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ofscorpiusmalfcy | scorpius‌:

Scorpius had known what his father meant when he asked about the food. It was something easy to eat when his stomach was tying in knots as well, a further advantage. Hearing bring wine was music to his ears, given the occasion. He hadn’t had a drink when he got here, wanting to keep a clear head, but the thought of a decent glass of wine with dinner and maybe after now sounded appealing. “I’ll stop by the manor and visit Grandmother,” he said. “I was going to anyway, but I could bring a bottle of white from there?”

The softness in his father’s voice told Scorpius that he was seen, that he was understood. It also made him glad that they’d planned to spend that evening together, because he cared too much about his father to leave him alone. “It’s kind of stifling,” he said quietly, careful to keep it so only they could hear one another. “Like a weight on my chest somehow. Does it feel the same way for you, or different?” The glance away was something he’d seen before, when his father was addressing something painful. This time was no different, as it turned out. Mom. “Yeah, me too,” he said softly, reached out and briefly slung an arm around his dad’s shoulders before letting go, a show of affection that he gave easily. “Neither of us would wish it on others.” They’d already lived through it. They knew what it was like, how days could pass both too quickly and too slowly without Astoria.

Hearing the words I’m managing was as good as could be hoped for at that moment, and confirmed what Scorpius already thought. Not doing well, not by any means, but getting through it because it was something that needed to be done, a show of respect given. When the question was returned to him, though, Scorpius chewed his lower lip a little. “Worried about you and Al,” he said eventually. “He’s running around trying to do right by everyone else, and if today makes me remember, I think it’s worse for you.” With a scowl then, he added, “Don’t really like how some people seem to think now is the appropriate time to talk about why either. How could anyone possibly think that’s all right?” It was disrespectful at minimum, not to mention utterly ignorant towards the close family and friends who were grieving.

“You can’t steal your grandmother’s wine,” Draco replied playfully, eyes dancing momentarily. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you can, she’d be happy to give you advice and push so much bottles in your arms you can’t carry them, but it’s not good form when I too do own a few bottles myself.” He really only ever drunk wine in company and during dinner for he was more of a whiskey drinker, but he liked to think he developed decent taste with his mother’s guidance throughout the years.

Draco was glad that Scorpius still felt like he could express how he was feeling, even if he probably knew Draco’s sentiments on the matter were going to be different. He wasn’t wired to think the way his son did, something that Scorpius seemed to have accepted. “It’s different,” he said eventually, eyes on Scorpius again. “If it weren’t for your friend, I would suggest we get out of here early.” But Scorpius would stay for his friend, and Draco completely understood that too. He had done any number of things that were bad for him because his friends would be suffering worse. He shook his head when Scorpius mentioned that he was worried about him, but he didn’t comment on it until the other was finished talking. “Don’t worry about me,” he told him softly. “I have a heart of stone and I didn’t like Granger. The association will go away the moment I get out of here.” It was harsh, but it was true. Draco cared for very little people outside of his immediate family and Scorpius knew that he really didn’t care for Granger. “You should go be there for Al. It sounds like he needs you, and you know how to be there for him.” It was a testament to how Scorpius thought that he was genuinely bothered by the people sharing and discussion conspiracy theories about Granger’s death. “At funerals of important people there’s always a group of people who is just there for the gossip,” he told him. “I’ve seen and heard worse, honestly. I’m not surprised by it any more.” It said something about the stupidity of the race of wizards and witches, Draco felt. “We’ll discuss this later at home, okay?”

#ofscorpiusmalfcy #( interactions )#( event 001 )

victoire-weasleyy‌ | victoire:

There wasn’t a single place in the entire castle to get some peace and quiet. Victoire craved solitude; she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away, out of everyone’s sight, and just breathe. But, of course, today was not the day for that. Today was a day of public mourning. It was a day for putting on appearances, smiling and nodding, thanking people for their offers to ‘be there when its needed’ or to cook another meal that the Potters and Weasleys wouldn’t even eat. She was trying her best to keep her head down and go unnoticed… but someone calling her name made it clear that she wasn’t doing a great job of it. “Healer Malfoy,” she greeted the man, attempting to keep her tone as pleasant as possible. He moved closer, and she didn’t pull back. He cared, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to put up a front. But then again, he was her mentor… or, was her mentor. He was a colleague, now – and one who knew her well enough to pick up on any fronts that she put up. Victoire wanted to lie to him but also knew that she couldn’t. There’d be too much of a mess to clean up if she did. “That’s – that’s kind of you to say,” she managed to get out, swallowing hard. “I’ve been given a few days off, all things considered, but I should be in by next week. I know St. Mungo’s will need me, and I don’t want to cause any problems or leave more work on anyone’s plate. Especially yours…”

Draco had seen many forms of grief throughout his life. When he was eighteen and the war had just ended, he played a game categorizing people and the way they grieved in an attempt to make it easier for him to understand. It had been quite a callous thing to do, but since no one knew that was how he coped with it he was okay with it. No one had to know, either. Whatever the case may be, it made it easier now to filter through his experiences and figure out the way that Victoire tried to deal. He folded his arms over one another loosely and studied her with frowned eyebrows, by all appearances taking her in. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her gently. “Your family needs you, and perhaps more importantly, you need you. You should give yourself time to grieve. You’re not going to be of use to St Mungo’s if you fall apart later, Victoire.” In Draco’s experience, bottling up feelings always ended badly. He would know. He always did it. Just because he could give advice doesn’t mean he would take it himself. “My time isn’t more valuable than the others. In fact, it’s less so. I have nothing else to do,” he joked lightly. “If you want me to take over a shift, just send an owl or leave a note. Really.”

#victoireweasleyy #( interactions )#( event 001 )

azolias‌ | azolia:

Beyond any kind of uncomfortable feeling that Azolia could conjure, this whole occasion felt awkward. Being back in the place she grew up and seeing it changed into… well, a mourning ground. She had missed the melancholy years of recovery after the war, so to her Hogwarts had only been a place of joy and growth. Supposedly it was a comfort to some to see familiar faces, but none she could see were quite familiar enough. No best friends here, just vague acquaintances from the years above her at school and friends of her mothers’ that she’d never actually met. That is, until Draco approached.

“Mum never really talked about her.” Azolia shrugged, staring at a spot on the ground for a bit too long before giving in and making eye contact, struggling not to fidget. “Ma had a few stories when she heard, but…” It was easier to be honest with someone who knew her, who she could hopefully assume wouldn’t take offence to the way she approached things. History had taught her to be more careful around strangers, to hold her tongue and twist herself into odd shapes to find the right words.

“She was more of a symbol to me, y’know?” Proof that the search for knowledge wasn’t fruitless, didn’t make you aimless in life. Hermione Granger was smart, and constantly learning, and successful. “I dunno. How you doing? I mean, you actually knew her.”

Draco reckoned that Pansy, like him, wouldn’t say a word about Hermione Granger. It was bad form to speak ill about those that had passed. Narcissa had gotten that into him just after the war at occasions he was especially moody and dared talk ill of his late aunt Bella. It wasn’t going to change anything, so it was better to remember people in a good way than taint those good memories. Similarly, he hadn’t told Scorpius much either. He just knew what he already did, and for Draco that was enough. It was better for him to make up his own mind. “I think I get that,“ he replied tentatively. “You know Granger as the clever Minister for Magic, right?” That was really the best Draco could do. Other could share stories about Hermione as a wonderful human being, the most clever person, someone with a great vision and he didn’t know what else. He didn’t agree. That wasn’t necessary to say aloud. “If you saw her as a symbol, how do you feel about it?”

He shrugged his shoulders briefly. “I knew her at school, which is a long time ago,” he said. “And I have perspective.” After you lost the love of your life, losing anyone else was never going to feel quite like that, Draco found. Losing Granger in comparison? Draco almost didn’t care. He just cared enough to recognize others cared. “I didn’t really know her,” was what he settled with. “But funerals are always a difficult occasion.”

#azolias #( interactions )#( event 001 )

potterofpresage‌ | potter:

Harry examined the lengthy, wooden table they were seated at again, thinking of all the hundreds of thousands of Ravenclaws who had come before them, who sat at this very table just because the Sorting Hat labeled them as “more intellectual” than the rest of their peers. Perhaps Hogwarts had been playing into the larger issue all along: labels. Of course, being sorted into groups based off certain personality traits is a much softer example than being looked down upon for your blood status, but perhaps that was just the slippery slope necessary for the creation of people like Salazar Slytherin, who saw his house as superior to the rest.

“I imagine by the time the Sorting Hat got to us, it had become extremely jaded in the sorting process,” Harry replied to Malfoy’s comment. “Surnames carried a lot more weight than actual personality. And all sorting did was provoke someone to act in a certain way.” What would Malfoy had been like had he not been sorted into Slytherin like his family before him? Would he have been casted out like a leper? Forced to find his own way? Would he be the same Malfoy sitting in front of Harry right now?

And would have Harry had the resources or the sheer will-power to go on to fight the most evil, dark wizard of all time if he had been sorted into say, Hufflepuff? All these questions would never have an answer, sadly. But the more Harry thought about it, the more he realized the Sorting Hat assumed a much bigger role than the Hogwarts staff let on. And he was confident that Dumbledore knew that too.

The last time someone had killed the Minister of Magic, Harry thought. Scrimgeour. The same night he, Ron, and Hermione had embarked on their mission that would change their lives forever. “Scrimgeour was different. Vol–” Harry wasn’t sure if the sound of His name would make Malfoy cringe, as it still did for some people. And Harry had made it a thirty-year plus habit of using the name whenever it wasn’t necessary. “You-Know-Who had been around almost three years before that happened. But now. This attack right now. This could be the catalyst for something else. Something bigger, darker. Or not. We really have no idea.” Harry realized he was thinking out loud now and hoped he wasn’t distressing Malfoy too much.

All Draco could do was grin when Harry remarked about the Sorting Hat. He could hear the words that weren’t spoken and the implication that followed. On any other day, he would have jumped onto them. Draco knew all too well he was sorted into Slytherin because he was a Slytherin through and through. The way he acted throughout the war had proven it. He never impulsively jumped into anything. He didn’t have enough compassion according to some people. He protected his own, because that was what he was wired to do. He set an impossible task for himself and found a way around it to get it done and live. Did his surname help the Sorting Hat made his decision? For sure. But would he have been sorted into Slytherin regardless? Yes, because he hardly possessed any dominant traits from the other three houses. He had inherited Narcissa’s cunning and Lucius’ ambition, and was learned from young age on to protect himself and whoever he loved, because no one else was going to. He shouldn’t jump onto it, really. But he did, even if the words he spoke were mild in comparison to the words he could have spoken. “Do you feel like you would have been sorted differently if you had a different last name?” he questioned, eyebrows raising briefly. “I can think of some people that I had questions about their sorting, I’ll give you that.”

Draco glared aside at Harry briefly when he seemingly started to try and say the name no one should say, but dropped the glare the moment the other man realized what he was doing. “At least you and I both know it wasn’t the Dark Lord. We would know if he was back.” A scar and a Mark would see to that. “Honestly, though? I feel like nothing can be worse than the Dark Lord. So even if it is some new dictator or whatever other dark force, I’m pretty sure we got it handled. We survived the last one, after all.”

#potterofpresage #( interactions )#( event 001 )

ofscorpiusmalfcy‌ | scorpius:

On the one hand, wizarding Britain as a whole was feeling the effects and reeling from the loss of its Minister for Magic. It created the kind of fear that came from the remnants of wars he’d never lived through. On the other, the loss ran far deeper and was much more personal for the handful of those who had really known Hermione Granger. Watching it was hard. Watching the pain of people Scorpius knew, people he cared about in some instances, and knowing that there was nothing he could do except be there while they felt and processed it. He was worried about Albus. On top of all of that, though, there was the persistent thought of how much this reminded him of his mother’s funeral; different though the circumstances were, a mother had still been taken from her children long before her time.

As though he knew exactly when Scorpius needed him (often the case), his father approached then, and Scorpius’ gaze scanned the older man’s face. The gratitude probably showed, because he’d been getting lost in his head, and his father more often than not had been his anchor. “Hi Dad,” he said, exhaled a sigh, because right there was the acknowledgement that life went on. It had to. The corners of his lips curled up just a little bit. “Pasta anything is always good, you know that,” he said, tone clearly appreciative. “Cheese sauce?” That was comfort food for certain, but it was the assurance that he would always be welcome behind the words that was more comforting still. “Do I need to bring anything with me?”

It was the words that came after which made Scorpius still briefly before nodding. “Something like that,” he answered, knowing that was as good as an admission that he was finding it difficult. “I keep thinking about Mom too.” He kept his voice down as he spoke, because that wasn’t for anyone else to know. “I don’t know if it’s the little things or just the environment. Do you know what I mean?” He remembered his mother’s funeral in details, in the flowers that he and his father had chosen, her favourites. Scorpius still missed her terribly, had just learned how to live with her not being there because there was no choice in the matter. “How are you holding up?” he asked, a younger image of Draco with his pale colouring and grey eyes, but a certain softness in his gaze that came from someone else.

Pasta was an easy subject. It had always been their comfort food and they both knew it. It was the thing Draco made when they got back from Astoria’s funeral. Narcissa offered to cook three times, she was even staying over at the house, but Draco refused and when she didn’t want to listen he just walked into the kitchen and did it. It was done an hour early and he had to reheat it for dinner, but it was decent. Asking if Scorpius wanted pasta was also asking if he felt if it was a day for pasta. It was. “Cheese sauce,” he confirmed. “I almost want to say bring wine. Nothing strong, but one glass wouldn’t be so bad. You can bring one from the cellar.” All of that already confirmed he wasn’t the only one struggling, but hearing Scorpius admit it aloud was important to Draco. It meant he still felt comfortable enough discussing things like this with his father. “I know,” he told his son softly. “I think it’s the atmosphere. It seems to be similar at every funeral I’ve ever attended. And of course -” He paused, looked up and away and then back Scorpius, “the fact that a mother died. That bothers me the most.” When asked how he was, Draco sighed briefly. He pressed his lips together and let himself take in Scorpius. People always told him Scorpius looked like him. He didn’t see it. People just saw the obvious, the grey eyes and the blond hair, but Draco felt like he saw the details. “I’m managing,” he said then. “As one does at a funeral that isn’t from their loved one. What about you? How are you holding up?”

#ofscorpiusmalfcy #( interactions )#( event 001 )

@victoire-weasleyy / a closed starter A little known fact about Draco’s job at St. Mungo’s was that he’d been a part of the mentor program for a better part of nine years now. All healers-in-training needed mentors, but not everyone that could heal could be a mentor. Healing was a profession that some people thrived at because it was logical and because a number of steps could be taken to secure the best possible outcome. Others were less good at the logical but thrived at the people aspect of it and applied the methods they had learned. It was the latter that signed up to mentor the new generation of healers. Draco had been among them, reasons varied, and one of the first people he ever mentored was Victoire Weasley. Of course, that’d been years ago. Victoire was a full-fledged healer now, a good one at that, a colleague that Draco valued and didn’t mind working with. But that didn’t mean that Draco stopped checking in and occasionally asked her if there was anything she needed help with (assuming that she didn’t, but she had to know the option was there if she wanted it). So when he’d heard to news about Granger and got over the first shock, one of his first thought afterwards was with Victoire. He wasn’t sure if he’d walk in at her during the funeral reception, but as he exited the Great Hall into the Entrance Hall with the intention to get a bit of fresh air, he did. “Healer Weasley,” he greeted her formally with the title used at St Mungo’s, as there were others still in earshot. When he moved closer, however, he smiled at her and used her name instead. “Victoire. I was hoping to catch you. I’m so sorry about what happened.” Nothing she hadn’t heard before, he was aware. “I understand work is the last thing on your mind right now, but if you ever need anything when you get back, I’m here. I can cover shifts or whatever else you need.” And that was all hers to fill in, because Draco would be just as understanding if she wanted to take a shift because she needed the distraction.

#victoireweasleyy #( interactions )#( event 001 )

@azolias / a closed starter.

It seemed to Draco that literally the entire wizarding world had come to Hogwarts to pay their respects to the Minister of Magic and be there for her family members. That would have been touching if it hadn’t been slightly strange, because Draco was convinced that there were some people around who had never even met Hermione Granger. It was all a matter of symbolism, Draco guessed, and as heir to a wealthy and pure bloodline he should be appreciative of exactly that. He wasn’t, though. He’d never been much for small talk and pretending to find things interesting, and he doubted that some of the other attendees didn’t feel the same. Still, it felt strange being here for Draco, so that meant he looked for something familiar and found it in the daughter of the best friend that Draco spend years side-by-side by at the school when he was much younger. He approached her after a quick look around the Great Hall and studied her briefly before he spoke. “I recognize that this is a very sad occasion, but I am nevertheless happy to see you, Azolia. It’s been a while.” That was a vague notion, but that was because Draco could not recall when he last saw her. Days tended to blur into one when weeks looked alike. “How are you doing? How do you feel about this?” Even if perhaps Azolia hadn’t known Granger, didn’t mean Draco shouldn’t check in. He couldn’t know how someone else could be feeling, and history told him he was terrible at guessing it.

#azolias #( interactions )#( event 001 )

@ofscorpiusmalfcy / a closed starter.

The loss of Hermione Granger was a big blow to the magical community. Draco had never liked her, didn’t like her as Minister for Magic, but he knew that a lot of people valued her and put their faith in her and he respected that too. He showed up, paid his respects, made conversation and drunk the booze, which was a funeral in a nutshell for him. However, the funeral of a mother and a wife meant something else entirely to Draco now. Granger left a husband and two children, albeit grown-up, behind and the injustice of it rankled sharply. He knew one person would be feeling precisely that, so that was who he headed over to the moment that he spotted him. “Hi you,“ he greeted his son dryly and with a small smile on his face that disappeared the moment he looked away and into the Great Hall again. This was the closes to fond that Draco ever got in public. “Are you still coming over for dinner this evening? I’m making pasta. Not sure what yet, so if you’ve got a preference let me know.“ That was his way of letting Scorpius know that he was thinking of him and wanted to spend time with him, but Draco felt he had to do better. For that, he carried on. “I don’t know if it’s just me, and if it is you should tell me, but this occasion brings up some memories I’d really rather not relive. What about you?“

#ofscorpiusmalfcy #( interactions )#( event 001 )

potterofpresage‌ | harry potter:

Walking side by side with Malfoy through the corridors, without their normal gaggle of gang members surrounding them, was highly unusual. Not a word was uttered as they passed through the archway of the Great Hall, taking in the overwhelming sense of suffering and awkward silences pervading the room. Harry glanced over at his family, all sitting with their backs to him at the long, Gryffindor table with Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. He gave Ron a slight nod, then proceeded to follow Malfoy to an empty side of a table, where thankfully, Firewhiskey was being served aplenty.

Hearing Hermione’s last name, the way Malfoy always referred to her (well, the way they all referred to each other, Harry supposed), being spoken in a slightly sentimental way was odd. But Harry raised his glass anyway. “To Hermione,” Harry replied, hoping Malfoy didn’t think he was correcting him by using her first name. Harry took a swig and felt the familiar burning sensation of the liquid on the inside of his cheeks. This was his first sip of Firewhiskey since Hermione’s death. He hadn’t had a moment to himself to even think about getting hammered. But Harry knew there would come a day, in the not-so-distant future, where he would need a big bottle all to himself.

“Not to mention sitting at the same table with you,” Harry said, surveying the long, wooden table beneath their glasses. He turned around to count the number of tables behind them. “This is the Ravenclaw table. I guess neither of us really belong here.” Harry grinned, letting his hang there a moment longer than Malfoy did.

Harry wasn’t sure what came next after this. He knew his Aurors were out there, searching for the bastard who committed this heinous crime. Harry would probably get called back to the Ministry, but just for an update on the investigation. “Using the word ‘work’ loosely,” Harry said, taking another sip. “I’m more of a mascot right now than anything else. ‘You’re the face of hope’ they keep telling me. ‘The people need to know everything’s going to be okay’ and all that rubbish. It’s eerie. I became the very politician I fought so hard to oppose.” Harry sighed, staring off into space.

For some reason, the occasion didn’t feel strange. A muggleborn for Minister for Magic was never going to end well, and especially not one as progressive as Granger had been. The upper class, still bathing in their old money (the Malfoys included, yes) had their limits as far as progress and even before she came Minister Granger had been pushing it. There were things she had never understood and now she paid the price, it seemed. That didn’t mean it was fair, or justified - death was never any of those things. Draco only ever wished it on his worst enemy, and the man standing in front of him was the man who essentially killed that worst enemy. Granger deserved better, that much Draco knew. That didn’t mean he could change it, and it also didn’t mean the situation was any less strange. There were no circumstances under which he thought he would play nice with Potter. As it turned out there was still time for him to be wrong. Perhaps it was because Astoria had truly changed him. Perhaps losing Astoria meant he’d become more compassionate towards those who had also lost a big presence in their life, he wasn’t sure. When Potter made the remark about either one of them not belonging in Ravenclaw, he considered briefly whether it was a jab and concluded it wasn’t. After all there was no use in offending someone if you also offended yourself. “The Sorting Hat never really stood a chance of sorting me anywhere else than in Slytherin,” he conceded. “It was extremely obvious.” And he could not imagine Potter being sorted anywhere else either. “At least no one will think to try and find us here out of all places,” he offered with a short smirk, going along with the banter.

Despite of himself, he pressed his lips together not to show his amusement when Potter declared himself a politician. It wasn’t funny, but he completely understood what Potter meant. Potter was the embodiment of hope for many people. “Maybe you should see it this way: one could argue that not all is lost if people still listen to you,” he offered. “We don’t know that everything is going to be okay. I can only recall the last time someone killed the Minister for Magic.” Rufus Scrimgeour, after being tortured. Draco knew all about that. “But it doesn’t have to have to be that way. It could all be okay after this - for the community, that is. This loss is never going to be okay.”

#potterofpresage #( event 001 )#( interactions )

potterofpresage‌ | harry potter:

Harry mulled over Malfoy’s words about pity, then thought back to all those years ago, when no one did anything but take pity on him. That’s how Harry saw it anyway. Pity. All those years of Dumbledore, Snape, and everyone else lying to him in order to “protect him.” To Harry, their deception was a form of pity. He knew now that they might have been telling the truth, but at the time, their lies did nothing but anger him.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Harry replied, reaching his glasses to wipe his eyes. Harry knew it probably wasn’t the first time that he and Malfoy agreed on something. For instance, he was sure that they could agree that Malfoy never had the nerve to murder Dumbledore that fateful night in the Astronomy Tower, a subject which they would most likely never discuss. But this, the subject of crippling, infuriating pity, was the first time that Harry had admitted any form of agreement with the former Slytherin.

Another first: Harry and Malfoy smiling simultaneously, even if Malfoy’s was ever so brief. “Crazier things have happened. Exhibit A, everything we’ve ever been through.” Harry could feel the intensity in Malfoy’s reply, as if his offer had been misconstrued. He didn’t think Malfoy understood the certain type of “people repellent” he was asking him to be. But he guessed Malfoy’s self-deprecating view was one way of looking at it. And he wasn’t in the mood for a disagreement or explaining himself to Malfoy. All he could do was take a deep breath, then say, “Well, let’s get this show on the road.”

Formerly, Draco would have been either irritated or overjoyed with the idea of being seen with Harry Potter somewhere. Thoughts about his reputation and what others would think would have been prevalent, and how exhausting that had been. His parents had always gone on and on about their family’s reputation as though his father’s involvement with the Death Eaters hadn’t been the thing that screwed it up beyond repair. Now, though? Draco just hoped there was some good Firewhiskey, and that his presence would for some reason make his company feel better or at least make him think of what he was thinking about a little less. After a long look at Potter, Draco turned abruptly and walked down the stairs alongside Potter. He looked straight ahead, but side-eyed Harry briefly after a couple of seconds. Whatever he would have said never made it out, though, because that was the moment they re-entered the Great Hall. Just as they both must have expected, Potter’s company (in the form of Draco, of course) made anyone that would have wanted to approach refrain from doing so. Draco lead the way to the tables and handed Harry a glass of Firewhiskey before getting one himself as well. He raised his glass. “To Granger, I guess.” First and last time he’d say those words. It wasn’t until Draco took a long sip of the Firewhiskey and shot a look around, that he spoke again. “Interesting to stand in this hall with you and not have an insult ready,” he quipped dryly, another quick grin on his face before it faded. “Now that this,” this being the funeral, of course, “is over, what’s next? Do they need you in at work immediately?”

#potterofpresage #( event 001 )#( interactions )

ginnypctters‌ | ginny potter:

She didn’t want to be there any longer. Did that make her a horrible friend and sister in law? Of course not, she didn’t even know why the thought would even cross her mind. Hermione would’ve understood, well she would’ve laughed and rolled her eyes at her and admired at how beautiful everything was. If she was here. If she was here, there would’ve no need to fill the Great Hall and give the current students a memory that would be burned into their minds forever. However, she wasn’t. She was murdered in cold blood and now Ginny felt the same way she did when she was sixteen, no longer secure.

People meant well. They meant well when they offered their condolences to the Weasleys, they meant well when they sent over hundreds among hundreds of packages of food to their family. Ginny knew they did. A lot of people didn’t know what to say because words could simply not suffice. Yet, if she had to hear one more “I’m sorry for your loss”, she was sure her head was going to explode. It was even worse when she was asked what she thought had happened. Who did think she killed her sister in law? The red headed woman was this close to hexing someone into oblivion. Her family was not to be messed with, especially now.

On edge. Ginny just needed to breathe and not make a scene at a funeral, for Merlin’s sake. This led her on a journey to find alcohol of some sorts. Immediately crossing paths with Draco Malfoy, she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing with him on something. Well, stranger things have happened, she supposed. “Oh, trust me. You’ve read my mind.” The woman rolled her eyes, she swore they were about to roll in the back of her head at any second. “If one more person asks me what I think happened, they’ll need to deal with a broken bottle and a hex into oblivion.” She could only joke before nodding her head. “Why not. It’ll make dealing with all of this more bearable.”

Well, well. Ginny Weasley, or now Potter Draco guessed, both had changed and hadn’t changed a thing at all. The signature long red hair, how blunt and straight-forward she was and her expressiveness in general (Draco hadn’t seen that much of her, but it seemed to him that her thoughts and feelings were always right below the surface, true to what made Draco dislike Gryffindors so much; how could someone feel that much at once and want to express it?) were all very consistent. What wasn’t consistent was her agreeing with him, or not calling him a name or hexing him. It was a theme he could get used to, though, since neither of them were the kids they’d been when they last ran into each other at this castle. With practiced ease, Draco got Ginny a glass of firewhiskey and handed it over to her with his left hand, his right hand holding his own glass. “Here,” he said. “You’re probably right about the alcohol making this more bearable.” For him, alcohol always had some sort of tempting edge to it that he knew he shouldn’t give into. The more he drunk the easier dealing got, but the harder it got once the inevitable hangover hit. He’d tried alcohol, tried it directly after the war and again when Astoria did, but the first time he found a better method to cope and the second time he just knew the pity would get worse if he kept drinking and that was another version of something he couldn’t deal with altogether.

Regardless, Draco took a long sip of his own glass and it wasn’t until he swallowed it slowly that he looked over at Ginny again. “I haven’t exactly been raised by wolves,” Death Eaters was more like it, “but I can admit to not being the most caring or empathetic person in this room.” Huge understatement. He was going somewhere with this, though. “However, I would never have been insensitive enough to discuss who did it at the person’s funeral reception. You should honestly think of using that nasty Bat-Boxey Hex again the next time someone tries you. It would be totally deserved.” But it would cause a scene, and she probably didn’t want that either. It was difficult to have bats flying out of your nose and keep quiet about it. “On a scale from one to ten, how necessary is the alcohol?”

#ginnypctters #( event 001 )#( interactions )#// it seems so and i /love/ it

potterofpresage‌ | harry potter:

Thirty years, Harry thought. Thirty years from now, if Harry was still living, would the memory of Hermione still bring him as much agony as it did in this moment? Did time really help the healing? Or did it only give the pain more time to permeate through the whole mind and body? Had Malfoy truly healed from the loss of Crabbe as his deadpan expression had seemed to reveal?

“Seems to be a common theme,” Harry replied, studying Malfoy’s words. “Family crying, people avoiding eye contact. Death always seems to have that effect on people.” Harry thought back to Dumbledore’s funeral, located in the same part of the grounds that Hermione was memorialized earlier that morning. Nobody looked at each other. It was just tears and staring directly at the ground.

“I guess that means there’s no pity left for me,” Harry noted, considering all of the people he’d lost in the past. “Everyone’s expecting me to go in there, put on my Gryffindor face, and somehow find the balance between being the best friend of the deceased but also the Minister of…” Harry choked up a bit, remembering the official title that Hermione had passed down to him. “Damn it, Hermione.” He felt a tear run down his face, and he could not believe he was standing there, tearing up in front of Draco fucking Malfoy. “Sorry, mate.”

Harry sniffed, wondering why he had just referred to Malfoy as “mate,” and regained his composure. Harry couldn’t believe his ears, once he finally stopped crying and started listening to Malfoy’s words. “Thank you,” Harry said flatly. He sighed, then thought of a somewhat brilliant idea. “You wouldn’t mind walking in there with me, would you? I’m sure all the Weasley’s have taken their places, and having you next to me might keep unwanted press and such from running up to me. Firewhiskey, perhaps?” Harry smiled, for maybe the first time, up at Draco, who had grown to be a few inches taller than him over the years.

Draco had a feeling that Potter was going to need a while grieving and he wasn’t going to get a while doing it. That was kind of like it had been with Vince as well. The funeral had only been days after the Battle of Hogwarts, as it became known afterwards, and Draco spend his summer testifying in the Death Eater trials and attempting to escape a prison sentence. Then he went back to school, got closer to Astoria and was very much consumed with the pendulum between falling in love and being angry. Harry had very different things to deal with, yes, but the idea was the same: there were so many other things going on that he didn’t have any space to deal with what he had to. “Pity doesn’t help,“ Draco replied. “Not in my experience, anyway. It’s kind of enraging, especially after a while.“ That was probably too blunt, but it was true, and Harry was the kind of person that no one really dared to be truthful with. Draco didn’t have that problem for some reason. Seconds afterwards, however, Potter got choked up and Draco just about managed to school his face expression into something neutral. Potter shouldn’t go around sharing his feelings with Draco and calling him mate, but the other probably knew that too. What followed made him chuckle briefly and press his lips together afterwards, as though he caught himself doing it and realized it was inappropriate. “When I offered, I didn’t think you’d take me up on it that fast, Potter,” he offered with a dry grin, only on his face for a couple of seconds. “Under normal circumstances I would tell you where to shove it, but since they are far from normal I will be your people repellent. A title I am very proud of, for your information. Took me years of sarcasm and cynicism to get that down.” Regardless, he grinned back at Potter. “Firewhiskey. You better hope it’s good.”

#potterofpresage #( event 001 )#( interactions )

potterofpresage‌ | harry potter:

Harry had become accustomed to people checking in on him for the past thirty or so years, which was one of the main reasons he was dreading walking into the Great Hall right now. But it was even weirder being asked about his feelings by Draco Malfoy, who still greeted him with the menacing, “Potter,” despite the fact, Harry assumed, they didn’t have any negative feelings towards each other.

“Right, uh, sorry,” Harry answered, rubbing his fingers over his scar and through his thinning, jet-black hair. How was he feeling? Devastated, obviously. But Harry had been used to losing people closest to him since he was a baby. So, why did it still hurt just as much? “Better days, Malfoy. Better days.” Harry sighed.

Even though he was alone with his arch-enemy from his Hogwarts days, he still, somehow, preferred being out here to being bombarded with questions and other words of encouragement. “I’m sure you can imagine though with losing Crabbe and everything.” Harry wasn’t sure why he was bringing up Crabbe, considering that was thirty years ago and losing Vincent Crabbe was not the same thing as losing Hermione Granger. But, Harry figured, losing a friend is still losing a friend, no matter how universally beloved they are.

Better days, indeed. But had there ever been? Draco, personally, wondered if he had ever been truly happy. Could children aged eleven, twelve, thirteen really feel mature emotions like the real and pure form of happiness, instead of the childlike glee? He wasn’t so sure. He doubted that it was winning a quidditch match, snogging with your crush in the Slytherin common room or getting told by your father that he was proud at you (did Lucius ever?). Here in these halls should have been his happiest days, or so people tended to tell him. They hadn’t been. Draco’s eyebrows raised a little and for a moment he wanted to call out Potter because how dare he bring up Vincent and that fire at the Room of Hidden Things, but he swallowed that first reaction back. Not helpful, and Potter had no way of knowing Draco still felt about it so strongly. Probably because he should never have dragged Vince and Greg in there to begin with. “Right,” he said instead. “That’s been thirty years, though. I don’t really recall the feeling. I just know that there wasn’t much to bury, his mom wouldn’t stop crying and Greg refused to look at me.” And how did that help? He shook his head as though that would help the memory go away and scanned Potter’s face then, face expression clearing. “You look like you either need a drink or to get away from this place. Eventually people start looking at you with less pity. It just takes a few years.” That was Draco’s experience with Astoria, anyway. It took long for people not to see him as the grieving widower. Longer still for him not to see himself like that. (He wasn’t there yet). “I’m probably not going to like myself for saying this, but now that we’re here, here goes: if you ever need anything, you should let me know.” Historically, their families had stuck up for each other despite of hating each other’s guts. Draco lied at Malfoy Manor and Harry flew back into the Room of Hidden Things to save him in return. Now that they were older and civil, it shouldn’t be so hard.

#potterofpresage #( event 001 )#( interactions )

Draco shouldn’t have been invited, he felt. He did fine at funerals (if there was any such thing, anyway) as a general rule - Astoria was the exception, not the rule, thank you very much, and he much preferred never reliving that again - and had shown as much at the end of the war. Bella. Vince. Snape. But this wasn’t like that. He always had some kind of rapport with those that he attended the funerals of. Bella had been his aunt. Vince had been one of his closest friends. Snape was his father’s personal friend, his Head of House, Potions teacher and most importantly the man that saved him when he didn’t want to be saved. Hermione Granger, on the other hand? Draco knew her, yes, had disliked her severely, made fun of her on several occasions, and watched her bleed on their manor floor. Then he watched her become Minister for Magic (not with his vote, he was old-fashioned that way) and not much later she died. That was all Granger and him had to do with each other. He supposed that everyone that was in Hermione’s year at Hogwarts had been invited, though, and while some of the Slytherins understandably didn’t show, Draco knew he had to come. The rumours already started to make their rounds and it wouldn’t do to look like he had anything to do with it - which he didn’t, but people in general only saw a Dark Mark and an assassination attempt that happened thirty years ago. It was also good for the Malfoy name that he showed up, of course. It created goodwill, whatever they needed that for, and it showed that Draco could be empathetic towards those that had gone through something similar that he had (he really, really, wished he wasn’t feeling it). Regardless of what he wanted (disdain would have been nice, but neutrality he would have settled with) and didn’t want (empathy, never his friend) to feel, Draco was annoyed when he overheard two people discussing who could have been behind the assassination, as though this was the time for an investigation. That was not where funerals are for. He rolled his eyes for them to see and wrinkled his nose quite openly before getting a hold of the nearest glass of alcohol - Firewhiskey, of course. He addressed the person standing beside him. “I feel like emptying this glass of whiskey over the next person who speculates,” he said, his annoyance clear on his face expression momentarily before it faded. “This is not the place. Or the time.” Another sip of the whiskey followed that statement. “They should at least have the common courtesy to discuss the matter outside of the Great Hall, honestly. Do you want a glass as well?” Whether that was to empty over someone’s head or drink wasn’t up to him.

#presagestarter #( open starter )#( event 001 )

potterofpresage‌ | harry potter:

Before Harry could even think about entering the Great Hall, he made his way to the bathroom. But not just any bathroom. The second floor girl’s lavatory, where he, Ron, and Hermione had spent so much of their time at Hogwarts solving mysteries and literally cooking up schemes. He rapped on the ancient, wooden door, hoping to avoid running into any Hogwarts students who still had a month left of classes ahead of them. When no one answered, he slowly crept inside, and called out, “Is there anyone in here? Well, besides Myrtle, of course.”

But not even the shrieking voice of Moaning Myrtle called back to him. “I’m coming in.” Closing the door behind him, Harry entered the bathroom and made his way over to one of the mirrors, staring into his reflection. He observed his own circular glasses. The same ones that Hermione had repaired that first day on the train. He had purchased other glasses since then, but he thought it fitting to don the original pair on this unfortunate day. He surveyed the rest of his face, which had once transformed into the face of Gregory Goyle, due to the Polyjuice Potion that Hermione had made herself in their second year. All these years, and Harry knew there wasn’t an inch of himself that didn’t hold a story about the late, great Hermione Granger.

He began to weep, which he promised himself he wouldn’t do, especially during the eulogy, but he couldn’t fight the overwhelming urge anymore. He removed his glasses and pressed his forehead against the mirror. “You were the best of us,” Harry murmured through his low, hoarse shrieks. “You were the best and now you’re gone.” Harry sniffled, through some sink water in his face, and put his glasses back on. He could not be missing for too long, or the whole bloody Ministry would come looking for him. The last thing they needed was two dead Ministers in the course of one week.

Upon exiting the bathroom and shuffling down the stairs, Harry caught sight of a familiar face walking toward him, and attempted his best everything-is-okay face. “Just popped upstairs for a walk around the castle. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been here. How are you?”

Draco could think about it long and shortly, but it all came down to a single conclusion: however sad and tragic it was that Granger died, it was still weird to have a memorial service at Hogwarts. It was a school. The type where, Draco supposed, students were taught spells, quidditch was played and occasionally cauldrons exploded. Of course, thinking about that in more detail would send him down an entire spiral he had learned by now wasn’t worth it. Perhaps someday it would be, but there was no use in it now. That aside, it was also weird to be back at Hogwarts. Scorpius had graduated sometime prior, so Draco really had no reason to be here. It made him somewhat nostalgic - he didn’t have much memories of his first five years at Hogwarts, but he could remember the good in the last three, especially the last school year when he was with Astoria - and that made him want to go look to see if anything changed. He couldn’t be missing for too long, he was aware, but he felt extremely uncomfortable in the Great Hall surrounded by Granger’s loved ones (mostly red-haired ones, it seemed), colleagues, conspiracy theorists and whoever else showed. When no one was looking, he slipped through the doors soundlessly and made his way towards the main staircase. He didn’t get very far, though, and was stopped by Harry Potter out of all people who just emerged from a hallway where Draco still knew the second-floor bathroom was located. Myrtle’s bathroom, to be precise. He looked behind Harry into the hallway, back at Harry and frowned a little, but didn’t comment on the obvious. “Potter,” he greeted dryly. “I should be the one asking you how you’re doing, considering the situation.” It was obvious, but he’d learned that it didn’t mean he didn’t have to ask. “So -” He paused briefly, discomfort clear, “How are you? I’m really sorry for your loss. Truly. I cannot imagine how you feel.”

#potterofpresage #( interactions )#( event 001 )

intro - draco

According to Ministry records, [DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, 47, PUREBLOOD, CISMALE] has been considered innocent in the assassination of former Minister of Magic, Hermione Granger, and no further interrogation or a formal trial is necessary at this time. [HE/HIM/HIS] is free to return to their job as a [HEALER]. During their interrogation, they were found to be [OBSERVANT] and [LOYAL], but also could be [STUBBORN] and [CYNICAL]. >>> [jules, 24, cet, she/her, omitted]

hello friends! i’m jules, twenty-four, she/her pronouns and reside in the cet timezone - also known as usually asleep when others are around - and that’s about it for me. since we were encouraged to write up some sort of character intro, this is the headcanon section of my app for some in-depth info about drake:

#presageintro #( intro post )

mancandykings

Alexander Skarsgård photographed by Dylan Coulter for Men’s Health

#( vanity )

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