I got this far, didn't I?

You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort.

[mavvaisefoi]

BASICS

FULL NAME: Draco Lucius Malfoy Draco – From the Greek name Δράκων (Drakon), which meant "dragon, serpent". This was the name of a 7th-century BC Athenian legislator. This is also the name of a constellation in the northern sky. Lucius – Roman praenomen, or given name, which was derived from Latin lux "light". This was the most popular of the praenomina. Two Etruscan kings of early Rome had this name as well as several prominent later Romans, including Lucius Annaeus Seneca (known simply as Seneca), a statesman, philosopher, orator and tragedian. The name is mentioned briefly in the New Testament belonging to a Christian in Antioch. It was also borne by three popes, including the 3rd-century Saint Lucius. Despite this, the name was not regularly used in the Christian world until after the Renaissance. Malfoy – A French name roughly translating to "bad faith". “The Malfoy family consisted of an ancient line of pure-blood wizards, most of whom attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and were traditionally sorted into Slytherin House. Like many other progenitors of noble English families, the wizard Armand Malfoy arrived in Britain with William the Conqueror as part of the invading Norman army. Having rendered unknown, shady, (and almost certainly magical) services to King William I, Malfoy was given a prime piece of land in Wiltshire, seized from local landowners, upon which his descendants have lived for ten consecutive centuries.”

NICKNAME: No.

BIRTHDAY: 5th of June, 1980

GENDER (PRONOUNS): Cismale (He/Him)

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English, French, Some Italian,

WRITTEN LANGUAGES: English, French, Latin, Greek

ACCENT: Received Pronunciation, (England 99)

BIRTHPLACE: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN(S): Sun – Gemini (Charismatic. Uses humor as a crutch. Could talk to a brick wall. Arguments as flirting. Knows a little about everything.) Moon – Pisces Rising – Scorpio

CELTIC SIGN: Hawthorne. In mythology, the hawthorn tree is known to be both divine and unlucky.

PRIMAL SIGN: Seal

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

FORMER HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin

HIGHEST LEVEL OF EDUCATION: Carrow Educated Seventh Year. W.O.M.B.A.T.s, Grade 3. Outstanding. Returned for N.E.W.T.s testing only. 

OCCUPATION: Being rich. Unemployed. Malfoy Manor restoration. Attending the rare social event with his mother.

HOME ADDRESS: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England

PET(S): Eagle owl, Hesperis

FACECLAIM AND/OR DESCRIPTION: Troye Sivan. Thin and pale and pointed.

VISUAL REPRESENTATION: Could do with a dose of Vitamin D.

PLOTS

EMPLOYMENT: Something to get him out of the house and away from his thoughts for one moment of the day. He is wasting away. (He’s not really. He’s just absolutely a drama queen.) Could he turn his object repair into a real position at Borgin and Burkes? Unlikely. Could he start a home repair business? More likely. Could he get some ministry appointed position in some terribly funded, ill-respected department like the Spirit Division? Maybe.

APOLOGIES/ATONEMENT: Honest apologies not given out of duty or guilt but ones where he doesn’t hide behind banished unsent letters, where he feels comfortable stalking the streets of Diagon. With no worry who sees him or who says what to him. I’d like for him to apologize with words and make amends with actions, put his wealth and knowledge to something good and worthwhile (and not Ministry sponsored nonsense). Whether this be through volunteering or court ordered community service, he knows the destruction and toll the War took on people. He needs to see how he can contribute to the good of post-war society.

THERAPY: Honest to god, even if it’s muggle, therapy. He needs to accept that while he for sure has fault and takes responsibility for his actions, he was put in a situation a child should not have to endure. He was made to make choices a child should not have to make. This does not excuse the bigotry or (let’s be honest) racism or blood supremacy but he cannot take ownership for every wrong turn he took. Draco needs to accept that while he has done terrible things in his life this does not mean his life is over, he can no longer do any good at all. Get this boy some therapy! Even a portrait psychotherapist would do ! –> Luna Lovegood

STALKER:  We keep bumping into each other and now it’s getting weird are you sure you’re not stalking me –> Hermione Granger

RELATIONSHIPS

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Demiromantic “Bisexual” Gay

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP(S): Draco/Therapy ✨

PARENTS: Father, Lucius Malfoy. Currently imprisoned in Azkaban. Mother, Narcissa Malfoy (neé Black). On the continent (Summer home in South of France). Currently engaged in philanthropy. 

MAGIC

PATRONUS: Ha!

BOGGART: The Dark Lord, alive and well and once again in his home. His parents, wandless– helpless squibs. He, himself, is unable to do anything to aide them.

FORMER WAND TYPE: 10", Hawthorn, Unicorn Hair, Reasonably Springy. Hawthorn, "Makes a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death." Complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suited them. "Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and it has been generally observed that the hawthorn wand seems most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a witch or wizard passing through a period of turmoil. Hawthorn is not easy to master, however, and one should only ever consider placing a hawthorn wand in the hands of a witch or wizard of proven talent, or the consequences might be dangerous. Hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity: their spells can, when badly handled, backfire." Unicorn Hair, Wands with these cores produced the most consistent magic, were least subject to fluctuations and blockages, were most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts, and were the most faithful of wands. However, they did not make the most powerful of wands (unless the wand wood compensates) and were prone to melancholy if mishandled.

CURRENT WAND TYPE: 11 1/4", Rowan, Veela Hair, Hard. Family wand. Sans cane. Sans repaired snake head. Not bought from Ollivander. Rowan, A prized wand wood due to its reputation for protection, generally produced powerful, hard to break Defensive Charms. Rowan was also noted for its believed disassociation with the Dark Arts. Rowan had become associated with pure-hearted wizards, though could also match or even outperform others in duels. There was an old poem regarding various wand woods which went: "rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, hazel moans". Wixen chosen by rowan wands tended to be compatible with those chosen by elder wands. Veela Hair, Make for "temperamental" wands. It is likely that there are few Veela hair wands made in Britain. Since the only known Veela hair wand is from France, it is likely that there is a wandmaker from central Europe, possibly Gregorovitch, who uses Veela hairs as the cores in his wands.

FLYING ABILITY: Outstanding. Former Slytherin seeker who made the house team his second year bribery notwithstanding. When he quit the team his sixth year, Slytherin suffered through a painful season without him.

APPARITION SKILL: Exceeds Expectations. Rarely turns up where he doesn’t intend to. Hasn’t splinched himself. Yet.

MAGICAL STRENGTHS: Alchemy, a hobby. Dark Arts, taught by both his father and Aunt Bellatrix. Occasional instruction from his Uncle Rodolphus. Was able to cast dark charms by his second year at Hogwarts. Duelling, taught by both his parents and Aunt Bellatrix. Starting receiving formal instruction on dueling practices and etiquette the day after his eleventh birthday. Gliding. Non-Verbal magic, mastered blocking jinxes by his sixth year. Magical repair, see Vanishing Cabinet. Occlumency, taught by Aunt Bellatrix.

MAGICAL WEAKNESSES: Bangs-and-smells magic. Divination. Flying Seahorse Fishing. Herbology, Draco’s eye for detail has never extended to plants. The difference between two or three leaves escaped him. Fungi never held his interest. Legilimency. Vibe, it’s off. Winged horse racing, much to his Uncle Rodolphus’ disappointment.

BEST HOGWARTS CLASS: Charms, received an O on his N.E.W.T.s

WORST HOGWARTS CLASS: Care of Magical Creatures, see Buckbeak. Dropped the class after fifth year.

OTHER ABILITIES:  Intelligent, cunning and quick-witted, capable of deducing things and coming up with clever plans based on a small amount of information; 

PHYSICAL

HAIR COLOUR/STYLE: White-blond (Malfoy Blonde ™). Coiffed to the side, spelled and gelled up and away from his face. Magically aided to have a slight wave.

EYE COLOUR: Grey. Mercurial. Often squinted in exasperation.

COMPLEXION: Pinched, Pale. Flawless and unmarked by a single spot or freckle or pox.

ETHNICITY: British and French

HEIGHT: 5’11” (180.34 cm)

PHYSIQUE: Slender. Waning teenage muscles due to a lack of exercise.

TATTOOS: Dark mark, inner left forearm.

PIERCINGS: N/A

SCARS: Sectumsempra induced faint zig-zagging raised white lines along his chest and jawline.

CLOTHING/STYLE: Refined and neat, expensive tailored fabrics. (What’s the meaning of a galleon? Draco doesn’t know.) Somewhat muted colors as of late, fond of various hues of blue and grey. Sweaters imbued with warming charms. Dragon-leather shoes, black never brown.

MANNERISMS:  Defensiveness: arms crossed on chest, crossing legs, pointing index finger, stiffening of shoulders, tense posture, curling of lip Reflectiveness: head tilted, pursed lips, knitted brows Suspicion: sideways glance, brows raising, lips pressing into a thin line, strict, unwavering eye contact, wrinkling of nose, narrowed eyes Confidence: hands behind back, steepled hands, baring teeth in a grin, tipping head back but maintaining eye contact, chest puffed up Insecurity and Anxiety: hands in pockets, closed gestures, clearing throat, swaying, sighing  Anger and Frustration: short breaths, “tsk” sounds, tightly-clenched hands, pointing index finger, rubbing hand through hair, snarling, sharp-eye glowers, shoulders back, head up – defensive posturing, clenching of jaw, heavy exhales 

HABITS: reading text on shampoo bottles while in the shower, playing with their hair, touching all things soft, smoking, answering owls back ridiculously late,  too early on time at appointments, saying ‘horses’ when they see horses, thinking of a great comeback about four hours too late, taking two steps at once when using the stairs, talking to their pets, lying, interrupting, impulse buying, gesturing while talking, putting hands on hips, doodling, overreacting, pacing

COPING MECHANISMS: smoking, isolating himself, forcing his friends into Muggle London and complaining about it the entire time, knitting, occluding, daydream charms, long hot baths, destroying family heirlooms, repairing family heirlooms, never venturing to the cellars again.

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Quick-witted – Showing or characterized by an ability to think or respond quickly and effectively. Animated – Full of life, spirit, energy, or movement. Verbose – Abounding in words or containing more words than necessary.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Caustic – Sarcastic in a scathing and bitter way. Vain – Having or showing an excessively high opinion of one's appearance, abilities, or worth. Senseless or unsuccessful. Irascible – Easily provoked to outbursts of anger. Contemptuously ridiculing or mocking someone or something.  Petulant – Childishly sulky or bad-tempered.

HOBBIES: Alchemy. Gliding. Magical object repair. Lounging. Showing off.

INTERESTS: Harry Potter. Magical object repair. Being admired.

DRINK ORDER: Sidecar

GRADUATION SUPERLATIVE: Drama Queen.

CONFIDENCES: Self. Family. Personality. Appearance. Style. Magical Knowledge. Magical Prowess.

INSECURITIES: Self. Personality. Family. Reputation. Past. Dark Mark. Scars. Existence. Chess ability.

MBTI TYPE: Debater, ENTP-T. No one loves the process of mental sparring more than the Debater personality type, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points. Debaters are the ultimate devil’s advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see. They don’t always do this because they are trying to achieve some deeper purpose or strategic goal, though. Sometimes it’s for the simple reason that it’s fun.

ENNEAGRAM: Type 8, The Challenger – Eights are essentially unwilling to be controlled, either by others or by their circumstances; they fully intend to be masters of their fate. Eights are strong willed, decisive, practical, tough minded and energetic. They also tend to be domineering; their unwillingness to be controlled by others frequently manifests in the need to control others instead.  8w7 wing – Sevens are essentially concerned that their lives be an exciting adventure. They are future oriented, restless people who are generally convinced that something better is just around the corner. They are quick thinkers who have a great deal of energy and who make lots of plans. They tend to be extroverted, multi-talented, creative and open minded.  Self-preservation variant. People of the self-preservation variant are generally trying to be comfortable and independent. Their well-being is very important to them, so they pay much attention to their health, house and financial position. They are less interested in interpersonal contact, and are typically less spontaneous and don't show as much emotion as people of the other two subtypes of their enneagram type.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral – A chaotic neutral character follows his whims. He is an individualist first and last. He values his own liberty but doesn't strive to protect others' freedom. He avoids authority, resents restrictions, and challenges traditions. A chaotic neutral character does not intentionally disrupt organizations as part of a campaign of anarchy. To do so, he would have to be motivated either by good (and a desire to liberate others) or evil (and a desire to make those different from himself suffer). A chaotic neutral character may be unpredictable, but his behavior is not totally random. He is not as likely to jump off a bridge as to cross it. Chaotic neutral is the best alignment you can be because it represents true freedom from both society's restrictions and a do-gooder's zeal. However, chaotic neutral can be a dangerous alignment when it seeks to eliminate all authority, harmony, and order in society.

TEMPERAMENT: Choleric – The choleric temperament is fundamentally ambitious and leader-like. They have a lot of aggression, energy, and/or passion, and try to instill it in others. They can dominate people of other temperaments, especially phlegmatic types. Many great charismatic military and political figures were choleric. They like to be in charge of everything. However, cholerics also tend to be either highly disorganized or highly organized. They do not have in-between setups, only one extreme to another. As well as being leader-like and assertive, cholerics also fall into deep and sudden depression. Essentially, they are very much prone to mood swings.

DEADLY SIN: Wrath – Uncontrolled feelings of anger, rage, and even hatred. Wrath often reveals itself in the wish to seek vengeance. In its purest form, wrath presents with injury, violence, and hate that may provoke feuds that can go on for centuries. Wrath may persist long after the person who did another a grievous wrong is dead. Feelings of wrath can manifest in different ways, including impatience, hateful misanthropy, revenge, and self-destructive behavior.

THIS OR THAT

INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT

OPTIMIST OR PESSIMIST

LEADER OR FOLLOWER

CONFIDENT OR SELF-CONSCIOUS

CAUTIOUS OR CARELESS

PASSIONATE OR APATHETIC

BOOK SMARTS OR STREET SMARTS

COMPLIMENTS OR INSULTS

COLD HANDS OR WARM HEART

ASSOCIATIONS

COLOURS: Light blues, greys, black, and white.

WORDS: Haughty. Stuck-up. Prat. My father will hear about this.

SCENT:

TASTE:

SOUND:

MAGIC:

WEATHER: Darkening sky before a mid-day storm. Quiet piece of the middle of the night.

FEELINGS:

MEMORIES:

TOUCH:

HEADCANONS

– It’s been difficult for Draco to leave his home since his house arrest ended. It took months for him to feel comfortable around old school mates again, lapsing into the part of stuck up heir with some ease only to be abruptly reminded by an innocent joke or passing comment that things are not as they once were. That there is a missing spot by his side, empty and cavernous but wholefully warm and crackling. Smelling of soot and ash and bright– too bright, far too blinding to look directly at. – He hadn’t gone to Vince’s funeral, choosing to visit the gravesite (the place a memorium, as there was nothing recovered from that blasted room to bury) after the ceremony was done and the mourners had gone home. A shock of blonde shouldn’t draw attention on a day that was not about him. He had enough of days about him, stealing gazes and attention in ways he had only dreamed about once but now couldn’t stand the weight of. This, a simple case of missing a dear friend’s funeral (writing to parents in secret without the embossed letterhead or weighted parchment or family crest pressed into a wax seal) created rule number one of Draco Malfoy’s new world order. – Rule Number One of Draco Malfoy’s New World Order: No going out where he would be accosted. Never going out alone. Muggle pubs, nightlife, anything of the sort was acceptable. The more unwell lit streets with the shitter magical dives could do on a weekday but never a weekend. No returning to the manor, devoid of his mother or any other soul save the remaining elves alone. Always stay over at a friend’s, regardless of your own temper or mood. If your mood was bad, you kept your mouth shut lest you push everyone away as you had done indirectly the previous years. Your friends weren’t around forever and they had no reason to tolerate your attitude any longer. - Rule Number Two of Draco Malfoy’s New World Order: The best way to stave off a terrible mood was occluding. The part of himself that required occluding until numb, a shell of a man– not a man, a boy. The part of himself that required occluding until he was but a shell of a boy was a downer. It meant, in the simplest terms, there were to be no triggering exposures. No snakes. No tall and bald old men to associate with. No fires. No matter how cold or dready, wind whipping through the manor he had once considered home but now was struggling to restore without his mother’s guiding hand. You put on another sweater, still finely knit and rich in color regardless of how dark. You took a bath and closed your eyes and pretended, dreamed. Indulged in a daydream charm or two or five as long as it kept your mind occupied and away from all the sorrow the present still seemed to be filled with. And you avoided, avoided, avoided until you could avoid no more and stormed into your father’s now abandoned study and broke every single thing you could get your hands on. A small trinket or a helmet some claimed was from the bronze age or a gift from a long dead monarch were fuel for the folly he engaged in until he was panting and dazed, sitting upon the floor amidst the destruction of his own making. - Rule Number Three of Draco Malfoy’s New World Order: Never miss tea at Andromeda’s. He hadn’t been invited yet. (Yet being the operative word.) His mother visited her sister now, he first suspected but was now aware. Writing or visiting with tales of Teddy and widowhood and raising a child at her advanced age. Draco couldn’t fight the spite and jealousy that the spawn of a werewolf and a child born to a muggleborn and blood traitor was gifted with love and care, surrounded by family upon family, and would never have to make any difficult choice that wasn’t grander than picking out what clothes to wear for a day or what color to change his hair to. And when that resentment for a baby barely a toddler built, the joy in his mother’s voice he so rarely heard honestly anymore, he locked himself away. Not in the cellar. (He would never go down there again, not after the first time the aurors and the curse breakers laughed in his face at his accusation that they were taking the piss out of Malfoy Manor with their ongoing raids post war.) The east wing held his grandfather’s study, now his own, and he tinkered and toiled with each and every small object sacrificed to his darker moods until they were whole once more. When the objects ran out, he turned to owl ordering. Writing to Caractacus Burke and receiving parcels of unfixable– utterly broken and unmendable sometimes cursed objets d'art that had been given up on. If he could fix these bits and bobs, why wouldn’t he? The worst that would occur is they would stay broken. The best that he would get hurt in the process.  

[mavvaisefoi]

rbwtheking​:

A lazy shrug was all Ron offered. He knew that most of the Aurors were dealing with the werewolf situation, but he didn’t know if Wiggleswade was included. If the werewolves in question were like Malfoy - on the wrong side of the war - then it was possible, but Ron wasn’t feeling particularly generous. He wasn’t going to give Draco anything more than he needed, a swift kick in the pants included (sadly). His long fingers fiddled impatiently with the quill, still hovering over a blank roll of parchment. What Malfoy was droning on about wasn’t as infuriating as the way he was doing it; doubtless, that was his intention, but this fact didn’t stop Ron’s eye-roll. It was automatic, instinctual, and so too was his scowl when Malfoy brought up Hermione. 

‘She’s not my girlfriend.’ The words formed in his mind and banged on the inside of his lips, now drawn tightly together. But he held them back, staring daggers at the former Slytherin before him in silence.

No. Malfoy did not get to know about his personal life. For one thing, it wasn’t any of his business; for another, admitting rejection to the likes of Draco Malfoy wasn’t a road he felt like traveling today. 

“No, you’re the first to give me that bit of useless information. Congratulations. Alchemy did a lot for you though, I take it? Considering how great you’re doing?”

It wasn’t a question he wanted answered - that much was made clear by the bored tone he adopted, one not unlike Malfoy’s. He looked down at the list of questions again.

“Alright then. Since your last check-in, has there been any attempt from wanted fugitives to correspond with you?”

“You’re quite welcome.” The telltale glaze of occlumency covered Draco’s eyes as he stared right back at Weaselbee. His indigent flare of anger at the blatant attempt to get a rise out of him barely broke the surface of his magically induced calm. “Is that a standard question? My N.E.W.T.s have only been asked about before I sat for them or in regards to career prospects. If it isn’t, while I appreciate your interest in my life, Trainee Auror Weasley, I would prefer to get through this interaction in the standard time alloted for it. Some of us have places to be besides the subterrene of London.”

“No. They don’t tend to contact those they consider traitors unless they wish them harm. Our wards are holding still and, as you can see, I am unharmed.”

[mavvaisefoi]

0nlydaughter​:

“It is a little disappointing,” Ginny agreed with a wry smile. “Only because I’m not sure you’ve any coordination off of a broomstick. Maybe you do. I don’t know. It was great talking with you, though.” She lifted her glass in the air in a mock toast as the wave of people on the dancefloor effectively separated them. She watched the back of his head for a second or two before her teammates seemingly reappeared out of nowhere (and she wouldn’t put it past them to Apparate in front of muggles, actually) and her attention floated far, far away from Draco Malfoy and his habit of visiting muggle clubs.

Half an hour later, she found herself back at the bar looking for refills and a humorless laugh tumbled from Ginny’s lips as she looked to her right and noticed who was standing next to her again, immediately recognizable by his platinum blond hair. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she joked, bouncing up on her toes and leaning against the bar. The bartender was busy tending to a bachelorette party and Ginny wondered, vaguely, if she could befriend them for some free drinks later on.

“This round’s on me. If you can get his attention.”

Thoughts of the youngest Weasel, Ginvera, had left Draco after he was thoroughly questioned by his friends on why in the world he had spent so much time chatting up the ginger. As if she had anything to offer he would be interested in, which they very much knew. There was a brief moment of concern, Blaise’s throwaway comment about how interesting the quidditch player was, but the reassuring presence of Greg by his side had made the whole event seem less overwhelming than it had been. Draco had been able to finally unclench. He indulged in his drink. He indulged in Greg’s. He even stole away the boring sugar-free concoction Zabini had ordered. By the time his friends had fucked off to go to bed (Greg), go to work (Pansy), or disappear before he even realized they had left (Blaise), Draco was overly sufficiently buzzed and back at the bar for more. 

He’d done this sort of thing once or twice, chatted up a muggle who had no idea who he was or of his name that had once been a pedestal but now was a crushing weight he couldn’t live underneath. He could play off his mark as a regrettable decision of youth, take not of the tall tanned stranger’s eyes lingering on the skin revealed by the open buttons of his previously impeccable shirt. Lean in to hear whatever weak come on was being uttered over the blasting music. Unless someone interrupted. 

“Isn’t this supposed to be my job, Weasley? Begging you for your time or ear or forgiveness?” Slowly, and with a meaningful last smirk in the man beside him’s direction, Draco turned to Weasley with a heavy air of hesitance. “If you’re hanging around for some tearful apology, you won’t be getting one. I’ve made a friend. Goodbye.” He moved to return to his newfound companion, a hand lingering on the man’s arm when her words stopped him. Fully invested in the thrill of a challenge now that he had imbued his fill. He followed her gaze to the bartender and scoffed, matching her lean against the bar and waving away the hands of the stranger. “Try something more realistic. I don’t have the tits to get his attention. Your...tea towel you’re calling an outfit might do the trick. Again.”

[mavvaisefoi]

seamxs​:

Any suspicions Seamus may have had about whether or not Draco Malfoy had changed since their Hogwarts years were quickly being affirmed. The stark office lighting flickered delightedly overhead, as the resident poltergeist took note of the shift in atmosphere of the office and decided to throw in his own opinion.  There were goosebumps prickling up his forearms, but even the latest plunge into frigid temperatures couldn’t seem to combat his steadily rising temper. “Shove off, Malfoy. You came in here asking for help — my mistake for thinking you had anything worth listening to from the past ten months since you filed your bloody forms. But go on then — if it’s so beneath you to answer a few standard bloody questions then we’ll assume there’s been no progression or escalation since December and that you have made no effort at all to meet your obligations as the landowner in the manner of mediation or settlement than there’s no reason for the department to pursue further action.”

Notably, the last rattles from the back room plunged abruptly into deadly silence.

“You keep pointing that at me and I’ll break it,” he added bluntly, swatting away the finger that was jabbing at his chest, disgust creeping into the wrinkle of his nose as Malfoy’s tale of persecution at the hands of the Ministry was laid at his feet in the same breath that he tried to bribe his way into getting his way. He was just as spoilt and entitled as he’d always been. “Don’t talk to me about invasions, Malfoy, you might have a short memory when it comes to what happened last year but I don’t.”

And perhaps Seamus had been spending a little too much time down here in purgatory with Roger of late, if the way his spine stiffened at the complete lack of understanding that accompanied the insinuation that the spirits were squatting on Malfoy’s land. 

Seamus wasn’t sure exactly when the thrill of his fight response kicking in began to twist, but the rushing of blood in one ear and the piercing whine that began to pick up in the other had progressed past the point upon which his instincts usually started throwing punches and instead he gripped the edge of Penny’s desk as if might stop the jittering of his hands. They were talking about bylaws — not the corruption that apparently still ran deep through the roots of the Ministry, if Draco fucking Malfoy thought he could just buy what he wanted from them with his blood money. Not the same, bone-deep ache that kicked in whenever his brain was allowed to drift back to that year. Bylaws. Black and white, reams and reams of them governing the responsibilities they owed to the dead. 

“Maybe you should read it again, because you clearly didn’t understand a word of it. Of your obligations to the countless, innocent victims who died on your property and whose spirits are now trapped there — people you can’t even be bothered to put in the bare minimum effort of finding out their names or how they died in order to give them some semblance of justice. Malevolent spirits don’t just appear out of thin air, Malfoy, they didn’t ask to wind up in your dungeons or be slaughtered like they were — like they were nothing.” That could have been Dean — it could have been Dean and nobody (he) would ever have known what happened to him — it could have been Dean whose body was transfigured or buried or burnt or left out to rot on Malfoy ground while this entitled little prick complained about the inconvenience of his fury, of his protests to have his story heard. It could have been Dean and nobody fucking knew who it was and wasn’t that the problem? How many families would never know what happened to their loved ones. How many families had been wiped out of existence never to be mourned or have their stories told? “They were people and they are in pain. Your trauma can take a flying fucking le—”

Seamus froze, his white knuckled grip on the desk in front of him like it might stop him from taking a swing or reaching for his wand turned slack and the blood drained from his skin, disbelief written across his face as the impact of that memory — of the eruption of heat and noise and screams over the groan of the collapse hit like a punch to the throat. He couldn’t breathe, for a moment, his eyes fixed for the first time on Malfoy’s with a stunned certainty as he pushed on ahead like his words were nothing, just another step on the ladder to getting what he wanted, the words muffled and drowned in his ears as the ringing swallowed them up. This wasn’t fight, which he so readily embraced and it wasn’t flight, which Seamus had never been able to stomach — this was paralytic, a rabbit caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, it was his joints dissolving and walls closing in as his knees buckled and he steadied his weight upon the back of Penny’s chair. It was a retreat inwards.

“Out,” was the only word he had to offer, echoing around the glossy dark of internal walls, “You need to get the fuck out of this office. Now.”

The office was a funhouse. The lights popping on and off acting as though they were the bulbs on chase of the proscenium of the opera. Over and over and over. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing under his breath as he strove to calm down. To relax. Two things he’d never had a talent in. The shock of cold running through his system, so sudden he had half a mind to suspect it was Finnigan’s doing if not for the man’s inability to do any sort of magic not involving fire, wasn’t assisting him at all. 

“When have I not answered your endless list of questions? It’s all I’ve been doing. Answering questions. Writing down my responses. Telling you and your lot exactly what is occuring in my home. The one on British soil. Under the Ministry’s jurisdiction which you are required to service. And your assumptions about my opinions on or actions towards these ghouls and ghosts and spirits is highly unprofessional.” 

Incredulously, he stared at Finnigan. Not breaking eye contact as he wiped his finger off on his cloak sleeve. Draco stayed silent as long as he could, anger boiling under the surface as he forced his mouth to stay closed and his lips drew into a line so thin and white it was painful. Until he could no longer. The kettle had begun to whistle, the pot boiled over. Is that how his lovely minder had described his connection to his own regret and shame? 

Drawing himself upward, keeping his appendages neatly by his side and away from where the other man could swat them, Draco spoke in a tone tightly controlled. A low rumbling fury ran through his words. “Seamus Finnigan, I am acutely aware of the events that occured over last year. What I am hearing from your responses is that you, however, are not. The–” He paused, blinking as he for once weighed the gravity of what he was about to speak so openly about but Draco pressed forward. “–Dark Lord decided that my home was his personal playground. By Midsummer, his favored associates had been given rooms in my home. If you think there is any possible way for me to know every single person or creature that passed on my land simply because I was there for a few months in the summer and on our breaks, you have no grasp of what that abomination was like. You should be grateful for that. I have made every attempt to figure out their names. I’ve visited the papers office in Wootton Rivers, their muggle auror’s station, and our own. Muggles die every day. They have their own horrors to worry about and our government wasn’t in the sorts to pick apart their crimes to find the ones caused by our kind. The muggleborns and half-bloods and goblins and all the rest that passed on my property are not so insignificant that I couldn’t be bothered to get up from my chaise where I was eating bon-bons and being fanned and praised by my elves. You’re not grasping the volume of...I was at school with you. My parents were far more concerned with staying alive at the time to keep a running tally of every horrific torture scene they were privy to. If they were so lucky to be audience to a display of unhinged entertainment. As you may recall, I was in school. I experienced the Carrows and I will admit that my time spent under their rule was far less physically painful than yours or your friends it was by no mean more pleasant. You don’t know– I doubt you will ever know what was expected of those in our year in my house. You don’t have a clue what my housemates still carry around. You can have your show of power. You can get one over on me today and the next and incinerate my forms for your own ego boost but make no mistake. I am certain the spirits that are in pain will do me in before December. As I said, it will be on your hands when that time comes. No one else’s save the other members of this infested department.”

He had been going on for so long, monologuing (or was it solioquoing as he had to be speaking to a brick way instead of a scene partner?) his frustrations and laying out just a taste of his trauma to see if that would be what was needed to get help. Hadn’t that been what the fucking wizen sack of crap Dumbledore had told him? He only had to ask for help. Well, Draco was asking. Draco had been asking. It didn’t matter if he suffered in silence or begged or pleaded because no one was going to help. Certainly not Finnigan who looked as though he had seen a ghost and clearly was suffering some sort of disorder if he thought the lives he had ended meant nothing just due to being on the losing (and wrong) side of the war. “Gladly.” This was a loss. Draco knew he’d be receiving no help from the Spirit Department before he had entered but as he walked out the door, slamming it behind him and leaving Seamus Finnigan to his ghouls and dripping walls and potentially-sleep-apnea-addled co-worker and cat figurines, he hadn’t realized how hopeful he had been for any development at all until he reached the lifts to the atrium. Stagnation was a facet of life now. He needed to get used to it.

[mavvaisefoi]

exhorcrux​:

Malfoy’s act was transparent, but the longer Harry kept his wand pointed at his pale throat, the more he wondered what his end goal was here. To illustrate that the decision could change in a moment, Harry lowered his wand in degrees.

“My godfather left this place to me,” Harry replied reluctantly, keeping his eyes narrowed. His wand arm dropped to his side but he kept his wrist taut – just in case. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

He must be mad. Anyone else would have turfed Malfoy back out onto the street by now. Although the reason why the wards let Malfoy inside in the first place remained a mystery, Harry knew that his luck meant that Malfoy would tumble out arse-over-tit right into the laps of the Prophet dogs who camped outside Grimmauld Place rain, hail, or shine. POTTER’S SECRET TRYST WITH EX-DEATH EATER? Harry didn’t want to tempt Skeeter – not today, anyway.

Harry sighed and, eyeing Malfoy as if he were about to leap at him, he jerked his chin towards the far side of the foyer, where a shadowy door led onto the sitting room Harry had been cleaning. “You can start in there,” he muttered, “all the junk in this house seems to end up in one cabinet. Dunno why.” 

They glowered at each other. The doors remained firmly closed. Harry glanced at one and loudly thought OPEN UP, YOU STUPID THING. It did not. His eyes flicked back to Malfoy, whose single raised eyebrow was as presumptuous and judgmental as if Harry had barked like a dog.

“Well,” he said, gesturing irritably, “go on, then.”

His throat was tight, reminiscent of past fittings at the hands of Madame Malkin’s before his mother gave up on the old woman and her messy seamwork, but that didn’t prevent the harsh clawing of fear working its way up Draco’s throat watching Potter struggle to not maim him in the darkness of a long forgotten relic (of what he was sure his father’s associates would call The Good Old Days) and put down his wand arm. 

“Your. Godfather.” Ah. Mad muggle loving or killing (Draco still wasn’t sure what was true about that bonkers relation of his) Sirius had got the house in the end or so Potter thought incorrectly. He’d see soon enough. Squalling away in homes that you said contained junk would sort him right out as to who was the true house owner. But he was stubborn, still, wasn’t he? And Draco didn’t have the time nor the patience to engage in this ridiculous stand-off until Potter pissed off the magic (his magic) that ran all through the walls and up the stairs and below the floorboards. He had work to do.  He couldn’t decided where to look– wand or face as he backed up in the direction of the door that was the recipient of the washed up savior’s scowl. It wasn’t until the knob was jamming him in the lower back that he turned, dishing out a “Try to resist the urge to hex me from behind.” as he ran his hand gently over the well worn wooden frame. “You’re meant to be above cheap tricks.” It was all bit easier, to snipe and mock and prod when he wasn’t faced with those swamp frog colored eyes that held a hatred Draco didn’t think he still carried around with him. He was better. Mature. Above it. His palm met the doorknob and, without even a simple turn, it opened onto–

Well, he wasn’t really above not insulting Potter, was he?

“Morgana and Merlin both.” He didn’t know what to say. Speechless. Utterly speechless was what he was rendered as he froze in the doorway to a drawing room so completely wrecked that the worst areas of the Manor were a haven. “Are you breeding those bloody fire wielding beasts of your giant friend’s in here? It’s. Potter. Is this a joke?” Draco’s head half turned but he thought better of it, reluctantly stepping inside the drawing room and grasping his wand once more as he muttered a few careful charms to scan the room for– well, he didn’t know what but certainly something capable of murder besides the nutter still in the hallway. “How are you alive? Still?” His eyes landed on the aforementioned cabinet. Oh gods above. “It’s a wonder the bed curtains haven’t suffocated you in your sleep.” Lips pursed, Draco knew he should quit while he was ahead not completely sealing his own fate. “Yet.” Best be hanged for a dragon as an egg.

[mavvaisefoi]

exhorcrux​:

GHOSTS, GHOULS, AND OTHER ALLITERATIVES / OPEN [EVENT]

Given Harry’s rather unfortunate ability to amass a crowd wherever he went, he didn’t go outside much. Someone charitable might say this meant he kept to himself; in reality, he lived under a rock. Even he, however, knew about the All-Hallow’s Eve thing in Diagon Alley – call it masochism, but he had the Prophet delivered every morning and hate-read it over his coffee – and so he’d clumped together a series of disguise charms and turned up, red-haired and freckled, to heaving crowds of tipsy mayhem.

Harry procured a cup of spiced rum and entertained himself by people watching. He was lurking in an empty doorway, safely away from the tide of people calling to one another and laughing. A few too many had opted for billowing black cloaked costumes that made his heart beat a little too quickly. 

It must have been the rum, because when someone bumped his shoulder and came to rest beside him in the doorway, he shot them a smile and, on impulse, said, “D’you think they’re dressed up as Death Eaters or Voldemort? I can’t tell which one is worse.”

The light weight of the Notice-Me-Not charm tingled against Draco’s skin underneath his silken cloak. Or, perhaps, that was the alcohol. He hadn’t wanted to go out, to be dragged away from home, but his mother had returned to show her face in Diagon and turning Narcissa Malfoy down wasn’t something one did. It had grown late, the skies darker and a touch ominous, when polite patronage and standing next to his mother’s side, entertaining Ministry officials and members of the Diagon Alley Small Business Association with far greater difficulty than he had years before, when she met up with her gaggle of phiantrophic witches. Mrs. Greengrass being one of them. 

With Mrs. Greengrass came all things Daphne (and Astoria, though it was far too easy to overlook her presence when her sister dragged Draco this and that way through the streets and fed him enough mulled wine until he accepted her practicing beauty charms upon him and his precious hair.) His only chance at escape from that manicured vice of a grip was the excuse of needing fresh air that fell on deaf ears as Daphne had spotted a charity case worse than him sulking in some veritable corner nearby. Draco, reasonably sauced and predictably contrived, would not be spending the night watching Theodore Nott look like a kicked puppy because Daphne remembered his existence.

A pinched cigarette (muggle and taken given to him with an exasperated sigh quickly hushed by the gift of Daphne’s attention on poor Theo) a practice dummy Draco tumbled out onto the streets of Diagon with far too much grace someone his size should have after the words pitcher left Daphne’s lips. The street was teaming, crowded, and he saunted to the side after spotting a someway empty doorway free from the unwashed masses of patrons who would no doubt love to give him a taste of mischief. Ignoring the friendly grin, for who had time for small talk anymore, he lit the tip of the cigarette with his wand and leaned heavily against the wooden door behind him. 

D’you think they’re dressed up as Death Eaters or Voldemort?

The cloud of twirling smoke he had been exhaling was let out at once as the words too him by surprise, coughing covering the rest of whatever the off-brand Weasel was saying as Draco’s eyes searched the dimly lit passersby in unabashed horror. Doing his best to collect himself and stop gawking, he took a large sip of his wine before gesturing to the costumed freaks. “That’s not– they’re simply cloaks. It’s a traditional color for the day.” Though his own cloak was a shade of navy, straying away from the color for that very reason. “Teens playing fascists.” Like he had been. “It’s all very in nowadays.” That and the two hours he had just spent listening to Daphne go on about Astoria’s new career dreams of being a– “Teen exorcists as well.” Turning his head, finally taking in the man beside him that his brain had written off as ginger, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not the Dragon one, are you?” 

[mavvaisefoi]

rbwtheking​:

The look on Malfoy’s face was priceless. Ron was no stranger to seeing him startled or frightened, but the mix of both (and the flash of anger) he caught before the door promptly slammed shut again was almost too perfect. The forced neutrality melted from his face, and his shoulders shook as he dissolved into a fit of quiet, poorly-sequestered laughter. It appeared Draco was still not shy about making a scene, even with his diminished status; Ron could hear his tirade through the wall, and he thought for one glorious moment that perhaps the check-in would be rescheduled. He didn’t want Malfoy to get his way, but if it meant he didn’t have to sit across from the little slimeball he wouldn’t be miffed. 

By the time Draco returned Ron had composed himself, once again forcing his expression into something at least slightly professional. He didn’t smile or offer him a seat, but he didn’t hurl insults either - it was the best he could do. 

Slightly narrowed blue eyes looked down at the list of questions in front of him, a pause settling between them in response to Malfoy’s question about Wiggleswade. “Not here,” he finally replied, picking up a quill with a sigh. He opened his mouth, the first question hovering on the tip of his tongue (‘Let’s get this over with.’), but Malfoy’s astute observation cut him off. His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. 

“Oh, are they? And what color is the sky, Malfoy? Blue? Or is that one a bit tough for you?”  

“I’ve gathered. Why not?” In the months since these check-ins had been added to Draco’s calendar, Wiggleswade hadn’t missed a single one. His Ministry Minder was fastidious, meticulous, and everything Weasley could never be. He certainly couldn’t be trained in this. Didn’t Auror training take three years? And they both had to know the man sitting across from him held no possibility of passing, if not for the luck of being considered a War Hero before the age of twenty.

“The sky isn’t blue. It only appears blue.” Draco’s flat drone was back, hardly an inflection present as the words passed through lazy lips. “You’re referring to the Rayleigh Scattering. Named after Lord Rayleigh. The man who discovered argon? It was covered in the first month– Oh but you didn’t take Alchemy, did you Weasley?” He sighed, leaning back in his chair though his posture didn’t laxen. “I would think your girlfriend would have told you that. She certainly enjoys passing out useless information whenever she can.”

[mavvaisefoi]

🧙🏻👤

[mavvaisefoi]

parkinsy​:

Normally her immediate response to someone being in her place would be to fling curses and ask questions later, but in her current state of inebriation (a mix of drugs, magical or otherwise, and alcohol) meant that she was slow on the draw. Instead of going on the defense a hand came to curl sloppily against her hips, fingers splayed awkwardly and unsettled for a moment as she found her footing on platform shoes she had no business wearing; the look she gave was withering, but it lost a bit of its bite against the man of a thousand bitchy stares and in the fact that she blinked very slowly and unfocused.

“Were we meeting up tonight? I think after the fifth or sixth shot I sort of lost track of time and I honestly still don’t know where it is.” The words were slurred, but somehow practiced to be intelligible; she was old hat at this by this point and had learned to handle her personal level of fucked-uppedness, “You’ll forgive me, right Dracoooo?”

Flirting would work with most and she knew that, no stranger to the advances of men but also she was fully aware that her ride or die was in no way into her. It didn’t stop her from stumbling towards the bed and to the side of him, tossing her own silky underthings to the side (she could have easily left them there, for all she knew) to lean across and look down at him. She reeked of magical inducement and her eyes sparkled with stars — there was some serious mojo coursing through his friend and honestly, he was probably used to it, “Tell me you’ll forgive me or I’ll just diiiiie.”

Exaggerated, ignoring the fact that for a moment a flash of death drew across her vision and everything they’d suffered at the war of Hogwarts — the things that haunted both of them, though him more than her likely — as well as a furtive glance to a dancing shadow in the corner that spoke of people waiting to have her murdered for her choices afterwards as well; she shrugged it off and plastered on a smile, “How WAS your night, babe? I feel like I shouldn’t’ve left you alone to begin with and I really am sorry.”

A truth. If there was anyone on this planet that Pansy cared for more than herself it was Draco Malfoy. She could count on one hand the number of friends she had, and he was the first finger forevermore.

If Draco had been chilly before, the sight of Pansy in her usually affected state brought out a frigidity he rarely wielded towards her of all people. A raised eyebrow and mouth in a thin pink line, he watched his friend bumble her way to the bed. “I suppose I should be grateful that after your fifth or sixth shot you had enough of a brain left to remember to floo home.” 

His anger and betrayal wavered at her words until Pansy draped herself across and upon him. Glassy eyes. Blown pupils. The makings of a whole idiot he couldn’t fault for trying to escape their new reality except that her journey left him soberly behind and in the position of caretaker. “Don’t.” Draco pulled away, standing from the bed and bringing the bottle of wine with him. He moved towards the window, small like the rest of her flat in his opinion and far sadder of a view than the one he was used to. Not that the view he was used to was as grand as it had once been. 

Draco was exhausted. War reparations, owls from his mother detailing fundraisers and people he needed to write to, the Manor issue, and Pansy. The bags under his eyes, the ever present sharpness that ran from neck to temple, were going to become permanent fixtures of his being at this rate. Talk of death, a reminder of who he they had lost and could still lose, didn’t need to be added to the pile.

“Where were you?” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

[mavvaisefoi]

hecthcn​:

Hermione remained silent as dark eyes observed the male standing a few metres in front of her. She hadn’t seen him since the end of the war; there had been whisperings here and there but she had never paid too much notice to them. What shocked her the most about Draco was that despite his words being harsh, he hadn’t thrown an insult in her direction. “ I have heard knitting can be quite therapeutic. At least, that is what I have read about it, “ If he could be civil, then there was no reason she couldn’t be. 

“ What are you knitting ? “ Her words soft as she observed the yarn in front of him, “ If you are going to knit a blanket, that’s great yarn to use but I would suggest something thinner for scarfs or beanies, “ Offering the male a slight smile as she held out different yarn for him.

“You’ve read about it? Shocking.” The words left Draco in a huff, his arms crossing tightly across his chest the moment Hermione opened her mouth to speak. Couldn’t she see he was busy? Picking colors out of these ridiculous yarns laid out in a quantity he vaguely knew had to exist but had never bothered to seek out before. Who had ever heard of a Malfoy knitting?

His looked to the side to her outstretched hand and scoffed, ignoring her offer. “I think I know what kind of yarn to choose, Granger. Your advice isn’t needed and it’s none of your business what I’m knitting.” And now that she was being oh so helpful with her knitting knowledge, Draco would have to buy all these stupid balls of yarn filling up the basket beside him. “Anything else or is my free time once again my own?”

[mavvaisefoi]

seamxs​:

If Seamus was at all phased by a ten month waiting period he gave no indication of it, instead folding his arms as he leaned into Penny’s desk and tried to remember precisely which department he’d been docked in last Christmas. They all started to blur together after a while. ‘The date my home became unoccupied by that living nightmare’ was such a blatantly disrespectful Malfoy way to refer to the date of the Battle of Hogwarts, as if the grim triumph of that harrowing day could be rendered down to an overdue eviction of a Dark Lord claiming squatter’s rights on Malfoy’s castle or wherever the fuck he lived. His fingertips dug into the muscles of his arms, lightly at first but with increasing force until nails bit into the flesh as Malfoy rattled through the deaths that had occurred within his home with a lack of care that began to chip away at Seamus’s decidedly lacking restraint. 

No wonder whoever had received his request had pushed it to another pile, if it had made it to a pile at all (Seamus couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t have set it alight if he’d been present at the time.) If Seamus had learned anything over the space of the last month in the Spirit Division, and he had done his utmost best not to despite taking something of a shine to the field work of the department, it was that there was a certain reverence required in dealings with the restless dead. Seamus doubted that Malfoy had ever shown reverence or respect for anything in his life. He was all but begging to be haunted.

Nonetheless, Seamus barrelled cheerfully ahead on the checklist. “In the past ten months have any of your undead visitors displayed any of the classic signs of a violent haunting or intention to become so? Bleeding from the walls or windows? Physical violence? Attempted possessions? Damages to property of persons? Warning messages? Have they shown any inclination to identify themselves or their origin? Have you noticed that their displeasure is directed at any individual in particular, or do they object to the presence of anyone being in their environment?”

The eerie calm that usually preceded an upheaval rolled in over him as the last, dying gasps of Bob’s death-rattles faded into silence in the back room and Malfoy’s haughty demands began to rise in scale. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mulroy, but there’s been a significant boom in hauntings and spiritual occupations in this country in the past year. You and your manor aren’t any more important than anyone else who submitted their forms and followed procedures, but go on then. Go have a chat with Prickle about the single-most underfunded and understaffed department in the Ministry being mean to you. Me ‘n Prickle go way back.” 

That fleeting moment of serenity flickered and gave into something far less gentle as Seamus lit up at the prospect of a fight. “And while you’re at it, a bit of light reading for you.” Rummaging through the stack of binders carefully organised beneath the counter that rose over Penny’s desk he retrieved an unbound copy of The Housing Improvement, Regulations and Provenance of Magical Buildings Act of 1874, flipping the helpfully tabbed pages to the right page before reading aloud, “Section 117(a) — In Co-Habitation with Ghosts, Ghouls, Poltergeists and Spirit-adjacent Has-Beens — in the case of a dispute between the class of spirits referred to as ‘Has-Beens’ and the home-owner, the limey twat who’s castle is being haunted—  is required to enter into a period of negotiation with the occupying spirits before seeking severance or exorcism services. In the event that acceptable terms cannot be met between both parties, the git with the hair will then engage with an accredited agency for the purposes of mediation and or removal.” 

Seamus heaved the brick of paper onto the counter before Draco and pushed it cheerfully towards him, “May have paraphrased a tad, but I’m sure you get the gist. It is your duty of care as a landowner to ensure the dead occupying your property receive the same care and respect as the living. The undue removal of spirits from their final resting places is considered to be a severe violation of their rights, can cause extreme trauma and increase instances of violence and rapid deterioration of their quality of death. In the case of violent hauntings,” he reached over to tap at Subsection D on the page, “Services can be expedited — given sufficient evidence being provided to the accredited agency — upon which the site will be sealed to any entrance until the twat’s castle can be rendered safe for re-entry by an accredited agent. So which is it O’Malley, is the haunting severe enough to warrant an immediate closure of the site pending investigation or are you going to take this with you to tea and biscuits with Prickle?”

“Yes.” This whole line of questioning was a farce. Draco found himself leaning over the desk more, his tapping fingers picking up speed as his other hand pointed in the direction of the paper he had handed over. “The walls don’t bleed. They don’t take on any light. No charms work on the corners. The dark is–” His hand stilled on the desktop. Draco looking to the ceiling for a scrounge of patience as his rapidly deteriorated. “I’ve detailed this if you would just read the forms. Attempted physical violence, yes. Damage. I’ve found the birds...they’ve made their intentions known but there hasn’t been any signed letter of intent if that is what you’re inquiring. If I knew who they were, would I be here asking you to investigate? No, Finnigan. I wouldn’t be. Why would I waste my time here with you if I had a way to communicate with them?”  The folder, his prop laid out, was flipped through once more. Some papers spilling about until Draco found the second copy of his submitted forms. He stared down at the recount of his past few months, the muscle in his jaw clenched tight as he dropped the papers in front of the most useless employee the Ministry had ever seen. “I’m the sole occupant of the Manor currently. My guests haven’t received the same level of treatment but I know they’d had their own minor experiences. My issue, if you would look down and read it, is that the corporalness of their figures isn’t unremitting. I don’t know who they’re taking the image of as every single instance I am greeted by a new occurrence. Anything else you need to ask after? I haven’t sat them down for tea and asked about their life. We’re not confidantes whispering our secrets to each other at night. They’re squatting. They need to be evicted.” Mulroy. An eyebrow was raised as his lips pursed. His once pointed finger raised for a second time, now directed at the employee’s chest then dropped. Draco’s mouth quirked upwards, doing nothing to temper down the fire in his eyes. “Have you ever had your home invaded, Finnigan? Have you had to clean up after a spirit’s little games day in and day out and not have a sanctuary to retreat to afterwards? I don’t believe you have. The Ministry’s little aurors and cursebreaker have trekked their grubby little feet through every square inch of my home. They’ve disturbed years of magical objects that came through the occupation unscated. What does your limited amount of training tell you about the results of brutish behavior like that? The amount of causes for this haunting are endless. Friends with Prickle or not, the value of a galleon hasn’t decreased in the last year. Underfunding can be changed. Personnel can be shifted. Prickle is very well aware of that.” Draco waited for the promise, more like threat, of private funding to turn the tide of their conversation. The appearance of a familiar tone wiped away any smugness the contents of a Gringotts Vault had briefly brought. Draco began reciting along. “Ghouls, Poltergeists and Spirit-adjacent Has-Beens — in the case of a dispute between the class of spirits referred to as ‘Has-Beens’ and the home-owner is requi–” His head shook in exasperation, eyes widened in disbelief. “Do you think this is a joke?” Every syllable was now clearly enunciated, sharp and quick and pointed much like the young man saying them. No traces of the affected drawl Draco usually spoke with. “I’ve read The Housing Improvement, Regulations and Provenance of Magical Buildings Act of 1874. Stop taking the piss and do your bloody fucking job or get me someone who will. There is no negotiating with these anomalies. If you’ve listened to a single thing I’ve told you, you would realized I am done with allowing just anyone to waltz into my home and make it worse. Your peddling tricksters claiming to be trained in mediation can get bent. They won’t be coming in to make this worse.”

He wasn’t sure when the papers in his hands had become clenched, on the verge of balled in his fists as he leaned farther across the reception desk. He was spitting out his words, a dark flush of anger and desperation taking over his pale complection. “Extreme trauma? I’m experiencing extreme trauma!” His hand hit the counter, forgoing the now crumpled and useless pages in favor of clutching the hard surface. “I’ve been experiencing extreme trauma for the last two years. There is not one, not one single night of sleep I’ve gotten since the ba–” Draco exhaled, stepping back and shaking his hands in Finnigan’s direction as if to wave him away. “Forget it. If you won’t...it’s pointless, isn’t it? You and your co-workers and the cursebreakers and the aurors will drag me round and round and round until I turn up dead in that bloody estate. Oh. My mistake. My fucking twat’s castle.” A hand ran through his carefully charmed locks. “And when I do, Finnigan, it’ll be on your head. Former Death Eater blood all over your hands instead of faceless and nameless evil wixen you never have to recall blowing up. All those families better off because you said it’s time for Mummy and Daddy to go alight.” 

His breath had caught up with him. The ranting without ceasing leaving him gasping or was that the panic of hitting another dead end as he went about solving a problem with the proper forms and procedure? “The haunting is severe enough to warrant an immediate closure of the site pending investigation but the grounds won’t let a halfblood in without a Malfoy on them. What clause covers that? Or will you tell me how this will delay the entire case again? Tell me how you can’t take it on if you can’t visit the grounds without me? Throw away all my paperwork and go back to your pathetic transparent display of neutrality? It’s not something I have the ability to fucking alter. Take it up with the Master of the Manor. You’ll have to visit him in the North Sea. Letters aren’t being delivered.” And Draco wasn’t being allowed visitation. 

[mavvaisefoi]

who: @parkinsy​ where: Pansy’s Flat

With his legs extended across the comforter, his shoes off because Draco wasn’t a monster, he sighed for what felt like the thousandth time in the past five minutes. He was wasting away. Forgotten, unwanted, and alone. How dare she. The wine he had brought with him, for plans he thought they had both agreed upon, was opened and half drank. It sat on her bedside table forgotten as he rifled through her drawers. He had already explored her closet, found nothing of interest besides a few shirts and jerseys from his quidditch days he didn’t recall lending his ex-girlfriend. What kind of self respecting witch didn’t have a diary for him to snoop through? Or a locked and warded box of close kept secrets he most likely already knew but would still find breaking into to rediscover exciting? At this rate he’d be reduced to sticking his head underneath her bed or investing every single loose floorboard in this shifty flat.

The crackle of the floo roared and Draco snapped into action, slamming the drawer shut (overlooking the silky pieces of barely enough fabric to be called fabric he had pulled out in his haste to find something good) and securing the open bottle by the neck. He laid back against her pillows, arm thrown over his face as he took on the best boneless appearance he could muster. “It’s just us.” He called out, taking a long sip of of the elven made wine that once would have been considered far too important to be wasted on a simple night like this. “She won’t be back for hours.” 

Draco extended his vowels. His affected drawl almost comical as he lazily raised his arm just enough to peer out from underneath it. “Oh.” His arm dropped, hiding the witch he thought was his friend from his sight, as his voice took on a frigid tone. “You do remember where you live. How wonderful. Have a nice night? I did. It was delightful. Tantalizing. Engaging time spent with me, myself, and I.”

[mavvaisefoi]

exhorcrux​:

The slight gleam in the air around Malfoy indicated a wordless shield charm. Interesting. Harry couldn’t exactly blame Malfoy - he had just ‘accidentally’ fired a hex, after all - but the action betrayed a sense of uncertainty to whatever simmered beneath that cool, sneering mask.

It was a sad state of affairs that when the doors simultaneously slammed shut, Harry didn’t flinch. Grimmauld Place had been carrying on ever since he turned up with his trunk and Firebolt a year ago. The runner thing was a bit weird, but maybe it was just as he joked: pure blood meant literally rolling out the red carpet.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. You’ve been living here. Why would Malfoy care where he lived? More to the point, why was it such a big deal? Sirius had left this house to Harry, no one else. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy was trespassing. The Ministry would see it that way too (though Harry was uncomfortably aware that the Ministry would likely believe any version of the story Harry put forward: why take the word of a former Death Eater when you’ve got Boy Wonder testifying otherwise?). All this brought him to another, probably more important question…

How the hell did Malfoy get past his wards?

Harry’s jew flexed, but he lowered his wand incrementally. He wasn’t stupid enough to retire it completely - it remained hovering at Malfoy’s chest - but he hoped the gesture would indicate something of a… alright, truce was putting it too generously.

“Like I said,” Harry replied tightly, “I live here. If I help you find this box, will you piss off?”

“Yes. As you’ve said many times. You live here. How, Potter?” His aggravation was rising, the glittering shield separating them flickering as Draco spoke, eyes locked upon the wand still aimed at him. “Are you going to hex me or not? The anticipation of my eventual demise by your hand, while thrilling, is passé.” 

Knowing he was acting foolishly, stupidly, perhaps throwing himself to the wolves in a manner unbecoming with the person Draco was trying desperately to force himself to grow into (and drag himself away from the person who accepted there was no future in store for him), he dropped his shield charm and waited with bated breath for the pain of a curse to come. It was what his Ministry Minder said, wasn’t it? Trusting others was not inherently dangerous. Even if that trust was being given to the wrong sort.

When the silence between them filled the front hall that had to be dimming if his squinting eyes were any indication, Draco let out a very long exasperated sigh. Like it pained him to be waiting any longer. It did pain him. It stretched the limits of his patience. It dug under his skin to be treated like an intruder in a dwelling of his birthright. Sweets and treats and praise he deserved upon entrance to this dusty shit-hole were no where to be found. “Well?” He asked, right hand twitching toward his jacket. “Open the doors. You can’t expect me to look while locked in here, can you? And it’s not a box. It’s a jewelry box. If any old box would do, I wouldn’t have come.”

[mavvaisefoi]

0nlydaughter​:

“Alright, you caught me.” Ginny had to lean fairly close to him so that he’d be able to hear her. It wasn’t as weird as she thought it might be. That would be the alcohol. Her voice was slow and more serious than usual. “My job as a professional Quidditch player is all a cover-up and my true life’s work is to track down people who were on the wrong side of the War for family reasons.” She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing but one side of her mouth curled up in the ghost of the traditional Weasley smirk. 

“What are you trying to order?” Ginny asked him after a moment. Her glass was half empty by now. She’d want another before braving the dance floor again, and the too-short miniskirt and crop top combo meant she’d probably get the barkeep’s attention before Malfoy would. Sure enough, when the bartender’s gaze swept toward their corner of thee bar, his gaze seemed to flick right past Draco and land on her. She stood back on her toes to order herself another and tacked Malfoy’s drink order onto it, too, before settling back onto her flat feet and redirected her attention back to him. 

“I like it here, too. What? Just because I’ve found it, too, you can never return? Don’t be overdramatic, Malfoy. There’s room for both of us.” She gave the bartender a smile when he arrived with both drinks and promptly told him to put both on Draco’s tab. “I’m not going to stop coming here, so I’ll leave that up to you.” She finished off the first drink she ordered and started on the second. The music shifted and changed. A new band had taken over and the bass thrummed in her veins along with the alcohol, making her antsy and a little bit bold. She thought about grabbing his sleeve again but thought better of it as she took a step away from the bar. “Come dance. You’re not going to waste all night here, are you?” As she backed her way towards the dance floor, she tipped her head at him. “Unless you’re too much of a coward?”

They had all gone mad. Every single last blasted one of them. Perhaps save Weaselbee. Draco truly thought her brother would be the first one to go after Potter. There was no way in which someone could exist in Granger’s orbit and not be on the wrong side of batty. Draco made no attempts to shuffle backwards, not with muggles pressing closer and closer into his personal space bubble on every side. 

Humor was not gone from the insane, it seemed, even if he couldn’t find anything funny about the situation at all. “You don’t know anything about why people were on the wrong side of the war.” How dare she. Growing up in a hovel with far more mouths than galleons in her parents’ pockets. She had no idea what his life had been like, was like all because of his family and their shared last name. The weight of societal expectations and customs. The importance of reputation. 

The color of Draco’s cheeks shifted from pink to red as his anger took hold, not that he believed Ginerva was serious. It didn’t matter. The slight was felt. Just as quickly as she have invaded, she was back to standing next to him. Off-putting as ever. Draco muttered out his order for four and stared a hard glare into the side of her face, wondering when Merlin and the gods above had decided his life was in need of this particular brand of redheaded excitement. He sniffed, gaze traveling off of her and away onto the crowd until it landed back on the direction of where he had came from. “Is it?” He tried his best to sound unbothered (as he was the only one who seemed to be bothered) while his gaze landed on a bobbed dark haired head, gesturing wildly to him and his bartender whispering companion. 

“I’m not–” He interrupted, turning to stop her from using his tab, but it was too late. The flippant man tending their drinks already gone. “Don’t get used to it.” Taking a sip of his own drink, Draco began the process of grabbing the other three. His arms awkwardly clutching all the glasses (and one ridiculously decorated martini glass) as he desperately wished for a place where he could be welcome to use a quick leviosa. “As much fun as dancing with you, in the same club as you where there’s room for both of us,” He pointedly looked down at the glassware in his grip and back up to the obviously intoxicated quidditch player. “I’ll have to pass. What a disappointment that must be for you.” 

[mavvaisefoi]

exhorcrux​:

The runner snaked behind Harry and caught on the back of his trainers. He glanced down and stumbled in place, though his wand remained more or less aimed at Malfoy’s skinny throat. They watched as it rolled slowly past them, across the foyer and into the darkened corridor that ran to the front door. When it slipped from sight, Harry and Malfoy made eye contact, and Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Guess it can smell pure blood,” he remarked drily.

Malfoy’s monologue did little to staunch Harry’s rising tide of irritation. Every time he put a slight emphasis on your house, Harry’s hackles rose even further. This had to be another one of Malfoy’s stupid, mean-spirited tricks. Oh yes, ha-ha, let’s gatecrash Grimmauld Place and stick it into Pottyhead one more time. Hilarious.

Malfoy continued to burble. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry flicked his wand and a wordless hex sprang forth, red sparks glittering in the gloom, to shoot past Malfoy’s left ear and scorch the wallpaper over his shoulder. Just enough to get him to shut the fuck up. And who could have guessed it - Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut, though with it went something gold that had caught Harry’s eye.

Sarcastically, Harry said, “You’ve obviously not realised I’ve no interest in whatever you’ve got to say. You’re in my house. Either you tell me what the hell you’re doing here, or next time I won’t be so clumsy.” He adjusted his wand to punctuate the point.

“Was that an attempt at humor?” Draco was sneering. Trying to hide just how baffled he was, thrown for a loop at whatever it was that Potter was trying to do. None of this calculated to something near sense or whatever it was that went on in the head of the man who still had his wand drawn out. “Black blood.” Though he would venture a majority of the charms found within the Malfoy estate would be found here as well. Or perhaps worse methods of pureblood verification. Draco’s wand stayed lowered as he dodged to his right, a non-verbal shielding charm doing little to still the rapid way his eyes darted between Potter’s wand and face. “You’re unhinged.” Probably not the best thing to spat out but Draco couldn’t exactly go about sending off hexes of his own. Couldn’t even try to shoot off a jelly-legged jinx if he wanted to (and he wanted to do more than that). It was pathetic. The other man had to know that, hadn’t he? He probably set up the arrangement of Draco’s entire parole and sentencing. Laughing to himself at the fate he was putting upon his Hogwarts rival. 

Just as he considered dropping his wand, for how could the ever do-gooder Harry Potter dream of striking someone who was unarmed (even if that someone was Draco, he hoped) the doors to the rooms around them slammed shut in unison. “It’s you.” The proverbial lamp had been lit, Draco suddenly understanding what the hell had cast a shadow upon his Great Aunt’s home. “You’ve been living here. And you think I’m–” A laugh, higher pitched than he enjoyed sounding in public, left him though it didn’t do much to wash the incredulous glimmer from his eyes. “I didn’t know you’ve been–” His free hand waffled between them and the shimmering shield of his own making, an eyebrow raising at Potter’s still drawn wand. “–occupying Grimmauld.” It would be pushing his luck, to put his wand back in his jacket pocket. To rid himself of one of the only defenses he only half-had in this prick measuring contest but Draco did so anyway, holding his hands up in innocence as he waited for the other’s to drop. His posture growing sharper and his chin titled upwards in defense. “Not that it’s any of your concern but I’m taking a jewelry box of my mother’s in for repair. She believes pieces of it are in storage here. What’s your excuse?”

[mavvaisefoi]

rbwtheking​:

The Auror Department had a reputation for being busy - especially of late - but this particular day was downright chaotic from the start. Ron arrived early that morning to find most of the department already gone, responding to reports of rogue werewolves to the north. There were mounds of paperwork to sort through (his least-favorite part of the job, unsurprisingly), and a secretary hurried in around lunchtime to inform him that he was in charge of leading the monthly check-in that day. Now, Ron was getting better at the more authoritative parts of being an Auror, but he choked on his sandwich when he learned he had less than an hour to prepare. After the secretary offered him a glass of water (he declined, still coughing), she passed the subject’s file over the desk. 

Ron was glad he hadn’t taken another bite. 

For fuck’s sake.

He hadn’t spent more than two seconds in a room with Draco Malfoy since the battle, and even that was two seconds too many. Sure, he knew the story about Narcissa lying to Voldemort and essentially saving Harry’s life, but Draco? What had he done to warrant such a lack of punishment? 

Ron sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The tips of his ears were burning but he forced his face into an expression of cold neutrality, glancing up as the door to the interview room swung open.

@mavvaisefoi

Weasley gracing the seat across from Draco’s designated destination was unacceptable. Twenty minutes later, sitting in his designated destination and blankly staring at the tall ginger across from him, it was wildly shaping up to be an intolerable kind of day. The secretary of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had told Draco that school aged rivalries were in no shape, way, or form a conflict of interest. He’d venture the moment an annoyance spent any amount of time captive in your cellars they were no longer considered a rival from your Hogwarts days.

“Where’s Wiggleswade?” Draco asked after the silence that had permeated every nook, corner, and cranny of the room following his slamming of the door at the mere sight of Weasley had become too much. He didn’t enjoy occluding these days, finding the practice of cutting himself off from all emotion tended to just make things worse but he couldn’t foresee getting through this interaction without removing all his pent up rage at paper-pushing injustice. And so, now, his voice was mellow, a bored even drone. An entirely different Draco from the one who had just informed the secretary that under no terms would he be subjecting himself to a check-in with this sorry excuse for an auror. (As if all aurors weren’t sorry excuses themselves.) “Your ears. They’re red, you know.”

[mavvaisefoi]

hecthcn​:

Back in Hogwarts, Hermione had spent a lot of her time dedicated to knitting new knitwear for the various house elves that worked in the kitchens; even though, they hadn’t appreciated it. Following the war, the witch had taken time for herself to learn how to crochet and soon, it had become a favourite pastime of hers. It was so easy to get lost in the methodical process of crocheting while listening to a record in the background. 

Looking through the various aisles for materials, the last person she had expected to be standing there was Draco Malfoy. Freezing in her steps, the curly haired woman blinked in disbelief a few times before gently shaking her head to clear her mind of the various memories pertaining to the male’s home. It was a rabbit hole she couldn’t go down, not here, not now. “ Are you following me ? “ the first words to leave her mouth, “ Because it makes sense for me to be here, it makes no sense for you to have here unless you’ve taken up a knitting hobby ? “

If he focused just enough, let his expression mimic the blank emptiness he had seen on the faces of muggles he had passed during the day, perhaps Granger would overlook him. He could wish and want and hope for as long as he desired but Draco Malfoy’s luck had turned the moment his father had been arrested in the Department of Mysteries and lack of self proclaimed dark wizards didn’t mean life had suddenly decided to play nice with him. 

“No.” He didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her. If it was one of the others she orbited around, a talkative oaf like Weasel or, Merlin forbid, a self-righteous arsehole like Potter, Draco may have had an easier time spouting off insults and flippant rude phrases to poke and prod and gain his much deserved solace but Granger and her lack of magical parentage much resembled the bright flashing sign he had seen on his way into the art store. Too bold to ignore the creeping guilt and nausea bubbling up on his throat, nor the warmth the store suddenly seemed to hold. His clothing tugging and itching his skin, worse so on his left forearm though some small part of Draco knew he had to be imagining it. “Yes. I’ve taken up...knitting.” His Ministry assigned minder had suggested something of the sort early on, trying to dissuade him from taking apart the clocks and puzzles boxes he had gravitated towards in his lockdown. 

Cheeks pink and flushed, gaze still locked upon the yarn in front of him, he tsked. This was what she chose to hone in on. “Are my hobbies a problem? Take it up with Wiggleswade.”