined with venerable trees, accompanied by a calm river. Mother appreciates the shaded walkway, and the fresh breeze, and Draco wonders how often she leaves her flat. Not that he’s in a place to judge, though.

“Have you watched the ecclesiastical full moon, my dear?”

“Was it on Tuesday? I must’ve forgotten, I’m afraid. You did, I suppose.”

“It was marvellous! It truly was. It almost seemed as if the sky had cleared up just for that magical night. Good Luna must’ve heralded our beautiful weather today.”

“Right you are, Mother.” When he and Mother stop to watch a swan for a while, a soft breath of air flows through Draco’s hair. It feels like a tender caress and all of a sudden Draco feels tremendously touch-deprived and lonely. He feels Mother’s hand curl around his arm. If consciously or not, he has no idea, but Mother’s finger brushes against the spot where the Dark Mark sits underneath his sleeve. Out of reflex, Draco shakes her hand off.

“Is something the matter, darling?” she asks softly, gaze still directed at the swan, floating across the rippling reflections of verdant trees and bright blue skies.

“Yes. No, I’m all right. Let’s walk to the end of the avenue and then Disapparate, shall we? I’m feeling peckish.”

They have a spring lamb roast with browned garlic brussels sprouts and a French style orange tart for dessert. Draco has no idea how Mother has managed to afford any of it.

“Do you need anything, Mother? I mean, financially,” Draco ventures to ask after he’s finished doing the dishes.

She shoots him a look as though he’d said something offensive. “Why, of course not, darling.” The way Mother’s face closes and she sips her tea tells Draco that she is about to change the topic. Draco regrets that he said anything in the first place. “You’re still working in this apothecary shop, darling?” she asks after a minute in a conversational tone.

Draco holds back a sigh but rolls his eyes instead. “I’m the owner of the apothecary. I surely won’t close it, Mother.”

A sound somewhere between acknowledgement and disapproval follows. “So, I assume you’re planning on keeping Mr Dankworth’s accommodation above the shop as well. I was in the hopes that, perhaps, your living situation would only be of a temporary nature.” Her pointed tone changes then into something more distraught. “Look, Draco, if you’d only talk to the young Miss Greengrass again, maybe not all is lost.”

Draco inhales and exhales under the hapless gaze of Mother. “Even if I had the slightest desire of courting Astoria, I’d surely refrain from burdening the poor woman, Mother. I will most certainly not impose the Malfoy name on someone. Especially not for the sake of marrying into a family fortune.”

~

5 April 2010

Dear Stranger,

Your letter really took my mind off things; I’m so thankful for that. But I’m in desperate need to cry my heart out. Easter Sunday started out so easy and delightful with the beautiful weather we had, that I was devastated when it ended in an argument with my mother.

I don’t know how much exactly you know about my past and my family. So maybe this is nothing new at all or the Prophet kept you updated after the War. We had a once beautiful manor house and a fortune which likely could have bought us half of England. Almost every last Knut was confiscated after our trials, even when Harry Potter himself testified for us before the Wizengamot High Court (don’t ask, we have a complicated past).

Most of the time, I’m almost proud that I managed to become my own man, somehow, maybe. I’m not my father (he was imprisoned until he died six years ago) and I'm not Lord Malfoy. I run an apothecary shop in Knockturn Alley. It’s nothing like what I imagined my life would be when I was younger, and it’s far from happiness if such a utopia exists at all. But here I am. I think it’s the best possible outcome for me and when considering what I’ve done.

Mother is still in denial, though. She doesn’t speak about Father, she still wears her decade-old good dresses and robes, and she still spends Galleons she doesn’t have on bouquets of fresh flowers every week. Usually, we are close and wish each other nothing but the best. But you surely must know how mothers can be. She thinks nothing is good enough for me. All the while I’m only trying to get by on the earnings of the apothecary shop. Sometimes I try to support Mother financially, but she’s just as stupidly proud as I am.

You must excuse my gloomy ramblings. You seem to be going through so much yourself and I usually try to lighten up your mood. It’s a strange feeling, being so brutally honest with someone one doesn’t even know the name of. Please don’t betray my trust or there might be none left.

Your friend,

Draco

~

Draco does no such thing as looking for a house, or a woman to court, or a strategic friendship to build. Instead, he spends an equally serene and stormy April in reveries about his secret admirer. Endearing glimpses of his life, kind and reassuring words, goofy jokes. Draco would be damned to admit to it, but some of his days looked just a tiny bit brighter. Like Mondays. Especially Mondays.

He catches himself sizing up every other customer, trying to figure out who it could be. Bad handwriting screams not a Pureblood. Then again, who else would get involved with him? Busy job, so he probably wouldn’t spend ages looking through the shelves. Father of three excludes wizards who look younger than Draco but doesn’t exactly cap the age.

Draco observes the parchment several times and guesses that it’s always the same brand. He’s ridiculously proud of himself when he finds out which brand it is after some petty research in the stationery shop in Diagon Alley. Ivoryscript. A rather expensive parchment. It doesn’t bring Draco any closer to finding out about his correspondent, but it feels like a success, nonetheless. Like he uncovered a charming, little secret about a friend.

~

It’s the very last day of April, a bright and warm day, when Potter shuffles in like he does every Friday around noon, spectacles and Auror robes askew. Though he's all the way across the room Draco can see the bags under his eyes and the lividity of his skin. The sight of the Saviour painfully reminds Draco of the upcoming celebrations of the Battle of Hogwarts. Twelve years…

“Hullo Malfoy,” he says. The corners of his mouth twitch as if trying but failing to smile.

“Good day to you, Potter.” Draco puts the packed paper back on the counter. “Two Sleepless Dreams, two Calming Draughts, one Draught of Peace. Can I get you anything else?”

Draco is more than surprised when Potter says yes. “Add some Sober Ups please. Oh, and two more Draughts of Peace if you can spare them.”

Now comes the part that Draco doesn’t like about his job. He clears his throat. “Very well. Only one more Draught of Peace, I’m afraid, Potter. The ones you take are only available on prescription. I can sell you one for now, one more for backup, and that’s that.

“Oh, er… No chance to bribe you?” Potter chuckles, tired.

“Unbribable, I’m afraid.” Draco gathers some Sober Up Potions as well as one Draught of Peace and adds them to the bag. After a while the doorbell rings and another customer walks in. Not a regular. The wizard is thrilled to bits with meeting Harry Potter and Draco watches him step too close, shake Potter’s hand inside both of his own, and call him Harry like they're firm friends.

“You’ll have to wait a second. Need to find something,” Draco tells Potter, then turns to the other wizard. “Hello sir. How may I help you?”

The man sees him, and his grin drops for the briefest of moments before it’s replaced with a pleased smile. “Mr Malfoy, I had no idea that you work here. Just look at that!” He gestures between Potter and Draco, oblivious to Potter’s paleness and Draco’s thinned lips. “Isn't it wonderful, the social changes the post-war endeavours have brought? The Saviour himself shops at—well, let’s not beat about the bush, gentlemen! He shops at an apothecary that employs a Death Eater, pardon, ex Death Eater. It is so good to see that society gave you a second chance. Who owns this lovely shop?”

Draco clears his throat, eyes fixed on the counter. “Me, sir. I took over the shop two years ago.”

The wizard’s grin grows even wider if that’s any possible. “Amazing! You must be so grateful. And to serve Harry in your very own shop!”

“Yes, thank you, sir. Very grateful indeed. How can I be of service to you then? Potions? Ingredients?”

“Well, I’ll have some Murtlap Essence, if you please. My daughter had a nasty incident with a Kneazle, you see.” He chuckles and looks like he wants to give Potter’s shoulder a companionable slap but fortunately he refrains from that course of action. When he pays, his face lights up again. “What an honour to witness this, gentlemen. How society is ready to forgive—if you just prove yourself to be reformed, that is. We’re never too shy to extend a reconciling hand, right Harry?”

They have to listen to him for another minute before the doorbell finally announces his departure. Draco exhales.

“Does this happen often?” Potter inquires. He looks bitter.

The corner of Draco’s mouth curls downwards and a short, forceful exhale escapes his nostrils. “Every now and again, Potter. I mean, Harry.” Potter huffs a laugh. “And you? Are people always such a nuisance?” While he talks, Draco disappears under his counter where he spells a little cupboard open.

“Well… Every now and again, I guess.” There’s a faint smile on Potter’s face when Draco gets up and puts a small yellow vial on the counter.

“Take this on Sunday. Or whenever it’s the worst. It eases the grief and anxiety induced by memories. Might make you a little forgetful for a day or two, but the side effects aren’t that strong. Just don’t come running for a refill. This stuff is bloody hard to brew.”

Potter’s small smile grows into a crooked one while Draco speaks.

“Well, that makes… Five Galleons and ten Sickles then.”

“You must be mistaken. That’s too little, isn’t it?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I'm not charging you for the Obliviosus Essence, Potter. And don’t you dare open your mouth. Just take it and pay the rest. Happy twelfth anniversary or something.”

Potter’s expression is inscrutable when he pays, six Galleons of course, and leaves.

~

On Monday, the day after the Battle of Hogwarts memorials, Draco waits in vain for a letter. He stares out of the window while the roofs fade to grey and a decrescent moon rises high in the clear sky. It could be just work, Draco thinks. A particularly bad day, perhaps. Maybe he should have asked his Stranger about his memories of the war. He might have lost someone. Guilt and disappointment weigh heavy on Draco’s heart while he lies awake that night, restless yet perfectly still.

It's two Mondays later that Draco finds Horntail outside his window in the evening. The letter is equally filled with funny anecdotes and complaints about work. There isn't mention of the short absence of letters, so Draco doesn’t inquire.

~

Draco doesn’t mention his upcoming birthday, conveniently on a Sunday this year, but on the following Monday morning, a cheerful witch strolls into the apothecary shop and delivers a grand bouquet of the most colourful flowers of late spring and early summer. Before he even reads the note, Draco calls back the messenger, who is already turning to leave.

“See… There isn’t any chance that you’d confide who commissioned these beautiful flowers, is there?”

The witch smiles at him. “Oh dear, this sounds like you both might be lovesick. Even if I knew, it would do nothing for my business to tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Of course.”

Draco can’t possibly feel disappointed when his eyes lock onto the bouquet again, daintily sitting in a crystal vase on his counter. Hope these can put a smile on your face, birthday boy, the note says. Draco smiles as he relishes the prominent scent of lilacs.

In the evening Horntail gets some of the owl treats that Draco started to buy for the feathery creature, and Draco enjoys a glass of wine, as well as some leftovers from the day before.

5 June 2010

Happy birthday, Draco!

I’m writing this letter on your birthday and I hope that you received my flowers when you read this! If not, well… You should have! Just let me know in your reply so I can kick some arse.

What did you do for your birthday? I hope you enjoyed good company and maybe a wine or some Firewhisky or something equally euphoria-inducing. What’s your favourite? I’m not really picky. Firewhisky usually does it for me, but I’ll drink almost anything you could hand me. Nothing too sweet, though. Most liqueurs are simply disgusting.

I hope that you aren’t sulking because of the big frightening 30. You don’t look a day over 25 with your pristine skin and your hair and everything. (Sorry, I suck at compliments. You look very fit.)

My weekend was full of work and fairly uneventful. I won’t bother reporting on that this time.

Enjoy your day!

6 June

P.S. I tried this potion you recommended for my garden today—Merlin, but it worked brilliantly!!! Can’t believe I spent half my life hexing each and every slug individually off my flowerbed. Thanks so much! The kids “helped”. Think I’ve avoided a visit to St Mungo’s by a hair's breadth. Middle one tried to lick the slugs. Grotesque.

~

6 June 2010

Hello You,

I’m absolutely speechless. The bouquet is the most beautiful thing. I’d really like to reciprocate, so maybe tell me your birthday. Or the month, at least. You can marvel at the charming flowers in case you choose to swing by this week. I keep them on the counter since I spend most of my day inside the shop.

My birthday was nice and quiet. I saw Mother for lunch and an old friend visited me in the evening. As you can imagine, Mother was a little weepy. She didn’t bring up the whole marriage thing, though. Didn’t feel like I disappointed her, which is something, I hope.

Oddly, I’ve been thinking a lot about Bert (former shopkeeper and my Potions Master). Somehow the old tosser always coaxed me into doing something for my birthday. I vividly remember that he took me to a Muggle place near an orchard. We had a very rustic piece of apple tart; not like the delicate French ones with slices draped in the shape of roses, but a tart with crumbles on top that tasted like pure butter and sugar. Was probably the best piece of tart that I've ever tasted.

I shared a bottle of Elderflower wine with my friend in the evening. She confided me in some soon-to-be-marital difficulties. I was rather surprised—we usually don’t talk about such private matters anymore.

I agree entirely on your opinions on alcohol. Give me any wine or whisky. Or brandy. Liqueur? No thank you, sir. You can confidently pass it on to some old bint. Only exception was a liqueur Mother used to make from roses of the Manor’s gardens. One of the first times I got drunk, this very liquor was involved. En masse, I’m afraid.

I knew you’ve been exaggerating the whole slug scenario. Glad you got to spend time with your children.

Better get some practice with the compliments then, git. Saying I look younger than 30 is nice, though. And I do look very fit indeed.

Thanks for the flowers and for our correspondence, Stranger.

Yours,

Draco

~

When the afternoon sun starts dazzling Draco’s eyes and he’s handing a few potions over to a witch whose outfit could well have been inspired by Luna Lovegood, the doorbell rings. In walks a couple with their child, all dressed in sophisticated robes. Something about their disapproving glance towards Draco’s other customer, followed by prying eyes fixed on Draco himself, gives him cause for alarm. Then, the young boy asks just a little too loudly, “Is that really Draco Malfoy?” The small family stays back until the doorbell rings, announcing that the other witch has left the shop.

Draco’s heart sinks a little, but he tries to look oblivious. “Sir, madam. How may I help you? Looking for anything specific?”

“Is it, Mother?” The boy asks again before his parents can answer.

The wizard nods towards the door then. “It’s a shame, really. That just anyone strolls along Knockturn these days.”

It rarely does lately, but his probation is the first thing that shoots through Draco’s head. No contact. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

With a cautious smile the man regards Draco intently. “The clientele isn’t what it used to be.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Justus Berkshire. This is my wife, Victoria, and my son Cyril. I’m a nephew of Corban Yaxley.”

Panic flares in Draco’s chest at the mention of that name and he almost takes a backwards step. Instead of recoiling dramatically, he musters up his most decisive voice. “Well, in that case I must ask you to leave.” The amiable expressions drop from the two faces while the boy still stares up at Draco, eyes full of admiration.

“No need to get upset, Mr Malfoy. We’re in private. You’re among friends.”

“Please leave. Now,” Draco repeats.

The air is thick with tension. All Draco can think about for a moment is the quickest way to draw his wand, hopefully without his hands trembling, his body ready to take a Crucio or another curse right here and now. But none of that happens. The witch gets busy with the boy, the wizard makes a sound of disapproval and fixes his face with a jeering smile, his eyes resting on Draco’s for a menacing second too long, before they all turn to leave.

While they make their way to the door, the boy mutters too loudly, “Why did Mr Malfoy serve the Mudblood?” and, “But I wanted to see the Dark Mark!” The doorbell chimes and Berkshire turns around on the threshold. Coolly, he eyes Draco up and down and then he whips his wand for a quick nonverbal spell.

Only now does Draco feel the pounding in his chest and the queasiness in his stomach. He braces himself on the counter, covered in a rain of petals.

~

Draco is surprised when Potter slips through the door on a Thursday afternoon. Then he sees that he’s accompanied by another Auror and Draco’s stomach twists painfully.

“Potter,” Draco rushes to say. “Something the matter?”

With a grim expression Potter stands in the middle of the room, looking around as though to search for evidence. The soft lines between his eyebrows deepen into a frown.

Potter’s partner, a witch with a similarly serious expression, perhaps in her forties or fifties, breaks the silence. “Hello, I’m Auror Reid; you've probably heard of Auror Potter. Are you Draco Malfoy?” she says. Potter rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I’m Draco Malfoy,” he answers warily. “How can I help you?” Draco feels nervous despite himself. He has done nothing wrong, he reminds himself. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.

“Er…” Potter clears his throat and steps up to the counter. “Could we talk somewhere more private? I wouldn’t want to cause a stir here. Be warned—if you say no to this question, we may be forced to take you into the Ministry for a proper interrogation at sometime soon in the future.”

“Of course,” Draco says quickly. “I’d just have to close the shop. I have no one to take over the register.”

Potter looks at his wristwatch, a time-worn golden thing, and turns to his partner. “Reid, let’s come back in two hours. When the shop is closed.” Then he tells Draco, “Don’t worry too much about it. It doesn’t really concern you, Draco. Sorry that we had to come here in uniform and all… Happy belated birthday.” This time Reid rolls her eyes. Draco watches them both leave.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away in an unrelentingly steady pace, dragging on agonisingly slowly, yet inevitably nearing the dreaded two-hour mark. Draco cannot help the slight tremble in his hands every time he takes money or hands out pieces of change. The last five minutes feel like a whole hour all over again, but finally and perfectly punctually the two Aurors show up once more.

Draco hurries to close the shop door after they have entered, not daring to use his wand like he’d usually do and leads them up the stairs to his flat.  He gets the kettle on and asks his visitors to sit at the table in the kitchen. Reid remains standing and leans with her back against the windowsill instead.

“All right, let’s get this over with.” Potter says, dropping a thick file onto the table top. He opens one of the last pages. Draco assumes that it’s his criminal record. Several things are already written on the form that Potter is looking at.

“Male, thirty. No. No. Yes,” Potter mutters while he fills in the boxes. The man looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Draco’s eyes flicker across to Auror Reid. She looks on disapprovingly and very much on the verge of saying something.

“Have you been practicing the Dark Arts lately?” Potter asks, clearly and conversationally this time. It doesn’t escape Draco’s notice that Potter writes down the answer before Draco actually answers. Draco curls his hands around his teacup.

“No.”

“Unforgivables?”

“No.”

“All right then. Name all the people you’re contacting on a regular basis, please.”

“My mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Pansy Park-, I mean, Pansy Borghese. But very rarely. Several customers of course. My deliveryman, Dave Perez. My suppliers—I can fetch some documents if you require all the names.” Draco thinks for a moment. “I… Well, I’m entertaining a correspondence. We owl, I never met him.”

“We need the names of your suppliers. Might I have a look at these letters, too?” Potter asks reluctantly.

Draco swallows back a sigh and any objections, then quickly gathers everything the authorities are asking for. “You do trust this bloke a lot. At least check his wand, Potter,” Draco hears Reid say while he’s searching for some documents in a drawer.

Back in the kitchen, Draco spreads all the papers and an ornamented wooden box on the table and Potter starts conscientiously taking down each of the names of Draco’s business-related contacts. After a while Potter clears his throat. “What’s this?” He points at the box. Instead of answering, Draco opens it and hands him a pile of letters.

Potter’s eyes skim over the first few lines and he quickly shifts through random parchments. “All right,” he says and puts them back in the box.

“Heap of letters, no name.” Reid crosses her arms, glaring at Potter. “Don’t you think you should at least read one or two at random?”

“We’ve been through this, Reid. It’s simply ridiculous to question him. The Ministry is paranoid and bloody irrational.”

Draco swallows, torn between telling Potter to just play by the rules and thanking him for whatever it is that he’s doing.

Potter turns back to the file and reads, “Any contact to offenders, former offenders, prisoners, Death Eaters or former Death Eaters?”

“Well, my mother was on probation. Not sure if this counts as a yes. Otherwise, I’m…” He considers the question again. “I wouldn’t exactly call it contact. There was a family the other day. They wanted to see me, so they didn't come in to buy anything. The wizard introduced himself as a cousin of Corban Yaxley. I told them to leave immediately.”

Reid observes him with her strict gaze and Potter looks up from his file, glaring at Draco like he has said something wrong. “I’ll have to write this down.” He starts scribbling away, and Draco is so close to asking Auror Reid to continue this farce instead of Potter with this odd mood of his. But he holds his breath and kneads his fingers, answering all the questions regarding his unwanted visitors. Being in Potter’s favour—for whatever reason—has saved his arse often enough and Draco’s annoyance abates as quickly as it flared.

“He used an Exploding Charm,” Potter repeats. “Was something smashed?

Draco shifts in his seat, trying not to think of the ridiculous tears he shed the night before once he had closed the shop and entered the silence of his flat, his ears still ringing. “A small rack with several vials on my counter and… Well, I had a bouquet of flowers there, too.” He hates how small his voice sounds. Potter’s eyes are fixated on the folder, the knuckles on his quill white.

“Want to press charges?” Reid asks after a too-long silence.

“Press charges?” Draco is confused for a moment, then quickly negates. “Merlin, no. I’m better off without getting involved in any kind of legal issues.

He’s ready for Potter’s glare but it doesn’t come. “Wise decision,” he mutters instead, voice bitter.

When a short silence ensues, Draco musters up his courage. “What is this about if I may ask? It would seem to me that I’m under suspicion. Is my probation at stake?”

Looking equally grim and tired, Potter’s green eyes find Draco’s. “There was an attack. We’re asked to interrogate anyone with relevant connections or criminal records.” After a moment Potter adds, “Sorry for... Well, I hope this won’t start any gossip. Might I see your wand now? I will have to check it for the last spells you used. If you’re lucky and its history tracks back to Tuesday, your wand will be your best witness for your innocence.”

When Draco hands Potter his wand, handle-first, a small firework of blue and silver sparks reminds Draco that Potter and his wand are old acquaintances. He runs the Prior Incantatem and the spells are automatically documented on a long roll of parchment. The list dates back to last Saturday and contains housework charms, some Transfigurations Draco used when he saw Mother, and a lot of potion-related spellwork. Both Potter and Reid look pleased as they check the entries quietly.

When Draco’s alone in his flat again, he thinks that his shaken nerves haven't taken two unwelcome visits in such a short amount of time all that well. His thoughts race chaotically as he sits in his armchair by the hearth, the small wooden box clutched in his hand. After a while Draco sits at his writing desks and gets out quill and feather, preparing for a few very long days until this letter would find its recipient on Monday.

~

Summer comes and goes in blinding days and uncomfortably chilly Cooling Charms in the apothecary shop. Without any more unforeseen visitors and with customers, relishing the warm days in the sun, buying all his Shading Solutions and After Sun Potions, it’s easy to feel calm again. Everything goes back to being perfectly predictable.

Draco smooths down his robes and checks his cuffs while the sun of a Monday in early October painstakingly clings to the very last remnants of summer. I have never seen someone like you: buttoned collar, buttoned cuffs, black robes. Excuse my forwardness here, but Merlin. It makes me want to discover all the pale skin beneath.

Draco smiles and sighs into the quiet of the apothecary shop.

More and more has he learned to appreciate and take pleasure in mere words ever since this correspondence began. The exchange with his Stranger is reliable and familiar. Not only does Draco enjoy the funny jokes and flattering compliments, but he also shares some of his innermost thoughts and fears. Writing and reading letters has become the most intimate thing to him. He’s found a confidant, a friend, perhaps. Something he hadn’t realised he was missing. If the price for it is that, sometimes, Draco would find the desire to go ahead and share some news immediately instead of every next Monday unfulfilled, then so be it. Life has never been easy.

Draco would never admit to it; it’s dreadfully corny. But this—this slowly getting to know each other, starting to share each other’s secrets and flaws, learning what troubles the other, flowers, and compliments that turn slowly from chaste into a little more daring—it’s exactly what he’d dreamt of when he had learnt about courtship in his pre-Hogwarts education. And from what Mother used to tell him about her youth. Traditionally, it might have involved at least some tête-à-tête contact and surely a well-respected witch instead of a still married wizard. But this is what Draco had secretly wished it to be. Always.

Draco finds himself blissfully unworried about the idea that, perhaps, he’d never meet his Stranger. This is so much better than the loneliness and numbness before the letters began. It’s all right that it includes some bittersweet longing at times.

But it’s Monday. And it’s only a few mere hours until Horntail will pop up by his window.

Draco closes the shop unhurriedly after a late, but charmingly shrewd customer leaves, and then he attends to his potions. The Calming Draught simmers peacefully, and the Fatiguing Infusion will rest until next morning when Draco can take off the lid without causing the potion to release tiresome fumes into his face.

Up in his flat Draco has his supper, then rolls up his sleeves and bathes in the last few sunrays by the open window, savouring the fresh air ghosting across his skin and making the warmth much more enjoyable in contrast to the merciless heat of summer. He Accios white wine and drinks a glass, eyes closing against the blinding light of the sun, low above the roofs of Knockturn Alley.

When Horntail arrives with parchments and a small package, he feeds him some snacks on the windowsill, and caresses the soft, warm body with the back of his hand before he closes the window against the now rapidly cooling air. Draco makes himself comfortable in his armchair and begins to read.

4 October 2010

Dear Draco,

I can’t believe I listened to you, bastard! Took all of last week off and it was the best thing ever. I went to the London Zoo (the Muggle one) with all three kids. Weather was brilliant—when exactly did they extend summer to last until October?! Youngest one learned a few new animal names and the middle one accidentally floated his ice cream back onto his cone!!! No Muggle saw that, fortunately, but I was so excited! One of my accidental-magic-catastrophes was in this very Zoo the year I got accepted into Hogwarts.

Work tried to call me in on Friday, but I simply ignored them. I spent my day cleaning the house, baking biscuits (don’t laugh at me, it was a really poor try), and then I read a book. Do you know, I forgot that reading a book can actually be enjoyable? I also spent an evening with some friends.

All the leisure time took my mind off work but not off you, Draco. You were so thoughtful in your last letter about me working too much. When was the last time that you had some days off? And no, Sundays don’t count, tosser! You need an assistant or something… I’m worried about you.

You also talked about the first colour changes in the leaves and let me tell you: it’s much less fun when you have a garden to take care of! Why don’t you start taking strolls in the eves or in the mornings to get out a little? Maybe it sounds lame, but you seem like the kind of person who would enjoy something like that (that’s a compliment). Also, you don’t seem to be the kind of person who’d rather mingle and get to know new people. Maybe that’s been you, once, but it’s not anymore, I believe.

I’ll be back at work tomorrow and now that my pleasant week is over, I find myself beginning to worry a little. There might be a promotion coming my way. It’s kind of what I’ve always been working for, but… Well, there is always a but. Less time for the family, less time to myself, more responsibility, and—honestly?—I’m not so sure if I want that. I’m scared that I’ll easily forget all these fears when I’m busy with work once more. It’s ridiculous, but I’m always worrying about my family. I always think they might come off short if I don’t provide for them. It’s ludicrous to think that. We have everything one could ask for.

I can’t wait for your reply!! Can’t believe that it’s been a whole week since I last read your elegant handwriting. Time flew in this one. Do me a favour and think about my suggestions at least. Assistant? Walks or maybe you could fly a broom?? Just anything that makes you see something else apart from your beloved shop. It will be nice, trust me.

Take care and don’t forget to smile!

Draco smiles. He always does.

He opens the small package that Horntail brought, releasing a sweet scent of butter and vanilla. With his legs hugged against his chest, he crunches away on one of the biscuits, reveling in this small yet personal gift with all his senses and watching Horntail close his calm black eyes from his place on the cabinet.

4 October 2010

Dear friend,

I’m glad to hear that you had such a nice week and that you spend some well-deserved time with your family. They really tried to call you in on a Saturday, and moreover one which they knew you'd taken off? Sometimes I’d really like to know more about your job. Wild guess: St Mungo’s or the bloody Ministry. You’re usually much too kind, dear. Good that you learned to say no, even if it was for this one time only.

Sounds like your middle child is truly ambitious! He knows what he wants, even if that might only be some ice cream at this current time. He’s the one who Transfigured his tea into a hot chocolate when you told him it was too late for a sweet treat, is that right? We need some sort of pseudonyms for your children, I think. I get confused sometimes.

Accidental magic is probably very exciting for a parent. I was too young to recall it as a proper memory, but Mother sometimes tells me about one of my first times: My family was invited to an event and I threw a fit because I didn’t want to wear my dress robes. Once Mother managed to change me into my formal clothes, I Transfigured them to look like my pyjamas with dragon prints all over them. Please do tell me about this zoo incident of yours. But let me guess first: You freed all the animals for you felt for them. That would sound like you, wouldn’t it?

As for an assistant; I’m not quite sure… I might be able to afford one next year. But I’m also very used to working alone. Considering my past, I’m not very positive that I’d find someone who’d want to work with me. Running this shop and brewing some of the potions I’m selling is honestly bliss rather than a burden, really. I’m quite content with working all the time. Please don’t take any inspiration from my existence, though. Our jobs, responsibilities, and our routines are so different; don’t compare your stress level to mine.

Which leads me to two things. First of all, this promotion. Usually, I’d say just take it. A promotion should mean more influence, better reputation, and more money. Although I must admit that your work sounds so demanding that I’m not sure if any amount of Galleons is worth the price of your sanity. Would your working hours be reduced with this promotion?

Secondly, my mother. She seemed a little out of it yesterday. Apparently, she forgot to get some groceries, so I Flooed back home and prepared our lunch. Apart from that she seemed cheerful. Sometimes I have no idea what to make of her moods.

You’re a right sap with your smiles and suggestions I should take a stroll for fresh air.

Yours,

Draco

~

Not even the dreadful memories of the Manor under You-Know-Who could mar Draco’s taste for dark aesthetics. Ever since he’d been a young child, eerie masks, thick black robes, and the old rituals held a special fascination for him. As the Samhain celebrations began to approach, gathering wixen all over Britain's glades, marshland, and other quiet, secluded places, Draco finds himself entertaining the idea of joining one of the events.

But people still look. It’s not often the case that Draco ventures outside his shop. He rarely needs to get some shopping done in Knockturn or Diagon. Most of his groceries and ingredients for the apothecary shop are delivered. Sometimes he ventures outside to find items he’d rather handpick himself at the shops, or to take his mail to the Owlery. But every time he crosses the few streets to reach his destination, there are still eyes on him.

When New Moon after November begins, Draco looks out of his window into the dead of the night.

Why did Mr Malfoy serve the Mudblood? … an apothecary that employs a Death Eater, pardon, ex Death Eater. We’re never too shy to extend a reconciling hand. But I wanted to see the Dark Mark!

The hours run by without him going anywhere.

The next morning, over a particularly lemony Earl Grey and the Prophet, Draco finds solace in the thought of lunch with his mother. He’s not sure whether Mother had any plans to celebrate, but Draco is ready to reminisce about the Samhain gatherings at the Manor in the days of his childhood and youth.

So Draco wears one of his best robes instead of his cosy cashmere jumper, which Mother would surely appreciate considering it’s suitability for such a very magical season, when he steps over the little grate of Mother’s hearth. He puts down the bag of fresh bread and the bottle of Zinfandel he has brought along, and absently spells away the remnants of ashes before he notices the absence of sounds, not to mention the absence of his mother.

“Mother?” Draco says, his voice slightly raised, while he makes his way through the drawing room into the kitchen, then into the small dining room that is attached. He calls out for her again and hears a muffled, hapless answer from the direction of the small corridor that leads to the bedroom and a bathroom, a part of the flat that Draco hardly ever enters.

As a precaution, he knocks at Mother’s bedroom door, and when there’s another hushed answer, he opens the door to a dark room. There's a bulge beneath the bedclothes where his Mother lies, tucked away under a dark blue quilt. She’s faced away from the doorway and doesn’t turn to look at him when he enters. Draco feels foolish for it, but the single step into her bedroom feels like trespassing; like he’s a young boy again, not allowed in his parent’s bedchambers.

The sight of his mother, hair in disarray and most likely not dressed in her sophisticated blouses and regal robes but rather in pyjamas, is even more disconcerting. “Are you not feeling well Mother?” Draco asks cautiously. There’s not much of a response at first, but then she rolls over at last. Blue, red-rimmed eyes, shockingly naked without her make-up, find his own.

Draco ventures to the bed, right at Mother’s side. It feels odd to touch her forehead to feel for a possible fever and to stroke her dishevelled hair out of her face. “You don’t have a fever,” Draco points out. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my darling,” Mother says, her voice airy like a sigh. Draco waits, but she doesn’t elaborate any further.

“Speak with me. You worry me.”

Her eyebrows draw into a frown and it takes several trembling gasps until she speaks. She doesn’t say much. Only that she’s feeling too faint to get out of bed and get dressed, too tired to have lunch with him today. Draco asks whether he can get her any potion to feel more energised. Or a Healer. Mother denies all of his requests and Draco tells her that he’ll be back in the evening to check on her.

~

It’s not better in the evening and it’s much worse the next morning. Draco Floos in after casting a Stasis on one of his boiling potions to make sure the brew wouldn’t go to waste while he’s absent. Mother is still in bed and crying. While Draco brings tea and a breakfast muffin into her bedroom, he’s so rattled that he spills some tea on the tray.

“Smoked salmon and lemon butter,” Draco says, trying to keep his voice steady and amiable while he puts the tray on the bedside table. His words cause a new wave of silent tears to run down Mother’s flushed cheeks, so red that they look sore against her pale skin.

Draco sits down on her bed, taking up as little space as possible. “What happened?” he asks warily.

She tries to answer, looking agonised. “Nothing happened. I should be fine. I should contain myself- I will contain myself.” Despite her words, she begins to sob violently.

After rubbing Mother’s arm for a while and making sure that she has swallowed at least a couple of mouthfuls of tea, Draco shakily Floos home and opens the shop to a day that alternates between finishing his brews and serving customers.

He is unsure what’s wrong with Mother. Her only sign of vital energy was used to bar Draco from taking her to St Mungo’s or to summon the Healers. Draco isn’t sure whether she has ever been to the hospital. They used to have private Healers who were not only renowned for their excellent skills, but also for their absolute confidentiality. But this was all a long time ago. There is no money to even arrange an appointment with Mother’s old Healer.

Perhaps, she only needs a few days of rest, Draco thinks while he closes the apothecary shop around noon for half an hour to check in on Mother. Still, she won’t get out of bed and eats very little. She says that she misses Father when Draco leaves.

Some customers arrive in the early afternoon. Dave comes in to restock Draco’s supply of several dried herbs. More customers cross the threshold in the evening, picking up some handy potions or their prescriptions. It’s late in the evening when Draco realises that all this is up to him, while he charms Mother’s and his dishes clean. No one will come and tell him what to do; and he has no idea what to do for the best.

Draco kisses Mother’s forehead and Floos home in a trance. He remembers that it's Monday. He lets Horntail in, Accios some snacks for him and skims through the letter, too caught up in his head to focus clearly on the words. The familiar sight of the handwriting, neat in the beginning and growing scrawled halfway through, gives Draco a bittersweet sense of comfort. He skims it a second time, then presses the letter to his chest, closing his eyes and only breathing for a moment.

I need you, Draco writes then, not quite sure what he’s saying with his words. Mother is unwell. He tries to describe what happened, feeling calmer by the task of recalling the last day and writing everything down on a thin piece of parchment.

It’s not much later that Draco hears a tap on the window again. He throws back his blanket, makes a beeline for the window in the living room and quickly unbinds the letter from the owl.

8 November 2010

Dear Draco,

I’m so sorry to hear that! Don’t beat yourself up like this, though. You’re taking on so much right now.

To me it sounds like a psychological issue. I don’t know how familiar you are with this kind of thing, but it’s like a whole branch of Muggle Healing concerning the mind. So what I mean to say is that you might need a Mind Healer in my opinion. Do you know why she refuses to check into St Mungo’s?

Please, Draco: Please take care of yourself, too. I’m worried.

I’ll write again this week, I promise.

The next few days Draco can’t decide whether the clocks seem to stand still or whether they run away. Mother, serving customers, brewing, Mother, serving customers, cleaning, restocking, customers, Mother. Lie down. Repeat. Draco knows that he cannot keep this up and he’s glad when Mother starts to eat again on the third day and that she’s out of bed and dressed in a morning gown on the fourth.

In the meanwhile, two more letters arrive and from the second one slips a card with nothing but a simple drawing of a wave on it, steadily rushing back and forth on the thick paper. Draco doesn’t need to read the letter first, to know what this is. What he needs the letter for is the password, though. A smile rushes over Draco’s face when he reads a few reassuring lines, his heart clenching with an unknown emotion at the words, It’s paid for; don’t you dare send me even one Knut.

He taps the card with his wand and murmurs “Daffodil.” Letters start to seep into the card gradually.

Shannon Joan Halloran

Order of Merlin, Second Class.

Mind Healer  

Appointment Reminder

For: Narcissa Malfoy

Date: Friday, 12 November 2010

Time: 3:00pm

~

On Friday afternoon Draco’s mind is with Mother. Not in the nervous and alarmed stance that he’s been in all week, but rather in an empathic and slightly proud kind of way. He’s exhausted, though. He’s been rushing in and out of the Floo network, trying to have his meals with Mother, not daring to leave her all to herself for too long. It was only the night before that he’d managed to persuade Mother to keep the appointment with the Mind Healer. After coming home Draco wearily argued with the photograph of Bert he kept on his mantlepiece, telling him that he’d left him with an impossible task to run this shop all by himself.

After his little breakdown, the exhaustion crept into Draco’s bones and bestowed a deep and sound sleep on him that was aborted with his alarm much too early. Now his eyelids are heavy and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner is the only sound in the shop.

Draco almost shudders when the soft ringing of the doorbell chimes in his ears.

“Potter,” he says and reaches under the counter, grabbing only for air. “Oh, I forgot to pack your potions. Will only take me a minute.”

“Hi Malfoy.” Potter leans his arms on the counter, his eyes following Draco while he packs the few ingredients. Draco is surprised when the wizard speaks again. “How, er- How are you?”

Draco stops dead in his tracks, suddenly wide awake and alert. He turns to face Potter. The Auror looks wary. “Are you asking? Or is something official the matter?”

Potter clears his throat. “No, nothing’s the matter. About this interrogation a few months ago—it took a while, but it’s all resolved. Kind of. Don’t worry about it, I had to… I just…” He looks around the shop, his expression somewhat agitated. “Do you have any Murtlap? Do you brew it yourself?”

Draco eyes Potter suspiciously and resumes packing his potions. “Yes to both, Potter. How many do you need?”

“Uhm… I have no idea. What size are they?” Draco holds out a small vial to show him. “Let’s say… ten?”

With an arched eyebrow Draco starts to store Potter’s usual potions and the Murtlap in a bag, absentmindedly enhancing the charm that makes the bag tear-proof. “Did you get hurt or something?”

Potter shrugs inelegantly, his elbows still on the counter. “I’m an Auror.”

“With Healers assigned exclusively to the DMLE if I’m not mistaken.”

“How much is it?”

“Eight Galleons and two Sickles if you please.”

Potter puts down nine and takes his bag. “Keep the change.” And with that he’s gone.

~

It takes only a few weeks until Draco tells Mother about the source of her unhoped-for appointments with a prestigious and probably more than well-paid Mind Healer. Draco paid for potions that had been prescribed for her and told her not to worry about the cost of them, but he couldn’t exactly explain away a whole therapy that’s been paid for which he obviously couldn’t afford.

Mother takes a small bite of her Caesar Salad. She looks more pensive now, compared to the careworn expression she had worn she had still feared that Draco had done something illegal to raise money. “So an unknown correspondent. Must be very fond of you to pay for your mother.”

Draco doesn’t know what to answer, so he just keeps on eating.

“Is it a witch or a wizard, darling?” she asks conversationally, and Draco almost chokes on his bite of chicken when he realises the knowledge that is written all over Mother’s face. Draco hadn’t exactly hidden his sexuality from his Mother. It’s simply one of the things which they silently agree never to talk about.

“It’s a wizard,” Draco says at last, a little awkwardly. Mother only nods and keeps on eating.

Another time the subject comes up again, Mother muses, “Must be very influential. Wealthy. Why is it that you don’t know who he is?”

Draco takes a deep breath while he thinks about what to say. He doesn’t dare mention the burden of their family name again. It’s the only thing he can think of whenever he asks himself the same question. “I’m not sure,” he says truthfully. “Perhaps it’s unseemly in his family to be with a man.”

“What do you think about it, dear? Are you interested or is he naught but a pastime?”

He wants to say I’m not sure again but can practically see Mother’s scolding gaze. “It’s very hard to tell, Mother. It’s a bit vague, don’t you think? I can hardly claim I know him. It’s only letters.”

“Well, it’s not so long ago that courtship started with correspondences like the one you’re entertaining right now. Although one would hope you would’ve learned his name by now. Have you thanked him properly?”

A part of him wants to ask how you would thank someone properly in such a situation. Someone who not only listens to Draco but helps him come to decisions. Makes him take better care of himself and to go for strolls in the late evening. Someone who pays a whole course of bloody therapy for his mother without any hesitation whatsoever.

“How much does the therapy cost do you imagine? I should pay him back, at least parts of it.”

A small smile crosses Mother’s face. “Don’t pay him back, Draco. This is neither a loan nor is it charity. It’s a gift, don’t you see?”

Although Draco is more than surprised by Mother’s fairly easy-going reaction, he’s less convinced by her dated courtship ideas. So instead of feeling like a helpless damsel, saved by their knight, Draco sends some Galleons for repayment. His Stranger tells him to rather save up for an assistant. Don’t be daft. You can’t run this shop all by yourself for another few years. At least the words provide Draco with an idea of how costly this therapy might be.

~

Even an apothecary doesn’t remain unaffected by the madness that is the Christmas season. People stock up on potions like the apocalypse is upon them, the cost of ingredients goes through the ceiling because people suddenly remember their resolutions to go back to home-brewing, and if the Christmas gnomes in his shopwindow sing that awful Christmas carol one more fucking time, Draco is positively sure he’ll lose his mind. At least he would if he had even a moment to do so.

It’s barely the second week into December when Draco shelves a huge delivery with Dave’s help. His thoughts are elsewhere, already busy with the day's next task while he checks the delivery note for completeness.

“You look tired, Mr Malfoy,” Dave says while hanging some thyme on the herb rack.

“Mhm… What? Oh, well, it’s Christmas, you know.”

“Exactly! You should, I don’t know, enjoy yourself a little.” When Draco doesn’t give much of a response, Dave stops fiddling with the herbs and steps up a little closer to him. When Draco raises his gaze from the delivery note, there is a kind smile on Dave’s face.

“You see, I was wondering… A few friends of mine are having this Christmas party this weekend. Maybe- Would you like to come with me? As a date?”

For a moment Draco just blinks at him, trying to register the words that just tripped from this good-natured, attractive, younger man’s tongue. Draco’s not even sure if he’s ever been even asked on a date before. A breath is stuck in his throat when he realises that he really should say something in reply. “Dave, I’m flattered. Really. I’m afraid, I don’t think that it’s a good idea. I’d rather we remain in a… professional relationship. You’re a decent man, I’m-“

“Oh, don’t worry!” Dave blushes, and waves his hand dismissively to laugh it off. “It’s fine. I was just wondering, but I can take a no. Don’t worry about it, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco nods and is glad to find that Dave doesn’t act any differently for the remainder of his visit. Draco tries not to think of the fact that his words are only half true. Would feel like cheating, he thinks a little awkwardly and feels his Stranger’s latest letter heavier and warmer than ever in the inner pocket of his robes. I’m such a lost cause.

~

After denying himself a very real, flesh-and-blood, non-anonymous date Draco trusts that he might be behaving a little nervous sooner rather than later. 

But the breakdown doesn’t come. Instead, Draco rediscovers several urges, ranging from the pleasure of doing nice things for others just for good Circe’s sake of it to the desire of receiving some compliments all the way to touching himself.

Draco feels odd and a little disconcerted while he cleans himself off. Words were most certainly not the kind of fantasy he would’ve expected to work for him. But they do and they work surprisingly well, considering his almost-abstinence from any kind of sexual activity.

Looking in the mirror, Draco almost feels like he sees the whole of his body for the first time in forever. He traces the Sectumsempra scars, the longest one crossing his torso from his collarbone all the way to the jut of his hip. He twists his arm and looks down to see the Dark Mark, branded into his skin, forever claimed by the Dark Lord. The sight makes a mockery of all the occasions Draco has looked into the mirror, thinking that his fair skin and white, wispy hair weren’t half bad. Instead, he wonders whether there was even a single person on the whole planet that wouldn’t feel at least a little disgusted by the sight of him.

With a heavy breath Draco gets ready for the night, the high from his exploring hands long diminished by the sight of himself and reality catching up with him. He feels lonely tonight.

~

Draco notices just how tired he really is when the holidays finally arrive. There’s hardly a single soul roaming Knockturn Alley and very few customers come in between Christmas and New Year’s. Even the regulars bought their prescribed potions and ointments in advance. He uses the time to brew some potions and to square the books for the financial year. It’s a fiddly yet calming task. Writing down numbers, checking them twice and thrice—just in case. A small flare of anxiety, which he hadn’t even known was there, dissolves in his chest when he looks at the profit he’s made.

New Year’s Eve is spent with Mother and she’s in a good mood as they open their second bottle of sparkling wine, listen to the Wireless, and talk about old times, the pair of them dancing around the dark subjects that always linger in between the memories.

It’s not even midnight when the exhaustion catches up with Draco and his eyelids are heavy. But Mother, mentioning her therapy—which she usually does not—snaps his mind awake.

“I haven’t been to therapy this week—Healer Halloran isn’t seeing patients between the holidays,” she says.

Draco tries to use the opportunity. “How is it going so far? Do you… You seem to feel better.”

“I truly am, darling. She’s a wise woman and an exceptional Healer. I missed seeing her this last week.” Mother inspects her nails while Draco isn’t exactly sure how to tell her that he’s happy about that. She speaks again before he does. “Having to meet obligations—even something simple as seeing a Healer once a week—it feels good. I forgot that it feels like this.”

“I’m glad.”

When Mother immediately speaks again, Draco knows that she’s going somewhere, trying to tell him something, so he just listens.

“It made me think about you, you see? You are working hard to get by and to- Of course, you’re also working so hard to support me, Draco. I think I never told you how grateful I am for that.” Her eyes flicker over to Draco and she takes a long sip from her crystal flute. “I always wanted you to have an easy life.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by classical music and the occasional sound of a glass being put back down on the table.

“I’m very proud of your achievements,” Mother says at last and Draco is so glad that she keeps on speaking, for he wouldn’t know how to react. “I thought that—perhaps if you would need a hand—that I could help you out in the apothecary.”

For the second time this December Draco can’t quite believe his ears. “This would be tremendously helpful,” he says because it’s true. “I mean- You obviously wouldn’t have to.”

“I’d genuinely love to help you. It’d be good for both of us, darling. If I had only seen earlier…”

Draco tells her that it’s all right and is pleasantly shocked to learn that Mother would like to join his business as soon as possible, considering that she would have to learn a thing or two. They clink their glasses at midnight, not only as Mother and son, friends, and survivors, but also as co-workers.

~

3 January 2011

Dear Draco,

The holidays have been ridiculously busy. The kids went wild with too many presents, I’ve been visiting so many friends and relatives I see far too rarely these days, my baby seems to be starting a cold, I got called in for work TWICE and my mind was neither fully with my family nor with my job. So yeah. This promotion probably wasn’t a good idea after all. I’d like to travel back in time and just punch myself in the face. I did say I shouldn’t accept, right?

Anyhow, I’ll deal with it. Maybe it’s just the hols. Christmas is always a busy time.

Did you enjoy New Year’s Eve with Narcissa? Hope you had a nice evening. It’s good to hear that she seemed so well at Christmas. Your menu sounds so fancy, I don't think I've ever eaten half of the things you mentioned. Or at least I wouldn’t recognise them as such!

Trying to dance around the subject: Thanks for the potions you sent me. You’re such a tease, you know that? I’m not really sure how to dirty talk in a letter, but I promise you that I had an intense night. And I’ve been thinking of you.

Sorry for the abrupt switch in topic, but I’ll have to go. Just wanted to add quickly that my wife and I, we’ve been talking. We definitely, 100 percent are getting divorced this year. Just wanted to let you know.

Take care and don’t forget to smile.

Draco smiles, his chest bursting with foolish hope at the mention of the divorce. It doesn’t even really change much. But something inside of him just cannot get over the idea that it might change something for his Stranger. Anything to give him the courage and reveal himself. It’s moments like these that Draco is surprised by these strong feelings, seemingly coming out of nowhere. They appear to slumber deep inside of him; numbed if he’s entirely honest with himself. But even his anxiety pales in comparison to the familiarity and fondness he’s feeling while reading and re-reading all these letters, solely meant for him.

~

When Draco tried to imagine how it would be like—working with Mother in his shop—he’d thought it’d be annoying. Very helpful, yet annoying. What he didn’t imagine was that Mother had the sales patter of a Gringotts goblin. Where Draco kept his head down in deference and carefully held his sharp tongue, Mother finds a charming way to either gossip, or to inquire about the health of a customer's relatives. Sometimes Mother just talks about the change in the weather. Whatever she decides to say, she has a way of persuading customers into buying potions like she’s never done anything else.

And as for being annoying; Mother isn’t half bad company, really. Especially when she seems to smile all the time; serene and confident like Draco hasn’t seen her since he was a teen.

Draco handles the regulars who seem fond of him, tends to his potions more often, and starts to take off a day per week. As of now, he doesn’t have any idea what to do with all this time at hand, but he has it nevertheless. The first blissful day off, Draco makes the mistake of spending the whole day lying in bed, leaving him exhausted from an excessive sleep overload and a sore back the next day. The pain reminds him of all this leisure time he enjoyed, though, and he can’t help but smile when his neck and jaw ache.

“The good man has been working so hard for all his life. It’s just not right that he’s bed-ridden—it wouldn’t be right if it was only for a single, solitary day!” Mother shakes her head empathetically. “I’m sure, you must’ve tried Cushioning Charms, Mrs Henderson?”

Draco lips curl while into a smirk while he’s stirring his potion, listening to the conversation by the counter.

“Oh, Merlin knows I have… He keeps complaining about my spell work. I can’t even say for sure whether I really got that dreadful or whether he just complains for the sake of it.”

“Oh dear, what a predicament.” There’s a short silence. “I mean… We do have potions which would make him float like a feather. Spare his tired bones. I can’t promise that they’d be any better than your Cushioning Charms, I’m afraid. Even magic and potions can only do so much.”

Of course, Mrs Henderson ends up buying some Feather Lights and Cushioning Potions.

After Draco heard the doorbell chime, he laughs, “You know. I should give you a raise, Mother.”

She laughs too, charmed by his words. She tries to hide it, but Draco knows her too well to not see the pride in her smile. “I told her that I’m not sure if the potions are any good. You really think I’m doing such a good job?”

Draco shrugs, holding the freshly bottled Coughing Antidote against the light to check the colour. “That’s exactly what made her buy it, I suppose. She’s a know-it-all, Mrs Henderson.”

The doorbell chimes again and Potter comes in. He’s not in his Auror robes this time but clad in a Muggle coat and jeans without any robes above it. Two children are trailing behind him, and Draco faintly recalls that he’s seen Potter with an infant once, probably years ago.

Mother greets them amiably, then pretends to be busy. Draco isn’t sure whether it’d be blunt to call him Potter in front of his boys. But before he can address him, the older boy approaches the counter. “Are you Malfoy?” he asks in a very Potter-like manner.

“Uhm…” Unpleasant memories shoot through Draco’s mind. What would Harry Potter possibly tell his children about the youngest Death Eater of the War? For just a moment, it hardly matters to Draco that Potter has always seemed to stand up for him, even to fight for him. All he can think about is how children all over wizarding Britain would probably like to have a closer look at the Dark Mark when they heard his name.

Potter’s laughter roars through the shop and pulls Draco out of his spiralling thoughts. Potter puts a hand on his son’s shoulder while his other son rather hides behind his leg. “No, that’s Mr Malfoy to you. And where are your manners anyway?”

The boy holds out a hand. “Hello, I’m James Potter. Are you Mr Malfoy, sir?”

“I’m… Yes, I am.”

“Cool!” James’ face lights up. “Dad says he’s known you since forever. And that he sleeps better because of you.”

Draco narrows his eyes but then thinks of the potions, safely stored away in the bag he’s holding.

“Sleepless Dreams,” Potter says with a choked laugh and an abandoned little gesture. “It’s er… Necessary. Sometimes.”

“One might get the idea considering that you buy them every Friday.”

While Potter pays, Mother comes back from spell-cleaning some shelves and stops next to him. She leans forward, only the slightest bit. “Now, who are you, young man?”

The child behind Potter looks up at her, wide-eyed, apparently trying to melt into his father. Potter abandons paying and shifts instead, crouching down to get on eye level with his son. While the younger son may or may not introduce himself, Draco hears a tiny noise; but since it’s most certainly glass, he’s immediately alarmed.

Rushing around the counter, Draco fetches a vial from James’ little hand. “Careful. If you drop it and its whole content spills on you, you might end up dying from laughter.” He puts the Euphoria Elixir back into the shelf.

“From laughter? You’re funny!”

“Funny?” Draco arches up an eyebrow while observing the giggling boy. “Potions are not a joke.”

James stops laughing, looking up into his face like he’s trying to read it. “Potions can make you feel better, right? Do you have a potion for my sister Lily, Mr Malfoy, sir? She’s got a runny nose and a cough. And she starts to cry when she coughs too hard.”

A little unsure of what to say, Draco perks his head up to see Mother and Potter chatting. When there’s a brief pause in their conversation, Draco clears his throat. “Potter. Your son is trying to buy a potion for his sister. I’m certain she’s already well taken care of?”

“Yeah, she will be alright. We’ve been to St Mungo’s, just in case—she’s only two, so… She’s struggling with all the coughing, though. Her throat seems to be pretty sore.”

“The poor thing… Oh! Fennel, my dear. I’ll get some fennel tea for you,” Mother tells Potter and hurries off.

“Did they prescribe anything besides Cough Potions?” Draco inquires cautiously while rummaging through a drawer.

“Yeah, that and some kind of Calming Draught. It’s not the same one I have, though.”

“That’s because you could sedate a fu-, a hippogriff with the Calming Draught you’ve been prescribed.”

Potter laughs a little uneasily.

Draco finally finds the vial he was searching for. Mimicking Potter and Mother earlier, he squats down, flinching when his knees crack, before he hands it to James. “This is for your sister. Tell your father to rub her back with it before night-time. She’s not to drink it. And you’re not to drop it. I’ll charge for the next one.”

James carefully takes the small vial filled with green liquid in his hands, a concentrated expression on his face. When Draco gets up again and looks over to Potter, he’s expecting to see a pleased, stupid smile on the man’s face. But his expression is inscrutable, perhaps even pensive. “It’s an Elixir with elderberry and peppermint extract,” Draco explains. Potter only nods, then takes off his spectacles and rubs his eyes.

“Sorry, er, I mean. Thanks for the potion and the tea and… Yeah. Thanks.”

~

By the time Mother and Draco have already put up some Valentine’s decorations around the shop as well as an advertisement for several Love Potions, Draco sees all the couples taking a turn around Knockturn. They're even greater in number on Diagon Alley, whenever he takes his mail to the Owlery. Draco would have thought that he’d be either annoyed or dreadfully jealous whenever he saw a couple kissing or holding hands or just enjoying their time looking at a shop window together. What he feels instead is a shockingly heart-warming adoration.

“You’re ogling again, darling,” Mother says at some point. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off and go out for a cup of tea? Perhaps you might find a date along the way.” She looks at Draco expectantly. When she sees his eye roll, she smiles enigmatically. “Or ask your dear pen friend, why don’t you?”

Of course, it’s not that easy. Nothing is. But Draco tries to be brave, nonetheless. Instead of sending an adult potion like he did for Christmas, Draco tries instead for a more personalised gift this time. He tries baking, fails, and decides to cook something, which he can do. He wraps it up in his best Stasis Charms on Monday evening, Valentine’s Day.

Horntail taps against his window, happy to receive some Owl Snacks before he retreats to his spot on top of the cabinet. His Stranger is thoughtful, honest, and charming as always. Though Draco can’t help an amused yet fond smile while writing his reply. His Stranger seems unaware of the special date. Draco had thought as much was likely.

I hope that you didn’t forget to save some appetite for tonight. Please be scrupulously honest and genuinely tell me whether you liked it, even if that means telling me that I'm abysmal at cooking (in which case you shouldn’t be surprised to never receive another gift from me again ever). Please know that it might look like a little Valentine’s gift, but it’s not. It’s our anniversary.

~

It’s the same week on Sunday that Draco knows it’s Potter.

Mother and he have lunch together when she mentions, “You’d never guess who I’ve met on Friday when I saw Healer Halloran.” Of course, Mother doesn’t actually wait for him to blurt out any number of guesses. “It was Mr Potter.”

A strange feeling overcomes Draco, and he must remind himself to chew and swallow his mouthful of Chicken Noodle Soup. “Didn’t know you’d see other clients. Isn’t it supposed to be confidential?”

“Oh, of course, darling. Mr Potter was awfully early for his appointment, else we wouldn’t have met. Healer Halloran offered to Obliviate us. But we agreed that such a radical measure wasn’t necessary. He’s such a decent and honest man—he wouldn’t tell a single soul! And of course, I wouldn’t either. He’s done so much for us, hasn’t he? Draco, darling?”

“Of course.” Draco clears his throat. “Yes, very much indeed.”

Draco tries to focus on the conversation, but his thoughts are elsewhere already. As soon as he gets home, he fetches the small ornamental wooden box from where it stands on his bedside table and skims through the letters.

The Mind Healer, obviously. Draco recalls that Potter acted rather oddly the week that Mother was bed-ridden. Which likely would have been because Draco had looked like shit. Indignation on Potter’s face; Does this happen often? White knuckles on a quill while Draco tells him about his Bombarded bouquet. My baby seems to be starting a cold—Do you have a potion for my sister Lily?

Draco takes one of the letters and Apparates to the library in Diagon Alley. He goes to the archives. He finds the announcement that Potter has been promoted Head Auror in the last week of November. The Monday after Draco’s Stranger admitted that he'd accepted the promotion when he’d been called in by his supervisor, finding himself unable to turn the offer down. Of course, bloody Potter couldn’t say no.

There is not a single conclusive piece of evidence but there are just too many hints to ignore. Too many details that perfectly click into place in Draco’s mind. He tells himself that he cannot be sure. Not a hundred percent. He needs to see Potter’s handwriting. He needs Potter to write something down for him. Or perhaps the archives have some sort of document written by the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Draco knows his Stranger’s scrawl like the back of his hand.

Even though he doesn’t have proof, somewhere deep in his guts he just knows.

Draco’s heart is racing just as much as his thoughts. Harry Potter. This has to be some kind of sick joke, it has to. Potter was probably sharing these letters—all of Draco’s insipid, infatuated thoughts, his confessions, his half-baked stories—with his Gryffindor cronies. With the Aurors who’d no doubt know Draco’s criminal record by heart. Perhaps Potter is entertaining some kind of perverted fantasy by cajoling him, him of all people. Maybe he’s just passing time.

But then Draco thought about all these words. Thoughts and secrets inked into parchment. And Potter. Flesh-and-blood Potter who saved his life from Fiendfyre, thirteen years ago this May. Flesh-and-blood Potter who fought for his freedom in front of the Wizengamot. Harry Potter who decided to buy his prescriptions not in Diagon but here, where Draco worked. Potter, who arranged and paid for Mother’s therapy.

Maybe it isn’t really Potter, Draco thinks. Maybe the person he got to know is someone who exists in these letters and these letters only. A non-corporeal entity that makes him smile, and ache, and feel. A non-Potter.

Draco sits on his bed this night, eyes open but unseeing. After thinking about the things, they have talked about in their letters and the hundreds of memories that they haven’t; after pondering all the different ideas he has on this unlikely situation, Draco’s musings keep on spiralling around the question of what it can possibly be that Potter sees in him.

~

The one thing more pointless than falling in love with an anonymous wizard over a correspondence is falling in love with Harry Potter when you’re Draco Malfoy.

Draco decides to do absolutely nothing about it. Except he doesn’t really decide. It just happens, initiated by absentmindedly restocking Owl Snacks for Horntail the next day. For just a moment he thinks about the first task of the Triwizarding Tournament, then quickly discards his ruminations. Occlumency has always come easily to him.

He works. He receives a letter. He answers.

~

The first Friday Draco hardly glances up as though Potter might push through his walls and veil himself with a Legilimens without even doing so much as touching his wand. Everything goes swimmingly, though. Draco thinks that it would take much longer but it’s only the second Friday since he has begun to suspect—since he knows—that he dares to properly look at Potter. The sight is like a punch in the gut.

He looks strong at first sight. Broad shoulders, the hint of a trained body underneath his scarlet Head Auror robes. Yet every line in his face—the creases between his brows, the crinkles next to his eyes, the imprints of the frowns and the grins on the corners of his mouth—each whispers Potter’s secrets in Draco’s direction; every fear of failure, every doubt whether he’s good enough for his family, and every disappointment in his Ministry job is etched into his face, into his desperately hopeful eyes. And every moment of laughter. Every compliment and every charming anecdote he has shared through dozens of letters. His love and care and dedication for the people who are close to him. 

Potter smiles his small, lopsided smile like he surrendered years ago. “Thanks. Keep the change,” he says and leaves.

Draco can’t swallow the lump that’s high up in his throat.

~

Still, it’s the letters that seem to brighten his mood. Draco tries not to think about the irony of it, breathes away the sickening feeling that sometimes nags at him. Pretence has always been a talent.

Every Monday night Draco forgets about Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. 

Their correspondence exists in a liminal space. The letters are just stories and compliments and questions, two individuals equally thirsty to confide in and to learn about the other. A smile and a reply. A whole world woven into rough texture, the feeling of coming home by the sight of ink seeping into parchment, sealing a bond that’s only half-existent once the letter is sent off into the night sky that turns from black to grey to pink with each week that passes.

~

Of course, Mother notices that something is gravely off. It might as well be her rediscovered strength and autonomy, but she shops for groceries and cooks for Draco, letting him work longer like she senses he needs the distraction.

“Draco darling,” Mother says at one point on their Sunday lunch, a vase of freshly bloomed daffodils prettily draped in a vase between them. Her voice is so soft that Draco isn’t sure whether he’s just imagined it for a moment.  “If there’s anything you’d like to talk to me about…” She lapses into silence; her mesmerising voice reverberates in Draco’s mind.

“It’s… I think I’m in love.” The words just roll over Draco’s lips in a whisper, absently as though he was stuporous on a potion interaction of Draught of Peace and Veritaserum. Somewhere deep in his mind the confession sounds almost too crass to tell Mother. It’s like nothing a Malfoy would say. Or it used to be that way, Draco thinks when their eyes meet.

Mother looks like she understands.

~

It’s a Monday that wakes Draco from his trance-like state. A headline in the Prophet, the Weaselette kissing a wizard. Next to it a photograph of Potter, looking forlorn at some Ministry function, slowly sipping whisky.

25 April 2011

GINNY POTTER’S SECRET AFFAIR EXPOSED!

How did the Saviour of the Wizarding World deserve this? Harry Potter’s wife, Ginevra “Ginny” Potter, 29, was caught red-handed with Quidditch trainer-

Draco puts the newspaper down, trying to digest this. It is only two weeks ago that the letter mentioned the divorce again, still not public but in the making. Potter won’t like this at all. Not even Draco wants to imagine what the rest of this article or the Witch Weekly will have to say on the matter.

He looks at the photo of Potter again. The wizard deliberately tries to look in the other direction, away from the lens but he notices it ever so often. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere but sitting at this table, watching someone deliver a speech and reporters crowding the periphery. Draco can’t decide whether it is irritation or empathy that he feels. A rush of the latter overcomes him when he realises that it’s only one week from May.

At midnight Draco stops pacing his living room waiting for Horntail. With the decision to dim the lights and go to bed, his gaze falls on the photograph of Bert on the mantelpiece who waves his hand at him, laughing. Oh, how this old bastard would have laughed at him right now. You’re either a proud fool or a scared chicken, he had once said, when Draco refused to go get a delivery from Diagon Alley, thinking of all the eyes that would be upon him. Bert would say the exact same thing now and Draco would hate to hear it every bit as much.

~

If Draco had been worried last night, he’s positively panicking when he sees the Prophet’s front page of the next day’s edition.

HARRY POTTER RESIGNS POSITION AS HEAD AUROR!

Draco doesn’t dare read only one sentence of the article. Of course, he has. This is such a Potter thing to do.

When Draco leans on the counter and Mother scurries around the apothecary shop, spelling away some chaos and rearranging the shelves, she shoots him side-glances all the time. She must be curious despite herself since she asks untypically unceremoniously, “Is it about these dreadful Prophet articles? About Mr Potter?” Draco can only do so much as nod. He’d feel embarrassed to be found out so easily, but he can’t bring himself to bother.

It’s not an hour later that Potter slips through the door. Or he must have since, within the blink of an eye and another customer leaving, he just stands there suddenly. A flash of something silver and silken-looking disappears into Potter’s bag. Draco’s mind unhelpfully reminds him of the first time he’s seen this fascinating magical artefact; images of the Hogwarts Express, a Petrificus Totalus, green eyes staring up at him, red spurting everywhere.

Draco’s heart sinks when he looks in Potter’s face right now. He looks pale and agitated and Draco has no idea what he’s doing here.

“Potter,” Draco says out of habit, feeling Mother’s eyes on him.

Potter comes up to the counter, running a hand through his hair. “Hi, er… I came to change my regular orders,” he says. As though there were no sensational Prophet articles. As though he didn’t just sneak through Knockturn, hidden away from possible reporters unter an Invisibility Cloak simply to come here.

“Now, why would you do that?” Draco asks. “You usually come in on Fridays.”

The muscles in Potter’s throat work as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been around and thought I’d just drop by. Leave this here.” He puts a piece of paper on the counter. Draco doesn’t look down at it. “So, you know, that you’ll know what to get. You always bag it.”

He can’t be serious. The git wants him to know. “My memory works perfectly fine, Potter. I don’t need a list. You can-” Draco can barely resist the childish urge to shove the note back across the counter. “You could’ve just told me.”

Mother looks appalled and Potter looks helplessly lost in a gesture between a shrug and a wave of his hand towards the list between them. “Just… well, you’ll get it,” he mutters and turns on the spot, starting to leave.

“Wait!” Draco says, surprised and so relieved that this simple word has made it out of his mouth. Potter does wait. He turns around, looking back at him, his expression suggesting desperation and hope all the same. Draco’s eyes flicker over to Mother as if she could help him now. But it’s up to him to break the silence.

Draco takes a trembling breath. “Please take over the shop this afternoon, would you Mother? Potter—follow me.”

Hope and something else flicker over Potter’s face when he starts after Draco without a second thought, following him up the stairs and into his kitchen. Draco brews some tea in silence, still not sure how to even start this conversation; his thoughts muted by the thump in his chest. It’s only when he pours the steaming beverage into cups, glancing up briefly to notice that the silence had Potter’s expression haunted and miserable all over again, that Draco speaks.

“You didn't owl yesterday.”

Potter’s eyes widen and the heavy rise and fall of his chest quickens. Draco wouldn’t have been surprised by a much more drastic reaction, but perhaps Potter was too exhausted to be truly shocked. When Draco shoves a cup in front of him, Potter’s hands are immediately at the saucer and the handle, clinging onto the plain porcelain. Draco sits down too now. Watching Potter—a thousand thoughts likely racing through his head and none of which Draco could guess—Draco understands why his own muteness before had drained even the last hint of colour from Potter’s face.

Potter speaks at last. “Had a long day yesterday. I left the Ministry just after midnight.”

“To resign, given that the Prophet is not mistaken.” Potter nods and Draco hums around his tea. “Good.”

The smallest smile ghosts over Potter’s lips. “You think so?”

“Well…” Draco takes another sip, thinking that it was the perfect idea to get the kettle on. “The job was slowly turning you into a madman, Potter. Of course, it’s good that you quit. Whatever was it that changed your mind, though? Anything to do with that picture of your ex?”

Potter sits back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his forehead then rests a few fingers against his temple. He looks older than thirty. “Yeah, that. And I felt that I had even less a say in things than before. They wanted me as their spokesperson for the press, not as Head Auror. You have no idea what I had to listen to, Draco. You’d think that after everything that’s happened… But all the lies and schemes. Galleons—that’s all it ever is about.” Draco wants to tell him that he’s been naïve to think anything else. Wants to tell him that he ought to have realised on the day he had started his Auror training. But he can see it now, the hurt and the disappointment, as Potter buries his head in his hands, his elbows braced on the table. They sit in silence for a few breaths.

“It feels like I chose defeat.”

“Ever the chronic do-gooder.” Draco tries not to sound harsh, but it comes out even softer than he expects.

Potter looks up at this, his eyes searching Draco’s face. “I’ve meant every word I ever wrote to you,” he says, the boorish Gryffindorian that he is, and in a knee jerk reaction Draco groans.

“You better. Anything else would suggest that I’ve just invited a seriously disturbed maniac to join me for tea. Which I usually try to avoid if at all possible.”

Another smile flickers over Potter’s face and Draco can’t help but think that Potter must indeed fancy him. It’s never been so real. He’s never seen it in his eyes before. It vanishes as quickly as it came, though, cast away by heavy eyelids and sunken eyebrows when Potter lowers his gaze.

“Can I show you something? Well, rather somewhere. Can I take you somewhere?”

“Where? It’s not much of a surprise, really, but you stopped making sense.”

After drinking all his supposedly lukewarm tea in one big gulp, Potter stares at Draco for a moment. “There’s this place. I sometimes Apparate there to… wind down. To see something else than the Ministry and Diagon and Knockturn.” He swallows hard. “To be honest, I often imagined what it’d be like to be there with you.”

~

Draco is not sure how it happens, but soon enough he ends up with his hand tightly clasped around Potter’s forearm and the familiar pull in his guts, breath stuck in his throat. They must have travelled a fair distance, considering how long the Apparition takes. The moment the world swirls back into existence, an icy, salty draught catches in Draco’s lungs as he gasps for air.

If Draco had been to guess, he would’ve thought Potter would take him somewhere dramatic like staggering cliffs or atop of a mountain. But they are at the coast, overlooking the sea from the dunes. In front of them is a stretch of sand, dark and marbled from an earlier downpour; behind them heathland as far as the eyes can see.

Draco looks back ahead, across the sea, trying to remember the last time he’s had such a view, wide and unimpeded. The sound of the sea is carried towards them by a harsh breeze, tuning out anything else with each wave that steadily rushes ashore. In his peripheral, Draco sees that Potter sits down, and so does Draco after a moment, wincing a little when his robes and trousers touch the sandy grounds, covered in coastal grasses.

Draco’s eyes and thoughts go back to the sea, though. A slate-grey mass of water, rippling away under grey and white clouds, drifting past. Despite the constant movements of sea and sky, and the noisy rush, the scenery feels calm. Draco tries to fixate a point of the horizon, but ends up getting lost each time, eyes relaxing at a swirl of cool colours.

They just sit there, staring out at the curious line where the ocean meets the sea, and Draco thinks that they will stay like this for a while. But he feels Potter’s eyes on him then, burning into his skin that, together with the draughts, it sparks a prickle on Draco’s cheeks. The green burns into him like he could vanish, were Potter even to blink.

“Speak your mind, Potter. We are no strangers.”

Draco looks at him finally and takes in the sight much like he tried to memorise every part of the beautiful scenery, Potter’s scenery, only that he realises that it’s possible, palpable. It’s not a vague blend of greys and blues and whites, but lose strands of ebony hair, and eyes like jade with an unpolished rim. A straight nose that maybe somewhere had the remnants of a fracture. A stubble that would scrape over Draco’s skin, would they touch. Lips that could look luscious but are bitten and dry. At last, they part.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No,” Draco says, his eyes still on Potter’s lips. Then again, a little softer, “No.” He pushes himself up, then holds out a hand for Potter and pulls him to his feet, not letting go of his hand.

“I want you to hold me,” Draco says, and adds, “I want to hold you,” because he doesn’t know which one is truer.

It starts like a hug Draco would see between mates. But Potter clings to him and rests his head on Draco’s shoulder. He has never realised that the other man is a few centimetres shorter than him, but Draco can comfortably nestle his face in Potter’s hair, redolent of cedarwood and vanilla, and urge his face closer to his neck until he feels Potter’s nose and his stubble not against his robe but against his skin. These broad shoulders that appear so unyielding melt to Draco’s touch.

Draco thinks it should feel awkward to just stand there like this for a while. To have someone so close who you’ve known for so long. Someone you didn’t know at all and all too well. To feel something so tender and so fragile that it should collapse instead of allowing them to brace each other. But it doesn’t.

(art by fictional / milkandhoney)

~ Epilogue ~

The squeak of the cleaning rag disrupts the quiet of the house, bringing a frown to Harry’s face. The cleanser burns on the edges of his bitten-down fingernails, but he only stops scrubbing when there’s a seamless gleam to the grey kitchen backsplash. He casts a Tempus, rinses the rag, and gets a tea.

The house feels too big most of the time. He needs the extra bedrooms for the kids and is glad to have them every time the house is full of laughter, banter, shimmering eyes, and sulks. But the days in between, the house is a hotchpotch of things, once bought with good intent to convey a sense of home. Dark woods, warm colours, and cosy upholsteries. Harry feels misplaced in it.

With his tea in hand, he steps out in his garden. The leaves have already turned into a muddy brown clump that’s only a bleak reminder of the vibrant colours in the beginning of autumn. The air feels damp and Harry clings to his still-warm cup. He tops it off with a dash of Calming Draught when he gets back into the kitchen.

A list in Draco’s neat handwriting is pinned on a cupboard and Harry checks again whether he got the right ingredients for dinner.

Harry pets Horntail for a while, casts another Tempus, and then he Apparates.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings in Harry’s ears. It’s past closing hour but the door is open. For him. Even now he feels jittery all over again at the sound and the shop swinging into view. And despite the light sedative, he feels nervous and hopeful to the point that it’s almost too much. But he can’t resist. He’s been waiting so long. He’s been so sure that he’d never allow himself to feel this way. He can’t afford losing another loved one. The people he keeps close get hurt. And Draco looks like he might fade away, would someone only squeeze too tightly.

Harry knows and yet he can’t resist.

Draco looks up at the sound. He leans on the counter, elbows propped up on it, quill in hand.

“Potter.” Draco’s eyes flicker past Harry where a grandfather clock is standing in the corner. “You’re early,” he says, lowering his gaze back onto the counter. His platinum-blonde hair falls softly across his sharp features in silken strands that have loosened from his bun. Harry watches the motions of his slender wrist for a moment as Draco keeps on writing.

“Yeah. Time didn’t pass.”

“That’s why you should have been thinking about a job already.”

Draco’s words are nonchalant with only the slightest hint of a challenge. It’s enough to ease Harry’s anxiety. Harry crosses the shop until he stands behind the counter, taking in the curve of Draco’s long back and the way his robes wrap around his pointy shoulders and his narrow waist. Draco is writing down numbers, crossing some entries out in a long list, and copying things onto a second parchment. “You could teach me how to do the books,” Harry suggests, grinning in anticipation.

“Terrific idea,” Draco drawls sardonically. He conjures a chair out of thin air and gestures towards it. “Come here. I’ll take another ten minutes.”

After dropping down on the chair, Harry is pulled up by his chin for a kiss, warm and soft, and he chases Draco’s lips for a second one when it’s over too quickly.  It elicits one of Draco’s rare smiles. Draco sits down on Harry’s lap then, resuming his work on the counter, and Harry nestles his head between the sharp juts of Draco’s shoulder blade, closing his eyes and just breathing Draco’s scent, equally familiar and compelling.

“Harry?” Draco says after a few minutes, still scribbling away.

Harry hums.

“I’ve been doing some thinking. And I've talked to Mother. She will take the flat above the shop.”

At this Harry looks up. “Are you telling me that you made up your mind? You want to move in with me?”

“Next month, yes,” Draco says conversationally.

For just the friction of a moment, Harry feels like leaping up to his feet and doing something heady like whirling Draco through the air or having him right here against the shop counter. But Draco is easy to overwhelm with affection, as Harry has learnt many times during the past few months. He would recoil from the touch and go quiet, then later apologise in the dead of night or with ink on parchment, desperate to explain himself in a way he can’t when their eyes meet.

There’ll be a right time for joy and kisses, though, Harry knows that. Perhaps even tonight. Draco always finds his way to him. 

So Harry just wraps his arms closer around Draco, a firm grip around his middle that’s encouraged by a hand on top of his own, their fingers interlacing.