We Were Gold

Some people, after everything, deserve to be unhappy. When they have grown up cruel and spoiled, learning to spout blood supremacist ideals at the father’s knee, they deserve nothing less than to repent until their final breath.

I have strived to make amends, often to have the bravery of others thrown in my face. I have faced the Wizengamot, expecting to be sentenced to life in Azkaban, only to be saved by three schoolmates who should have cheered to see the back of me. I returned to Hogwarts, intending to blend into the shadows, only to be made Head Boy in the name of unity (and as a term of my probation), so that everyone who had suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord and his followers had a constant reminder that not all his Death Eaters were imprisoned. I apologised to those I had wrong during my schooling; some with letters, some in person, and one the most difficult apology of all, on bended knee. Nearly all of them had accepted my apology; understandably fewer had offered their forgiveness. The witch who had had the greatest right to tell me that she would rather die than to breathe my polluted air, instead offered me kindness.

Granger. The target of my cruellest barbs, the victim who suffered the most at the hands of my family, wanted to call a truce. She wanted to look past the stain on my arm and the jagged scar on hers to become friends. The last thing she had needed for her final year of school was to be seen with me; to be reminded by our peers that I was a Death Eater, branded until the day I die. She refused to see me as anything more than a child soldier, conscripted from birth to fight on the wrong side of history.

I reminded that I had been proud to be a Pureblood, even if only at first; proud of my lineage, proud to bear His mark, proud to do my duty to eradicate people like her. I had wanted it, had wanted to please my father, to finally, finally, make him proud of his only son and heir.

She reminded me that I no longer was drive by that pride. Reminded me that she had caught me with a kitchen knife at my elbow on the first night of the term, ready to physically remove what a glamour could barely hide. She reminded me that I had not killed anyone; confided in me that she could no longer say the same.

And so, our friendship began. I had other friends in Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. Friends that I had known longer, friends that know my most intimate thoughts and struggles, friends that have become family. My friendship with Granger was something else entirely. She had known me for so many years at my worst, and yet refused to see anything but the best in me. She was clever and sarcastic, with razor-sharp wit and unfailing kindness. That she had also grown into a singularly stunning woman after months of malnutrition and neglect did nothing to help my developing attraction. Initially, it was purely physical. I was an eighteen-year-old hot-blooded wizard sharing a dormitory with a beautiful witch. By nature, I am cunning and sly, meaning I was able to stop myself from openly ogling her as she performed the beauty that is muggle Pilates in our shared common room, but behind my bedroom door or in our communal shower that constantly smelled of her conditioner, I replayed every second of her stretches behind my eyelids, cock in hand. I was able to temper the attraction with a surprising number of willing witches; my post-war growth spurt and subsequent development of muscle, along with my public friendship with Granger, made me an incredibly palatable bedfellow. Certainly, being the scion of two historic bloodlines (with the Gringotts vaults to match) didn’t hurt my prospects either; luckily, both my mother and Snape had taken it upon themselves to hammer the contraception charm into my skull the moment that I turned thirteen.

However, as the year went on and our cohabitation became the highlight of my schooling, I realised that I had, unfortunately, fallen in love with her. Unfortunate, because it was doomed to be unrequited. The Weasel was a constant in her life and had been since our first year. He was the type of man who deserved a witch like Granger; courageous (supposedly) and filled with the personable warmth and sense of humour one must develop when they have nothing else with which to attract romantic partners. I am the type of man who deserved to bathe in her warmth on the outskirts of her life, while watching her fall in love with someone else. Regardless of my feelings, our friendship remained steady,

When we graduated, her surrounded by Potter and all the remaining Weasleys whilst I delivered a Head Boy speech to families who would have Avada-ed me had McGonagall not collected wands at the gate, I had expected to slowly fade out of her life. Study sessions in the library replaced by an occasional owl, and plans cancelled at the last minute. Naturally, she stubbornly refused to let that happen, frequently organising drinks in Muggle Lonon, away from the scrutiny of the public eye. Soon enough, Potter and his then-fiancée, the youngest, best looking, and most tolerable of the Weasleys, were joining us. The Weasel himself was never present, although they frequently mentioned him. He was clearly an active participant in their lives outside of our get-togethers. Granger and I now met at a Muggle café for our continued study sessions during our respective DMLE training; she as a barrister, myself as an auror. Simple transfigurations and a well-placed Muffliato prevented any muggles from seeing our magical resources. Ten months into training, she started wearing a ghastly diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand. Neither of us ever mentioned it.

I had more of a life than I deserved. I was content to find a non-pureblood wife that my mother approved of and produce the required heir. I was going to be the first Malfoy to work in generations. I was going to become a man who was more than the decisions of his youth, more than the brand on his arm.

I was alone in a spare conference room, pacing. Potter had unceremoniously pushed me in fifteen minutes ago, to wait patiently to be trotted out after he announced my formal appointment to the auror squad. He had had me floo directly into his office, where he and Granger had been waiting for me. She greeted me with an enthusiastic hug, one which I had become familiar with over the course of our friendship. Potter looked like he was going to be sick.

“Ignore him,” Granger said as she brushed soot from my shoulder. “It’s his first briefing as Deputy Head Auror. He’s just nervous.”

I smirked at him. “Darling, you finally accepted that promotion so that you could be the one to introduce me?”

That caught his attention and he snorted. “I finally accepted the promotion so that you could take my position. You’re welcome, Trainee.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to check my reflection in the mirror above his fireplace. I straightened my tie for a final time before turning back to them.

“Harry, are you ready?” Granger asked, glancing at the delicate watch on her wrist.

Potter nodded, going to distinctly green as he looked at his own watch. Granger rolled her eyes.

“Harry, you’ve worked hard for this. Robards has had ages to appoint a more senior auror to the role, and he didn’t. You haven’t stepped on anyone’s toes. Now, here’s your tea,” she handed him a takeaway from the ministry café. “Drink that. You’ll be fine. You faced Voldemort, for the love of Circe.” She turned to me, gave me one final nod of approval, along with a cup of my own, and left.

I took a sip. Milky and sweet, a combination that horrified not only her, but also my mother. Granger, because her parents had been teeth healers and ingrained in her the dangers that sweet drinks pose to teeth; my mother because proper tea is best enjoyed with a squeeze of lemon.

I gripped Potter’s shoulder in reassurance; surely that was proof enough that I had changed. He was fretting as if he was the one walking into a room full of people who had arrested and charged him with murder at seventeen. Alas, that distinction fell solely on my shoulders. He had stuck his neck out when he had convinced Robards to accept my application, several months before he first joined Granger and I in Muggle London. I more than deserved the scrutiny of my past, and the multiple rounds of questioning whilst under Veritaserum. He was another person who refused to let me repent in peace. Another who had insisted on friendship. He nodded in thanks and led us out of his office towards the conference room.

After what felt like hours left in a room that no one had bothered to light even a single candle in, the door opened to Robards’ unsmiling face. He jerked his head and led me out to the podium. Potter was looking slightly less peaky finally. I glanced out at my new coworkers scattered throughout the room. Everyone present, besides the Ginger Weasel, had interviewed me, taught the rigorous courses that were part of the training curriculum, or had sparred with me in the duelling rooms. I focused on Granger, a breathtaking smile on her face, watching as she turned to speak to a horrified-looking Weasley.

“As Deputy Head Auror Potter said, I’m Draco Malfoy. I surely need no introduction in this room. I am sure that my loyalty will be questioned throughout my tenure in the Auror Department, but I assure you, I am with you.” I stepped back next to Robards, who grunted in acknowledgement.

As Potter continued with the briefing, I stole another glance at Granger. She was holding Weasley’s hand, barely suppressing a lovesick smile. He was staring at me like I was a complex arithmancy equation (which in his case means very little), attempting to locate and catalogue all my faults, anything that he could hold against me in future. However, unlike himself, I had been bred to be the perfect specimen. Other than the insanity present in the Black bloodline (and the delusions of grandeur displayed by my father), selective breeding had erased all physical imperfections from the Malfoy line. Weasley was one of the few that had not accepted my apology during my final year at Hogwarts. I hadn’t expected him to, but I was surprised that he had been so accepting of Potter and Granger’s friendship with me. Based on his facial expression, they had never mentioned it to him. Interesting.

The second that Potter finished, Granger was racing to the front of the room, Weasley in tow. A few of the more senior aurors, all of whom had participated in my arrest and subsequent hiring interviews, came to shake my hand and offer their congratulations on completing my training. Potter patted my shoulder as they left, and I could feel the fury emanating from Weasley at the casual gesture. It truly is amazing that human ears could turn such a violent shade of red.  

“Thought I was going to piss myself up there,” Potter laughed as he accepted a kiss from Granger.

Weasley forced out a laugh, and the cleared his throat. Unwilling and unable to let him take the first swing, I spoke first.

“Weasley how have you been?” I asked, offering my hand.

He stared at it like it was venomous (or possibly he has a Platinum allergy and was wary of my ring) before clasping it so briefly and so lightly that I truly could not label it as a handshake. As soon as he let go, he tucked an arm around Granger’s waist and pulled her into his chest.

“Things have been great,” he gloated with a poor attempt at my smirk. “And you?”

My eyes flickered to Granger unconsciously. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, presumably because she remembered that she had never formally announced their engagement to me.

“Happy to have finally finished training. I don’t know the last time I saw the sun,” I admitted.

He smirked again. Before I could ask him if he had suddenly been afflicted by a palsy in his face, resulting in that peculiar expression, Granger cut in.

“I don’t know if you have plans to celebrate, but Ginny is meeting us at the Leaky for a drink after work. You should join us.”

I hadn’t any plans, seeing as my friends outside of Granger et al had generational wealth and were held in slightly higher esteem than myself post-war, and couldn’t wrap their heads about why I was pursing employment.

I rolled my eyes and demonstrated a proper smirk to Weasley. “Exactly how I like to celebrate, as a fifth wheel.”

“Excellent, we’ll see you there. 5:30,” Potter said. “Now that that’s settled, I’ll take you to Marjorie to get your badge and desk sorted.” He gestured to Granger in Weasley’s hold. “Try to keep the public displays to a minimum in the workplace, yeah?”

She sniffed and reluctantly pulled herself free. “Of course, Harry. I’ll see you later, Ronald, Draco.” She nodded as she turned for the legal department.

Weasley stayed rooted to the spot, frowning faintly as Potter led me to the administrative office. As he nattered about public speaking, I found myself thinking for the first time since my trial, that maybe I had done enough to make up for the sins of my father.

As it happens, Marjorie is a decrepit old bat, presumably surviving solely on spite and the souls of children. Potter also swears that she is the best administrator in the entire Ministry, although his judgement is suspect as he chooses to leave his house every morning with an unruly mop on his head. She groaned when Potter introduced us, muttering under her breath that “loiterers never prosper.” I glanced sharply at Potter who simply shrugged and plopped himself into a worn armchair. It struck me as I watched him that I had never seen a human being fall into such a deep slouch; my mother had been ready with a stinging jinx anytime my posture faltered as a child.

“Your badge, number 8745. It will act as communication between yourself and any other auror that is on the clock. Your wand will be weighed fortnightly. A list of approved spells is included in the employee handbook. Your desk has been pre-warded to only allow access to yourself and your superior officers. Sign these,” she shoved a sheaf of parchment and a bedraggled quill towards me. “Auror Potter, get your shoes off of my coffee table.”

There was an audible gulp and the sound of two feet hitting the floor, followed by a rather significant amount of shuffling of said feet. The man could duel the Dark Lord but was unable to face an elderly receptionist.

I collected the badge from Marjorie’s outstretched talons and passed the parchment and quills back to her. I thanked her graciously, as had been engrained in me my by governesses as child. She hissed, something about “brown-nosing upstarts,” before turning away.

Potter leapt to his feet and escorted me to my desk. “Today is just reviewing policies and establishing protocols. Emergency contact, Gringotts information, preferred burial rites, et cetera,” he explained. “Your badge will only alert if you’re on shift or on call. You should be assigned your first case by the end of the week. Since you’re the junior, Robards will assign you a senior partner on a rotating basis until we find the best pairing. Any questions for me?”

I looked at the pile of paperwork in front of me. “I think I can handle it. Thanks, Potter. For everything,” I said. “Weasley looks like he’s trying to plot my murder, so you may want to get out while you can.”

He grimaced. “Don’t worry about Ron. He’s…,” he trailed off. “He’ll come around.”

I raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he rapped his knuckle on my desk and made his way across the bullpen to soothe the Weasel.

I pulled the first sheet of parchment towards me and began to fill it in.

Several hours, and what the ministry cafeteria alleged was a portion of cottage pie, later, I set down my quill for the final time. Potter and Granger had been chatting quietly outside of my cubicle as I finished, and Weasley was pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek as I stood. He gave me a once over as I pulled on my suit jacket.

“Shall we?” Granger asked, and I nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way.

I re-warded my desk, and trailed behind the three of them, allowing my gaze to settle on her arse as we walked to the lift. She let go of Weasley’s hand to summon the lift, and I raised my eyes just as she turned to shoot me an encouraging smile. The four of us, along with several fluttering memos, entered the nearly full lift.

“So, Malfoy, how was your first day?” Potter asked as we crossed the atrium to floo to the pub.

“I could certainly use a drink,” I replied as Weasley stepped into the flames.

When I stepped out of the grate in the Leaky Cauldron, I greeted Tom with a nod, and made my way to the corner booth Ginevra had claimed. I watched she as hugged Granger and Weasley in greeting, before attempting to consume Potter’s tongue. When they separated, she turned to me.

“Ferret,” she said, both eyebrows raised.

I drew upon my countless etiquette classes, and fell into a deep, formal bow. “Madame Potter,” I drawled.

The others laughed, Weasley slightly too late and much too loudly for the nearly empty pub. He cleared his throat and looked nervously down at Granger. She furrowed her brow as he sank into the booth next to her.

Seeing as I needed a palatable glass of firewhiskey to make it through an evening with the Ginger Buffoon, I offered to buy the first round. No need to parade my expensive taste in front of others. As I returned to the table, tray of drinks in hand, I heard Weasley proudly announcing that he knew nothing about wine, as if anyone would be surprised by that information.

Potter led a toast in my honour, and I felt myself flush. I couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, I had been acknowledged for something achieved by my own merit. Mother isn’t particularly known for her warmth, and my father was always on hand to remind me that my duty as a Malfoy was simply to be the best at everything, always.

Granger, as the person with both the most tact and least subtlety in the group, prompted a conversation about the upcoming quidditch season. A safe topic, in which everyone could participate, hopefully without curses being thrown. As the Weasleys devolved into a heated debate about whether a team of trolls on brooms could defeat the Chudley Cannons (of course they could, because presumably a troll with a beater’s bat could eventually make contact with a bludger, unlike either of the Cannons’ beaters), I once again found my gaze drifting to Granger. She was absentmindedly dragging a finger up and down the stem of her glass, smiling to herself as Ginevra began estimating the percentage of troll blood amongst the beaters in the league. Moments like these remind me why I have fallen hopelessly in love with her; her happiness brightens every corner of my dark existence, allowing me to bask in her presence without snuffing her light out, as those will black hearts are wont to do.

Potter stood, Ginevra pressed into his chest, bringing my attention back to the here and now. The trajectory of her hands on his person made me fervently hope that they were not exhibitionists. I shook Potter’s hand, keeping an eye on the one firmly planted in Ginevra’s back pocket, and buffed a kiss to both women’s cheeks. Once again faced with the inevitability of shaking Weasley’s hand, I offered mine, hoping for an improvement of the last time. He took it, with an expression on his face most frequently seen at the bedside of someone with a highly contagious disease.

“You’re not entirely bad, Malfoy,” he offered ungraciously. Granger sighed behind him in relief. Apparently, this was the best he could manage.

“Such a glowing review, ta ever so, Weasley,” I replied, loosening my tie. I watched him slide his arm around Granger’s waist once again and lead her to the apparition point, where they disappeared to their shared home, full of all the little intimate details of a couple in love.

I nodded again to the Potters as I pictured my own flat and spun on my heel. I reappeared with a crack in my living room to discover that I had company. Theo Nott was sprawled across my green velvet Chesterfield, feet propped on the armrest, a nearly empty glass of what looked like my nicest goblin gin in hand, and the decanter on the ground near his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Nott?” I asked, wholly unsurprised at his presence. I shrugged my jacket off and removed my tie whist undoing the top two buttons of my shirt. I summoned a glass for myself and took a seat in the armchair facing him.

He stretched his arm to pour me a glass of my own gin before topping his own up. “I’ve heard from reliable sources that when a friend begins a new vocation, it’s customary to celebrate with them after their first day.”

“Reliable sources? You’ve never met anyone who’s worked a day in their life.” I raised my glass to him and took a sip. It was a nice sentiment, although it was slightly dulled by the fact that I was supplying my own celebratory libations.

He took a sip of his own and sighed. “Pansy wanted me to check on you. Make sure that Lucius’ ghost didn’t murder you the second you set foot into the ministry.”

That sounded much more likely. Despite her outwardly unfriendly demeanour, Pansy was a mother hen, and had been since we were children.

“You can report home that I am still in one piece. Although, I did sense my ancestors rolling in their graves as I filled in my Gringotts details for my fortnightly wage to be paid,” I replied. “Where is your beautiful bride?”

He took another hearty swallow and reached for my decanter again. I lazily fired a stinging jinx at his hand. “Prat. I know these are spelled to never be empty.” I allowed him to fill his glass again, and he continued, “She’s in Paris with her mother. She sends her regards and wants me to pass on a message: quote I expect a full and detailed description of your first day next time I see you. Do not tell Theo anything as he can’t be trusted to relay any information accurately, end quote.”

“She knows you well. Shall we do dinner Friday evening? Perhaps at yours, so I can enjoy your hospitality for a change?”

He nodded gracelessly, before sinking even further into my sofa. I finished my drink quickly and stood.

“Make yourself at home in one of the spare rooms if you’d like. I’m off to bed as some of us have work in the morning.”

I made my way to my bedroom, dreaming of a shower wank, closely followed by my bed. It turns out that employment can be quite draining. I banished my clothing to the hamper, and windlessly started my shower. As I stepped into the warm water, I allowed memories of Granger’s arse in her muggle pencil skirt to fill my mind. I ran my hand down my chest, gripping my already hardening cock tightly. As much as I wanted to drag this out, I was incredibly aware that Theo rarely adhered to the social construct of knocking on a closed door prior to entering. I quickly fell into my preferred rhythm, thoughts of burying my face in a mass of peony-scented curly brown hair dragging me into my orgasm in an embarrassingly short time. I braced my arm against the wall as I came, splattering the tiles as I moaned, “Hermione,” into the steam-filled shower. I quickly finished my shower and dressed for bed.

I opened the door to find Theo leaning against the pillows on my bed wearing a pair of my pyjamas. I rolled my eyes at his brazenness and made my way to the other side of the bed. As we both tucked ourselves under my sheets, and I darkened the room, I could practically hear his thoughts. “Yes?” I asked, rolling to face the wall.

“After all this time? Still?” he asked quietly, without a hint of judgement.

I didn’t need to clarify what he meant. He’d been my best friend since we were in nappies, demanding sweets from the house elves that my mother had expressly prohibited. We had been roommates at Hogwarts for six years. He knew me better than anyone, better than myself, some days. I nodded, knowing he was watching me, and allowed myself to fall into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of a know-it-all swot, who kissed me like she meant it.

The next morning when my wand alarm woke me up, I left my best mate tucked into my bed and got dressed for work. I wanted to get there early to see if Potter had any available cases for me yet. I floo-ed to the ministry, stopping at the house-elf managed café in the atrium. I ordered a tea for myself and Potter, and a skim flat white for Granger, knowing that she would have beaten me to the office. She’d been a caffeine fiend even back in school, getting hooked on espresso while a trip to Australia.

As I stepped out of the lift into the auror bullpen, I couldn’t see any sign of Potter. As Deputy Head, his office wouldn’t allow anyone in without an explicit invitation, so I made my way to Granger’s office in legal. The door was ajar, and I could hear voices inside, so I knocked to announce my presence before entering. Potter was standing, arms folded, looking at her with frustration. Granger was seated at her desk and broke their prolonged eye contact to greet me.

If I hadn’t learned manners at the knee of Narcissa Malfoy, I would have asked her what the hell had happened. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she had been crying all night. My hackles instantly raised, the instinct to protect and defend nearly drowning out all other thoughts. Instead, I set her coffee down on her desk and nudged Potter with his. He uncrossed his arms and raised his eyes to mine in acknowledgment.

“Is everything alright in here?” I asked quietly, taking a sip of my tea.

“Hermione here won’t tell me what’s going on!” Potter answered angrily.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and stood up, finger pointed at his chest. “As I have told you already, Harry,” she spat, sparks crackling through her curls, “I am fine. It is none of your concern.”

“You are my concern-” he began. I couldn’t help but agree with that statement.

She cut him off with a wave of her arm. “I am not your concern. I appreciate it, but I am a big girl. Issues in my relationship are just that, mine.”

Ah, so Weasley was the root of all of this. I could see Potter come to the same conclusion as me.

“Fine, fine,” he conceded. “I’ll stay out of it.”

“You’d better,” she replied. “Draco, thank you for this,” she raised the cup as she took a seat back behind her desk.”

“My pleasure, Granger. Door open or closed behind us?” I asked, dismissing a reluctant Potter for her.

“Open is fine, thanks,” she said, head already buried in a file.

Potter walked with back to my desk. “Thanks for the tea, Malfoy. Sorry you had to see that. Ron can be such a git sometimes.”

I shrugged my suit jacket off and hung it on the back of my chair before taking a seat. “Is everything alright with them?” I asked in as disinterested of a tone as I could manage.

Potter hummed absently. “She says it is. I just sometimes wonder if they should even-” he paused, seemingly realising that he was pondering on the state of their relationship out loud. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you into this. She just took care of me for so many years in so many ways that I feel this unreasonable urge to reciprocate, even though I know she’d kick my arse for implying that she can’t take care of herself.”

I shrugged. “You love her. You want to take care of her because of that, not because she’s incapable.” I know the feeling intimately.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and flicked his wand, summoning a casefile. He handed it to me with a smile.

“It’s not fieldwork, not yet. There’s been a string of attacks on purebloods- those seen as blood traitors. We need to find out how they’re being targeted and find any patterns before we can send anyone out to look for the perpetrator. This is the most recent; there’s been a total of six reported,” he summoned more files and handed them to me. “It’s not all glamour here. There’s a lot of this required before we go in wands drawn. If you find anything, let me know and we’ll see about assigning you a partner to head out into the field. Welcome to the auror department.”

I grinned, before remembering myself, and set the files on my desk to get to work. Years of studying with Granger made me excellent at research; anything to cause her to misstep in her recitation of facts. She nearly lit my reference book on fire when I showed her that it was Grawaeg the Grey not Grayweg the Great that started the Goblin Rebellion of 1647.

I watched Potter stalk to the lift, presumably to wait for Weasley, before opening the most recent criminal report and starting to read. Fifteen minutes later, Potter and Weasley passed my desk having a whispered argument. I looked up and greeted them both, raising an eyebrow when I saw a wilted bouquet of yellow roses in Weasley’s hand. The Weasley’s may be a pureblood family, but they were lacking the traditional education I had received. Floriography was required as part of courting customs, to ensure that no potential dowries were lost due to an inappropriate blossom. A yellow rose was a symbol of friendship, something with no romance attached to it at all. Weasley was giving his fiancée a bouquet that proclaimed he didn’t want to be with her anymore. I briefly contemplated whether it was worth it to loan Granger a book from the Malfoy library about the language of flowers. As I watched Weasley close her office door, frustration palpable from where I sat, I decided my intervention may not be required to drive a wedge between them. He seemed to be doing a good job of it himself.

I refocused on the file in front of me, absently whistling to myself. It took me a moment to realise I had been whistling “Weasley is Our King.”