Itās the first of September! The first day of spring, which is my least favourite season on account of its unpredictability.
Anyway, hereās a snippet of a fic request Iām currently filling for @stargazing-enby who submitted it two years ago aaaagh
The office is tucked away in the suburban sprawl of Bexley. Itās an old terrace townhouse; the original staircase, a hefty wooden beast, smells of furniture polish. The floorboards creak beneath Harryās feet. The reception room is converted from the front parlour, and still has touches of the home that was once there: a lace doily over a dainty hall-table, and faded curtains framing the window. Harry glances at the wall, noticing the vintage brass light switch. This was once a Muggle home, then.
āMay I help you?ā
Thereās an elderly witch he doesnāt recognise at the reception desk. Sheās peering at him suspiciously over her spectacles, one hand resting on a typewriter which is furiously tapping out letters by itself.
Harry looks away from the typewriter. āHarry Potter. Here to see Malfoy.ā Itās a little petty, he knows, but he wonāt use Malfoyās full title. Cursebreakers love that. They love the showmanship of it. The little flourishes of their wand (completely gratuitous), the dramatic pauses (unnecessary) and of course, their amazed and grateful customers (audiences; the only thing missing is the applause). Itās why Harry wonāt see Levinson any more, or Sheldrake, or Vittily. Itās why he ditched Fromer after just one appointment, and why he left Clarksonās office without even beginning the appointment. One glance into Clarksonās delighted face ā ooh, the great Harry Potter! What fantastic publicity for my little agency ā and Harry had turned around and walked wordlessly out the door.
Now he waits for the usual reactions. But the witch doesnāt widen her eyes, or glance at his scar, or nervously smooth her robes. She just keeps squinting at him, and then she says, āHenry Potterā¦ā
āHarry.ā
āHarry.ā She frowns. āPotter with a P?ā
Harry canāt imagine what other letter Potter might begin with: he pauses, then says, āErm. Yes.ā
She picks slowly through a little wooden box filled with small white cards. āAh. Here you are. Eleven oāclock?ā
āThatās right.ā
She puts a neat little tick onto the card and then moves it to another box. āTake a seat. Tea and coffeeās across the hallway.ā
He sits down on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs next to the dainty hall table. Thereās a little magazine rack nearby, with very well-worn copies of Cosy Homes for Country Witches and Enchanting Gardens of Magical Britain. Once Harry thumbs through them and then finds a copy of Knitting Patterns for Thrifty Witches, he begins suspecting the collection has been generously donated by the elderly receptionist. He glances up at her, then at the grandfather clock standing ponderously by the door. Itās only been fifteen minutes, but perhaps Malfoy is sitting somewhere in a comfortable office, laughing at the fact heās keeping Harry waiting.
The receptionist speaks then, as if sensing his thoughts. āMr Potter? Mr Malfoy will see you now. Directly up the stairs, second door on the left.ā
Harry dutifully goes upstairs. Thereās a narrow hallway with a window at the end of it, showing a rather unspectacular view over the grey rooftops of Bexley. He passes by the first door, which looks like a cleaning closet, and then stops at the second.
D. Malfoy
5th Order HCJ (DefM)
Cert HM (C. II)
Itās a faded set of letters printed upon the frosted glass pane. The dark-blue paint of the door is beginning to slowly flake away. Harryās annoyed, though he canāt pinpoint why. All the other cursebreakers heās visited have had their name, bright and glossy, upon their doors, with CURSEBREAKER emblazoned in large letters below. They love that word. Itās exciting. Full of action and danger. Curse, and breaker. Destruction and glittering shards. Smashing spells to pieces and then getting called a hero for it. Of course Malfoy would love to call himself cursebreaker.
But instead Harryās left to decipher 5th Order HCJ (DefM) and Cert. HM, C. II.
The door swings open suddenly, leaving Harry blinking at Draco Malfoyās face. Heās seen him around in the years following the war ā itās hard not to, really, with the magic community as small as it is ā but always a distant glimpse of a blond-haired man disappearing into a shop, or waiting for one of the elevators at the Ministry (and despite Harry firmly telling himself heād outgrown schoolyard scuffles, heād always elected to choose a different elevator instead).
Now, however, an awkward meeting seems inevitable.
Malfoy looks down his long nose at Harry and says, āTake a seat.ā
Harry wonāt give him the satisfaction of pausing. He walks into the office and sits down in the nearest chair; a squeaky relic from the seventies, by the look of the avocado-coloured vinyl and slightly rusted metal legs.
Malfoy closes the door and then sits at his desk, ignoring Harry and picking up a file instead. Harry had expected the cold shoulder, and anyway, it gives him time to look around. Heās been in plenty of cursebreaker offices. Large and grand affairs, with ceiling-length windows and bookcases lined with rare tomes, and little gold name-plates on solid-oak desks. And the trophies, of course. Cursed jewellery glittering in the sunlight. Beautiful dresses stained with unicorn blood. Portraits of subjects which whisper just too quietly to decipher the words.
But Malfoyās office is small and neat and efficient as a Ministry cubicle. Thereās two framed certificates on the wall, which give Harry his answer to the riddle on the door ā Fifth Order of Defensive Magic specialising in Hexes, Curses, and Jinxes, and Certificate of Healing Magic, Class II. Thereās no grand bookcase, but instead a simple row of tattered texts on a shelf above the desk. A filing cabinet, grey and mildly threatening, sits in the corner.
Malfoy says, without looking up from the file, āYouāre here today becauseā¦ā He turns a page, āā¦youāre not very good at your job.ā
āWhat?ā Harry asks incredulously.
Malfoy does look up then. His expression is blandly polite, which somehow only makes Harry more angry. āYou donāt currently fill the criteria of your role as an Auror. Is that correct?ā
āNo, thatās not correct. Iām a fully qualified Auror ā ā
āSays here,ā Malfoy says, looking down at the page again, āThat your supervisor has referred you here on the basis thatā¦ā He taps his finger against a line of spindly writing. āLetās see⦠āAuror Potter requires further training in sensing areas of concentrated magic.ā Says last December, you walked directly into a ward and set off a Caterwauling Charm, which compromised the entire operation.ā
āWhat? Well - what it doesnāt mention is that the ward was very well-hidden in a staircase ā ā
āAnd in February, you tripped a jinx when you opened a door during another operation, which resulted in several minor injuries.ā
āYes, but it was ā ā
Malfoy turns a page, somehow managing to do it loudly. The rasp of paper cuts through the air. āFebruary again. Declared a room cleared when in fact it was still armed with a Severing Curse. Your partner suffered a significant injury.ā
Harry looks away. That had been a particularly difficult incident, and the guilt still lingers. āI couldāve sworn that room was ā ā
āMarch. Picked up a cursed wand, resulting in moderate burns.ā
āI had to, I was trying to disarm ā ā
āWhich brings us to April,ā Malfoy says, closing the file. The pages flutter shut. āRan straight through a basic security ward, shattering it. Minor injuries sustained.ā He finally looks up, his expression indecipherable. āAnything you care to add to these notes?ā
āI do my job,ā Harry snaps. āAnd I do it well.ā
āMm,ā Malfoy says, and itās maddening exactly how much condescension he manages to fit into a single syllable. āWell, that particular judgment is up to me, isnāt it?ā
If Somin wasnāt the female lead in this drama, I wouldnāt have watched it. Felt like a disappointment when I reached the end. Kinda regretting now. Project Wolf Hunting, come to me fast. And another drama for Somin, please
i. I stopped writing because the demons who used to keep me awake at night are not bothering me anymore. They are locked up, bottled up inside meā peacefully sleeping.
ii. I stopped writing because the loud voices in my head became whispers and hushes. No more screaming or crying for pleas and help, but rather soft whispers of promises broken into pieces, shards that I have to clean.
iii. I stopped writing because just the thought of you makes me guilty. Makes me disgustedā sick to my stomach that after all, you are still the only person running through my head. The guilt of loving you is eating me alive, swallowing me into a pit of nothingness.
iv. I stopped writing because I stopped feeling pain. I feel numbā I feel like the static sound when the radio that canāt find a signal. I have fallen out of love. And it took everything away from me: my passion, my imagination, my heart, my soul.Ā