Chapter 3
~~ DRACO ~~ MALFOY~~
Of all the things Draco Malfoy knew with any varying degree of certainty, it was with unequivocal clarity that he wanted to kill Rita Skeeter! Which was a wonderfully indulging thought as magic crackled around him. He was almost consumed by the insatiable desire for destruction that pulsed through him like an uncontrolled surge of magic in need of an outlet. Luckily for him, his study provided such a thing.
He flicked his wand at an old portrait of some pureblooded bastard who was an insufferable ancestor he couldn’t remember the name of, and was currently berating him for acting a fool. With his snooty nose in the air and his bouts of superiority, and blood standing nonsense that Draco had come to hate. The sneering figure, with all its airs of pureblooded arrogance, only fueled Draco’s satisfaction as he tore it apart. Its destruction added to the debris littering his study. It would be the fourth such painting destroyed in such a manner, eventually his mother would begin to notice. Whether or not she cared was none of his concern at the moment.
His singular focus lingered on the annihilation of Rita Skeeter in the most excruciating way imaginable— a thought he conceded was slightly dramatic, thorough only just. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was in position to do it, at least not without ramifications which rendered the whole thing unattainable. She wasn’t like the now eviscerated portrait of whatever family member that was again, though perhaps obtaining a portrait of her ugly mug and treating it similar if not a little more hostile may be cathartic for him.
Merlin only knows how much he wanted her dead and had seriously been weighing the consequences of achieving such a desire. In proper swot like fashion, and in between his little bouts of breaking things in his study, he even made a pro-con list that would probably make even Hermione Granger herself understand the need to snuff out the life of the horrid, horrid, (honestly one could not say enough when describing Rita) horrid woman!
He may, or may not have ignited his lounge chair just thinking about it.
Draco knew the catastrophic power of a well-worded, albeit false, article in the Daily Prophet, often wielded by none other than Rita Skeeter. The impact of her venomous quill had ravaged lives, from belittling Albus Dumbledore to tarnishing Harry Potter. Articles of such slander and influence that even amongst the Gryffindor house, which had always been fiercely loyal to one another, had caused animosity to run high. Draco, of course, had contributed to such slander as a rebellious teenager, disregarding its impact until the narratives turned against him.
In the aftermath of the war, he had resigned himself to the onslaught of such narratives, sidestepping the limelight to avoid further scrutiny, not that it wasn’t wholly deserved at the time. Astoria's presence had brought respite, the articles momentarily ceased or were softened by images of their blissful togetherness. Even if they were mean spirited, woefully inaccurate, and spewing lies they were at least always accompanied by a picture of the two of them looking incandescently happy, which they were.
For a time, the articles stopped all together. There was always the one off article around the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, that would remind the world that the atrociously happy and desperately in love Draco Malfoy was once a big baddie. It also did his ego wonders to see his witch, his wife, his life, fuss over such articles. Fuming and raging with little releases of accidental magic as she talked about the injustice of it all. She had been a shield of sorts against the onslaught of negativity, her love for him reaffirming to the world that he was indeed worthy of affection.
And oh how he loved her.
How she loved him.
How he missed her now…
The memories of her love and the longing he felt within himself mingled with the ire he felt toward Skeeter. His perfectly aimed hex tore through the Black family tapestry, marking yet another casualty in his chamber of chaos. At this rate, he was single-handedly boosting the tapestry-weaving industry's profits with his current penchant for destruction. This would be the sixth one he would have to reorder this week, the five before having fallen prey to a similar vortex of rage— as had been the case every night since Astoria’s funeral.
It was undignified, improper, and made him feel like a petulant child. Yet it had become a routine of sorts for him. An outlet for the tumultuous storm that raged within him. And it was either the ruination of his chambers, within his own home and away from prying eyes, or it would be the very public destruction of Rita Skeeter. Between those two options, this was the better.
“Starting the destruction early I see.” Draco froze, his wand still emanating a residual blue glow and energy from the hex he had just cast. His breath caught in his chest as he turned to find Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini leaning against the doorframe, their expressions a mix of concern, understanding and perhaps pity?
He hated that they pitied him.
He also hated that he had not heard them enter, in part because there was no longer a door on the hinges that would have notified him of their arrival. Nor could he have heard their footsteps over the pounding in his ears.
Rage was funny that way. It coursed through him like a tempest fueled by the mere thought of Rita and the lengths of which she would go to for a story.
“Are you trying your hand at interior decorating? I’m sure Pansy could give you some pointers, you know.” Theo's eyes scanned the room, taking in the chaos Draco had created. “Though I don’t think she’ll care for the whole singed, broken as shit decor.”
Draco scoffed in a humorless laugh. Another crackle surrounded him as he brandished his wand, flicking it behind him without regard for the target. One of his fine mahogany bookshelves splintered from the impact. “I don’t know about that. I dare say I'm quite the decorator.”
Blaise pushed off the door frame and ventured farther into the room, his demeanor calm and composed despite the concern shimmering in his eyes and the silly way he tried to avoid even the smallest hint of debris. “If you’re aiming for a more…” he wiped a corner of Draco’s desk trying to rid it of the dust, recoiled slightly, but settled against the (now somewhat cleaned) spot nonetheless. “...unorthodox design choice, then I suppose you’ve, what’s the term Theo? Hit the nail on the hammer?”
“Hit the nail with the hammer.” Theo corrected.
“You’re both knobs, by the way, and it’s “hit the nail on the head.’” Draco interjected.
“Psh.” Theo waved a dismissive hand. “That doesn’t even make sense. Besides, Draco dear, when was the last time you ever held a hammer?”
“When was the last time you even saw a hammer?” Blaise added with a smirk.
“Or a nail for that matter.”
The last standing mahogany shelf trembled and shook, then settled. A small metal object whizzed towards Draco’s hand. Though it had been years since his quidditch days, his reflexes remained sharp as he caught the nail between his thumb and forefinger, its tip pricking his skin ever so slightly. To his amused delight, Theo’s reflexes were not… well, they were non-existent really, and the nail quite literally hit him on the head when Draco flicked it at him. Right between his eyes. “I believe that is a nail, though perhaps you can correct me and tell me it’s a tack or something?”
“Oh, we’ve got a comedian in our midst. Blaise, did you have any idea Draco was such a riot?” Theo scoffed, rubbing the spot the nail had hit.
“Absolutely hysterical. We could sell out an entire amphitheater with his adoring fans.”
“More like my adversaries.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and piercing. "Is this about the latest article? Rita Skeeter's repugnant nonsense again?"
Draco's jaw tightened, his frustration palpable. "Among other things," he conceded, avoiding their eyes and turning back to the destruction of his study.
"Where's Scorpius?" Blaise asked, he knew Draco's reluctance for his son to witness him in such a state. Considering it was only half-past six, it was a valid concern and question to ask.
“With his aunt.” Draco flicked his wand through the air again, not caring what his spell hit, but knowing those three words would relax the pair behind him. Frankly, they needn’t have asked. He never would allow himself to lose control like this were his son present. He still had control of that part of his life at least.
“Great!” Theo clapped. “Shall we assist with the remodeling, or should we delve into why your study is a war zone again?”
Draco’s response was reigniting the lounge chair that had been snuffed out at some point, probably due to the gusts created by his slicing hexes.
“Come now, Draco, we brought our finest whiskey—”
“You brought shit.” Blaise interrupted, but Theo persisted.
“— and you're kicking up an awful lot of dust, and these are my new dragon hide loafers. Dreadfully hard to clean.”
“Damn it, Nott!” Draco snapped, obliterating the last bookshelf, not bothering to watch the books tumble to the ground. “I don’t care about you fucking loafers! Or the crap whiskey you brought! I don’t give a flying fuck that Blaise is internally cringing having to stand in this messy and chaotic room. And I don’t want to bloody talk about it!” the window splintered into spider web-like cracks. “So in the best possible way, FUCK OFF NOTT!” Draco grounded out, feeling a wave of uncontrollable magic wash over him, shattering the splintered window.
“Was it the Proffit again? I read the article this morning, it wasn’t anything groundbreaking, or new.” Blaise inquired much more gently. "You've been through enough without her adding fuel to the fire. But acting out like this won't change anything, Draco."
Draco nodded, his expression weary. "I know. I just... I can't stand the thought of her tarnishing Astoria's memory."
Theo and Blaise exchanged a knowing glance before Blaise spoke up again. "She can't tarnish that Draco. She cannot alter what we all know. Those who knew Astoria know the truth. Rita's words have no effect on that."
Draco rubbed his forehead wearily, feeling the weight of grief and frustration bearing down on him. "I miss her, Blaise. Every day it feels like I'm falling apart a little more."
Theo placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, offering silent support. "We all miss her, mate. But wrecking your ancestral home won't bring her back."
A somber silence settled over the room as Draco surveyed the torn tapestry, the remnants of his past strewn about. He knew they were right, yet the ache in his heart persisted.
Blaise offered a comforting touch on Draco's other arm. "Come on, let's clean this up. We'll order another tapestry and then have a drink. You need to talk, Draco."
As it turned out, Blaise was right. He typically was, not that Draco would ever admit it to him. Blaise and Theo were insufferable enough as it was and he’d rather court a Blast-Ended Skrewt than tell either of them that they were right. So when the pair of them chose to ignore his advice and restored his ancestral portrait, which irked him greatly, he believed it served them right and corrected the balance of the world once again.
Especially when the ghastly wizard immediately launched into a tirade, startling Theo so profoundly that he instinctively sliced the ugly thing into ribbons once more, then released a dramatic sigh that even put Draco's theatricals to shame as the second evisceration of the portrait resulted in paint like ink splattering all over Theo’s pristine new loafers. While Theo didn't find it nearly as amusing as Blaise and Draco did, it felt liberating to share a genuine laugh, even if it was at Theo's expense. Particularly when Theo had the audacity to bring abysmal whiskey, an opinion Draco didn't hesitate to voice by promptly spitting it out after a tentative sip.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Mate, that’s rather uncouth of you, spitting like that.”
“Says the dimwit who brought whiskey fermented with troll yeast!”
“I happen to know, without a shadow of doubt, that it was not fermented with troll yeast.” Theo scoffed. “It’s Muggle Whiskey.”
“Probably bottom shelf whiskey.” Draco grumbled as he forced himself to have another drink, which once again he spit out.
“Draco, dear, stop spitting. You’re not a child… and your privilege is showing,” Theo said, playfully wiggling his fingers at him. “Not all of us can afford whiskey made from the piss of a unicorn.”
“Oh do bugger off, you’re just as privileged as the two of us. And I would never drink anything from a unicorn.”
“Technically speaking, you two are more affluent than myself. My funds are still largely tied to my mother, making me less privileged, not that it's a competition," Blaise interjected incorrectly. Everything was always a competition between them. Had been since they were in nappies.
Of course Blaise, ever the sensible one, and deserved more credit for his intellect, was drinking wine instead of Theo’s questionable taste of whiskey. Probably wine from his vineyard, or as he so elegantly just claimed, his mother’s vineyard.
"Yes, yes," Theo dismissed Blaise's remark with a wave. "Poor you and your husband-killing mother—"
"She has never—"
“— but the spoon up your ass is silver, just like the rest of us.”
Both Blaise and Draco scoffed before simultaneously retorting, "Draco's spoon is gold," and "I do not have a spoon up my ass." The whole thing was rather jovial, but it coerced a laugh from Blaise which turned out to be quite contagious as it drew both Theo and Draco into a fit of hysterics alongside him.
Still reeling from the laughter, Draco was caught off guard when Theo nonchalantly dropped a bombshell. "Oh, by the way, bumped into Hermione Granger the other night. Quite unexpectedly, might I add, and my, how she's matured."
“That tends to happen with age, Theo. You’re no spring mooncalf either.”
“He’s not even a summer fwooper, though he struts along like one.” Blaise quipped, earning a pillow tossed at him. It was a lousy throw, as Theo was truly dreadful at Quidditch, but it was tossed all the same.
“I’ll have you know, that I have aged like fine fucking wine—”
"More like this wretched whiskey."
"—and apparently, I'm a tall glass of water because the world's most famous swotty-know-it-all golden girl, who looks absolutely delectable by the way, propositioned me! Me!" Theo boasted, puffing out his chest. Draco sputtered, nearly choking on his drink, a mixture of shock and perhaps disgust (it truly was terrible whiskey).
“No need to turn into a bloody spigot, mate!” Theo looked greatly offended, whether or not it was because of Draco’s reaction, or the fact he spit out the whiskey again, Draco wasn’t sure.
“Are you having a laugh right? What is this rubbish?”
“I assure you, my account of the event is legit. Thank you very much!.” Theo brushed at the non existent wrinkles on his jacket before lifting his chin ever so slightly in defiance. “Now what do you have to say to that, you great ponce.”
“That you have troll brains. I’m sure she didn’t proposition you.” Of course, he hadn’t actually seen her since… since… since Hogwarts. At least not in person. He’d glimpsed articles about her from time to time, but she seemed adept at evading media attention, a skill he envied. Thoughts of her were sparse, surfacing only when her name happened to arise, as it just had.
She’d written him a letter once, about seven years back, thanking him for the portraits of her parents. It had been something he had done, upon being released from Azkaban and being put on probation. It hadn’t been mandatory, but he’d felt compelled to do it all the same, and had enlisted Potter’s help.
Potter had been his supervised Auror at the time, and oversaw the entirety of his probation. With his connections and personal knowledge of those who lost their lives during the Battle of Hogwarts, Potter had been detrimental to pulling the whole thing off and had been rather enthusiastic about the idea. He had known most of them personally, and had no issue obtaining reference pictures from family members, he also had more access to names not officially listed as casualties of the war— names like Ted Tonks, Alastor Moody, Griphook, Dobby, and the Grangers.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who weren't deceased but would never be the same again. Their daughter's sacrifices had left a lasting impact on him. It had been an impromptu decision, to include her parents amongst the other portraits, one he never regretted for a moment.
He hadn’t expected anything from her, or any of the family members who received the same gift. In fact, he had tried to keep his name out of the whole presentation process, but leave it to bloody Harry Potter to tell her who was responsible for it. The resulting letter from Granger had been brief yet heartfelt, closing the chapter on their interaction. He hadn't seen, heard, or truly thought of her since.
The image in his head of her was from eighth year— which had been a requirement for him, an elective for her. It hadn’t surprised him the slightest seeing her return when so many had not. She'd looked thin from her time spent on the run, and was quiet. Everyone was quiet though. They all had their own demons they were fighting and no one cared to unearth the struggles of others.
He wondered what she might look like now— did her ridiculous and unruly hair still require its own ecosystem. Had she outgrown her awkward phase and put aside her baggy attire? Were her fingers still ink stained, and did she maintain her odd fixation on sugar quills? Did she still jump in her seat when asked a question she knew the answer to? Had she turned her home into a hovel resembling a library more than a dwelling?
The image in his head, the idea he had formed since hearing her name again, did not agree with the picture Theo was trying to paint of her.
Apparently it didn’t agree with Blaise either as he arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised by Theo's revelation. "She did not."
Theo nodded, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “She did too, and you know it! Tell Draco, tell him the truth!”
“She asked if you worked with Potter.” Blaise clarified, finishing what remained of his wine.
Draco blanched. “And you interpreted that as her propositioning you for sex? Theo, are you truly that desperate?”
“Hardly!” Theo scoffed. “And you wound me Draco. She most certainly did proposition me, and Blaise would agree if he wasn’t so miffed she skipped over him and went straight to Thomas instead. The lucky bastard.”
Draco could hardly believe the absurdity of it all, which was why the only thing he could say to the idiocracy was “Thomas?”
“Yeah, you know, Dean Thomas. Gryffindor, our year. Tall chap, charming smile, works with me, looks a bit like a thrifted Blaise but a bit more approachable.”
“He does not.” His protest fell on deaf ears.
“Alright, assuming what you’re saying is true, how on earth does asking if you work with Potter turn into a sexual proposition?” Draco inquired and Theo relished in recounting the tale, which Draco found somewhat far-fetched. Though Blaise had not interjected again, Draco hardly believed a word Theo was saying. Yet, it served as a welcome distraction until the conversation turned stale, plunging the three into an uncomfortable silence.
It was an unusual silence for them, a rarity since their sixth year when the war loomed on the horizon. Awkward silences were frequent then, but not since. Reflecting on it, Draco realized it was because Blaise and Theo were his true friends—unlike Crabbe and Goyle, who were merely his henchmen. Blaise and Theo were perceptive; they glimpsed the depths of Draco he shielded from most. It also meant they detected he was withholding something.
He hadn’t intentionally concealed it, yet he hadn’t been forthcoming either, reminiscent of his behavior in sixth year. The fact that they both sensed something amiss but refrained from prying amplified Draco's guilt. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to confide in them, and they would know soon enough anyways. He knew he had to tell them, better they heard it from him now than read it in tomorrow's headline.
Draco exhaled heavily, fixated on the swirling amber liquid in his cup. “I was out with Scorpius today,” he began, pausing without raising his gaze. He contemplated summoning his elf Topsy for a better replacement for Theo's horrid whiskey. Surely there was something more suitable in the cellar. “We took a stroll, he fancied some hot cocoa and we were fresh out in the kitchen— Astoria, well, Astoria was the one who oversaw that sort of thing.”
Running a hand down his face, Draco still avoided meeting their eyes. “I wanted to avoid the press. You're aware of how abominable they've been lately.” He swirled the whiskey again, grimacing as he downed it. Placing the crystal glass on the table, Draco lifted his gaze to continue. “So, we ventured into Muggle London. Those things, what are they called again? Cars? Dreadfully noisy by the way.” He rambled, trying to gather his words and his wits.
It had seemed like a brilliant plan—entering Muggle London. Who would follow him there? Who would even think to look? Rita Skeeter, that’s who.
His voice trembled as he continued, “But she found us nonetheless. Rita.” The mention of her name clenched his jaw.
“I tried to steer clear of her, you know? Thought if I kept moving, kept my head down, she wouldn’t notice us. Which of course didn’t work, and it wouldn’t have been such a big deal if she’d just come after me like she always does.”
Theo leaned in, a blend of concern and curiosity marking his expression. “What happened?”
Draco's voice softened, the weight of his confession hanging heavily in the room. “She directed a question at Scorpius.” An unspoken tension filled the air, enveloping them in a weighted silence.
Theo leaned forward, his features a mix of concern and intrigue. “What did she ask?”
Draco's voice lowered, the admission heavy on his tongue. “She asked Scorpius about his mother.” The room grew dense with an unspoken tension, a weighted hush embracing them.
“What precisely did she ask?” Blaise's inquiry revealed his apprehension.
Draco's reluctance to respond was palpable. “At first, it seemed innocent. Scorpius loves talking about his mother,” he murmured softly, laden with both pain and regret, his eyes fixed on the tabletop and his emptied whiskey glass. Almost instinctively, Theo reached across to refill it with the dreadful drink he had brought. Draco's hands trembled as he reached for it, his composure fraying at the edges.
Feeling exposed and vulnerable, his voice barely audible, he continued, “Then she asked him how it felt knowing his father never loved his mother.” Every fiber of his being had fought the impulse to lash out and exact vengeance on her, right there in the midst of Muggle London. Had his son not been present, he might have acted on it, consequences be damned.
Blaise's fingers tightened around his glass, his knuckles whitened, a surge of anger unraveling within him like a tempest. Without intending to, the glass shattered in his grip, the sound reverberating through the room. His usually composed demeanor shattered along with it.
Startled, Draco glanced up, alarmed by the uncharacteristic display. Had it been Theo, known for his carelessness resulting in the frequent breakage of the Malfoy family’s fine china, it would hardly have caused a stir. But this was Blaise—calm, collected, typically level-headed Blaise.
Blaise, whose blood mingled with what remained of his wine, staining the white rug beneath him.
“Blaise, mate, are you alright?” Theo leaned in, poised to assist his friend amidst the mess. It was completely out of character for Blaise, who abhorred disorder. He was a bit of a clean freak, though he referred to it as “keeping things orderly” and was never one for self harm. Intentional or not. It was the Slytherin in him, self preservation and all that...
Emotion gripped Blaise's chest, his voice strained. “That loathsome, despicable woman! How could she—” He struggled to articulate his outrage, his anger evident as he clenched his fist, wincing from the pain and then gazing down at the chaos he had caused. “— Fuck!”
“Blaise, calm down,” Theo urged, his voice gentle yet firm as he drew out his wand to heal him.
Struggling to regain his composure, Blaise nodded curtly. He swallowed hard, the lingering embers of anger still evident in his eyes. “I apologize. It’s just... utterly infuriating, despicable, what she’s doing. To ask that, and Scorpius... Merlin, what a... horrid woman.”
Theo's gaze shifted between Blaise's tensed frame and Draco's subdued demeanor. “What did Scorpius say?”
“He... he was confused, didn’t quite grasp it all. I shielded him as much as I could, but...” His voice trailed off, unwilling to articulate the full extent of Rita's heartlessness.
Frustration etched on Blaise's face. “Scorpius doesn’t deserve to be tangled in this mess. None of this should involve a child.”
The charged atmosphere lingered, like a storm gathering off in the distance. Even after Blaise's hand was healed, the blood and wine cleared, and their liquor replaced with better versions from the Malfoy Cellar, the turmoil persisted.
“What’s your plan, Draco?”
Draco's shoulders slumped as he released a heavy sigh. “I... I don't know. I can’t shield Scorpius from everything, but this...” His voice faded, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily upon him.
Straightening in his chair, Blaise spoke with conviction. “We’ll handle this. She’s overstepped a boundary, Draco. We can't allow her to go unpunished for this. She won’t get away with this.”
“Short of snatching and discreetly disposing of her, I’m not really sure what we can do. I can’t ask her to retract whatever monstrosity she’s writing, and my name holds no power to request it not be published. And unfortunately if something were to happen to her, Merlin forbid” he said flatly, “I’m sure I would be the first suspect.”
“Well,” Theo said slowly, mulling over the situation at hand. “Then we can at least be here for you when the Post does come.”
Grateful for his friends' unwavering support, Draco managed a faint nod. “Thank you, both of you. I just... needed to talk about it.”
Theo reassuringly smiled. “Always, Draco. We’re here for you, even if that means we have to plan a murder.”
Once again, Draco found himself sputtering and spitting out his whiskey, this time it had nothing to do with the quality of it.
“Honestly mate, I think we need to get you refitted. Your faucet seems to have sprung a rare and uncontrollable leak.”
A pillow met Theo’s face as a hint of a smile tugged at Draco’s lips.
The sun's unrelenting rays pierced through half-drawn curtains, aggravating Draco's pounding headache. He probably shouldn’t have indulged so much the night before, nor should he have slept in the nude, yet there he was—bare as the day he was born, draped in nothing but a silk sheet. It wasn’t his typical behavior, but with his son at Daphne’s and his mother away in France, he had allowed himself this small indulgence.
He had anticipated a peaceful morning to nurse the hangover that now plagued him, but fate had other plans in store.
Draped in the silk sheet he stumbled towards the kitchen, the distant promise of breakfast the only motivation behind leaving his bed despite his head throbbing in protest. Topsy's breakfasts were legendary, fit for a tale or, at the very least, a cookbook.
Amused by the thought of compiling elvish recipes into books, Draco smiled to himself. What a spectacle it would be, and how his father would scoff. If only his head didn’t ache so miserably, he might have chuckled at the notion. His musings, however, were disturbed when he was startled by the sudden roar of the Floo Network.
In a whirl of emerald flames, Theo and Blaise emerged from the fireplace in the lounge, their presence as unwelcome as the pounding in Draco's head. He winced, wondering why they were back so soon, and at this ungodly hour. Hadn’t they just left? And why in Merlin's beard were they more put together than he?
Theo, ever the assertive arsehole, gave Draco a once-over with a devilish smirk. “Bit nippy for your current attire. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Why yes, yes it was. But in his hungover state, Draco couldn't muster the civility to admit it. “If you’re not pleased with the sight, you’re free to leave. No one’s stopping you,” Draco grumbled before stifling a yawn.
“Yes, well, we've got business to attend to,” Theo announced, clapping his hands, causing Draco to flinch, before summoning Topsy. Before Draco could protest, there was a loud pop that made him wince again, followed by his house elf’s sharp rebuke and squeak of his house elf scolding both Theo and Blaise for arriving unannounced while their master was in such a state of undress.
Under normal circumstances, Draco might have found humor in his elf's fuss, but normalcy didn’t involve him traipsing through his own home in a sheet, nursing a pounding headache and a grumbling stomach. Nor did it involve his elf, clad in a child-sized knitted sweater and mismatched socks that left much to be desired in the fashion department, reprimanding his friends. Freed or not, the elf's sense of style was evidently lacking.
But Topsy was happy, so who was Draco to complain or comment on it?
Of course, he would be more content if everyone would cease their banter long enough for him to ask Topsy for breakfast and discern why his bothersome friends had returned so swiftly after leaving. up so he could ask his elf to make him breakfast and figure out why his blasted friends were back to bother him so soon after their departure. “Wait a moment,” Draco grumbled, rubbing his left temple and squinting at the trio before him. “What’s the reason for your visit?”
Theo, who was bent over and practically nose-to-nose with Topsy, turned to Draco. “Mate, I already told you, we've got pressing matters to handle.”
“I fully understand what you are saying, but I’m lacking the comprehension of it. the volume is a tad much,” Draco retorted, his head still throbbing.
“Ah, is Mr. Golden Spoon nursing a hangover? Forgot to stock up on your sober-up potions dear?” Theo teased.
“Shove off, you giant chimera, and there's no golden spoon up my arse,” Draco snapped back.
Then came the sudden and, to Draco's sensitive ears, rather loud THWACK as Blaise smacked Theo over the head. “Stop being a putz,” he scolded, brandishing a vial of shimmering blue liquid Draco recognized instantly as a sober-up potion.
“Thank Salazar.” Draco winced as he popped the top off, the noise being too much in his current state, and downed the potion. How he adored being a wizard. He once heard Muggles resort to drinking tomato juice with raw eggs and celery in order to cure a hangover. Rotten luck, being born a Muggle, especially when magic was so convenient.
It wasn’t as though he still harbored any ill will for Muggles or Muggle-borns (his teenage self might have, but he had long outgrown that), but he also would never try raw eggs, with or without tomato juice. Also, who on earth would juice a tomato?
“Could I inquire as to what brings you two lovely people here, unexpected and at this ungodly hour? I haven't even had breakfast yet. I was just about to ask Topsy to whip something—”
“It’s half-past two, you knob.” Theo interjected at the same time Blaise offered, “I don't mind fixing lunch,” and Topsy squeaked, “Right away, Master.”
Given the overlapping responses, and his slightly improved but still lingering hangover, Draco missed Blaise’s exact lunch plans but knew it involved Italian cuisine and something about noodles.
“That sounds lovely Blaise.” Topsy, who was within earshot of Theo’s heartless comment, started wailing.
“Noodles for breakfast? Are you mad?” Draco cringed, his nose wrinkling in disgust, while Topsy pleaded to be allowed to prepare the meal.
“Master could never—”
“It would be noodles for lunch, mate,” Theo clarified.
“Noodles for Master! Noodles!?” Poor Topsy was verging on hysteria.
“No. It’s my breakfast. I won’t be having noodles, thanks, especially when Topsy is here and—”
“And occupied,” Theo interjected. “Topsy has a very important task. You need to dress, I have to fetch your mail, and Blaise will handle cooking.”
“Firstly, that’s too much to unpack right now, and secondly, what's more important than my breakfast?”
“Nothing, Master, nothing is—”
“I can easily list a dozen things that are more important than your breakfast, you spoiled brat.”
“Enough.” Blaise didn’t yell, because that wasn’t something he did, but his voice carried a certain type of authority that silenced Draco, Theo, and Topsy. “You,” he pointed at Draco, “are going to get dressed, then march a much happier version of yourself into the kitchen to eat lunch.”
He pivoted to Theo. “You’ll cease antagonizing him and gather the mail as planned.” Finally, he addressed Topsy, who squeaked under his gaze. “And you, please go about the Manor, and any other Malfoy property, and gather any and all Daily Profit’s from today and bring them here, please.” Draco almost pointed out that Topsy was the only one Blaise had been polite to but refrained, mostly because Blaise was glaring between him and Theo
“Now, both of you will comply without a single gripe, or I’ll set your bits ablaze. Is that clear?” Blaise was adorable when he was threatening someone. It was like a towering tree ordering its leaves not to fall. It could plead, demand, and rage, yet the leaves would still fall.
Yet, as Draco looked at the small party standing around in his lounge, he concluded that one might be a perfect number, two was a party, three was a crowd, toss in a house elf and the whole thing was rather annoying… and Draco was still, very much so, naked. His no longer foggy brain told him it was the popper thing to do. Not because Blaise commanded it, but because decorum required it. So he left the gathering to their own devices and headed back to his room.
The fact he was in a better mood as he walked towards the kitchen was absolutely not because Blaise had commanded it. Nor was it because the food's enticing aroma drifted throughout the manor.
Noodles did not breakfast make. They just didn’t.
Breakfast wasn't synonymous with noodles, despite Blaise's persistence. Draco sighed, resigned to confront the looming plate of noodles and was loathed to admit that the fucking noodles were sounding better and better by the second. Or, more accurately, they were smelling better and better the closer he got to the kitchen, becoming completely overwhelmed with hunger when he did finally enter the kitchen.
"Just about done," Blaise declared.
Grumbling a muted thanks, Draco slumped into a chair, observing Blaise's skillful maneuvering around the kitchen as he deftly continued rummaging through cabinets, conjuring ingredients and plates, seemingly out of thin air, and whistling some tune Draco had never heard before.
Meanwhile, Theo sat across from him, feet propped up on the table—a sight that irked Draco immensely (bloody wanker)—as he efficiently sorted through the mail. With practiced precision, Theo quickly disposed of any potential threats or hate mail, a sense of urgency in his movements.
Today’s stack was a larger than normal, which meant the article was particularly harsh, which explained why Theo and Blaise were there. Theo currently balanced the obnoxious pile of letters on his lap, making a show of scrutinizing each envelope. His sharp eyes narrowed at the sight of a red envelope, swiftly reducing it to ashes with a flick of his wand before carrying on.
No time for howlers today it would seem.
Theo's expertise at handling howlers stemmed from a life post-war and post-Astoria, an unfortunate skill set that Blaise shared as well. Draco observed as Theo meticulously sorted through the remaining mail, separating hate mail and any potential threats, safeguarding Draco from the onslaught of negativity that awaited him— apparently the stack so far was completely negative. Theo would give an occasional snort out an undignified laugh and mumble a clever line or two before charming the letter into the bin and starting his detection charms on the next.
“Alright, what’s the damage?” Draco finally inquired as Blaise served up a bowl of Pork Ragù Over Creamy Polenta and a plate of Bolognese in front of him. Fucking hell it smelled delicious.
Theo, consumed by his task, remained engrossed in the letters, another howler meeting its fiery demise— by Draco’s count thus far, that was the twentieth such letter to end up as nothing but ash. "Nothing we can't manage," he replied while attending to yet another vetted letter.
"That doesn't quite answer my question, Theo."
"Life's full of disappointments, Draco." Theo waved the letter he was currently holding around, meeting Draco's gaze. "This one claims you're worse than Salazar's crusty nutsack, by the way." he chuckled. "I wonder how they know it was crusty." With a shrug, he gracefully charmed it to fly straight into the bin.
“So it’s that bad, is it?” Recognizing he would get nowhere with Theo, him being a man child and all, so Draco redirected his question to Blaise
“It isn’t good.” Blaise admitted, savoring a bite of Bolognese. "We went to Daph's first, to ensure both her and Scorp were shielded from the Post, thankfully she stopped receiving the Daily Profit shortly after the article on Astoria’s funeral. She's also agreed to keep Scorpius indoors today to avoid him seeing it."
Draco leaned back, running a hand over his face, muttering an exasperated “Fuck.”
“We’re handling it.”
“Short of killing the wicked woman, I don’t see how.” They didn’t say anything to that. There wasn’t anything to say, really, and because of that Draco decided to focus on something else instead. “Anything good in the mail today?”
“Ah, yes, your fan mail.” Theo's voice dripped with sarcasm. “ You’ll be delighted to know that Mr. I did nothing to stop the mad man who tried to take over the war and corrupted the Ministry, thinks you should rot in hell. And Mrs Grouchy Butt has sent her deepest regards but kindly requests you disappear,” Theo deadpanned lighting another Howler on fire just as it had started to screech out its message.
He had no idea who either of those two people Theo was referring to were, but it didn’t matter— they were not the first idle threats he had received and he was sure they would not be his last. Sorting through the mail was a task he detested more than hangovers, so it was nice not to have to go through them himself.
"Congratulations, Draco, you've got yourself fans," Blaise teased, flashing a sly grin.
“Oh yes, quite clever ones too. And red is for love right? I think some of these might be them screaming their love for you.” Theo laughed as he flicked a red envelope into the air, and in a smooth move, Blaise pointed his wand and set it ablaze before it hit the ground or started howling.
As the pile dwindled, Theo's demeanor shifted. His casual posture straightened, a sudden seriousness replacing his playful demeanor. He sat up, eyes darting between Draco and Blaise. An edge of tension and apprehension crept across his face as he sliced open a letter.
Draco found it peculiar. He was certain he hadn't performed detection charms on that letter. Before he could dwell on it, Theo cleared his throat. "Draco, mate, looks like you've received a letter from Granger."
For a brief moment, silence draped over the three of them. Draco couldn’t fathom why Hermione Granger would be reaching out, but he was certain it wasn’t for anything good. They had no reason to interact or communicate. They orbited in different spheres; as far as he knew, she had no connection to Astoria, so offering condolences seemed unlikely. Moreover, their last communication had been years ago, involving the portrait of her parents he had given her. Most likely she was believing what had been written about him and was joining the mass amount of hate directed at him. And why wouldn’t she? He had never given her a reason to think better of him, Merlin, he hadn’t even properly apologized for the shit he had put her through at Hogwarts.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. He had probably attempted over a hundred letters over the years, but his words always seemed to fall flat. He never sent any of the letters, obviously, and receiving one from her now seemed rather ominous.
“What’s it say?” Blaise inquired simultaneously with Draco asking, “What does she want?” There had to be some motive behind this unexpected contact. He wasn’t sure what it might be, but there had to be something.
“It’s quite nonsensical, really,” Theo grumbled, scanning the parchment. “I was hoping she might be making a pass at you. You could use a good distraction, and she seemed quite keen the other night.” Draco rolled his eyes, still not believing Theo’s story of what took place.
“What’s in the letter?” Blaise pressed once more.
“Seems like some drivel about Hermione wanting Draco to go bug hunting.”
Their collective response to this revelation was a resounding, “What?”
Not one for further delay, Draco summoned the letter from Theo with a wandless spell. There was an unusual scent about it. It wasn’t overpowering enough to suggest a scented parchment, nor was it unpleasant. Draco idly wondered if this was what Hermione Granger smelled like, if her perfume had somehow permeated the paper. But then he remembered Theo and Blaise, particularly Blaise, were waiting for him to share. Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Draco began to read the letter aloud.
"Malfoy,"
He paused, a faint twitch of his lips hinting at a potential smirk. The absence of any cordial greeting surprised him. Even some of his hate mail started with the conventional "Dear Malfoy." While the contents often turned threatening, at least they began respectfully. Yet, Granger’s directness felt oddly refreshing.
“I’m not sure if you are aware, but there has been a spotting of a Cicindela Campestris in Bristol. Cicindela Campestris, or more commonly called the green tiger beetles, are exceptionally rare! I found one once, at the end of our fourth year and kept it in an unbreakable jar. I had a mind to keep the little thing forever, but eventually took pity on it and released it."
He had no idea what she was on about, or why she felt the need to write him this. Yet, he persisted in his reading. "This has been one of my deepest regrets as I have never seen another one. My father was quite the bug collector, you see. He had a whole wall in his study dedicated to rare and unusual insects in the world. Some Muggles do that.”
Did they? Whatever for? And how unusual. Draco couldn’t imagine walls adorned with insects. And how did they get them to stay on the wall? Did muggles have their one version of a sticking charm?
“Though it may sound unusual to you, I suppose it’s not all that different from witches and wizards storing them in jars for potion ingredients.”
He completely disagreed with her comparison. There was no way collecting beetles and bugs for a personal collection, as if they were art, was the same thing as storing the creepy crawling things for potion making.
“Of course, I do not want this for a potion. I merely wish to add the beetle to my father’s old collection. He says hello, by the way, and does greatly wish you can help me with this.”
Draco highly doubted her father's portrait remembered him enough to offer greetings. Especially since Hermione hadn’t bothered with a “Dear Draco Malfoy” at the start of her preposterous letter.
“I’m sure you’re wondering by now, why I am asking you for help with this particular matter. So let me be frank. I know you stumbled across this rare bug in our fourth year as well. In fact, I’m almost positive it was the same beetle I had gone on to capture and store in a jar for a few months, seeing how rare they are. Since you know what they look like and might be the only wizard who knows their appearance, I was hoping you would be able to spare some time and help me track it down."
Suppressing a laugh became a challenging task at that point as he realized her intent in the letter. She was not talking about a beetle at all, which was good because he had begun to wonder about her sanity. He had no idea she had it in her. Of course, there was the possibility she was lying, yet he knew the animagus form Rita Skeeter took. Though he did not know the name of the specific beetle form she had, it did not at all surprise him that Hermione Granger did or that she had found out about Skeeter's secrete. Knowing her, and admittedly he didn’t know much about her, she probably researched Skeeter’s animagus form, to what extent he did not know, but if felt like something she would do.
"Tiger beetles are voracious predators of small arthropods and render a very painful bite. Although incredibly rare, a tiger beetle infestation gets out of hand quickly and therefore it should be eradicated as soon as possible. However, they are exceedingly fast things to catch, I was exceptionally lucky to have caught it the first time, so I am in need of someone who has seeker-like reflexes and sharp eyes. I believe you have both, unless you have let yourself go of course.”
This time, Draco couldn't suppress his smile, not that he really tried. The nerve of her, to compliment him and then retract it. Of course he hadn’t let himself go. Thank you very much! And anyone reading the Daily Prophet could see he was still in excellent shape, unless they were completely ignoring the pictures that accompanied the articles.
“I will not hold it against you, however, if your schedule is too busy to help me go beetle hunting. But know the opportunity is there, shall you wish to accept my offer. Cordially, Hermione Jean Granger.”
Draco finished the letter with a soft frown, “I didn’t know her middle name was Jean.”
Theo let out a laugh. “That’s your main takeaway? Her middle name? You’re as mad as she is.”
Draco shushed him and immediately read the letter again to himself this time, making sure he grasped its purpose. He felt a tad bit like a lunatic, and perhaps he could blame it on the alcohol from last night despite his hangover officially being gone now, but he found himself chuckling as he read the letter a third time. He had so many questions... yet all that he could manage was laughter.
Blaise and Theo exchanged concerned glances, when Draco finally said, “Rita Skeeter is an animagus, did I ever tell you?” Their puzzled expressions confirmed he hadn't. “She’s unregistered, so it’s no surprise you don’t know, most people don’t.”
“Okay… but what does that—” Theo started, but Draco waved him off.
“She takes the form of a beetle.”
“Let me guess, a green tiger beetle?” Blaise smirked.
Draco nodded, opting to read the letter for a fourth time, a smile lingering on his face.
“Blimey, so Granger is offering you a way to… manage… that dreadful woman?” Theo’s eyes widened in realization.
“It would appear so.” The subtle offer, tactfully veiled in her letter, was unexpected. He hadn’t known she was aware of Rita’s animagus form, let alone that she had kept her in a jar. It went without saying, but he was forced to acknowledge it now, that there was clearly more depth to Granger than he'd realized. It also made perfect sense that Granger managed to avoid any negative spot light.
“She’d have made a fine Slytherin.” The thought resonated in his mind, and no one aimed to argue the point.