Chapter 6: In Your Dreams
Characters - Draco Malfoy x OC
Warnings - Suggestive content, mentions of death
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Summary - The Ministry deemed it necessary to punish young witches and wizards who had served under the Dark Lord’s command. To reshape their attitudes toward Muggles, the Muggle Relations Compliance Program was established. Draco had been sentenced to five years; after two, he still refused to mingle with Muggles at all. Until his third placement, where a colleague began to change his mind.
Lucy panted beneath him, her hair fanned out across the pillow in soft waves that shimmered faintly in the low golden light. Shadows rippled across her skin, tracing the curve of her cheek and the hollow of her throat. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently with each of his movements, urging him closer. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, driving into her with measured persistence.
With his eyes fixed on her, he read every flicker of expression, every breathless sound that escaped her lips. The air was heavy with warmth and salt, their bodies slick beneath it. He felt her legs tremble as he increased his pace, the room filled with the low, rhythmic creak of the bed.
Then her cries of bliss began to twist into sharp, mechanical beeps. He opened his eyes. A sea of white filled his vision. It took a breath to realise it was only the ceiling above him, faint cracks running through the plaster where the morning sunshine caught it.
He wouldn't be able to look her in the eye tomorrow. Still, at least it wasn't another nightmare.
Throwing off the blanket, he lugged himself to the edge of the bed and sat up. The room swayed briefly. Blinking hard, Draco yawned and reluctantly stood. He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, still heavy with sleep, then swung a fist at the wailing alarm clock.
His aim missed the button entirely, and pain shot through his knuckles. He winced as the pale skin flushed an angry red. The next time, he pressed the button with care, sighing in relief when the noise finally stopped.
The flat was quiet, that peculiar, hollow stillness that made him aware of every breath. A nauseated feeling lingered in his gut. Draco trudged to the bathroom, socks brushing against the carpet as he went. He twisted the tap, letting it sputter before releasing a steady stream. Cupping his hands beneath it, he took a sip. The water was cold and sharp on his dry throat, momentarily soothing the tightness in his chest. But the unease didn't leave.
She is attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that. So perhaps he couldn't be blamed for the occasional thought; solitude had strange effects on people. And he was only trying to preserve what little social instinct he had left. Maybe she was even… useful.
A sardonic laugh escaped him. A Muggle—useful? The thought was quickly banished from his mind.
Sundays were typically reserved for laundry and grocery shopping. The former had been neglected for the past two weeks; large heaps of clothes now littered his bedroom floor.
A faint sour scent of worn cotton and sweat clung to the stacks. Daylight pooled weakly across the carpet as Draco crouched down, scooping up armfuls of laundry and dumping them into the plastic basket. The fabric felt cool and slightly damp beneath his fingers. With a hiss between his teeth, he grunted and hefted the basket.
Slipping on a pair of ghastly plastic sandals, he made his way out of his flat and began the short trek down the hall to the communal laundry room. The overhead lights droned softly, reflecting on the chequered tiles as he walked. Clothes rose above the rim of the basket, obstructing his view.
Once he arrived, a racket filled his ears — a mother shushing her newborn. The child's wails mingled with the incessant thump of a dryer. Draco offered the woman a tight-lipped smile and claimed the washer furthest from her. Yanking open its lid, he silently wished he lived on the top floor instead, somewhere with a window he could launch himself out of. Dust tickled his nose; a sneeze built in his chest, and he pinched his fingers beneath it, unwilling to disturb the baby further. His ears filled, then released with a faint pop.
The machines, once white, were now streaked with rust where the paint had chipped away. The air smelled faintly of detergent and mould. Draco glowered at the washers in repulsion as he threw in the load.
At the beginning of the Muggle Relations Compliance Programme, he'd received a Ministry-approved booklet on "daily Muggle tasks." His lips curved slightly at the memory of setting fire to it several times in protest. In return, Evelyn confiscated his matchbox and gave him a new booklet. Now, though, he no longer needed the book. He couldn't determine if that was a good thing or not.
Quickly starting the rusted machine, it jolted to life, thundering beneath his hands. A flicker of guilt tugged at him as the child's cries rose with the washer's roar. Fighting the urge to cover his ears, he made a swift retreat back to his flat, the echo of the machines following him down the corridor.
Back inside, he'd never been so thankful for silence.
He still needed to write down all the questions to ask Lucy's kid brother. Plucking the little red marker from its spot on the fridge calendar, he fetched a notepad from the kitchen drawer and dropped it on the counter with a dull thud. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
The felt tip squeaked across the paper, ink bleeding unevenly into the lines. He scrawled quickly, his handwriting growing sharper and sloppier the longer he went. The questions blurred together in his mind, variations of the same tedious nonsense. He'd read the same rotation of questions enough now to know them by heart. Memorising the answers would be faster than reading the book. That way, he could forget everything once the testing was over.
Draco paused, tapping the pen against the page, probing his memory for whatever he might have overlooked. His lip curled faintly. It didn't matter. He just needed to pass, not excel. With a quiet click, the cap snapped back into place before Draco returned the pen to its spot on the fridge.
The paper was a mess of red lines and half-finished thoughts, but it would do.
A cutting buzz rumbled nearby, making him jolt. His chest tightened as he scanned the room, trying to find the source. Opening the kitchen drawer again, he saw the culprit. Picking up the phone between his thumb and forefinger, Draco inspected it, watching as it twitched and buzzed like a dying insect.
Flipping it open, he hesitated, then pressed the green button.
"Draco? It's Lucy… Sorry to be calling you like this. I got your number from your file."
Nearly dropping the phone, he rubbed the back of his neck, heat rising beneath his skin. Flashes of last night's dream flickered through his mind, and he tried to ignore the rush of blood stirring below.
Treading into the living room, he dropped into the worn leather armchair, his back stiff. Shifting in his joggers, he clenched his teeth and forced himself to focus.
After a bit of shuffling on the other end, a voice finally spoke. "So, um — it's fine if you don't want to. I know it's your day off. But I was wondering if you wanted to go see a film today?"
"I was going to kidnap you, but I didn't feel like getting arrested."
The line crackled faintly. Draco held his breath without realising, nibbling at the dry skin on his lip. A dull pulse worked behind his temple. This was a horrible idea.
He shouldn't have let her stay over. He shouldn't have gone to dinner with her. He shouldn't have gone to her house. What had he been thinking in the first place?
"… I've got laundry going."
Silence again. He could tell she was still there — a faint hiss of background noise, the occasional creak of floorboards on her end.
"Oh," she said finally, her voice smaller than before.
"Yeah. Um… but… it should be done around two o'clock…"
"Well, maybe we could go this evening?" she offered quickly, the words slipping out in a rush. "We can get dinner afterwards."
This was a terrible idea.
The hot-pink phone snapped shut.
"I can't believe you made me do that. You're such a cow," Lucy pouted, pitching her friend's phone back at her.
Rachel let out a soft "omf" as it landed on her stomach, knocking the breath out of her. Giggling, she rolled over on the floral comforter, nearly tumbling off the bed.
"Hey! You should be thanking me," the blonde protested. "I got you your first date in four years. Maybe now you'll get laid."
Lucy shook her head, hugging the dingy stuffed cat her mum had given her when she was five. "What is it with you and trying to get me into bed with random guys?"
Pushing herself up from the rocking chair, she placed the plush back in its spot on top of the dresser. "Just let me figure it out on my own, yeah? I still need a bit more time."
"I just don't want you to let one bad experience ruin it completely for you." Rachel sat up, her head resting against a fluffy pillow.
Plonking down on the bed beside Rachel, Lucy watched as raindrops slid down the window. As a kid, on long car rides home, she would often imagine the droplets racing. Now she was the one driving home most of the time, but at least she still had her bedroom window to look out of.
"It's not even a date, Rachel. I don't even think he thought of it as that—"
"Of course he did. You're going to a movie, then to dinner. That's like the most basic date there is!" Rachel interrupted, tugging up a bra strap that had fallen from her shoulder.
Finally allowing herself to slip from the bed to the floor, Rachel picked herself up, moving to the other side of the bedroom. Pulling open Lucy's closet door, she crossed her arms, staring at her friend's collection of clothes as if she were an art critic in a gallery.
"Unless you actually believe that bullshit story of him never seeing a movie before. Bloke sounds like a pretentious dipshit." Plucking out a skin-tight black dress, Rachel held it out in front of her. She squinted, lining up the neck of the dress with Lucy's head as the girl still lay in bed.
"I'm not wearing that. We're going to the cinema, not the club," Lucy determined. Standing up, she took the dress from Rachel and returned it to the rack.
"Why did you even get me to ask him out if you think he sounds 'pretentious'?"
"Because," Rachel began, moving on to the next dress, "it sounds like you like him, God knows why… You've always had a thing for fixin' 'em." She ignored Lucy's offended expression and studied the item on the hanger —a midnight-blue, silky gown.
Placing the hanger under Lucy's chin, she grinned widely as she surveyed the dress in the full-length mirror. "This is the one."
"It's too much. He's gonna think I'm trying too hard."
"So you are trying, is what I'm hearing," she pointed out, trying to push her friend's buttons.
Rachel laid out the silk dress on the bed and began sifting through the jewellery box. The little ballerina spun in circles as the box played its melody. Lucy groaned.
Letting Rachel snoop through her things, she turned on her electric keyboard in the corner of her room. She tried to play the melody by ear, the keys smooth beneath her fingertips until the box finally shut.
"I even paired a jumper and boots with it to try to dress it down. Happy?" Presenting the final outfit, Rachel glanced down at the ensemble, impressed with her own sense of style.
With his clothes already tumbling in the dryer, Draco stood in the kitchen, trying to piece together a mental list of what he needed from the shop.
Shopping was easily the worst part of his week. Regardless of how much he tried to evade Muggles, there were some things he couldn't get around. Grocery shopping was one of them: a necessary evil.
The shops were always too bright, too loud, crammed with people who walked too slowly and stood far too close. Everything about it felt off. The flickering lights, the endless hum of glass fridges, the synthetic smell clinging to the air. It made his skin crawl.
Ever since his cooking lesson with Lucy, he'd started putting pesto on everything he ate. Draco didn't actually know what made food taste good. His entire life, food had sort of just… appeared. He'd never had to think about it. He had to be sure to get two jars of the stuff this time.
An abrupt knock on the front door resonated throughout the space, the sound bouncing off the walls. It couldn't have been Lucy; they were supposed to meet at the café and walk from there. Peeking down at his sandals, he slipped them off. If it were her, he couldn't handle the humiliation of being caught wearing plastic shoes.
Walking out of the kitchen, Draco approached the front door. The person on the other side knocked again, this time more insistently. The handle earned only a withering glance before he turned it and eased the door open a crack.
What he didn't expect was Harry Potter's face staring back at him.
He looked more or less the same as the last time Draco had seen him — the same messy hair and stupid scar— except now he was dressed in Muggle clothes: a faded jacket, and jeans.
Opening the door fully, Draco leaned against the frame, hands tucked into his pockets. They stared at each other for a beat, empty expressions on both faces."What? After two years, you decided to pay a visit to gloat?"
Harry smiled. Really, nothing had changed. "I wish, but no," he paused. "Can I come inside?"
With a faint wrinkle of his nose, he stepped aside and wordlessly gestured for Harry to enter. Harry took a slow step in, his gaze drifting around the small flat. A faint smirk twitched at his mouth as he followed Draco into the living room.
"Nice place. More modest than what you're used to, right? In fact, it's smaller than the manor, I'm su—"
"What do you want, Potter?"
Harry paused, suddenly reminded of why he was there in the first place. He took a seat on the lumpy couch, Draco taking a seat across from him. The silence was deafening; the only noise was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Taking off his glasses, Harry began scrubbing the lenses with his shirt. "So, you know I'm an Auror, right?"
Slumping in his chair, the leather squeaking softly, Draco crossed his arms without responding.
Placing the glasses back on the bridge of his nose, Harry continued, "Well, Muggles who've interacted with wizards and witches in the M.R.C. Program have been attacked all over Britain. Two have died so far."
Though he could feel his pulse in his throat, Draco stayed muted, thinking back to when Lucy fell off the ladder. The man—he had been waving a 'stick'. His instincts were right. He tried to focus, but the blood pounding in his ears made it impossible.
"We've got reports that someone cast the Killing Curse, coincidentally, where you work. For some reason, it failed. If this is some sort of coordinated attack, you—"
The heavy weight of anxiety pressing down on him was quickly replaced. Sitting up unnaturally straight, Draco's eyes darkened to a stormy shade. "You've got some nerve coming here and accusing me."
Something in Harry's expression shifted, barely contained. "I've got some nerve? May I remind you why you're here in the first place?"
"Because Granger had the bright idea of converting us, hoping we'd come back in five years singing Muggle music and spitting on our ancestors' graves.
A thunder of crashes erupted next door. Draco exhaled through his nose, the sound brittle. "That'll be the neighbour. He plays the drums," he said, nodding toward the wall behind him. The clash of cymbals rattled the silence, but they pressed on with the conversation, pretending it wasn't there.
Harry sat back in his seat, crossing his legs. "You listen to much Muggle music, do you?" he said, brows raised at the disturbance.
The neighbour's drumming drowned out the moment's hesitation before Harry spoke again. "Alright, even if I give you the benefit of the doubt. Can you at least tell me if you've seen anything?" Harry asked, evidently anticipating a waste of time.
Draco weighed his thoughts. "Actually," he said at last, "I have noticed something."
Harry’s green eyes narrowed, yet he let Draco continue on.
"This Muggle girl I work with fell off a ladder last week. I didn't see him completely, but a man rushed out of the store," he hesitated, taking a breath. "She said he was waving around a stick, but I didn't think anything of it until now."
"She says 'waving around a stick' and you don't think anything of it?"
Draco bit his tongue. "I did, I just thought if it actually was what I thought it was, then she would be..."
Harry began bouncing a knee, gazing past Draco, seeming lost in thought.
"Why couldn't my Sentencing Officer just ask me in our next meeting? Why did you come out all this way?"
This drew Harry back to the present. He hesitated, considering his words. "It's the first case I'm in charge of… I needed to hear what you had to say myself."
At this, Draco rolled his eyes.
"What's this girl's name? She could be in real trouble, Malfoy." Harry asked, digging through the inner folds of his coat until his fingers brushed a notepad. He pulled it free, followed by a quill.
"Lucy Palmer," Draco muttered, forcing his tone flat. He watched as Harry wrote down her name, his gut twisting itself in knots.
Harry glanced up from his notepad, "Okay, and what day did this happen? Do you remember?"
"Yes, um..." he hesitated, scouring his memory, "A day after my birthday, so it must have been Tuesday." Fortunately, the drumming stopped, though Draco's ears still buzzed in the silence. Now, the only sound was the faint scratch of a quill against paper.
"That's the day we detected the curse," the Auror said, pausing as he pressed the tip of the quill against the page. "When do you see her next?"
"Tonight," Draco replied, too quickly. Regret struck him at once. If he hadn't been observing Harry, he might have missed the subtle lift of an eyebrow. Still, Harry said nothing.
"That's short notice. We're still working on a plan to hopefully catch them in the act." Tearing off a small piece of paper from his page, Harry stood slowly, making his way out, Draco following behind.
"Why do you need her? So, what, your genius plan is to use Muggles as bait?"
Harry handed him the torn slip of paper, his eyes briefly scanning Draco. A trace of something unreadable passed across his face. "Do you have a better idea? Why do you care anyway?"
"I don't," Draco replied, but he didn't know which question he was responding to. Observing the piece of paper, Draco's forehead creased. "What is this?"
"It's a phone number. Don't tell me you haven't used a phone yet."
"I have," he defended, "...I just haven't called anyone with it. Why do you have a phone?"
Opening the front door, Harry turned to him one last time. "You're not the only one I'm meeting with, Malfoy. I need a way to get in touch with you lot. I already have yours."
"Yes, because we want to stay in touch with the Chosen One."
Finally leaving, Harry strolled down the corridor towards the building's exit, waving a hand over his shoulder farewell. "Nice hair, by the way."
Picking up one of the limp strands from his shoulder, Draco inspected his hair, a grimace tugging at his lips. Slamming the door behind him, he retreated back into his flat.
Summer was edging closer, and the evening air carried a gentle warmth as he made his way toward the café. From further down the street came the rising noise of a group of rowdy men, their voices raised in half-sung chants that echoed through the dusky light. It was the kind of tune he might've heard at a Quidditch match.
Draco never liked going out at night without his wand. Muggles might have been beneath him, but even he could admit they were still capable of being dangerous. As awful as it sounded, he often wished something would happen to someone in the M.R.C. Programme — something serious enough that the Ministry would be forced to answer for it. He just hoped it wouldn't be him. He crossed the street, avoiding the crowd.
The café was just ahead at the end of the street. As he strode past the park where the unruly kids played ball each morning, he spotted Lucy already waiting by the building's steps. It was one of the rare occasions when she had her hair down.
When she saw him approaching from a distance, her expression brightened, and she tucked some loose strands behind her ear. She looked captivating. The dark blue silk of her dress caught the light as she stepped forward, a white jumper knotted over her shoulders and pale boots that added a touch of height. It wasn't formal, but she looked put together in a way he found difficult to ignore. His steps faltered for half a second before he forced himself to keep walking.
"I almost didn't recognise you, you dressed nicely for once."
"You're lucky I'm going to take that as a compliment," Lucy said, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward despite herself. "So, are you ready to see your first ever film? Still not sure if I believe you about never seeing one."
They began walking side by side, Lucy guiding the way.
Draco exhaled through his nose, the hint of a scoff escaping before he could stop it. "It's like the television, but big, right?"
She pressed her lips together, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Sure."
Their footsteps filled the quiet between them. Draco, unsure of what to do with his hands, placed them in the pockets of his trousers. He hated to admit it, but he'd actually worn his best clothes tonight, though "dressed up" was generous given what he owned.
"What is this film about?" he asked, curious about what he was walking into.
Lucy only shrugged, "Actually," she mumbled, "I didn't know what you would like, so I figured we'd pick once we get there."
"I thought you said there are some good ones out?"
Fumbling with the bracelet on her wrist, she let it spin loosely around her fingers as they walked. "Depends on how picky you are," she teased as they turned the corner.
Draco held back a retort as they approached the cinema entrance. Holding open the door, he let her step through first before following after her. Warm light from the lobby spilt across polished floors, catching the drifting haze of popcorn steam. The air smelled faintly of sugar and salt, the kind of sweetness that lingered on clothes long after you left.
Lucy paused at the ticket stand, scanning the posters along the wall. "So, there's Gladiator, that's the big one from last month," she said, tilting her head toward the display.
Yet Draco's gaze snagged on another poster beside it. "'Death doesn't take no for an answer,'" he read aloud, his mouth curling faintly. "Charming. I'm sure it's very tasteful."
Lucy turned toward him, one brow raised. "Final Destination? Oh, that one's too scary for your first film."
He drew himself up slightly, jaw tightening as if she'd actually challenged him. As if some Muggle film could scare him. Ridiculous. Though something about her voice— light, teasing — made him want to prove her wrong. "It takes a lot to scare me. Then let's see that one then."
Lucy avoided his eyes, a grin on her face, as if she knew something he didn't. "Well, I've already seen that one. But there's a new one that I want to see that I hear is pretty scary," she pointed to one of the posters, a man gripping a knife, "I read the book and it's pretty freaky."
"Okay, fine," he said. "Pick whatever's supposed to be so terrifying."
It was a quiet night, and only a few couples loitered about the lobby. Lucy smiled at the ticket vendor, a boy with severe bumps on his face and some sort of metal device on his teeth. The boy blushed behind the blemishes, and with a scoff, Draco got in front of Lucy, pulling out a few crumpled notes from his pocket.
"How much for that one?" he questioned, pointing vaguely at the poster.
"It's £6 each for American Psycho," the teen grumbled, clearly disappointed, darting his eyes between the pair.
Slapping the cash on the counter, Draco waited impatiently, tapping a foot.
Lucy offered the boy a sorry look as he snatched up the tickets without so much as a thank you. "You were pretty rude as someone who works in service himself," she whispered to Draco just as they walked off.
Though Draco didn't bat an eye at her scolding, "He was taking ages."
With a gentle shake of her head, Lucy took her ticket from him and led him toward the correct theatre room. After passing them to the clerk, they stepped inside, Draco suddenly unnerved by the dark room.
They were almost the only ones in the theatre, besides an elderly man who sat in the back row.
"Does it really have to be this dark?" Draco muttered as she found their seats. They settled into the middle row, the near-empty cinema casting an eerie silence over the space. It felt unnatural to him, as if the room was never meant to be so devoid of people. Then again, the fewer Muggles, the better, he supposed.
"Yes, it does," she explained. "If the lights were on, you wouldn't be able to see the screen." Lucy pointed to the back of the theatre at a small window near the ceiling. "See that? It's where a projector shines onto the screen up front."
Draco squinted, following her gaze to the window in question. The lights dimmed further, and a booming voice filled the theatre. He flinched, eyes snapping back to the screen as the first advertisements began to play. Their flashing colours and shifting images were almost mesmerising.
If he didn't know better, he might have thought it was all done by magic. The tiny television sets he'd seen before seemed laughable compared with this display. He had never encountered anything quite like it, not even in the wizarding world.
True, he'd seen portraits and posters that moved and spoke, but these images were different. They were carefully made, deliberate and remarkably vivid, artificial yet artful. He was impressed, though he would never admit it aloud.
After a while, the adverts gave way to darkness. A hush fell over the room. The screen flickered, and the film began to play. Lucy glanced over at him nervously, but Draco hardly noticed, his eyes fixed on the glowing light ahead.
For the first half hour, he was thoroughly bored. It all seemed rather pointless—a film about a businessman and his monotonous little routines. How fascinating. And yet, there was something about the man that caught his attention. The precision. The control. The immaculate perfection of his life. All surface, all polish. Draco recognised that kind of discipline; it was the same brand of cold order he'd been raised to admire. He might've even liked the main character, Draco thought, if only that dreadful American accent didn't grate on him.
On the screen, Bateman stopped beside a filthy man crouched against a wall, a tiny dog shivering beside him. He spoke with a kind of forced sympathy, his voice too smooth, too calm. For a moment, Draco thought he might actually help him.
He sat forward slightly. At least something was finally happening.
Then the tone changed. It was subtle, a shift in cadence, a gleam in the eyes. Draco knew that voice. The words were polite, but the cruelty beneath them was unmistakable.
The man on screen mocked the beggar's smell, his clothes, his worth. The beggar tried to speak, but Bateman was already laughing, his voice low and controlled. Then, without warning, the knife flashed. The movement was so casual, it didn't register at first. The dog yelped once.
There was no fury or purpose behind it, only apathy. That was what chilled him. Even the worst of the Dark Lord's followers killed with conviction, however twisted. This felt different.
The film cut to a new scene filled with bright music and careless chatter. Draco stared at the screen, jaw tight, hands clasped loosely in his lap. "He wasn't even angry," he murmured, half to himself.
Lucy turned towards him, whispering, "What?"
He didn't answer. The flickering light washed over his face as he stared ahead, unsure whether it was the murder that unsettled him or the quiet familiarity of it.
Senseless killing after another, though he wasn't sure why, he couldn't keep his eyes away. Why anyone would choose to watch something like this, he couldn't imagine. When he glanced at Lucy, she appeared half-asleep, her chin resting in her hand and her eyelids heavy. The idea of enjoying a fright wasn't foreign to him — classmates had once dared each other to spend a night in the Shrieking Shack. Fear and magic often went hand in hand. But sitting through mindless killings for amusement? That, he couldn't begin to understand. And to be bored while doing so?
By the time the credits began to roll, the room felt colder. He blinked, momentarily dazed by the sudden light.
Lucy shifted beside him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she turned. "Well," she said softly, "that was… something."
Draco didn't reply; his eyes lingered on the black screen. He began drawing similarities between the main character, himself, and his father. That was what disturbed him most.
"Hey, you okay?" she asked gently, touching his arm.
He tensed at the contact, then shot to his feet. "I'm fine. Let's just get going," he said, his tone flat. Lucy rose soon after, her attempt to mask her worry faltering as they locked eyes.
Making their way out of the theatre, Draco breathed a sigh of relief. The cool night air hit him as the doors swung open, sharp after the stifling dark. For a moment, he stood there, blinking at the streetlights and the passing cars, as though the world had kept moving while he'd been somewhere else entirely.
Lucy fell into step beside him, untying the white jumper from around her shoulders and slipping it on against the chill. "The book was even more intense, believe it or not. What did you think?" she asked, her voice light but uncertain.
"It was okay," he said, unconvincing even to his own ears. Lucy gave his shoulder a light pat — the kind of gesture that stung more than it soothed.
She let her hands fall to her sides, glancing at him. "So, dinner?" she asked. "There's a place around the corner that does pizza by the slice."
Greasy pizza frankly sounded good, so, for once, he didn't argue. They set off down the street, the quiet stretching between them like a thread neither wanted to pull too tightly.
The air had cooled, and Lucy pulled her jumper closer around her. She rubbed her arms through the sleeves, more out of habit than actual warmth, her fingers brushing over the soft knit.
Without a word, Draco slipped off his jacket, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve to make sure his left arm stayed covered. He draped the coat over her shoulders, his fingers grazing against her hair as he did. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you," Lucy said under her breath, eyes fixed ahead.
They passed shuttered shops and the dim glow of late-night takeaways, the pavement beneath them glistening faintly under the streetlights. A bus rumbled by, sending a low gust of wind through the alleyway that made Lucy huddle deeper into the coat.
By the time they reached the pizza shop — a narrow corner place with steamed-up windows and a flickering sign above the door — the streets had mainly emptied. The smell of garlic and melted cheese wafted out each time someone pushed through the entrance. Lucy stepped inside to order for them, leaving Draco on the pavement beneath the soft glow of the shopfront.
He watched her through the glass, her figure shifting in and out of view behind the fogged-up pane, like something remembered. Inside, she spoke to the man behind the counter, her face lit by the warm glow of the ovens. The air looked thick with heat and motion, a small pocket of gold against the cool night outside.
When she returned, she handed him a slice on a paper plate. Draco's brows furrowed, though a grin tugged at his lips all the same.
They wandered through the streets with pizza slices in hand, Lucy leading the way. London pulsed around them; horns blared, and a guitar played somewhere nearby. When they turned the next corner, he slowed, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. They had somehow circled back to the café.
"You wanna sit in the park for a while? You're not too cold, are you?" Lucy stopped to ask, pointing to the small park up ahead.
He paused, then moved after her. "Not at all," he lied.
They crossed the road and slipped through the gate, the noise of traffic softening behind them. The grass was slick with dew, catching the glow of the streetlamps in scattered beads. Lucy dropped onto a bench beneath a bare tree, crossing her feet and setting down their empty paper plates.
He sat beside her, rubbing his hands together for warmth, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. For a while, they just watched the city move beyond the railings. Taxis crawling past, the occasional shout, a siren fading into the distance.
"The… killing. That wasn't real, was it?"
Lucy stared at him for a moment, her face unreadable, before bursting into laughter. The sound rang clear through the quiet park. He laughed too, though his came out thinner, unsure.
"I almost believed you," she said between breaths. "For a second there, I thought you were serious."
"Of course not…" Draco muttered, his leg bouncing beneath the bench. "...It did look pretty convincing, though."
"Hollywood magic." Lucy wiggled her fingers in front of his face, pretending to cast a spell.
With an unimpressed stare, Draco leaned back. "Yeah. Magic."
Lucy leaned back as well, angling herself toward him. "What did you actually think of the movie?"
A dog barked nearby, drawing both their gazes briefly.
"Um…" Draco shuffled in his seat. "I just don't understand why anyone would ever want to watch something like that." He rubbed his palms together, as if trying to warm them, though the real chill wasn't in the air.
Swatting at a nearby mosquito, Lucy began twisting her earrings. "It's not everyone's cup of tea. I used to hate it till a friend of mine got me into it."
A streetlamp flickered behind them, casting their shadows long across the path. For a second, Draco watched the blur of her silhouette move slightly with each breath, the edges dissolving into the pavement like smoke.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Eventually, he managed, "You wouldn't be if you'd actually seen someone die."
Lucy didn't answer right away. Her fingers stilled at her earring, resting just beneath her jaw. For a moment, she simply stared out across the park, her features quiet but unreadable.
"I have," she said softly. "My mom."
The words sat between them, quiet and uninvited, like ash settling after a fire. He hadn't expected her to answer at all, and certainly not like that.
He shifted in his seat, unsure what else to say. An apology hovered at the back of his throat, but it didn't quite make it out.
Instead, he looked down at his hands, pressed together in his lap. "Sorry," he said finally, the word flat but genuine. "I didn't know."
"It's alright, you couldn't have known. I was only a kid when she passed, so the wound has healed over a bit," Lucy pardoned, holding down the paper plates to keep it from blowing away in the wind. "I mean…" she hesitated, her gaze drifting. "Maybe if she were murdered, yeah, I probably wouldn't like horror films." A crooked smile tugged at her mouth, like the words had come out before she'd thoroughly thought them through.
Draco's fingers stilled against his knees. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, and he glanced sideways at her. He looked away just as quickly, jaw tightening. For a second, his shoulders lifted with a breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn't. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his expression smoothing into something unreadable.
"Rather disturbing way to word it, but fair point."
A breeze slipped through the park, stirring a few loose leaves along the edge of the path. Draco watched one skitter past his shoe, then disappear into the grass. It gave him something to focus on, something easier than her.
"Thank you for coming with me, even if you didn't like the film so much." Lucy tugged at the sleeves of the jacket he'd given her, her fingers disappearing into the too-long cuffs.
"Well, you seemed like you wanted the company, if you had to go sifting through my file to contact me."
"Right, apologies for stealing you away from your precious laundry." She nudged him lightly, "I'm sure you had such a riveting night of folding and ironing ahead of you." Lucy examined him up and down, "Okay, probably not any ironing since your clothes are always so wrinkled."
Glancing down at his clothes, Draco opened his mouth, half-ready to snap back, but the insult never came.
He closed it again, faintly thrown by the fact that he wasn't annoyed. Apparently, he didn't mind it when it was her. He wasn't sure when the shift had happened — when her jabs stopped landing like insults and started feeling... easy.
"I've always had someone else to do that for me, remember?" he paused, "Unless you want to do it for me?"
A sharp gust escaped her nose, a smile flickering as she leaned closer. "In your dreams," she said, her voice gentler than the words themselves.
Draco gave a faint snort. "Guess I'll have to keep dreaming, then." The words barely hit the air before he wished he could take them back.
A ball rolled slowly across the nearby court, nudged along by the wind. It bumped against the metal fence with a soft, hollow sound and stilled. Draco watched it drift, then stop, the silence that followed pressing in tight.
Lucy looked off down the path, then clapped her hands lightly against her thighs. "Well. It's a work night for both of us. We should get home."
He nodded, just once, and stood.
Gravel shifted beneath their feet as they stepped off the path, passing through the open gate. Lucy halted, throwing away their empty plates in a nearby bin. The hush of the park gave way to the low, distant thrum of traffic and the soft buzz of overhead wires. They crossed the street without speaking.
Their footsteps found a quiet rhythm on the pavement, the walk familiar enough that neither had to think about it. The orange wash of the streetlights blurred slightly on the damp road ahead, and the jacket she wore shifted with each step, the sleeves too long for her arms.
A car passed on the other side of the road, its headlights sweeping briefly over them before disappearing around the corner. Up ahead, the turn to his street came into view. The same uneven curb. The same flickering lamppost that buzzed louder in the quiet.
They both slowed at the sight of the familiar street.
"Are you going to be okay walking home this late?" Draco asked, his voice even, though something in his chest had gone tight. Potter's warning hovered at the edge of his mind, heavier now in the dark.
Lucy angled her head, studying him. "I'll be fine. I'll text you when I'm home."
Draco gave a short nod, masking the flicker of confusion that passed through him.
He had no idea what that meant, but he wasn't about to ask.
Lucy squinted at him. "Unless you're one of those weirdos who still uses a pager."
"No... text is acceptable."
Her brows lowered, something amused flickering across her face. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Alright then. I'll see you tomorrow."
She lingered for a second, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Then she stepped in with a quick breath, arms lifting slightly, uncertain, like the decision had outrun the thought behind it.
The hug was brief. A light, slightly clumsy press of her shoulder to his chest, one arm looping around his back, before she pulled away again.
Draco stood still, letting it happen. His arms hovered for a second, unsure, before lightly returning the gesture.
It was over just as fast.
At the corner, he didn't move. The usual rhythm, the quiet split and turn onto his street, didn't happen this time. She kept walking, her steps even as she faded into the distance. The streetlamps stretched long shadows behind her, then narrowed, until she was little more than a silhouette against the dark. Then nothing at all.
A gust of wind slid past his arms, colder now. That was when he noticed. She was still wearing his coat.
The building's main door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the night. He stepped into the corridor, where the overhead lights flickered faintly above the chequered linoleum. The familiar pattern stretched ahead of him, scuffed and worn, every tile etched into muscle memory by now. His flat was the third on the right. The hallway smelled faintly of old paint and something metallic, like rusted pipes. He barely noticed anymore.
The key stuck slightly in the lock, same as always. When the door gave way, he stepped inside without switching on the lights. A narrow strip of light from the streetlamp outside cut across the carpet, falling just short of the kitchen.
Making his way to the kitchen, he stood, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, before tugging open a drawer. The phone was still there, buried beneath the usual clutter—crumpled receipts, his notes from earlier that day. He flipped it open. The dull green backlight blinked on.
Is that what she meant by text?
He turned it over once in his hand, then walked to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. The phone rested against his palm, foreign as ever.
Probably nothing would happen on her walk. Still, his mind drifted to the man from the shop and the unfinished curse. It wasn't that he cared. Not really. It just wouldn't be a good look for him if a Muggle girl he worked with suddenly dropped dead. People would find a way to blame him— it would possibly be his one-way ticket to Azkaban.
Placing the phone on the nightstand, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair in the corner. He changed quickly, brushed his teeth in the bathroom, then crossed back through the dark. Sliding beneath the covers, one hand drifted back toward the phone. The screen stayed dark.
Perhaps some Muggles weren't as bad as he'd always thought. She was proof enough that not all of them were unbearable. Still, they didn't belong together. They never had. If her attack wasn't proof of that, he didn't know what was.
His eyes stayed fixed on the phone. A dull, metallic taste rose on his tongue as he bit at the edge of a hangnail, the sting grounding him.
Then the device buzzed sharply against the wood.
1 New Message
07482 119 406: Home safe :)
A/N: Longest chapter yet! Also, I did some edits of the earlier chapters since I noticed that his work schedule made absolutely no sense so you can reread if you would like but it doesn't effect the story. Hope you enjoy!
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