Playing with fire
It was well over a few months ago. You missed your internship days during orientations when you still weren't stuck with your new higher-up, Draco Malfoy.
Not actually stuck. The Minister's 'Muggle-Wizard Occupational Solidarity Program' arranged that. It would've sounded nice if the implication and nature of your new boss' [professional] relationship wasn't awkward.
He is the current Head of the International Magical Office of Law - ironic. Meanwhile, some people you met over the months made a point of mentioning it to you that he was infamous. The whole clan of Malfoys were infamous.
It was no secret, and every other rendition of rumors you heard ring true by the common trope you noticed in these stories - he was a Death Eater. And to your surprise, Death Eaters were fascists, racists, segregationists; incited wars twice in the history that endangered the Muggles, and fellow wizards alike.
You were a Muggle.
It was awkward.
Maybe the Minister put you up to this and assigned you to Mr Malfoy to put him up in an uncomfortable, and humiliating position for the irony of it all. Mrs Granger-Weasley had a history of past prejudices from Mr Malfoy, you had heard - and had read the accounts from the accumulated source materials and biographies in the Ministry Library and Archives.
You were literally working for the reinstated nazi.
He was an enigma. He never really spoke much, nor had any intention of engaging in a discussion proactively with anyone. It was an incredible feat not having to utter a word in an extensive stretch of hours working in the office.
It wasn't the kind of silence you wanted. You wanted a comfortable silence.
He was the sulky and scowling type - but never really expressed any vocal distaste, or chastisement, or raised his voice at you when he got too antsy over some pressing matters. But underneath the wrinkled demeanor of his, he held a weathered soul - brought about his old age, or stress...or both.
Or at maybe it was your eyes fooling you into pitying him.
He could use some sleep. And therapy. Lots of it.
"How may I help you?"
His crisp voice reduced your inquisitive state into a wakeful and conscious one, as though crunching an eggshell beneath the hard soles of a pair of Oxfords.
It jolted you, shook your nerves awake than any coffee could.
"No..." you shook your head frantically, "no, just thinking. I'm writing the draft for the international intervention and liability for the case investigation on Egypt...of the, uh, Aurors." Liar.
You couldn't even stare straight through him. He thoroughly intimidated you, and you don't want to befall under harsh judgements that you were callous.
Over the next few days, it remained the same. Then days turned to weeks. Weeks sans: your rude staring, real conversation apart from the brief exchange of words, or any real and mutual acknowledgement of each other's presences.
The rut sickened you, and it was about time it has to stop and do something about it.
Was. Mr Malfoy was a Death Eater. Little words matter, and at least you already knew he wasn't an ill-intentioned man. He had the modicum of professional decency and politeness towards you. Despite the stress and pressure his work offered, he had enough willpower to retain his rationality.
You understood that your discomfort was not exclusive to yours. That changes today.
Tonight, more like.
Both of you worked in late hours: you, finalizing paperworks he's going to introspect and sign over; and him, writing an appeal to intervene with the artifact overseas, suspected to be a Horcrux from a late Death Eater.
His thumb and forefinger rubbed his temples in firm whorls. It stressed him out, with the accountability of it all. Just in time, you have retrieved the kettle from the fireplace to pour hot water on the teapot, set to make some chamomile tea for your boss.
The faint clinking in front of his desk told him as much. His weary gaze flitted on the cup of tea, then to yours, searching for your demeanor.
He may seem vulnerable at the moment, but his furrowed brows made you want to shirk away. You didn't, though.
"Chamomile tea, Mr Malfoy."
He hums, pauses for a moment as he stared at you, then takes the cup.
"This is unnecessary," he says, voice creaking after he had been silent for the rest of the day. That surprised him as well, making him wince and cringe at the sound.
You nodded, "I know, I just wanted to."
"Wanted to because you saw the necessity," he then inclines the cup towards you in lieu of a toast. Mr Malfoy was a smart man, earning the merit of being in his current position. Maybe witty.
Just a bit.
You chuckled at his words under your breath, inclining the cup of your own towards him. "I could say the same for you, sir."
He lets out a dragged out sigh, revealing years of his exhaustion by his trade and experience tolling his bones. He never does that with you. "Not if it's for the sake of his selfish redemption...and for the sake of clearing the namesake and scrutiny his son does not deserve."
That was heavy.
You visualized the younger version of Mr Malfoy, his son, getting called and jeered at due to the speculation that he takes after his father, who was once a Death Eater.
He realized what he said postmaturely before he gave you a gruff and dismissive wave of his hand.
"Forget it,"
You didn't even think with the possible repercussions of your own words, hardly skipping a beat.
"You're trying, sir. That counts for something."
That hangs in the air.
When he offered you a lingering stare, you gave him a half-assed shrug before treading on carefully with your next words, "I'm not saying no one would forget what you did in the past."
A beat.
You continued, "Indoctrination is imposed on children to be weaponized for the sake of orthodoxical complicity. You were just a victim, sir. You were a mere child then, and you're trying as an adult now...and as a father.
"The international affairs is in your best interests, not to mention your son's reputation." You were finally driving the nail in your coffin. "You treat me well as your Muggle cohort, too. And I think your attempt for redemption does not come from the place of selfishness."
He went silent for a while, mulling your words over. If he felt strongly with what he is feeling upon your words, he hid it well with pronounced stoicism as he returns his piercing gaze to the parchment at hand. His eyes ran a mile, skimming his own paperwork to keep himself occupied after he gave you his anticipatory gaze generously while you spoke of his integrity...and humored him.
When he doesn't speak in the next minute, much less a feedback or physical reaction, more silence and tension ensued. You don't know whether your statement was too prying, too personal, too direct...or maybe, in the most hopeful and more optimistic lobe of your brain, it was reasonable.
You almost gave up on your mind's musings that the plan was already a lost cause, and you could never recover half the comfort the awkward silence had offered since you started working for Mr Malfoy months ago.
Until the pressure of his own task lightened to a simmer as the night falls deeper, and his head looks forward unto the door with a familiar expression.
He uttered four words that shocked your systems:
"I suppose you're right."
And it all made a difference.