Excuse Me, Do You Fucking Mind?

Draco had embraced his super-person lifestyle at fifteen years old. Although perhaps ‘embraced’ was the wrong word to use. It sounded far too gentle for what had been a strange and trying week.

Fifteen was a weird age to be. It was made even weirder by being in year five. The looming inevitable of GCSEs made burgeoning teenage hormones all that more terrifying. And then, on top of all that, there were ever-changing social dynamics and extracurriculars to care for as well.

Draco was on the football team. That he’d made the B team instead of the A had been a point of much contention with his father. By the age of fifteen, Draco had learnt to accept that his father and him just couldn’t see eye-to-eye on most matters. Namely, the fact that Draco was not, actually, perfect, and that he was, instead, a normal teenage boy who had other, more important things to do in life than play football. They also seemed to disagree on the idea that Draco might be, in his father’s words, ‘homosexual,’ and in Draco’s words, ‘outrageously gay or maybe bisexual, or maybe pan, I haven’t yet decided and probably never will because feeling obligated to label yourself is stupid’. 

What there was to disagree about Draco being gay, Draco hadn’t a clue. It was like disagreeing about Draco being blond. When he voiced this thought, his father turned such a startling shade of purple that both Draco and his mum were certain he’d had an aneurysm of some sort. After that, his father said some choice words that left Draco, quite uncharacteristically, speechless. At which point, his mum broke her silence and said a few choice words of her own, and with so much vitriol that Draco felt almost sorry for the tears he saw collecting in his father’s eyes.

Regardless of his seeming apathy towards football at home, however, Draco did actually take it a little seriously. It wasn’t that he had any particular love for the sport—although it was fun sometimes—it was more that Harry Potter had made the A team. And not just the Under Sixteens A team, no, of course not. Harry James Potter—with his disaster hair, idiot glasses, and endless stream of good fortune—had made the Under Eighteens A team. Which was honestly preposterous, first of all, because it was against the inter-school tournament rules, second of all, because he wasn’t even that good, and third of all, because the sight of Potter’s twig legs in football shorts was enough to cause psychological harm and they all went to an institution full of impressionable young children! 

Anyway, Draco was also a prefect. At first he’d been ecstatic—‘The POWER!’—but then he’d very quickly realised that the perfunctory duties didn’t actually grant him any power at all. In fact, being a prefect actually took away a lot of Draco’s power, in all the ways that were genuinely important. It was a pedantic job, but even worse, it made it seem as if Draco himself was pedantic. (Draco was actually pretty pedantic, but that was beside the point—he made it his life goal to hide things like that from the general public.) So Draco’s reputation amongst the grade was at an all time low. This meant that as a leader—which was the role he’d been given, as prefect—he had absolutely no power at all. He was simply a puppet to be used by the teachers.

With this came several realisations. The most important one being that Draco rather hated leadership roles, and that if he wanted tangible power in the future, he’d have to stay away from the scrutiny of the public eye. The best way to go about it would be to join that small group of politicians who controlled the country’s figureheads, if that group existed. If being the operative word. Ideally, Draco would have joined the illuminati. But, whatever.

So, at age fifteen, Draco was a prefect, and half the student body couldn’t stand him. In the meanwhile, Potter was the star of the football team and every idiot in their year was obsessed with him. It was an unfortunate reality that most everyone in their year was an idiot. 

While Draco was running around in between his prefect duties, chess club meet-ups, debate team competitions, and football training, Potter was traipsing the hallway, winning love and adoration by simply existing. While Draco was freaking the fuck out because he regularly had wet dreams about Blaise and that was a big no-no because Blaise was Blaise, Potter was snogging the girl he’d coerced into dating him in the hallways. And the girl—Cho Chang—was the year above them. Draco hadn’t even had his first kiss yet, because Blaise was Blaise and that was in no ways okay. Also, Draco’s fine, aristocratic skin was so very fine that he had acne. He had acne! While Potter’s half-asian skin was perfectly smooth! 

Draco and Potter’s rivalry was an old thing, which could be traced back to the first hour of the first day of first year. When Draco had been alone, however, he’d always been able to admit that it was something mildly juvenile. But now, at age fifteen? Draco hated Potter. Just the sight of him was enough to set Draco’s blood on fire. It was the kind of hatred that consumed thought. It existed even when Draco was alone. Everything that went wrong in the universe was Potter’s fault. 

A bird shat on Draco’s head? Fuck you, Potter. 

Blaise and Pansy started dating? Fuck yourself in the arse with a cactus, Potter. Oh, and don’t use lubricant.

Draco had an allergic reaction to his new acne face-wash and consequently, his head looked like a penis and his mum wouldn’t let him take a day off school? Go chew some glass, regurgitate it, and then stick the shards up your urethra, Potter. Do this while simultaneously tap dancing. 

Potter was, quite literally, the bane of Draco’s existence. Fifteen was a horrible age to be, and Potter made it a thousand times worse. 

A negative altercation between them was the beginning of Draco’s strange and trying week.

It had been an unbearably sunny afternoon, and despite the layers of sunscreen Draco had lathered on, he could feel his gorgeous porcelain skin turning lobster red. Already, he was in a bad mood. Fuck you, Potter, you insufferable toad. 

And to make matters worse, Potty was actually on the other side of the field, playing a practice game with the Under-Sixteens A team for fun because he was lame. Draco grit his teeth as he repeated the harsh drills the B team were being tortured into doing. This turned out to be a bad idea, mostly because Draco’s lungs felt like they were about to give out, and gritting his teeth made him feel like he was going to die of suffocation. 

When the coach blew the final whistle, everyone around Draco collapsed on the field. Draco had dignity, so he forced himself to get into a casual sitting position before insouciantly laying on his back.

“You’re—such a—twat,” Theo huffed, from beside Draco.

Theo could choke on his own spit—Draco had an image to maintain. Draco conveyed this sentiment through exhausted facial expressions. 

Maybe ten minutes later, Coach Blue called them over. Draco felt personally affronted by this command. Blue had definitely gone overboard with the drills. Cursing the universe but mostly Potter in his mind, Draco ignored his body’s screaming protests and pushed himself up.

“To finish off training,”—please don’t say laps please don’t say laps—“we’re going to play a quick game with the A team.”

Well fuck, thought Draco. Just ask us to eat our own shit, why don’t you.

Draco really didn’t understand why this was happening to him. And of all the days, Potter had to be here today. Shit. And now the A team—plus Potter—were walking over. Great. Fantastic. Wow, Potter’s hair. How fucking disgusting. God, and those twig legs.

“My eyes,” whispered Draco, “They burn.”

Theo snickered and then eyed Draco’s face, “They’re not the only things burning.”

“Don’t remind me.” Draco lamented. “My beautiful, beautiful skin.”

Theo grinned. Theo was kind of cute when he was grinning. Not as cute as Blaise, of course, but no-one was at Blaise’s level. The Zabinis were a superior species. Draco could appreciate that, even if the whole Blaise thing was the biggest no to have ever noed. 

Anyway, Theo also had soft-looking hair. It was nice to know that even on-the-brink-of-death-exhaustion wasn’t enough to curb Draco’s perpetual horniness.

It was also nice to know that being within ten metres of Potter was enough to completely obliterate said horniness.

Potter stood in between his nameless, faceless cronies. If there was one thing Draco hated even more than Potter’s twig legs, it was Potter wearing contacts. And right now—as he always did when he was wearing his football kit—he was wearing contacts. It made it impossible to hold eye-contact with him. One look at his face and all Draco could see was green, green, guileless green, except ahahhahahahhahahhaha no, that’s not something that happened with Potty, of all people. Potter wasn’t innocent in any sense of the word. Potter was a stone-cold bitch. A stone cold-bitch whose eyes were his only—and Draco meant only—redeeming feature. It was like finding three pounds in a pile of trash. By comparison with its surroundings, the value of the three pounds went up in the mind of the observer. Or so Draco convinced himself, for the sake of his sanity.

“Potter should always wear glasses.” muttered Draco.

Theo looked at him, “You talk too much, Draco.”

Draco schooled his gape. “What the fuck, you wanker—”

“Listen up,” started Hooch, the A team’s coach, “This is a great opportunity for both teams,”—this was her attempt at being magnanimous—“I expect fair-play—I’m looking at you, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled at her charmingly.

Hooch narrowed her eyes, “I expect fair-play, Malfoy, got it?”

Draco bat his eyelashes at her, “Of course,”

“That wasn’t a yes.” 

“If only everyone here were as intelligent as you, Coach Hooch,” Draco returned.

“Malfoy—”

“Come off it, Malfoy.” said Potter, that sanctimonious arse, because something in him physically died if he didn’t force himself into every conversation, ever. 

Draco felt himself bristle. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I don’t think this is all that fair to begin with. The B team are exhausted. The A team look fresh. It’s obvious who’s going to win even before we begin.” It was obvious either way, but still.

Potter scowled. “The A team’s exhausted too—”

“Playing mini-games and drinking gatorade. Wow, so exhausting.” Draco drawled.

Potter’s nostrils flared. Draco felt a throb of pleasure.

“It’s your own fault if you’ve got no stamina.”

Draco felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, “You’re right.” he forced himself to say, “Just like it’s your own fault if you’re stupid enough to be fooled while we’re playing.”

Potter crossed his arms, “You’re just a cheater, Malfoy. Admit it.”

“Suck my dick, Potter.”

“Scared to admit it, Malfoy?”

“Scared? Me?” Draco laughed derisively, “I’m not the one itching to play a game I know I’m going to win.”

“No shit we’re going to win.” 

Draco tilted his head, “Is it fun fighting a weakened opponent?”

Potter flushed. Bingo. “That’s not—”

“You heard it, lads,” Draco said to everyone, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Saint Potter’s not that saintly after all.”

Potter took a furious step forward. Draco imperceptibly unlocked his knees.

“Potter.” snapped Hooch “Calm down.” she turned to Draco. “Malfoy. Stop instigating him.”

“But he’s so cute.” Draco snarled, in falsetto.

Potter’s flush darkened and he took another step forward. 

“Malfoy.” Hooch grit out. 

Draco rolled his eyes and turned away, his blood pounding in his ears. 

“Get a ball. We’re starting soon.” she continued.

Draco stared at her. Had she listened to even a word of what he’d just said? She was meant to look out for all of them, not just those that she liked. Draco shot Theo an incredulous look.

“Sorry, Coach,” began Theo, “We’re all knackered—”

“Stop complaining, Nott—come on! Move it!” 

Draco looked around at the other members of his team—all wearing equally despondent expressions. Being second sucked most when you were constantly reminded that you weren’t good enough to be first. This was going to take a toll on everyone’s morale. Draco looked back at Hooch. It was clear to Draco that she was crazy. He couldn’t attempt civil conversation. 

And there stood Potter, gloating in the midst of the other A team boys. So used to always getting his fucking way. So used to everything in his perfect life always going right. Draco hated him so much.

“Whoever gets the ball first, pass to me,” Draco said to his team, before the game began. “Trust me.” His team gave him a plethora of dubious looks but there were no vocalisations of dissent, so Draco took that as a win.

Draco’s team won the pre-game stone-paper-scissors, so it was decided they would start with the ball. Hooch blew the whistle, and as Draco observed every member of his team resign themselves to their fate, the game began.

Potter, predictably, lingered around Draco in a very non-subtle attempt to mark him. Draco nodded imperceptibly to Chambers before gathering all his remaining energy and sprinting forward. Chambers kicked the ball over. 

Once he had securely received, Draco dribbled the ball lazily from side to side. The surrounding players looked at him in confusion. As expected, Potter was the first to react—he never did question Draco’s motives before responding to Draco’s actions. This trait of his was so easily manipulated. Draco quite adored this idiot trait of Potter’s. It was the only thing about Potter that Draco had even remotely positive feelings about.

Potter sprinted towards Draco, aiming, doubtlessly, to steal the ball. Draco looked at Potter’s focused expression and in one seamless move, hooked his foot under the ball and kicked it straight at Potter’s approaching face. With a loud bang, Potter’s head snapped backwards and he fell to the grass. 

“Oops.” Draco said, into the resulting silence.

Some fourth year gaped at Draco. Draco feigned ignorance and admired his cuticles.

Hooch blew the whistle. “Time out.” she said, in a faint voice. 

Mission accomplished, Draco grinned at his teammates.

“Malfoy.” snapped Hooch, jogging towards Potter’s still form, “Come here.” 

Draco rolled his eyes and walked slowly towards Potter’s body. God, he was so weak. It was just a ball. What a loser.

“He might have a concussion, Malfoy.” Hooch said sharply, digging a small torch out of her pocket and kneeling down.

Draco kicked Potter lightly with the toe of his foot. “I think he’d need a brain for that.”

Hooch gave Draco a condemning look. She touched Potter’s shoulder. “Potter? Harry—can you hear me?”

Potter remained still on the grass, his chest barely moving. There was blood leaking out of his nose.

Hooch paled, “Harry, open your eyes.” She called to the people on the stands, “Call Madame Pomfrey from the clinic!”

Draco crouched down next to Potter’s face, waving a hand over his closed lids.

“Harry—”

“He’s faking it.” Draco said, calmly.

Hooch looked at Draco incredulously, “How can you—”

And because Draco was always right, always, Potter sprang up and head-butted Draco. Unfortunately, Draco had been a bit preoccupied trying to calm Hooch down (before she gave him indefinite detention for incapacitating her star player) so he wasn’t as prepared as he would have been otherwise. Consequently, Draco got a harsh face-full of Potter’s stone forehead. Frankly, it hurt like a bitch.

“I told you so.” Draco hissed as he lunged at Potter. 

By the time Pomfrey arrived, her services were very much required. Unfortunately, Pomfrey arrived at the same time as McGonagall did. And so, instead of having his wounds licked by an acerbic tongue, Draco found himself forcefully transported to the deputy headmaster’s office.

“He started it.” said Potter, tilting his head backwards. 

McGonagall pursed her lips and looked at Draco. “Of that I have no doubt.”

McGonagall was, much like most everybody, biased towards Potter. Draco felt anger building in his chest. He swallowed it down as he stared into beady eyes.

“I didn’t start it.” Draco managed to say. “And as you can see, I’ve come out of it in a worse state than Potter.” This was regrettably true. Potter was a ball of energy. Potter was also extremely thin. His elbows were weapons.

McGonagall eyed Draco over her glasses. “I regret to inform you that your lack of fighting prowess doesn’t make you any less culpable.” 

Draco smiled at her, all teeth, “I’m not denying culpability. I’m saying I didn’t start it.”

“He’s lying.” said Potter, “He did.” 

Draco grit his teeth and took a deep breath. His mum would kill him if he started anything in McGonagall’s office. 

“I’d prefer if I could have this conversation with you alone.” Draco began, feigning cordiality as hard as he ever had in his fifteen years of life. “Could you kick Potter out of the office, Professor?”

“No.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Could you gently escort Potter out of the office, Professor.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched. “No.”

Potter smiled in victory next to him.

Draco clenched his jaw as he forced himself to ignore Potter’s smug face. He looked at McGonagall. She was biased towards Potter, but she had a strong sense of justice. She wasn’t like Hooch, Draco could reason with her.

“I didn’t start it.” Draco repeated. From next to him, Potter rolled his eyes. “Hooch started it when she forced us to play against his team.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “You mean to say that Madame Hooch was the cause of this altercation.”

Yes. “I mean to say that any actions I took were influenced by her decision.” Draco said carefully, “I tried to reason with her.”

McGonagall moved her gaze to Potter. “Is he telling the truth?”

Why are you asking him to verify what I just said, Draco wanted to ask. He hates me. Why would he tell the truth. Draco could taste something bitter in his mouth. Why does everyone trust him more than me.

“I can’t be sure.” Potter replied. “There was sarcasm involved.” 

See? Draco shot McGonagall a look. He respected her a little bit, he wanted her to see his side of things. 

McGonagall eyed Draco for a while and then sighed. “Regardless of who started what, both of you raised your fists. You’re both to serve detention every day after school for the next week.”

That meant he had to skip his prefect duties tomorrow. Draco tried not to look too pleased. Then, something horrid occurred to him. 

“Together?” Draco asked. Potter stiffened beside him. That fate would be quite possibly worse than death.

“I think we can all agree that would be an unwise decision.” McGonagall huffed. 

Draco nodded. Beside him, Potter did the same thing. Draco disliked feeling a sense of camaraderie with Potter. 

“Potter, you will serve detention in the library. Malfoy, you will serve detention in the courtyard. Meet at your respective places once your lessons end tomorrow.”

This was so unfair. The library was an air-conditioned haven. The courtyard was an open space filled with the filth of adolescent children. A few years ago, Draco would have made a huge fuss about this stark difference in punishment. Recently, however, Draco was coming to realise that throwing tantrums was just a waste of his time. There was no point. There were more important things to divert his energy towards.

Like, for example, coming up with a lie convincing enough to explain his black eye to his mum.

Draco was ambushed near the entrance. Well, to be fair, it was Potter who was ambushed. Draco was very unfortunately caught in the fire, as was often the case when one spent extended periods of time with Potty The Star.

They were both walking towards the entrance, ignoring the other’s existence. Draco was staring at his phone, willing someone to text him so that he’d have something to do and Potter wouldn’t think him some friendless loser. (Not that Potter’s opinion mattered, of course. It was simply the principle of the matter.) Out of nowhere, a bright flash went off.

“Aghhhh!” Draco squawked, righteously, as he shielded his cornea from permanent damage.

“Oh, shut up.” Potter muttered back. Which was rich of him, given that his cornea was very conveniently shielded by contacts. 

Draco glared at Potter through the temporary blind spots dancing across his vision. 

“Sorry about that Harry!” someone squeaked, “I needed a photo for the school newspaper, is all.”

Draco rolled his half-blinded eyes. Typical.

“Er, now’s not the best time, Colin—maybe later,” Potter replied.

Oooh, Potter the celebrity, Draco thought, venomously. He gave Potter another caustic look and began to walk around them both.

“What happened to your nose, Harry?” the scrawny photographer asked.

“Oh, um, I got hit in the face with a ball during practice.” Potter then added, hastily, “It’s no big deal, Colin.”

Pretending to be all modest. Draco couldn’t help half-turning his head and sneering, “So clumsy, Potter.”

Except it just really wasn’t Draco’s day, and the photographer took one look at Draco and whispered to Potter, “What on earth happened to Malfoy’s face?”

He better not be talking about my acne.

Potter shrugged—and was that a hidden grin on his lips?—“Dunno.”

The photographer turned haltingly towards Draco. “Uh, Malfoy—”

“No.” Draco said.

The photographer shrunk into himself, like a turtle. Draco smiled at him.

“He looks like he got mugged.” the photographer whispered to Potter.

Potter shrugged again. “Lucky bloke, whoever mugged him.”

Potter thought himself hilarious. It was so tragic.

“You didn’t get into another fight did you?” photographer-boy whispered, a sudden glint in his eyes.

“No! Listen, Colin, I’d really rather not have another article written about me—”

Ugh, he was so insufferable. Draco couldn’t deal with him. He turned to leave.

“Well, would you look at that, my dad’s here!” Potter cried, all of a sudden. “You know what, Colin? I’m sure Malfoy wouldn’t mind being interviewed—why don’t you ask him instead?” and with that, Potter sprinted out of the doors and into the back of a black SUV.

Draco reiterated in his mind that Potter was a stone-cold bitch. He gave photographer-boy a withering look.

“W— would you mind answering some questio—”

“Yes.” said Draco, by which he meant: ‘Yes, you twat, I would mind.’

Something must have gotten lost in translation, however, because the photographer-boy suddenly beamed. 

“Great! It’ll be really quick, I promise!”

Draco gave him another withering look. This one was ignored. It seemed the photographer-boy had no shame.

Another flash went off. Draco swallowed a squawk and rubbed his eyes, scowling.

“So. What happened?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Uh, just, your face—”

“Well, photographer-boy—”

“M’name’s Colin.” he muttered.

“Don’t interrupt me, photographer-boy.” Draco glared, “As I was saying, my parents got married and then gave birth to me. And that is how my face happened.”

Colin stared at Draco as if he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to laugh or not. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, haha, I was actually wondering about how you got all those—”

“All those what.” Draco asked, acidicly.

But photographer-boy knew no fear. “All those wounds, I meant.” he finished.

Draco was exhausted and irritated. And so, he broke the one promise he’d made his mum all those years ago.

He leant forward and took hold of Colin’s hand. Focusing on the fluttering in his chest he said, “You will leave me alone and forget about this conversation.” He paused, and then added (because if he’d come this far, why not), “Tomorrow you will publish an article about how Potter is overrated.”

Colin blinked dully at Draco and turned around to walk away. Draco huffed in exhaustion.

“Draco.” his mum’s voice called.

Draco turned stiffly. His mum was standing on the sidewalk outside the car. Shite, the chauffeur was off today. Draco swallowed.

“Draco Malfoy.” his mum repeated, eyeing him coldly.

Draco smiled. It didn’t work.

“I can’t come because I’m grounded, you stupid cow.” Draco scowled, to Pansy.

“What the fuck did you do this time.” Pansy scowled back.

Draco pointed at his healing face, “Are you blind?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, “Do you think I’m dumb?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fuck you, you pretentious arsehole.” she shoved his arm, “What really got you grounded?”

Pansy knew him too well. Draco narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice. “I used mind-control on that Colin-guy.”

Pansy gave him a condemning look.

“He wouldn’t leave me alone!”

“You’re such a wanker. You promised Narcissa.”

Draco squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, well.”

Pansy eyed him, “What did you command of him?”

“To leave me alone.” 

Pansy eyed him some more, “What else did you command of him?”

Draco sniffed. “To write about how Potter’s overrated in the school newspaper.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Pansy castigated, “When are you going to get over your creepy obsession—”

“I’m not obsessed!” Draco hissed.

“Obsession?” Blaise’s voice called, “We’re talking about Potter? Seriously? Again?”

Draco fought down his blush. “You’re both hilarious.”

Blaise sat down next to Pansy. Because they were dating, and life was horrible.

“No, Draco, you’re hilarious.” Blaise returned, “Especially when you’re obsessing over Potter.”

“I don’t obsess over him!”

“Yeah, and I’m not gorgeous,” Blaise grinned. 

Draco scowled. “You narcissistic knob.”

“So you admit you obsess.” Pansy smirked.

“Why am I friends with you people.” 

“Beggars can’t be choosy.” Blaise replied.

Fair, Draco thought but didn’t admit.

“Speaking of Potter—there’s another article about him in the school newspaper,” Blaise pointed to his phone.

“Oh?” Draco said, nonchalantly. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s about how he’s under all these expectations because he’s so perfect and whatnot—it makes him out to be some tragic hero.”

“Fucking shit.”Of course. Of-fucking-course. Fuck you, Potter. 

Pansy sighed. “As expected.”

“Potter The Great.” Blaise grinned, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

Being fifteen was the worst.

Draco stared at the graffiti on the wall at the back of the courtyard. He felt his meagre supply of motivation dry up. This felt a lot closer to child labour than detention.

At least Filch had left him all alone. Draco scanned his surroundings and sat on the floor. He unlocked his phone and began scrolling through the school newspaper app. No-one ever read it and the stuff they wrote in it was absolute nonsense, but occasionally Draco would scan through so that he could sneer at the latest rubbish about Potter.

Today’s stupid article was too much for Draco. He skimmed through it with a dark scowl on his face.

Harry Potter, the youngest person to make the… Most popular in the year... Perfect... but all isn’t perfect in Harry’s life!... surrounded by the expectations of his peers... unfairly perfect image... only human, after all!... under constant scrutiny... even this article... irony... Harry Potter!... imperfections make him all the more human… daresay, all the more perfect?

Draco closed the app and deleted it. He wanted to throw his phone across the courtyard. What was it about Potter that made everybody so fucking gaga over him? He was so bloody average. Draco didn’t get it.

And the jealousy was driving him mad. It was so unfair.

Potter. Potter. Potter. Draco didn’t get it at all.

He wasn’t even that good-looking. On a good day, he was a solid 6 out of 10. And his perpetual bed-head… it was so… so… ugh. He was so bloody sanctimonious, as well. So fucking obsessed with flaunting his moral superiority over other people. Ooh, look at me, I’m Harry Potter and I volunteer to teach under-privileged children football because I’m an angel-baby and I poop sparkles and oh my goodness, are you seriously telling me that you’re not a 100% pure-angel baby like me? Oh my goodness gracious me, you absolute filthy scum of this planet, go eat shit.

Except it was even worse because sometimes it seemed as if Potter actually was as righteous as he made himself out to be. And then, by comparison, Draco was left feeling even worse about himself. 

If Potter really was all goodness, and sparkle-sunshine, where did that leave Draco? A third-rate foil? An existence only really worth-while because his flaws made the goody-goody protagonist seem all that more perfect?

But Potter wasn’t perfect at all. Not in the least. He was awkward, and way too reticent for the glorious persona he had somehow created for himself. His temper was his weakness, he was quick to anger and even quicker to act before thinking. His worldview was too simple. He saw everything in absolutes. Black and white, no room for grey. There was no room for complex nuance in Potter’s life. He had no eye for impartiality, he couldn’t hide his emotions. He was an idiot.

He was also especially rude to Draco. Mean, but only when provoked. As if he was above interacting with Draco. As if Draco wasn’t worth his attention.

Draco clenched his jaw. He sat himself down next to the graffitied wall. There really was nothing better at killing his ego than comparing himself to Potter.

Draco was aware, somewhere in his mind, that a lot of his vehement dislike sprouted from his own insecurities. He was too pale, too skinny, too pimpley. And all in all, just nowhere near good enough, especially so when compared to Potter. Potter, who was the poster-child for the son his father had always wanted to have. Potter, who was the hero Draco had once dreamed of being. Who was everything Draco wasn’t, and whose very existence served as a reminder for every single way that Draco fell short. 

There were so very many ways that Draco fell short. He was meant for greatness, sure, but he wondered whether he’d ever be able to grasp it as he was now, and as he would perhaps always be. 

Just nowhere near good enough.

Even his dreams, Draco knew, were ill-fitted for him. Fighting against discrimination, being a significant part of a socio-political revolution. It was too heroic, too righteous. Especially for Draco, who had been, once upon a time, quite discriminatory himself, and even now, was morally grey at best. Pansy had laughed that first time that Draco had told her what he’d wanted to do with his life. ‘Hypocrite,’ she’d said. ‘No,’ Draco had replied, ‘I’m different now, I’ve grown.’ 

Except that didn’t stop him from feeling a helpless guilt every-time he remembered the moments he’d acted as if his privilege made him superior. Every-time he’d acted as if he was the centre of the universe, and that everyone, save for the people that he liked, was just deficient somehow. In some ways, it was still second-nature for him to believe himself above everyone else. He was still learning how to change. 

And every-time he would remember the horrible things he’d said, or done, as a child, he’d wonder whether he was just intrinsically spoiled; If there was something within him that made him inherently selfish, self absorbed. His dreams—which in some ways were a form of repentance—were too virtuous. He didn’t deserve the honour, and yet it seemed that it was singularly within that harsh fight for equity that he’d finally find absolution. 

It was so difficult learning how to forgive himself.

And even harder when Potter was standing right there, never having done one wrong thing in his entire life. Never having made someone cry, for no good reason. Never having hated himself.

Draco grabbed the piece of cloth that Filch had left him and began scrubbing viciously at a pair of poorly-drawn tits. He hated feeling like this—as if the jealousy would eat him whole. He scrubbed at the tits harder.

After the tits came the gigantic yellow knob, and after that came the smaller, purple knob, and then the series of wobbly orange knobs. After the knobs came the ‘A+G 4-EVA <3’ and the ‘Fuk u all’ and the ‘Harry Potter is a Sexy Bastard’ . Draco scrubbed at that last one especially hard.

Then, to Draco’s surprise, came the political stuff. Small, multi-coloured cats after the negative press the current PM, Cornelius Fudge, had gotten in the media. Draco really wanted to leave the cats on the wall. Fudge was a homophobic, racist bigot and his comment about how the low employment rates for LGBTQIA+ people in certain sectors was due to their ‘complacency’ rather than any blatant work-place discrimination had resulted in huge social media backlash. Multi-coloured cats had become an ironic symbol against him—multi-coloured for the LGBT+ representation, and cats for his comments about ‘complacency’. 

But the political graffiti wasn’t all positive. Below the cats came stuff related to the new nationalistic codswallop Fudge was trying to push: A new immigration law set on introducing a quota of foreign workers and students allowed into the nation. It was particularly worrying because the referendum was coming up soon, and so far public interest had been arching towards accepting the new quota instead of rejecting it. The most frustrating thing, however, was that this public opinion was largely caused by the absolute nonsense propaganda run in The Daily Prophet—one of the most widely read newspapers in the country. For months now, The Daily Prophet had been running articles on how jobs and university seats—which, according to them, ‘by right’ belonged to the domestic population—were being filled up by foreigners. With such utterly biased news coverage, it was no wonder that the general population—who weren’t conditioned to doubt what they read in the papers—was inclined to support Fudge’s new law.

Draco couldn’t even start with how stupid this entire situation was. All one had to do was take a quick look at the largest shareholders of The Prophet in order to see that it was very obviously run by members of Fudge’s political party. It was a smart political move, for sure, to have the most influential newspaper at your beck and call. Or rather, it would have been a smart political move, say, thirty years ago, when the internet hadn’t been a thing. One click on #UKImmigrationQuota or #CorneliusFudge on Twitter opened up the wider, less biased opinions of the internet. From there on it was smooth sailing—the internet was harder to fool and impossible to control. The internet’s dissonance regarding Fudge’s new political agenda not only completely discredited the news on The Daily Prophet, but also painted Fudge as an incredibly corrupt politician.

In Draco’s personal view, Fudge was corrupt, yes, but he was also incredibly stupid—which, infinitely, was worse in a political setting. His political views were overtly—to the point of being dastardly—conservative, but above that, to have made such a blatant mistake made him an extremely incompetent PM. Not only were his political views out-dated and harmful for the growth of the country, but as an idiot, he also garnered no respect at all. Every move he made was social suicide. Morons shouldn’t step onto the political battlefield, Draco huffed to himself.

The problem, however, was that amongst those who voted, people who tried to keep up with politics on the internet composed a very small demographic. Largely, the actively voting population was older, more conservative, and more easily deceived by The Daily Prophet’s nonsense—hence why the likelihood of the Immigration Quota being passed was pretty fucking high. Draco seriously wondered why people who were more dead than alive ended up having more of a say regarding the future of the country than people who would actually live through the hellish repercussions. Everyone was so fucking stupid. It was incredibly frustrating. And people wonder why I’m perpetually irritated, thought Draco, darkly. 

The majority of younger people weren’t interested enough in politics to attempt actively opposing Fudge. Amongst the people who were interested, some couldn’t vote, while others thought their vote was insignificant and wouldn’t make a difference. Only really a minuscule percentage of people were left.

Even then, however, the graffiti on the wall had been surprising. Hogwarts School of Academia had quite a diverse student population due to its international acclaim. It was granted, then, that the general political opinion—when there was, scarcely ever, a political opinion—was liberal. But the comments on the wall— ‘Fudge the immigrants in the arse,’ amongst others—were surprisingly derogatory. It was possible, of course, that Arseholes were just being Arseholes and these comments didn’t necessarily have any political undertone to them. Seeing them, however, Draco felt a sudden uncontrollable anger. It wasn’t just because his mother’s family had French origins, but also because this was Hogwarts School of Academia, for fucks sake. It was meant to be progressive in every sense of the word. Half of the bloody year was boarding from abroad. To see something like this—Draco narrowed his eyes as he read another comment: ‘Fudge the Fairies next!’ —in a place which was meant to be a symbol of solidarity for young children, a place that was meant to be a safe haven, was jarring.

Draco thought himself a healthy pessimist in regards to the way he viewed the world around him. To be surprised—disappointed even—by some stupid writing on the wall, was a pretty big deal. The world, thought Draco, is shittier every day.

And so, Draco scrubbed especially hard at the offensive trash, and very very lightly at the nicer stuff. But as he worked furiously, his anger didn’t dissipate. Rather, it grew, and then grew again every time he remembered that the population of people around him had elected a blithering idiot to rule them all. 

What was the fucking point in being so concerned about the world if it seemed most people were dead set on ruining it? Except… except, well, he lived in it. Technically—if statistics were to be followed—as a queer person, Draco was part of a minority. And although he was a rich, white, male and pretty much dripping in privilege, it wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t. Sure, he wanted a more just society so that he could live freely, but it wasn’t just that. It was everything. It was his friends—Pansy, who was three-quarters Korean; Blaise, who was Black British—it was his mother, a woman who made 98 pence to his Father’s pound—and no, actually, nearly the same wasn’t fucking good enough—it was Remus, who was in a long-term gay relationship, and whose scars some people regarded as ‘facial disfigurements’—it was his cousin, Looney, who’d always been regarded as strange for behaving in ways that weren’t neurotypical. Beyond all the personal reasons, it was the rich diversity he’d seen that first time he’d been in the city, it was the rich diversity he’d been surrounded by in school. It was all the people he wanted to meet; all the stories he wanted to hear; all the ways he wanted to grow; all the beauty he wanted to preserve. It was for justice. It was for suffering and discrimination that happened because of the colour of someone’s skin, or what was between their legs, or what wasn’t between their legs, or the way they identified themselves and wanted to live their life, or the people they were or weren’t sexually attracted to and a whole fucking load of other things that were none of anyone’s fucking business. 

People should be able to live their lives in the ways that they wish, within reason. People should be assured safety; they should be guaranteed fair payment for the work that they have done. People should be allowed to be happy. The first fucking article in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is literally: ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and right.’ People are born with their race, sex, gender, sexual orientation, neurological alignment etc. They are born as so, and are therefore equal in dignity and right regardless of so. Justice is the first human right.

Justice is the first human right. When justice isn’t served, when a situation is unjust, it’s not right; It is, logically following, wrong. Very wrong. It is a violation of a universally agreed upon moral code. And when one breaks that moral code, they fail to follow the requisites of civilisation. In some cases, one may even argue that by failing to be the most basic level of humane, they consequently and intrinsically also fail to be human. Thereby, they lose the right to the respect that one garners as human. Through their actions—which have been discriminatory and have violated the rights of others—they lose the right which was theirs at birth. A human can only ever lose their rights through their actions.

And as Draco ruminated over this, he made a decision. If he was honest, he’d admit it was rather haphazard. As luck would have it, there was no pressing need to be honest, and as such, he convinced himself that his decision was a very meticulous one. A very meticulous one that had been made in a very short amount of time. Because Draco was brilliant enough to carefully make important, possibly life-changing, decisions in seconds. Of course.

He possessed powers, and as the great Uncle Ben had once said, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility. So, really, honestly speaking, Draco was literally obligated to completely ruin The Daily Prophet. It was a literal obligation. There was nothing to be done about it.

Draco ignored the sensation of his lips turning up as he began doing the one thing that caused him endless satisfaction, and his mother, endless headaches—he began making plans.

It was at 3 am that night that inspiration struck. It’d been so easy to manipulate that Colin-fellow. Sure, he’d under-estimated how well and truly obsessed Colin was with Potter, and had consequently fucked up, but it was the principle of the matter that struck out to him.

All he needed to completely ruin The Daily Prophet was to completely discredit them in the eyes of the population. Once the seed of doubt was planted, it was only time before discord grew large enough that people saw the propaganda for what it truly was. A domino effect would follow, with the most likely outcome that people would begin to turn to their phones, their tablets. It was a digital age, after all. So what if your preferred paper turned out to be rubbish? What better time to make the digital switch. The digital landscape was a world of its own, and it was populated by people from all corners of the world. 

And then… and then… Exposure, Education, Epiphany—The Three E’s of Success and the Destruction of Biased News Coverage.

It was simple, really.

The best way to do that was to manipulate what the reporters wrote, like what he’d done to Colin. Except, of course, he couldn’t use mind-control. The results were too unpredictable, and anyway, his mum would kill him. 

The only thing left was his telekinesis.

In other words, Draco would have to physically follow around a leading Daily Prophet reporter and fuck shit up. 

He couldn’t help his smile at the thought.

“Why are you following me.” Potter glared at him.

“If only you were that lucky.” Draco sneered back. The fucking gall of Potter to think he was following him.

“Seriously, Malfoy, stop it.”

He was so fucking impossible. “Get over yourself. I have better things to do than waste my time on you.” Draco eyed him disdainfully, “Tell me, you embarrassing idiot, how it’s possible to be so arrogant when you have nothing to be arrogant about.”

Potter flushed. It was hilarious, as always, but also Draco really didn’t have time for this. He sighed impatiently.

“Go on then, off you fuck.” Draco shooed him away, “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you grounded?”

Draco stared at him. After a while, he pointed a finger accusingly at his chest. “Oh my god, I knew it. No-one believed me, but I knew it. ‘Shut up, Draco,’ Pansy said when I told her, but no! I was right! You’re a stalker! I knew it! You stalk me.”

“You wish, Malfoy.”

“No, Potter, I don’t wish. It is, in fact, you who wishes, as is very strongly supported by the fact that you apparently stalk me and know all about extremely personal family details like the disciplinary rituals my mother engages in.”

Potter flushed again. “I—I don’t—I don’t stalk you. I—No, it was Hermione, she—”

“Granger stalks me?” Draco asked, horrified by the very thought. 

“What? No—”

“See.” nodded Draco, “It is you. You’re the stalker. I knew it. You dodgy git.”

Potter took a few deep breaths.

“Is this a new anger management strategy? I don’t think it’s working.”

Potter took another couple of deep breaths.

“Fuck’s sake, Potter, just stop, it’s not working.”

A muscle in Potter’s jaw twitched. “Hermione. Overheard. Parkinson. Tell. Bulstrode. Tha—”

“Speed it up, I have things to do,” Draco sighed loudly, “places to be, a life to live—I know it’s difficult for you to imagine, don’t hurt yourself.”

Potter threw his hands into the air and began speed walking away. With his required daily intake of Insulting Potter fulfilled, Draco meandered towards where he’d already ascertained Rita Skeeter would be. As he went over his plan in his mind, Draco was in a good enough mood to ignore his hair being completely ruined by the wind.

Maybe five minutes later: “Why.” Potter said. And then. “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s fine, don’t talk. Never talk again.”

Draco eyed Potter in silence. It seemed, for reasons currently unknown to Draco, that Potter would be present for the first part of Draco’s plan. Quickly going over the potential repercussions of this un-accounted variable, Draco confirmed that the only significant change would be how careful he’d have to be to not be caught. Draco walked directly into the crowd in an attempt to lose sight of Potter. 

And then, all too soon, it was time for action.

Skeeter was here to report on the opening of a new pub. Well, actually, she was really here to report on the person opening the new pub—a woman named Jane Court—an ex-convict who’d been released roughly two years ago. From what Draco had gathered—through the quick research he’d managed to fit in during French—Court had spent eleven months in custody for possession and illegal use of cocaine. At the time of her arrest, the papers had had a field day—drug misuse was common enough, but Court had the additional misfortune of being pretty well-known already. She was an up-and-coming chef with plans to open a restaurant of her very own in the heart of the city. Moreover, her father was a renowned celebrity psychiatrist, and Court herself had graduated from some of the most prestigious institutions—Hogwarts School of Academia; Fairdog University of the Culinary Arts. There was just so much for the press to latch onto and manipulate into sensationalist headlines. Themes of drug abuse, nepotism, mental health, corruption, and even Court’s own moral character, had come up. The people accepted the headlines like a parched throat to water. Nothing interesting had occurred for the longest time, and the population had rather missed speculating and watching as an up-and-coming personality lost it all in the matter of twelve hours.

That’s how long it had taken—twelve hours, and everything that Court had created, whether through the help of her connections or her own strength, had been completely lost. Before the scandal, she’d had a rather spotless image. Twelve hours, and people began spitting at her name. ‘Chef Jane Court’ turned into ‘Crack-head Court,’ and littered with waves upon waves of social-media abuse, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she was apprehended before the comments took a serious toll on her mental health. 

And here she stood now, three years later, thin to the point of frail, and a nervous, wounded air about her. Draco couldn’t find within himself the ability to scorn her. It’d been impossible to discern the truth from amongst all the data he’d researched, but he’d found it increasingly likely that the press had over-blown what had been—for lack of a more appropriate description—a simple drug scandal. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the press had done something like this, and anyway, Draco was a big believer in the potential for redemption. After she’d been released, Court had disappeared from the limelight and had ostensibly admitted herself to a rehabilitation facility. And now here she was, at the culmination of her efforts—her own pub, more bourgeois than her restaurant had promised to be, certainly, but after a complete destruction of her public persona, no less impressive in Draco’s eyes. That she had held on to her dreams, despite the sudden disastrous turn her life had taken, was worthy of immense respect.

And as she stood there, glancing nervously at the growing crowd of people surrounding the entrance, Draco felt a sudden protective instinct. And as he overheard a couple of reporters snickering about her choice of clothes, Draco felt a burgeoning anger. Was it so difficult for them to just let her live her life peacefully? It wasn’t even as if she’d publicised the opening of her new pub. How the press had found out, Draco hadn’t a clue, but he suspected they’d been keeping an eye on her for a while in order to squeeze out whatever sensationalist nonsense they could. He glanced at the snickering reporters and used his powers to unzip their pants. That he’d left it simply at that was a cause of great restraint on his part.

Draco scanned the crowd for Skeeter— ah, there she is. She stood towards the front, almost directly in front of Court, looking every bit like a blonde vulture. Draco bit his lip in concentration and moved to the side, in order to get a better view of both her and Court. He crossed his arms and watched as the reporters got ready to, no doubt, tear her apart once again. Let them try, Draco thought, vicious with his sudden protectiveness. 

A red haired woman stood next to Court, speaking with her in low tones. When the press began throwing questions, the red-haired woman took a step forward and intercepted.

“Ms. Court, have you gotten legal permission to open an establishment?” had been the pivotal question.

“Of course she has.” the red-haired woman snapped, “Have you gotten legal permission to ask her such pervasive questions after her validated restraining order?”

Undeterred, the reporter continued, “Ms. Court, why aren’t you answering for yourself—”

“I asked if you’ve legal permission to bring a news-coverage team onto Ms. Court’s new premises.” the red-haired woman interrupted, coldly.

This time, the reporter flinched. “Of course, we do—”

“Really?” the red-haired woman asked, “As her psychiatrist, I can’t recall approving anything of that sort.”

“The permission comes under freedom of pres—” the reporter began.

“Ms. Court owns the land you’re currently standing on. In legal terms, you’re on her property,” the red-haired woman glared, “and if she tells you to fuck off, you’re obligated to fuck off.”

Draco smiled. He liked the red-haired woman.

“Sh— she hasn’t sa—” 

The red-haired woman narrowed her eyes at the reporter. He flinched and then promptly shut up. Draco huffed a quiet laugh.

The red-haired woman muttered something to Court. What seemed like a short conversation later, Court cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can’t at this moment answer any of your questions,” Court began, in a timid voice, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you all to leave the premises.”

There was a quiet murmur of dissent. 

The reporter-idiot spoke up again—Draco narrowed his eyes and unzipped the idiot’s pants—“Are you afrai—”

The red-haired woman cleared her throat loudly. The reporter-idiot shut up again. 

The red-haired woman looked imploringly at Court. Court coughed, “Sorry, but I’ll have to ask you all to fuck off now, please.”

The red-haired woman smiled at the reporter-idiot smugly. Draco got a sudden shock of déjà vu. 

Court coughed again, before beginning awkwardly, “Uhm, also, well,” she lowered her voice a tad, “Sorry, but your trousers are unzipped.”

The reporter-idiot flushed. A few people began giggling. Draco took a positive note of who they were.

Then, Skeeter opened her vulture mouth.

“Jane Court.” Skeeter said, her voice clear and shrill above the steady murmur.

Court flinched at the sound. Draco recalled that Skeeter had been one of the primary reporters involved in Court’s case a few years ago. The red-haired woman eyed Skeeter suspiciously.

“Congratulations on overcoming your cocaine addiction.” began Skeeter, obsequiously, “It’s unbelievable how far you’ve come.”

Court nodded stiffly back, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ll still have to ask you all to leave.”

“Oh, we’re here to eat!” Skeeter smiled, gesturing for the cameraman to stop taking pictures, “Unless, of course, you’re driving away potential customers. I can’t recommend that’d be very good for business.”

Draco eyed Skeeter, and the pen sitting in her shirt pocket. Focusing on the fluttering in his chest, he began to unscrew the cap. Carefully, in this way, he removed the ink reservoir, snapped it, and let it fall to the ground. He did the same thing to all the pens he saw on her person. It’s amazing what I can get away with when no-ones paying attention.

The red-haired woman scoffed. “You’re the most curious bunch of customers I’ve ever met.”

Skeeter giggled. “Of course, seeing Ms. Court’s, shall we say, rather cracky past—oh, do loosen up, sweetheart, it was just a joke.” she aimed at Court’s involuntary shiver.

The red-haired woman bristled. Court put a hand on her shoulder and murmured something to her. A few of the reporters around them leant forward invasively. Draco unzipped all their trousers. 

“If you’re here as a customer, you’re more than welcome to stay,” Court said, her voice clearer than it had been before, “I opened this pub to sell my food and drink, after all.” 

“Of course, darling,” Skeeter smiled, and then continued in a patronising tone, “It’s so helpful having a rich father, isn’t it?”

“S— sorry, I don’t quite see why—”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, now,” said Skeeter, “We all know this new pub’s built on Daddy’s money.”

Court paled.

“Isn’t it?” Skeeter asked, taking the now inkless pen out of her pocket and opening a small notebook.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He eyed one of the broken reservoirs on the ground next to Skeeter and levitated it to rest behind her bare knee.

“No, Rita Skeeter,” managed Court, her voice oddly choked, “It’s not. I’ve opened this pub using my own abilities.”

“Oh, but Daddy’s money surel— eek!” Skeeter yelped as Draco stroked the back of her knee with the broken ink reservoir.

The people around Skeeter turned to look at her oddly.

Skeeter flushed, “Sorry, sorry, it must’ve been a bug.” She clicked the pen in her hands and began to write in her notebook. “Where were we, Ms. Cour— hmmm?” Skeeter frowned as she noticed her pen missing its ink reservoir. “Sorry about that, sorry, my pen— what?” She was now frowning down at two inkless pens. The people around her had begun to murmur amongst themselves while looking at her. “So sorry about the inconvenience, don’t mind m— what the fuck is happening?!” her voice lowered to a shrill whisper when she noticed the third inkless pen.

Draco swallowed a smile and stroked the back of her knee with a broken ink reservoir again.

“EEEK!!” Skeeter jumped and turned around frantically. Draco moved the broken ink reservoir into her skirt pocket. 

It was then that Skeeter noticed all the broken ink reservoirs around her feet. “Oh my god, oh my god, what is this,” she blanched.

A few of the reporters around her giggled. One or two flashes went off. 

“Rita, what the fuck are you doing?” asked her cameraman.

In front of the doors of the pub, the red-haired woman stared coldly at Skeeter. “If you’re quite done, Ms. Skeeter.”

Skeeter ignored her, turning to her cameraman accusingly, “What the fuck did you do to my pens, Arnold?”

“What?”

“My pens, Arnold!” Skeeter near-screeched, “What the fuck is this?!” she waved her inkless pens at Arnold’s face.

The giggles had spread around the crowd of reporters. Draco was pleased to find that Rita Skeeter was exactly as unpopular amongst those who worked in her field as the internet had suggested. 

Draco stroked the back of Skeeter’s neck with a broken ink reservoir.

“My pen— AAAAGGGHHHHH!” she yelled, slapping the back of her neck viciously. Draco stroked the back of her knee once again. “ARNOLD, GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFF ME!”

“There’s nothing on you,” Arnold looked at her in dismay.

Draco moved strands of Skeeter’s hair to wind around one of the hinges of her glasses. Then, coordinating it with when Skeeter swivelled around, Draco pushed her glasses off her face. They entangled with her hair and hung limply at the side of her head.

“ARNOLD!!!!” Skeeter wailed, tugging at her glasses to no avail as Draco stroked yet again at the back of her knee.

“You’re barking mad, Rita.” Arnold remarked. “I’m going home.” he said, as he began packing his things. He turned to Court, “I’m terribly sorry about this…” he added, while looking at her intently, “ all of this,”

Draco was even more pleased to find that Skeeter was exactly as unpopular amongst her own coworkers as the internet had suggested. He so loved it when things went according to plan. 

“It’s quite alright.” Court replied, faintly. Next to her, the red-haired woman snickered at Skeeter.

And then the reporter-idiot had to go and be a fucking idiot once again, “Ms. Court!” he bellowed above the ruckus Skeeter was creating over her pens, (“Was it you, Karen?!” she shouted as she pointed accusingly at the woman standing next to her) “Do you or do you not admit to adding cocaine to your dishe—”

Right. Draco thought, decisively, as he pulled down the reporter-idiot’s trousers.

“Jake, oh my god!” screeched who Draco assumed was the reporter-idiot’s co-worker.

Jake began cussing furiously as he leant down to pull his pants back up. When he was adequately bent over, Draco gave him a wedgie.

“MGHHHHH.” he groaned loudly, falling forwards to the ground as Draco twisted his trousers imperceptibly around his feet.

“I— I’m sorry about all this!” said the co-worker, hastily, to Court.

“It,” began Court, blinking, before shaking her head and continuing resolutely, “It’s not okay, actually. That accusation was false and highly offensive.”

“We could sue you for defamation.” added the red-haired woman, and then, with laughter in her voice, “And also public indecency. Jake—was it?—is that Thomas the Tank Engine I see?”

Jake began writhing on the ground trying to pull up his pants, his face completely red. Alas, Draco had wound them rather expertly around his feet and as thus his continued efforts were largely unsuccessful, and even quite counterproductive when in the effort to pull his trousers up—to the immediate horror of his coworker—his underwear began to slip downwards, revealing to all present the beginning of his butt crack. 

Poor Jake, thought Draco, completely unrepentant and with pleasure so high it bordered on bliss.

“Jake, what are you doing?!” hissed his coworker, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide both Jake’s Thomas The Tank Engine pants and the sliver of his extremely pale buttox from the shuttering cameras of the other reporters.

“YOU.” yelled Skeeter—except it didn’t quite have the effect she was looking for, given that she had spent the greater part of the last five minutes yelling at everyone around her. Her ‘YOU!’ was consequently lost in the pursuing chaos.

Skeeter, as the data had suggested, didn’t take to being ignored very well. “YOU!” she yelled again, “JANE COURT! YOU DID THIS!” 

The people around Skeeter turned to look at her incredulously. One woman even began to write something down on her notepad.

“KAREN!” yelled Skeeter, pulling the pen out of Karen’s hand and throwing it viciously at Court.

The pen got as far as a few metres before Draco halted its trajectory and threw it back at Skeeter’s face. The satisfaction he got as he watched it smack her moronic expression of shock was euphoric.

“YOU HAVE MAGIC!” screeched Skeeter, her eyes wide as her glasses hit the side of her face from where they were tangled in her hair.

“Yeah, and you have psychosis.” muttered Karen.

Then, as Draco moved the broken ink reservoir in Skeeter’s pocket to draw a small heart on the back of her knee, Skeeter promptly burst into tears.

The people around her took a few nervous steps away.

“God, Rita, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” began Karen, eyeing Skeeter restlessly.

Draco looked back at Court. He found, to his pleasant surprise, that she was laughing.

“I think,” Court started, a giggle lacing her words, “that perhaps you should all go home,” when a few reporters opened their mouths to object, she added, “Unless of course, you’d like to come inside for the opening of my new pub. As I’ve said before, you’re all welcome to join me as customers.” After a quick glance at Skeeter, she added, kindly, “I think some tea would be nice right now,” 

A few reporters around her laughed weakly as they voiced their assent. Others, notably a few with lowered zips, looked gratifyingly chagrined before nodding haltingly.

There were still one or two, however, that remained the scum of this earth and looked at Court suspiciously and with obvious callousness in their eyes. Draco didn’t wait for them to open their mouths. Draco was a man of action. He took one look at them, nodded imperceptibly, and then pulled down both their trousers.

“Kevin, for fuck’s sake.” said someone.

“John, god, there are children present!” said another.

The fact that no-one doubted the cause of this pantsing to be anything but self-inflicted said a lot about the characters of these two men. Draco took in a deep lungful of air and smiled as he felt the warm, tingling sensation of schadenfreude spreading across his chest. Even glancing away and making brief eye-contact with Potter across the crowd wasn’t enough to quell it.

Draco cheerfully gave Potter the finger and smiled wider as he saw him flush with anger.

“Well then,” called the red-haired women, “Without further ado…”

The doors to Jane Court’s pub—The Fair Heart—were thrown open to reveal a cosy brown and burnished gold interior. A bit like Remus’s hair, reminisced Draco, fondly.

“Welcome all,” smiled Court.

Everyone, including Arnold—who’d never really gone home at all, and had instead lingered around the sidelines—Draco, and also, unfortunately, Potter, ew, entered the pub.

Apart from Skeeter, Jake, Kevin and John—who’d all skedaddled away pretty fast-like despite Court’s quite altruistic inclusiveness—everyone else had an obviously lovely time. Watching as Court’s smile grew as the late afternoon melted into evening, Draco grinned to himself. 

“What will you have?” the red-haired woman asked Draco, from behind the bar.

Draco wondered whether he should risk asking for alcohol. He was still running on his success high. Oh, fuck it. “I’ll take a whisky, neat.”

The red-haired woman huffed a breath of laughter, “Pretty brave of you, asking for alcohol while wearing your school uniform.”

Shit. Happiness killed Draco’s IQ. “It was a joke, I’ll take some water.”

The red-haired woman smiled, “Sure.”

Draco drummed his fingers against the wood and scrolled through his messages.

Ugly Cow:

How was scrubbing titties LOL?

Oh, wait, i forgot who i was talking to:

How was scrubbing penises LOLOL?? ;0

^This is, quite literally, the most action u’ve ever gotten

And also, most probably, the most action u’ll ever get.

O my pathetic son, how u worry ur mother so

Draco rubbed his temple with his free hand, and texted Pansy back.

Me:

1. fuck u

2. ur not even 5% attractive enough to be my mother

3. I think i fcked u up permanently when I turned u into a dog that one time

^it’s the only explanation

“Your water,” the red-haired woman said, as she handed Draco his glass.

“Thank you,”

“No problem,” she smiled, nodding towards his sweater and adding, “I’m an alumnus, myself.”

Draco clicked off his phone, and nodded at her, “Is that how you know Chef Court?”

The red-haired woman made herself comfortable on a stool across Draco. She had very nice eyes, Draco noticed.

“No, she graduated a few cohorts after me—we met in therapy, I’m her psychiatrist,”

Draco swallowed his question about why she seemed to be working as a bartender for Court if that was the case. It was important to be tactful, after all. He smiled politely and nodded.

The red-haired woman smiled at Draco’s nod, “I’m helping her out today for the opening because she’s short on hands.”

Ah, Draco nodded again.

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself,” the red-haired woman realised, “I’m Lily,”

Draco wondered whether Lily knew Remus. (Oh, and Sirius.) “I’m Draco,”

Lily blinked, “What year are you in Draco?”

“Fifth.”

“Is your last name Malfoy?”

Draco looked at her suspiciously. She was a stranger, after all. “Sorry, do you perhaps know me? Or my parents?”

Lily laughed. Looking at her laughing face, Draco was hit, once again, with a sudden shock of déjà vu. 

“Or perhaps you know of me? Do you have a child in the school?” Oh my god, what if it’s someone I’ve bullied. “I’d like for you to know that the way that children interpret social situations is often very different to the reality of what happened. Memory is, after all, a very unreliable thing,” Draco looked at her intently, “As you well know, because you’re a psychiatrist.”

Lily laughed again, “Reconstructive memory, yes, I do know, actually.” She looked at Draco with interest, “My son talks about you all the time.”

Fuck.

“Oh, ahahaha, would you look at the time!—”

“Although he’s never mentioned before what a handsome, intelligent young man you are,” Lily continued.

Draco sat down. He wasn’t impervious to free praise. “Yes, well, reconstructive memory and all that.”

Lily smiled, “Of course.”

Draco recalled Remus and Sirius, “My parents are Hogwarts alumni as well, actually.”

“Ah yes, Malfoy, was it? Lucius Malfoy, yes, you look just like him—who did he marry again?”

“Narcissa Black,” Draco said, with pride, because his mother was awesome.

“Wait, Narcissa actually married him?” Lily asked, aghast. She then added quickly, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mea—”

“No, it’s fine, I get it.” Draco agreed. “My mum’s so out of his league.” 

Lily burst into laughter. “I take back what I said before, you’re just like your mother.”

Draco smiled, pleased, “She’s very beautiful.”

Lily smiled, “She is.” she peered at Draco, “You share her mannerisms, and her eyes.” 

“Did you know her?” Draco asked, curious.

“Not really—we have mutual friends,”

Mutual friends… “Are you talking about Remus?”

Lily nodded, surprised, “Yes, actually—and Sirius,”

Ah, right. Sirius. “Yeah, him.”

Lily laughed again. She had a very nice laugh. She also had very nice eyes. Where’s all this déjà vu coming from?

“Remus is the best.” Draco remarked, ignoring the déjà vu.

“I agree.”

Draco hummed for a while, and then blurted out, “Why did he marry Sirius.” 

Draco had been sick with chickenpox the week of their wedding and neither his mum or him had been able to go. Which, honestly, was a blessing in disguise. Draco had cried for hours when he saw the wedding photos.

Lily tutted sadly, “Nobody knows.”

Draco liked Lily very much. He smiled.

Lily lowered her tone to conspiratorial levels, “Sirius had a crush on him for ages when we were in school. He managed to pull himself together in seventh year and ask Remus out.”

“Why did Remus say yes.” Draco lamented.

Lily threw her head back in laughter, “You’re hilarious, Draco.”

“I know. But why did Remus say yes.” he repeated.

“Honestly,” Lily leant forward on the bar and tilted her hair as she reminisced, “We were all really surprised. I mean, it just seemed so hopeless. But then we were all at this party, and Sirius got himself pissed and James—that’s my husband, by the way—was too pissed to stop him, and he just, well, he got up on a table and pointed arrogantly at Remus and shouted—what did he say again? Oh, yeah— ‘I LOVESH YOU.’ and then he fell off the table.” Lily laughed a little to herself, “We were all like, ‘Oh shit,’ because we thought it was a definite rejection, but then Remus walked up to Sirius and pulled him up by the collar, and said, ‘I lovesh you too,’ and then he kissed him—”

“Stop.” said Draco, sorrowfully. “Please.” 

His crush on Remus had petered out with age, but Draco still cared about him very much. And, Sirius, well, he was a vagabond, basically. 

Lily smiled and patted Draco consolingly on the arm. “Let me get you some tea.”

While Lily got him some tea, Draco checked his phone.

Ugly cow:

Ur not even 5% attractive enough to be ur mother’s son.

Draco nodded at his phone screen.

Me:

Tru dat. 

“Here’s your tea.” Lily said.

“Thanks Lily,” Draco grinned, and then he looked behind her and he got a glimpse of Harry Fucking Potter walking out of the kitchen, and he stopped grinning. God, why is he still here.

Lily followed his line of sight. She asked Draco, “Do you know him?”

“No.” said Draco. And then, at Lily’s honest gaze, admitted, haltingly. “Ugh, yes, unwillingly.”

Lily nodded at Potter, “He seems like such a nice boy,”

“Yeah, well,”

“You don’t like him?” Lily asked.

Draco sipped his tea, “We don’t have the best relationship, no.”

“Oh?” said Lily, “I can’t imagine why, you both seem such lovely boys.”

Draco sipped some more tea, “I tried making friends with him the first time we met. He’s the one who rejected my friendship.” Draco sipped again, “This is lovely tea, by the way, it’s exactly how I take it.”

“I see.” Lily smiled, “Why did he reject it?”

“Oh, who knows.” Draco said, badtemperedly. “Probably thought himself too good for me or something.”

“Really?” frowned Lily, “But he seems like such a nice boy,”

“There was,” Draco scowled at his tea. “some insulting involved, on my part, I suppose.”

“You insulted him the first time you met him?” Lily asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t insult him. I insulted this other boy, and Potter just—he does this whole thing— it’s this whole sanctimonious ritual, I think he’d physically die if he didn’t—and I turned to Potter, because back then, I was kind of stupid and I thought he was cu— I wanted to be friends with him, maybe, I don’t know—and Potter just basically told me to shove it.” Draco sniffed. “It’s fine. I don’t care or anything. D’you have some more tea.”

“Ah, yeah.” Lily said, after a short pause. “I brought the kettle with me—here.” 

“Cheers,”

“No problem,” she said, “Why did you insult the first boy?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, “Are you trying to psycho-analyse me? Because I didn’t consent to being psycho-analysed, just so you know.” 

“I would never,” Lily smiled, very insincerely.

“Right, sure.” Draco laughed.

“So?” Lily probed, “Why did you insult the first boy?”

Draco paused. He sipped his tea quietly. “I wasn’t,” he frowned down at his tea cup, “I wasn’t a very nice person when I was younger. I’m not a very nice person in general.” he admitted. Lily frowned and opened her mouth to argue or something, but Draco just smiled at her kind of helplessly, “It’s fine, I’m working on it. I appreciate the sentiment, though, thank you.” he sipped his tea, “As I was saying, I’m not very nice—as you probably know already, from the stories your son’s told you—”

“Hey, what about reconstructive memory?” Lily asked gently.

So he has told her stories about me. Draco looked at her fondly, “You’re a nice person, Lily. I’m sorry for anything I’ve done to your son, I’m sure he didn’t deserve it. Most people don’t.” Draco pondered over the memory he had from first year, “Although, I suppose the Weasel—oh, that’s the name of the boy I insulted—he kind of did deserve it. We’ve known each other since we were quite young, you see—we went to the same kindergarten and we’re distantly related or something so occasionally I’d see him at family gatherings. We’ve never really gotten along, though, he’s just too, ugh, I don’t know, he’s just so ginger —Oh! Not that there’s anything wrong with gingers, or anything, your hair’s lovely, Lily,” Lily smiled, “Yeah, um, we just don’t get along in general, I suppose. And that, mixed with my general horribleness—well, I basically insulted his family for being poor,” Draco huffed, “Which I’m not proud of, because his family is kind of cool, actually—they’re super big and loud and he has all these siblings, I can’t imagine he’s ever bored—anyway, I insulted him for being poor because I didn’t like him, and—I don’t know—I guess he’d gotten friendly with Potter and he was flaunting it around in everyone’s face, and it kind of irked me.” 

“And Harry stood up for him?”

“Basically.” Draco sniffed.

“Wait,” Lily frowned, “So that’s how your—is that why you don’t like him?”

“Uh, ya?”

“Draco.”

“What? He said he didn’t want to be friends with me.”

“So you decided to be enemies instead.”

“Actually,” drawled Draco, feeling kind of embarrassed now that he’d actually explained everything to a medically trained professional, “We’re arch-nemeses, not enemies.”

“...Right.” said Lily, staring at Draco strangely.

“There’s a difference!”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get all psycho-analysis-y on me!”

Lily laughed, “Okay.”

Draco sniffed. “Okay.”

“So you hate Harry.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Lily refilled Draco’s empty teacup and muttered something under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing, nothing,” waved Lily, “So why do you hate him? And don’t you say it’s because of what happened when you were both in first-year.”

“No, it’s not because of that.” Draco smiled at her in acquiescence. “I hate Potter because… well, because I’ve always hated him. Because he acts all cool and—well, he’s got this sort of image in school, uhm, I guess he’s kind of the most popular in our year or something, I don’t know— personally, I find the whole concept of school-yard popularity demeaning and largely obstructive to healthy childhood development—but, whatever, yeah, so he’s the most popular in our year and everyone thinks he’s all perfect and whatever, but, he’s not, you know?—actually, you probably don’t, seeing as you’ve just met him.” Draco frowned at Potter as he served another customer, “Look, I know he seems all perfect and good but he’s not. He’s impulsive and hot-tempered, and honestly, I don’t know if you can tell but he’s a lot more reserved than he lets on,”

“I can tell,” Lily smiled softly.

“Right? Well, he hides all of that in school under this whole stupid facade. It’s just so stupid—he stands there, with the rugby lads, and the soccer lads and he laughs at their jokes, but he’s not laughing, you know? He’s just, I don’t know, he’s just kind of forcing himself to, whatever, fit in or something. I wouldn’t put it past him to not have realised it himself—to not have realised that he’s forcing himself. He’s pretty thick, I’ll be honest.” Draco flushed a bit, “I meant thick in the skull, not in the arse, in case you were wondering.”

Lily stared at Draco, “He’s forcing himself?”

Draco frowned, “Yeah, I think so.” After a while, he amended, “Well, not around everyone, I don’t think. He does have friends—he’s quite close to Weasel, actually, and also this other girl—her name’s Hermione Granger, maybe you’ve heard of her, she’s the biggest know-it-all in the grade.” Draco sighed as he fiddled with the handle of his cup, “They’re really tight-knit, always have been. I don’t think he ever forces himself around them. It’s just everyone else.” Draco paused before continuing, “I’m not quite sure how he managed it, but he’s somehow built this whole persona for himself, but it’s, well—it’s just too big and pure to fill. No-one’s ever good and happy and sociable all the time—even Potter. Somehow, though, he thinks he’s got to fill up these fucki— oops, sorry! Um, these, well, he thinks he’s got to fill up these metaphorical shoes.” Draco shrugged at Lily’s pained expression, “He just pushes himself and fakes it. He’ll laugh and nod at all the right times, and someone will be like ‘Oh Harry, you’re so perfect,’ and he’ll be like ‘Oh haha, yes, I am,’” Draco had used falsetto for the fake dialogue in order to make Lily laugh again. It didn’t work. She looked down at the table-top in a distressed fashion.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked her, his voice soft.

She nodded, “It’s… I never would have imagined it, looking at him. It made me think of all the things I must not have imagined about my own child.”

Draco winced, “If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure Potter is just more reticent than most people. It’s part of his nature, I suppose. Ironic, really, given how he’s all, well, that.” Draco gestured towards where some girl was probably asking Potter for his number. Draco rolled his eyes at Lily, as if to say: Look at him, what can you do? “I’m sure your son’s not as taciturn.”

Lily remained silent for a while. Then, glancing at Potter sadly, she began, “It just made me a bit upset. He’s just a child, after all. I wonder if he’s ever told his mother about, well, everything.”

Draco frowned again, “He probably hasn’t, knowing him.”

Lily smiled miserably. She looked a bit like she wanted to cry. It upset Draco—he had a special spot in his heart for Mothers.

He leant forward to take hold of Lily’s hand. “I mean, it’s not all bad, though,” he began, “Most people—at our age, especially—pretend to be people they’re not to fit in. It’s quite normal, I think. I do it as well—well, not to Potter’s extent, but, uhm—so what if Potter’s version of trying to fit in is incredibly intense? Everything Potter-versioned is on steroids. He’s weird that way. And anyways, I hate to say it, but Potter’s a fighter. He’ll get through this—and, knowing him, he’ll get through it stronger than ever.” Draco squeezed Lily’s hand. “Potter’s the biggest idiot I know, and you know what’s so great about idiots? They’re all stupidly optimistic. All of them are fighters. Honestly, I have no idea how they do it.” Draco smiled at Lily’s smile and repeated, “Potter’s a fighter. He’s the biggest fighter of them all—no, seriously, I would know, we fight everyday, literally—look, d’you see this black eye? Yeah, that was all him.” Draco glanced caustically at Potter and shook his head. “How could he do that to my beautiful face, he’s such a heathen— what’s so funny.”

Lily was laughing, “Nothing—ppppfffft—”

“What.” snapped Draco, feigning outrage, “You don’t think my face is beautiful?”

“No, no, it’s beautiful, it’s—pfffffftt—”

“Wow—Worst. Psychiatrist. Ever.”

Lily laughed outright and hugged Draco across the bar. “You’re darling.”

Draco made a noise of pure outrage, “I am absolutely not.”

Lily hugged him tighter, “You absolutely are.”

“No, absolutely not—”

“Er.” coughed Potter’s voice.

“We’re having a moment, Potter, go away.” Draco snapped.

“Hugging across the bar isn’t allowed, you’re obstructing business.” Potter’s voice called back, coldly.

Lily let go of Draco and slid back across the bar. “Sorry about that, Harry.”

Potter sighed, “It’s fine, m—”

Lily began coughing violently. Draco frowned at her, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she turned towards Potter, “You should get back to work now.”

Potter looked at her strangely. He turned towards Draco, “You.”

“What.” Draco returned.

“Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

Draco eyed him. He then turned to Lily, “Once, Potter’s girlfriend tried to hold hands with him in public and he slapped her across the face.”

“Malfoy!” screeched Potter, “It was an accident!— listen, m— uh, Mrs. um, Evans, uh—oh my god—listen, it was an accident. I wasn’t expecting her to suddenly—er—”

“Attempt normal, everyday affection?” asked Draco, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Shut. Up.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Did you just tell me to shut up. I could file a complaint to your boss and get you fired.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would, just for fun.”

“I hate you.”

“The sentiment is mutual.”

Lily’s laugh interrupted their insult-exchange. “I see.”

Draco turned towards her, “Stop psycho-analysing us, I haven’t consented.”

“Sure.” she said, with all insincerity.

Draco hid a smile, “Is your son as infuriating as you?”

“You know what, I think I should get back to work now,” said Potter, completely unnecessarily because no-one cared.

“You know what, I think you should.” Lily waved him away.

“Well?” Draco repeated, after Potter had left, “Your son?”

Lily smiled at him, “I think you’ll find he’s a thousand times more infuriating than me.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Lily laughed, “What were we talking about before we were interrupted?”

“My beautiful face?”

“Pfffft, sure—no, it was, ah! Yes—so, why do you hate Harry? You never finished,”

Draco huffed impatiently, “I hate him because every time I see him I hate myself. Can we talk about something else now?”

Lily stared at him. After a while, “Draco…”

“Oh, don’t.”

“I won’t.”

“You already are!”

Lily huffed, “I can’t help it, I’m a psychiatrist.”

Draco sighed loudly. “D’you have anymore tea.”

“Yeah, here.” she poured him his fourth cup, “Go on then, explain yourself. You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”

“Wow, a free consultation, lucky me.” he drawled.

“Yeah, lucky you. Now spit it out.”

Draco sipped some tea. “I get it, okay? I get that a lot of it is—whatever!— personal insecurities and misplaced anger. I get it, so you don’t have to psycho-rubbish me. But I can’t help it, alright. Everytime I see him, I just remember the flaws in myself. And I hate him for it. It’s not his fault, exactly, but it’s not not his fault either. No-one asked him to flaunt around everything that I’m not. He does it all by himself. I hate myself when I’m around him, and eventually, I just thought, well, why hate myself when I could just hate him? I already hated him for being annoying and always picking fights with me and, well—the whole first-year thing really got out of hand, we’ve been perpetually horrible to each other over the years—it’s basically second-nature—you saw us just now, didn’t you? That’s us all the time, except just now was a thousand times more civil than usual because I don’t want to swear in front of a lady such as yourself—”

“I’m honoured, Draco.”

“Yeah, whatever—I hated him anyway, and so I thought why not just really hate him? Why not just push all of my self-contempt onto him?—and I know it’s not healthy, or, or—ugh—I get it, okay, I’m quite intelligent, I understand.” Draco shrugged. “It is what it is. I hate him, and I can’t help it. Every time I see him, something in me dies and my day gets a little more horrible. The only thing that makes it a little more manageable is that sometimes I piss him off more than he pisses me off and I know for a fact that I’ve made his day a little more horrible too.”

Lily stared at him.

“I get it! It’s not healthy! Whatever!”

Lily cleared her throat. “Uh, so long as you’re aware”

Draco scowled. He looked around the bar, and then out the window, and then his heart jumped out of his chest because it was completely dark and fucking shit, he’d been there for way too long.

“What time is it?” he asked Lily, frantically.

“Uhmmm… Twenty past.”

“Twenty past what exactly.”

“Twenty past eight.”

Draco laughed mirthlessly, feeling his soul leak out of every one of his open orifices. He had a history test in class tomorrow. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

“Draco?”

Draco turned to Lily, “How much do I owe you?” 

“It’s on the house, since it’s opening day.”

“Right, well, please do tell Chef Court that her bar’s absolutely lovely. It’s been nice getting to speak with you, but I really should be sprinting all the way home now,”

“Oh! Yes, likewise, Draco—do contact me anytime you’d like to talk about anything—”

“Yeah, no, I don’t do stuff like that.”

“You’ve been doing it all evening?—”

“Haha, silly you, okay bye!” Draco began rushing away. He turned backwards quickly to say, “Tell your son I’m sorry I was horrible to him!”

Lily made a complicated face, “Uh—”

Still rushing out while looking backwards, Draco didn’t quite manage to catch himself before he bumped into Potter.

“God, you incorrigible buffoon, can you do anything right?!” Draco snarled at his surprised face, “Go stick a cactus up your arse.” Then, he waved backwards at Lily, “Bye!”

As he rushed out of the doors, he heard the sound of faint laughter and Lily’s quick, “Bye lovely.” 

“Shite, I didn’t study for that at all.” Blaise groaned, “Did the formation of NATO come before or after soviet expansion?”

“Fuck if I know,” Draco replied. And then, “Wait, actually, I do know—it came after, as a response to the USSR’s growing influence.”

“You said you didn’t study!”

“I didn’t, it’s causation.”

“Lies!” exclaimed Blaise. And then, muttering to himself, “The fuck is causation?”

Draco stared at Blaise, nonplussed as he pointed at his own face, “Does this look like a well-rested face to you.”

“If you’re not sleeping you’re studying, you lying git.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “All I did was read through the textbook,”

“What the fuck do you mean that’s all you did, what else are you meant to do?”

“Make an annotated timeline? Write up practice questions?”

“You.” said Blaise, “I despise you.”

“No you don’t.” Draco yawned.

“No I don’t.” Blaise agreed. “But if you do well on this test and the rest of us fail I will despise you.”

“What did you talk about in the essay?”

“I made up some bullshit about how the Iron Curtain speech led to the Truman Doctrine.”

“Blaise, you ingenious idiot. The Iron Curtain speech did lead to the Truman Doctrine.”

“Fuck yeah,” Blaise grinned, “I love myself.”

“That is causation, by the way.”

“No, My Little Draconian Friend, that is genius.”

Draco eyed Blaise contemptuously. “If you do better on this test than me, I’ll despise you.”

“That’s not a very healthy mindset, Dracon.” Blaise tutted.

“Oh, says you.”

“We’re not a very healthy people.” Blaise agreed. “Healthy people are overrated, anyway. What say we bet over who does better? Whoever loses has to buy the other a meal.”

A date? Draco didn’t ask, because it really wasn’t. Blaise, Pansy and him went to Nando's on a weekly basis.

“That’s boring. Whoever loses has to dress up in drag.”

“Oh Draco, just dress up in drag if you want to. You don’t need to subject yourself to the humiliation of losing a bet to find an excuse.”

“Shut up, that’s not what this is about.”

“Whatever you say, Dracon, you little lying git.”

Draco gave Blaise a dirty look and opened his phone. He scrolled through the news headlines. He was pleased, once again, to find that any relevant stories about Jane Court and her new pub were positive. He was even more pleased to find that any sensationalist headlines that were present poked fun at Skeeter and the Daily Prophet. There was no particular news from The Daily Prophet itself. The plan, so far, was working. Now Draco had to observe things for a few days before planning out his next move. He hoped to ruin The Daily Prophet a few weeks before the referendum occurred.

“What’s got you so pleased?” Blaise asked.

Draco clicked his phone shut, “Imagining you in drag.”

“Sure it’s not finally getting the right excuse to wear drag yourself?”

“When I wear drag, it definitely won’t be because I’ve lost to you —hey, wait, is that Looney?”

Blaise squinted towards where Draco was frowning. “Oh crap, what’s she done this time?”

Draco shot him an annoyed look, “She’s done nothing. Everyone just refuses to let her be.”

“Sure,” Blaise lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “It looks like she might be in a bit of trouble, though. What d’you want to do—wait, Draco!”

But Draco didn’t hear the next part—he was too busy striding towards where his second-cousin, Luna Lovegood, was currently being cornered by a group of Arseholes from her year.

“...was the nigglies, was it?” snickered Arsehole #1.

Looney blinked up at Arsehole #1 slowly, “The Nargles, I believe. They’re very fond of knit-wear, but I would like them back, all the same.”

Draco clenched his fist, slowing his stride in order to gather more information about the situation before charging in and potentially making things worse.

“Yeah, the nigglies.” patronised Arsehole #2, “Jesus, you’re absolutely dotty aren’t you.”

“Aren’t we all, in our own way?” Luna asked.

“Fuck no, you crazy bint.” returned Arsehole #1. “Stop posting stuff like this all over school.” he threw a crumpled piece of paper at Luna’s face.

“That wasn’t very nice, how will the Nargles know—”

“If you don’t stop, you might find the nigglies taking more of your stuff. Like those batty vegetables you’re so obsessed with.”

Luna touched her earrings, “I’d really rather they didn’t take my radishes, they’re my favourite.”

Arsehole #1 stepped towards her, “Make sure you’re recording all of this.”

And that’s when Draco noticed Arsehole #3 recording everything with his phone.

Luna, the idiot, didn’t step back from the looming Arseholes, but rather, simply looked up and said, “You can be a little frightening sometimes, can’t you? I noticed when you shook everything out of my bookbag the other day,” she turned her head, “It was quite surprising, I had to take a few moments to calm my inner waves, afterwards—oh, Draco, how are you?” Luna smiled when she noticed Draco, “So nice of you to join us, we were talking about the Nargles taking my things. Although, it seems these people don’t want the Nargles to—Draco? You’re wearing a very scary face, it must be the Wrackspurts.”

Draco made sure his voice was level when he stepped forward towards Luna, “What did the Nargles take, Looney?”

Luna frowned in concentration before answering, “They took some of my clothes—my school sweater and my stripy socks. I wonder if they’re feeling colder now that it’s November?”

Draco nodded, taking another step forward, “Is that all they took?”

“Well, no, they also took my beetles and one my books—the one about the jumping magician—oh, and my favourite turquoise pen.” Luna paused, “I can’t seem to find my shoes, either, but I don’t want to accuse the Nargles of too much. They get offended, if you’re not careful.”

Draco glanced at the snickering Arseholes. He turned back to Luna, irritated, and lowered his voice, “Looney, are you stupid or something?”

Luna frowned at Draco, “I don’t believe so.”

“Looney.” hissed Draco, “The Nargles didn’t take your things, these Arseholes over here did.”

“Really?” Luna turned to the Arseholes, “Did you take my things? I can’t see why you would—oh,” she said, her voice small, “Are you bullying me?”

“Yes, they’re bullying you, you idiot,” Draco grit out in a low tone as the Arseholes howled in laughter in the background, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?!” 

“I thought,” began Luna, her voice still heartbreakingly small, “that maybe they wanted to be friends with me.”

Draco stared at her. He then turned to the Arseholes and, following the fluttering in his chest, threw Arsehole #3’s phone on the floor. It cracked in a very splendid manner.

“Mate, what the fuck?” Arsehole #1 frowned at Arsehole #3. 

Luna blinked slowly at the scene.

“D’you think the Nargles are angry for being framed?” asked Draco, innocently.

Luna smiled up at him softly. “I think it might actually be the Wrackspurts.”

Draco grinned at her and turned insouciantly back to the Arseholes, who were currently pondering over how a phone could break so very completely due to a fall to the ground.

“The Nargles, you see,” began Draco, darkly, “don’t like being fucked around with.” 

He used his powers to pull Arsehole #1’s scarf and wrap it around his head. Pandemonium ensued.

“What’s happening?!” came the muffled cry of Arsehole #1.

“It—by itself,” Arsehole #4 turned his pale face towards Luna’s guileless stare and gasped in horror. “The nigglies!” 

“Fuck!”

“Behold the wrath of the Nargles, you ungrateful worms.” bellowed Draco above the screaming and general freaking out. 

Arsehole #2 began wringing his hands in anxiety, “Wh— what do we—” he began crossing himself and muttering, “Forgive us, Heavenly Father, for we have sinne—”

Draco covered Arsehole #2’s face with his scarf. Arsehole #3 burst into tears at the scene.

“Run.” said Draco.

Luna giggled as the Arseholes fled in terror. “I do hope they’ll return my things now.”

Draco turned to glare down at her. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Barring the obvious, of course.”

Luna smiled at him, “Don’t be angry, Draco, you’ll attract more Wrackspurts—they’re always following you around when you don’t get enough sleep the night before.”

“Does Xenophilius know?” demanded Draco, undeterred, “Why didn’t you tell anyone, Luna? You can’t just do stuff like that!”

Luna wrinkled her nose. “I really did think it was the Nargles.”

Draco stared at her accusingly. “And?”

“And I liked that those people were talking to me.” Luna shrugged a little, “No-one ever really talks to me, they think I’m barmy.”

Draco stamped his foot down on the floor in an embarrassing rush of anger, “I’ll talk to you. Just—just stop entertaining trash.”

Luna stared at him, “But you told me not to speak to you in school, you said that you were embarra—”

“I know what I said.” Draco interrupted, frustrated, “I’m an arsehole. I take it all back. Talk to me in school, Looney.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Oh, I think you’re barking mad.” Draco answered, “But so am I, in my own way.”

Luna smiled. 

“Draco!” called Pansy’s shrill voice. “Are you crazy?”

The irony, Draco thought, before he processed the situation and promptly winced. “Any chance the Wrackspurts might spirit me away before Pansy gets here?”

“The chances are low,” Luna looked back at him grimly, “Pansy has red-waves, you see.”

Draco nodded in resignation.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, you irresponsible piece of pointy—oh, hi Looney—what is wrong with you, how could you use your—your— you know what, Draco Malfoy, don’t make me say it out loud!”

Draco turned to Pansy. He then glanced at Blaise, who shrugged back at him apologetically. “I didn’t know how to stop you,”

The betrayal. Draco shook his head sadly at the floor.

“Pansy,” he began, “This is all because you have red-waves.”

Luna nodded, from Draco’s side.

Pansy stared at Draco incredulously, “You’re— what did you just say to me—”

After his daily punishment of scrubbing titties over with, Draco collapsed on the backseat of his chauffeured car. He was grateful, at least, that the chauffeur was back. His mother had been very close to spitting actual ice-shards when he’d come back home last night. And now he was double-grounded. Which, honestly, was so unfair, because it’s not even like he’d done anything worthy of being double-grounded, except, he supposed, break the terms of his initial grounding, use his powers in public, try to buy alcohol while wearing his school uniform, stay up all night regardless of his mum’s explicit commands to not pull another all-nighter, and—well, that’s it. It wasn’t that bad. Probably. His mother didn’t even know that he’d used his powers in public and tried to buy alcohol, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Draco. But, well.

Anyways, Draco was happy that the chauffeur was back.

“Welcome back, Maximilian.”

“Thank you, Draco—did you have a nice day at school, today?”

Draco scowled out his window, “No.”

“Was that Potter-fellow rude to you again?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me of him. I had a history test today.”

“Ah, another all-nighter?”

“Yeah, I’m exhausted.”

“They stunt your growth, you know.”

Draco crossed his arms and slumped even further into the backseat. “Yeah, well, bad-grades stunt my self-esteem, and I’d rather be a happy midget than an insecure giant.”

Maximilian laughed and shook his head as he pulled them out of the Hogwarts drive-in.

“Turn on some music, will you?”

Maximilian switched on what Pansy liked to call ‘screeching whale noises.’ 

“Thanks.”

It was another maybe five minutes before Draco remembered his manners.

“How was your daughter’s wedding?”

“It was great,” answered Maximilian, pleasantly surprised, “I didn’t think you cared enough to ask, thank you Draco.”

“I,” sniffed Draco, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Maximilian returned, a smile in his voice. “Her husband’s an idiot but he’s nice enough, I suppose.”

Draco nodded out the window, “It’s better for her if he’s an idiot, she can manipulate him.”

“Jesus.” Maximilian laughed.

“I’m serious.” Draco said, “It helps to restore the power balance if she can manipulate him—misogyny is the root of marital misconduct, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah—turn down the music, please—if he’s an idiot, you don’t really have to worry about her being emotionally abused by him or treated unfairly. It’s important for her to hold the power in her marriage.”

“I’ve never really thought about it that way.” Maximilian said, faintly.

“That’s why you’re divorced, Maximilian.” Draco returned. “And also an idiot. Idiots rarely ever know that they’re being manipulated.”

Maximilian remained silent for a while. And then, “How’s the whole ‘being nicer,’ thing working out for you, by the way?”

“I see what you did there, Maximilian. I’ve taught you well.”

Maximilian sniffed, “And the reason I got divorced wasn’t because I was being manipulated, it was because my ex-husband couldn’t accept that I was transgender, and refused to let me transition.”

“Exactly, see? You married a bastard instead of an idiot, and that’s why your marriage fell apart.”

“We need to work on your definition of ‘nicer,’ Draco.”

“I’m offering you consolation, Maximilian, how much ‘nicer’ can I possibly be?” Draco defended himself, “You don’t have to worry about your daughter now, her idiot-husband won’t be capable of doing anything other than loving and supporting her.”

Maximilian hummed as he slowed the car at the stop sign. He began, a bit anxiously, “What if it turns out he’s not an idiot? Rosie’s simple-minded, she won’t—oh my god—what did you say was the root of marital misconduct again?”

“Misogyny.”

“Rosie won’t even realise that she’s being taken advantage of—”

“Calm down, Maximilian.” commanded Draco, “Rosie an intelligent woman, I’m sure she’s already instilled a healthy amount of fear in her husband’s heart.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, knowing Rosie—how did he react when he saw her walking down the aisle, by the way?”

“He started crying like a baby, he couldn’t even say his vows properly.”

“And how did he react the first time he met you?”

“He misgendered me by accident a few times but apologised immediately and at length. It was a bit excessive, actually.”

“See?” Draco smiled, “Pure-hearted, emotional, dim-witted—he’s a bonafide idiot. Good on Rosie.”

Maximilian sighed in relief and whirred the car forward as the traffic light changed. “D’you think I should start scouting out divorce lawyers, just in case?”

“Oh, definitely—it’s best to be safe, although I doubt that you’ll need one from what you’ve told me.” Draco hummed as he looked out the window, “You know what, bring them over for lunch the next time Father’s away and I’ll figure out for myself what kind of person he is. If need be, I’ll instil fear in his heart myself.”

Maximilian started laughing, “How very kind of you to emotionally scar him for Rosie’s sake.”

“Oh, child’s play—I’ll get mum to join in, he’ll never dare cross Rosie wrong afterwards.”

“God help Jerry,” Maximilian chuckled.

“Ew, his name is Jerry? That’s so philistine, Rosie can do so much better.”

“Draco,” castigated Maximilian, still laughing. 

“I can’t believe you’re related to someone named Jerry now. Maybe we can bully him into legally changing his name when he comes over,” 

“Draco.” laughed Maximilian.

“Oh come on, think about Rosie. She’s going to have to publicly admit to being married to a man named Jerry. Imagine.”

“I don’t think the whole ‘being nicer,’ thing is working out for you very well, Draco.”

“Pah.” said Draco, “Turn the volume back up.”

Draco calmly listened to beautiful screeching whales as he stared out the window. As they drove past a department store, Draco remembered Luna’s missing things. He honestly doubted she’d ever get them back.

“Wait, Maximilian, can we drop by ASDA or something, really quickly?”

“Uh, sorry Draco, your mum, well, she told me you were grounded.”

Fuck. “It’ll be really quick, I promise.”

Maximilian coughed awkwardly, “I’m afraid I can’t go against her direct commands. D’you remember last year? You don’t want to get triple -grounded again, do you?”

“What she doesn’t know—oh for god’s sake, turn off the bloody whales—what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Or me. Or you.”

“I’m too scared of her to risk being an accomplice.”

Draco sighed disappointedly. “It’s for Looney, Maximilian—some wankers at school stole her stuff.”

“What? Did she report them?”

“No.” said Draco, sourly, “She thought they were just being friendly.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Exactly. I’ll buy her some things to replace what was stolen.”

Maximilian pursed his lips, “Draco—”

“Oh, come on, it’s for Looney. She made you that weird hat when she was five.”

Maximilian groaned. “Fine. Fine. But you have to promise it’ll be quick.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Draco. I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

“Right.” Maximilian shot him a skeptical look through the rearview mirror. “I’m pushing all the blame on you if we get caught.”

Draco grinned back at him, “I’d expect nothing less.”

What did she say was stolen again? Draco racked his memory. Her favourite turquoise pen, her school sweater, her stripy socks. What else? Her book about that crazy jumping magician, her school shoes… oh! And her beetles, whatever that meant. Knowing Luna, it could be anything.

Draco speed-walked through the stationary section, picking up a packet of multicoloured gel pens, and a replica of Looney’s favourite turquoise pen—lost forever, but never forgotten—as well as a yellow coloured version because he thought Looney might like the strangeness of yellow ink.

He picked her up a non-fiction book titled ‘The Most Fascinating Creatures Known to Man, Both Real and Imagined,’ from the books section, because she read way too much fiction, and at least this was mildly informative.

He pondered over what the fuck he was meant to do about ‘beetles,’ before he remembered her radishes and began to make his way to the miscellaneous knick-knacks section. After a stressful thirty minutes of being stared at strangely by some old woman in the corner, Draco finally found a single green beetle earring. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he cussed, as he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket for what was now the umpteenth time. Maximilian was such a coward in the face of his mum’s ire. 

“There’s another Beetle in there,” called the staring old woman in lovely accented tones, “Don’t fret, child.”

Draco lamented over the state of his life that he was now being consoled by some strange old woman over the existence of beetle earrings. Still though, he appreciated the help.

“Thank you, uh—”

“It’s Misha,”

“Yes, thank you Ms. Misha,” Draco smiled at her politely. 

“No worries, kushti .” Misha nodded, “In my tribe, beetles are regarded as auspicious.”

Draco’s curiosity peaked, “Oh? What tribe are you from, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Misha smiled, the creases in her sandalwood skin shifting, “We have many names, but none in your tongue.”

Draco grinned, “That’s so cool.”

Misha smiled wider, “Thank you, kushti, I shall help you search for your beetle in exchange for this compliment.”

“You could always compliment me back,” Draco offered.

Misha laughed, the sound like tinkling wind chimes, “You are a strange and funny child.”

Draco decided to take that as a compliment, “So I’ve been told.” 

Misha and him dug through the big pit of accessories together.

“What do beetles represent in your tribe?” asked Draco after a very short while (because he’d probably never get the chance to meet someone from Misha’s tribe again).

“Intelligence, sometimes.” Misha began, “Luck, other times. In particular moments, hmmm, how do you say—ah, yes—intuition, I believe you call it. The meaning of things is more capricious where I come from.”

“That is so cool.” Draco repeated. “I’m buying these earrings for my cousin, actually. She’s quite intelligent and intuitive, herself. Her earrings got stolen, you see, so she could also do with some luck.” 

“The beetles are fitting,” Misha nodded, “You are a good brother.”

Draco laughed at the irony.

Misha looked at him, her gaze sharp. “I did not say you were nice, I said you were good. There is a fundamental difference.”

Draco got an odd feeling in his chest. He looked at Misha carefully.

Misha smiled at his sudden scrutinisation. “Quite intelligent, as well.”

They searched for the beetle in silence. 

“You knew I was searching for beetles.” said Draco, after a while.

“Yes.” Misha replied, simply.

“That’s why you were staring at me earlier.”

“No.” Misha smiled, “I was staring because you are being followed by what my people call djinn.”

Draco felt his pulse speed up slightly, “Are they dangerous.”

“Not in your context.” Misha answered, “They are just attracted to your exhaustion and bad-temper.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Draco laughed, vaguely, mirthlessly.

“Do not be scared, child.” Misha said. “They won’t harm you. It is just rare for so many to follow a single person. It is a show of your powers.”

Draco snapped his eyes to her.

“Do not be scared.” she repeated.

“I’m not.”

“You lie.” Misha smiled.

“Maybe a little,” Draco admitted. After a short silence he continued, “So is this the moment you tell me I’m the chosen one or something?”

Misha burst out laughing, “You talk nonsense, funny child.”

“Oh, come on, nothing?” Draco sulked, “That’s so unfair, I totally thought this was my moment.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“You—well, you were being all cryptic and mysterious and—you know—we did that little thing, there, with the building tension and all.”

Misha cackled gleefully, “You nonsense-child.”

Draco sulked into the accessories. “I’m glad you find my sorrow amusing.”

“Very amusing.” Misha chortled.

“You’re seriously not even going to give me any life-changing advice?” Draco pouted.

“Do not overthink your interactions with beautiful strangers.”

“Oh, very funny.” moped Draco as Misha continued cackling unkindly. “Yes, go ahead, keep laughing at my misfortune. Don’t mind me.”

Misha did continue laughing. For a solid five minutes. That old hag.

“You old hag.” said Draco.

That set her off again for another three minutes.

“Yes, you’ll do well.” Misha smiled, a linger of laughter in her voice.

“Stop being cryptic! You’re getting my hopes up!” scowled Draco, turning away to reject a call on his phone.

“Oh, Draco,” Misha laughed.

Draco frowned, turning back, “How do you know my name?” he asked the empty space in front of him. “Oh, seriously? You’re pulling a cryptic vanishing act on me? Wow, you horrible old woman.”

He scowled down at the accessories in front of him, only to see an incandescent silver beetle earring next to the green beetle earring he’d found earlier.

“I can’t believe you got such a cool exit.” complained Draco, loudly, on the off-chance that she was maybe lingering about. Some spotty bloke gave Draco a strange look. Draco smiled at him coldly, “I’m sorry, are you admiring my beauty? Is that why you’re looking at me?” The spotty-bloke looked away pretty fast-ish after that.

Draco moped as he stared down at the two strange, but nonetheless well matched earrings on the table. He thought he could hear a distant laughter.

After that strange encounter, it was all Draco could do to speed-walk to the clothes section and pick out things he thought Luna would like: thigh-high striped socks, thigh-high spotted socks, thigh-high blue socks decorated with black ravens. (Looney really liked her socks.)

Draco spotted some black sheers and remembered his bet with Blaise. He put some in his basket. And then he put in a black minidress for good measure. And a pencil skirt, and a frilly button-down, and a pink camisole and— wow, shopping for women's clothes is so much fun.

For Luna, he found an oversized fuzzy green caterpillar hoodie. He couldn’t, at this moment, do anything about her stolen school shoes and school sweater, so he tried to make up for it with other clothes and also because shopping for women's clothes is SO much fun, and wow, that colour would go SO well with Looney’s complexion—oooh, and this dress would fit her slender figure SO perfectly, why doesn’t she dress like this normally, her style is so trash, I have to educate her one day— Draco abruptly realised that he was holding a mountain of women's clothes in his arms. Chagrined, he put half of them back. 

He kept the other half. Because he refused to be controlled by societal expectations. And also because they were surprisingly nice for department store clothes.

Feeling his phone buzzing incessantly in his pocket, Draco rushed to the check-out. He plucked out a long-haired women’s wig on the way for his bet with Blaise. And then, near sprinting, Draco neatly joined the shortest queue, and in ten minutes he was walking out the store with three full shopping bags. Perhaps he’d gone a little overboard.

His phone buzzed again. Draco dug it out from inside his pocket and winced when he saw the notifications. 32 missed calls and 12 messages from Maximilian. The last four said:

Maximilian: Hurry up!

Maximilian: Where are you?

Maximilian: Your mum called. I’m leaving.

Maximilian: Good luck. RESTINPEACE.gif.

Draco sighed mournfully. What the fuck was up with this week. He consoled himself that at least he’d gotten Looney some nice beetle earrings. Oh, and that his plan to ruin The Daily Prophet was well underway. And then Draco scrolled through his notifications once again and frowned.

17 missed calls and 40 messages from Ugly Cow. The last two messages said:

Ugly Cow: PICK UP.

Ugly Cow: I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.

Draco looked at his phone ominously. What the fuck. He deliberated just ignoring her.

And then Pansy called again. Draco pressed the answer button and held his phone thirty centimetres away from his ear.

“DRACO MALFOY, WHY WEREN’T YOU PICKING UP YOUR PHONE—” came Pansy’s ear-shattering shriek.

Draco walked slowly to the nearest bus stop. “I was buying stuff for Loone—”

“DON’T YOU DARE INTERRUPT ME.”

Well then. Draco sighed mournfully.

“OF ALL THE IRRESPONSIBLE, STUPID, IDIOTIC THINGS YOU’VE EVER DONE, THIS IS BY FAR—AND I MEAN, BY FAR—THE ABSOLUTE WORST. HOW COULD YOU?!”

Draco swallowed down his rebuttal that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiotic’ were in fact synonyms and using them to describe the same action really just made Pansy seem kind of dim. 

“I thought we got over the moment with Luna at school.” Draco said, instead.

“Oh for fu— I’m talking about what you did to Rita-fucking-Skeeter!”

Draco’s blood froze.

“How do you know about that?” Draco hushed.

“How do I— how do I know?— the video’s all over Twitter you fucking knobhead!”

Draco swore. “Am I in it?”

There was no reply.

“Pansy, listen to me, this is important.” Draco repeated, “Am I in it.” 

“No.” Pansy sulked.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “How do you know.”

That set her off again, “How do I know?! You fucking shit-faced wanker, are you drunk?—Are you actually drunk, because I can’t see any other reason why you’d actu—”

“Pansy.” interrupted Draco, irritated. “You can abuse me later. Just tell me how you know.”

Pansy cut the phone. Draco sighed irritably and waited. Pansy called again a moment later. He picked up.

“Someone posted a video of a floating fucking pen or something tickling Skeeter’s leg. She’s gone mad over Twitter. She’s been abusing that Janey Court person for hours now, calling her a sorcerer or something. Draco, how could you?—”

“I— shit!” Draco ran a hand through his hair, “I miscalculated how many civilians— fuck—”

“You miscalculated?” repeated Pansy, dangerously, “Draco, tell me right now if you’re drunk so that when I beat the shit out of you later I can make sure the pain will stay until you sober up.”

Draco bit his lip as he thought furiously. This video changed everything.

“Pansy, listen, I need help.”

“No fucking shit you need help, you psychopathic—”

“No— no, Pansy, listen, please,” Draco pleaded, “I need your help.”

Something in Draco’s tone must have gotten through to her, because she took a deep breath and said, “What is it.”

Draco sighed a quick breath of relief, “Tell me how people are reacting on Twitter to the video—does anyone believe Skeeter?”

“Some do, yeah. Mostly though people think it’s photoshopped or something. People are taking it as an elaborate joke.”

“And how are people reacting to Court?”

“The ones who believe Skeeter are joining in on the abuse. Fuck, you should see her Twitter, it’s brutal—”

“Shit— shit. Okay. What exactly has Skeeter been saying?”

“Something about a personal vendetta. She’s been,” Pansy lowered her voice, “she’s been bringing up something about a crack addiction? I don’t know—”

“Fuck!” This was bad, this was bad. “What else has she been saying?”

“I don’t remember, a whole load of shit—oh, wait, her last few tweets are photos from outside Court’s restaurant, apparently she and her crowd of no-life idiots are there in person.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly. Jane Court flitted through his mind—her nervous tics, her burgeoning smile, how thin she was, and now that Draco thought about it, how much she kind of looked like Luna, a bit. And then he thought of Luna—how she was bullied for no good reason at all, and how she never really had the ability to defend herself properly. And he thought about how all this shit was his fault, just like always.

He had one choice. ‘It is a show of your powers,’ Misha had said. And with great power comes great responsibility.

“Fuck.” Draco said, again, as he realised that there really was nothing else left to do.

“Draco?” Pansy asked.

“I’ll explain everything later.” Draco said. “Just—listen, thanks,”

“Uh, it—it’s okay?” Pansy replied, disarmed.

“Thanks Pansy,” Draco said, again, “I love you.”

“Draco.” said Pansy. “What the ever-loving fuck, it sounds like you’re leaving for war or something.”

“You ruin everything, you ugly cow.” and Draco cut the phone.

And then he looked up at the sky and sighed. 

And then he shook his head and hailed a passing taxi.

“Knockturn Alley,” Draco told the driver, “The Fair Heart.”

Of all the times he’d imagined he’d wear drag, behind a dodgy green trash-chute, a few allies away from a middle-class shopping district, with not even one security camera in sight (the amount of potential safety hazards!) , had never really come up. 

But that was life. And life was a steaming pile of shit. And Draco refused—he absolutely refused— to let a steaming pile of shit get the better of him. He was way too awesome for that.

So he took off his school uniform, pulled on first the black sheers, and then the black pencil skirt. And then he put on a frilly red top, and forced himself to put on the weird fucking gigantic-caterpillar-hoodie-thing he’d bought for Looney. Then, he used the scissors in his bag to cut three holes into one of the stripy socks he’d bought for Luna. He then pulled the stripy sock over his head. Lastly, he put on the long, black wig he’d bought as he was rushing out of the department store. And then he stood there, mourning, for the fashion disaster that was his outfit.

And then he snapped out of it, because there were more pressing matters to attend to. 

He stuffed everything back in his school bag (thank god Maximilian had forced him to take it with him in attempt to force him back earlier) and levitated it, along with his shoes and his shopping bags, to the top of one of the buildings that made one side of the dodgy alley that he was currently in.

Then, he sighed, “Fuck my life.”

And then he power-walked stylishly out of the alleyway, because there was shit to fix.

“Hey, ugly.” Draco called, in a french accent, his voice higher than normal.

Rita-Fucking-Skeeter, the fucking bane of Draco’s existence, turned around.

“Looking for me?” Draco drawled.

Skeeter stared at him. 

“What, never seen beauty before?” Draco asked, “Your poor mirror.”

“Who,” Skeeter spluttered, “might you be.”

Draco pointed his finger at the pen in Skeeter’s pocket and, following the movement of his finger, levitated it out of her pocket to a few metres above her head. Skeeter, and all her moron-followers, stared at it in shocked silence.

Then, “You!” screeched Skeeter.

“Slow, aren’t you?”

“Wh— sorcery!” Skeeter shrieked, her face red, her spittle flying.

“Oh my god, have you been doing this all afternoon? ” Draco asked her, incredulously, letting the pen go and fall to hit Skeeter’s head.

“Jane Court!” Skeeter shouted, pointing at him triumphantly.

Draco sighed in an exaggerated manner and put a hand on his hip. “Are you, like, dumb?”

“I’ll sue you for defamation!”

“Oh?” Draco’s entire demeanour turned abruptly cold. The fucking gall of this woman.

Skeeter took a nervous step backwards.

And that’s when the door to The Fair Heart opened to reveal a blotchy faced, nervous-looking Jane Court. “Please go home, Ms Skeet—” she stopped speaking when she noticed Draco posing all diva-like in front of Skeeter.

“Sorry about the mix-up, sweetie,” Draco turned to Court, his voice softening involuntarily, “I’ll take care of this idiot for you.”

“HA!” yelled Skeeter. “Did you all hear that? ‘For you,’ she said! She’s working for Jane Court!”

“No, you blithering dunderhead.” said Draco, his voice low and colder than ice.

Skeeter paled abruptly. “You’re a man.”

“And you’re a blight on this planet.” Draco returned. “Also, that was rude.”

Skeeter took another step backwards. Then, her face hardened. “You’re working for Jane Court.”

“Are you—” Draco looked at the woman standing next to Skeeter, “Is she actually dumb, or something?”

“I— I don’t—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Draco drawled.

“You’re working for Jane Court!”

“I’m working for the sake of all that is holy, you idiot-woman.”

“Wh—”

“Have you seen the way you dress?” Draco demanded furiously. “What the fuck is up with your clothes? It’s physically painful to look at.”

“That— that wasn’t very nice!” yelled back Skeeter, her voice choked.

“Oh my god, are you crying?” sneered Draco. “Don’t you dare. Stop it. Right now.”

Skeeter stopped sniffling.

“I’ll make it very clear,” started Draco, loudly, and then he repeated himself when he noticed someone whip out their phone to record him, “I’ll make it very clear to you, Rita Skeeter. I targeted you the other day because you look like a walking trashcan and it was causing me physical pain. The fact that you’re a fucking idiot and blamed poor Jane over there was hilarious until you showed up in that.” Draco pointed ostentatiously at Skeeter’s orange top. “That, darling, is simply blasphemous.” and then Draco pointed at Skeeter’s pen, and following the movement of his hand, levitated it off the ground and tapped her lightly on the nose. “Comprendre?”

“Yo— you’re being a—a hypocrite,” Skeeter sniffled pathetically, snot running down her face.

“Oh, you sweet idiot.” Draco laughed cruelly, “Ever heard of avant-garde? No? I didn’t think so.” Draco struck another pose and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Didn’t I tell you to stop crying.”

“I— I’ll sue you!” cried Skeeter. “I’ll sue you!”

“Go ahead and try, Rita Skeeter,” Draco challenged, his voice low. “When you fail, you’ll finally get a taste of your own medicine.”

Rita Skeeter burst into tears.

“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” asked Draco, cheerfully.

And that’s when some fucking loser wearing a paper-bag over his face showed up.

“Stop it.” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

“The fuck are you.” Draco asked.

“I—just stop it. Go home.” he turned to Skeeter, “You too, Ms. Skeeter. You’ve done enough.” he pat Skeeter awkwardly on the back.

And Draco kind of lost it at that point because, what the fuck? This woman had spent hours just abusing someone. She did not deserve sympathy right now. No. There’s no way that’s what was happening, when she hadn’t felt even a modicum of what Jane Court—or for that matter, any other of her fucking victims—had felt.

“Who.” repeated Draco, dangerously, “Are you.”

“Just go home!” Paper-bag repeated, more exasperated now. “All of you!”

“No.” Draco said, simply.

Paper-bag looked at him for a moment. And then, “What?”

“No, you fuckwit, I won’t go home.” Draco repeated. “Let go of Skeeter.”

Paper-bag stepped protectively in front of Skeeter. “Liste—”

“No, you twat, you listen.” Draco interrupted. “This is between Skeeter and I. Now get the fuck lost. Right now.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You— what?” Draco hissed. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard—”

“I can’t,” he grit, “do that. I can’t leave you alone with her. It’s not safe.”

And Draco lost his fucking mind.

“What did you just say?” he seethed, “It’s not safe? For her? With me? Do you even know who she is? She’s spent her entire fucking day abusing an innocent woma—”

“You said it wasn’t about Jane Court,” called Rita Skeeter from the safety of behind the Paper-bag turd.

And of course this is how things were going to end up for Draco. Of course. Because there’s no way he could admit the truth without somehow entangling Court in this entire fucking situation. He couldn’t. So he’d have to incriminate himself. That’s just how things turned out for him, regardless of his intentions.

Feeling waves of anger rolling off of him, Draco replied, calmly, “It’s not about Jane Court, you stupid bitch. It’s about you. And it’s about how much I fucking hate you, and your crass fashion, and your ugly face, and your stupid, fucking guts. Don’t you dare speak without permission to me ever again.”

Skeeter hurried behind Paper-bag. Paper-bag lifted his arms in a protective stance. This is impossible.

“She’s just an innocent bystander,” Paper-bag started and was he actually fucking brainless?

“No, you imbecile, she’s the fucking perpetrator.” grit out Draco.

“No,” replied Paper-bag, “You’re the perpetrator. She’s the victim.”

And Draco couldn’t reply, because that was true, wasn’t it? So, he did the next best thing. He closed his eyes briefly, and he levitated Rita Skeeter’s wig off of her scalp and into Paper-bag’s face.

Skeeter screamed gratifyingly. 

And then everything went to shit. Because her wig caught on instantaneous fire and vanished into ash before it could hit Paper-bag.

Everyone stared at the ashes in silence.

“You have powers.” Draco commented, to Paper-bag.

He didn’t reply.

And then Rita Skeeter began clutching her head and wailing in the background, “My hair! The Transvestite set my hair on fire!” 

“You’re going to let me take the blame for what you did?” Draco asked Paper-bag.

A moment of further silence. And then, “I’m sorry, Ms. Skeeter. I didn’t realise the thing flying towards me was a wig.”

Rita wailed, “It’s not a wig! It’s my hair!”

Draco started laughing. Paper-bag gave Draco what he imagined was a very dirty look.

“Oh, come on.” Draco laughed, into the sound of wailing and sombre silence. And then Draco’s laughter trailed off awkwardly and he coughed, once, “Never-mind.”

“It’s okay, Ms. Skeeter.” Paper-bag consoled. “It doesn’t matter if you’re balding.”

Draco had to try very hard in order to swallow his laughter. He coughed again. From the side, he thought he might have heard stifled laughter.

Skeeter continued wailing. It began to get very very awkward. Paper-bag, it seemed, was emotionally constipated.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” said Draco, crossly, his french accent stronger than ever. “Rita Skeeter.”

She stopped crying in terror.

“Have you ever seen a model cry?” Draco asked her.

She shook her head, tears and snot streaming down her face.

“That’s because models don’t cry in public. It’s what gives them style. ” Draco demonstrated by striking a lazy pose, “If you want to stop being a blight on this planet you need to build some inner strength. Comprendre?” 

Skeeter hiccuped, tears still streaming, her face miserable.

“Oh—fuck’s sake.” Draco cussed. “Skeeter!”

Skeeter looked up at him.

“Confidence is key, understand?” she looked down on the floor. “Skeeter! Look at me!” Skeeter looked back at him. “Repeat after me: Confidence is Key.”

Skeeter repeated after him, “C— confidence is key.”

Draco turned to all the other women in the vicinity. He looked towards Court, her face blank as she stood in front of the restaurant door. Lily was standing at her side, her expression amused.

“Nothing can fuck with you if you believe in yourself. Nothing else matters. Not your hair, not your weight, not your mistakes. Believe in who you are intrinsically and let everyone else suck your dick.” Draco spoke to everyone. “Repeat after me, all of you: Confidence is Key.”

A plethora of ‘Confidence is Key,’s arose into the air.

“Louder!” Draco commanded.

A louder, more gratifyingly confident plethora of ‘Confidence is Key,’s arose into the air.

Draco glanced quickly at Court and saw that she was smiling. Lily stood beside her, grinning.

Skeeter—thank fuck—had stopped wailing.

Draco eyed her disdainfully. “Fuck off, then. I still hate your guts.”

Paper-bag stood like a guard-dog in front of her as she packed her things and skedaddled away.

Draco eyed him disdainfully as well. “You. I hate your guts, too.”

“I had to protect her.” Paper-bag defended, stiffly.

“You didn’t have to do anything.” Draco accused, putting his hands on his hips.

“Neutrality in situations of injustice is taking the side of the oppressor.” he said. 

Desmond Tutu, thought Draco, and for a moment he was stunned.

“Paper-bag,” began Draco, “You do have a brain. Where was it five minutes ago?”

Paper-bag remained silent.

“Boring.” said Draco, as he used his powers to throw a candy wrapper at Paper-bag’s face.

The candy wrapper burst into flames. Draco grinned.

“Ooh, ooh! Do another trick!” Draco clapped his hands as he threw a pebble this time.

A sudden gust of violent wind threw off it’s trajectory. Draco gasped.

“That—oh my god— can you control all the elements?” and he threw a larger rock.

An earthen wall shot up from the ground to form a quick barricade around Paper-bag.

“Awesome,” gasped Draco. Then, realising that everyone was staring at him, “I mean—whatever, mediocre.” and he threw an entire trash can, this time.

“Stop it!” shouted Paper-bag, as he did the whole earthen wall thing again. And then all the scattered trash instantaneously set on fire and all that was left was ash and a clean road.

“You.” said Draco. “That was bad for the environment.”

“It was combustible.” he returned.

“You.” admired Draco, as he threw a rock.

“What are you doing.” grit out Paper-bag, as he used his wind again.

“Having fun,” grinned Draco, levitating Paper-bag, and feeling the wind around himself react violently in response. “Isn’t this fun?” 

“Fuck you.” Paper-bag returned, squirming in the air.

And that is when Draco noticed that Paper-bag’s trousers were really rather tight and his arse was really rather nice. And then Draco was in the air as well.

“Do something else!” yelled Draco, delighted.

“You’re crazy!” Paper-bag yelled back, “Let me down!”

“Not unless you do something cool.” and then, Draco ate his own words because the air around him suddenly started getting colder and ice started forming on his arms and legs. “This. This. You’re freezing the water vapour.”

“Let me down!”

Draco tutted and let Paper-bag down.

“You’re a fucking sociopath.” muttered Paper-bag.

“Psychopath.” Draco corrected.

“What?”

“I’m more psychopathic than sociopathic in terms of behaviour.” explained Draco, still in the air, the ice around his limbs spreading. “Typically, sociopaths have milder ASPD, and therefore are more prone to aggressive tendencies. I’m not prone to aggressive tendencies. I’m quite calculated. And therefore, in terms of behaviour, I’m closer to psychopathic than sociopathic.” he stared at a silent Paper-bag for a while, “Of course, I don’t have ASPD, so I’m neither of the two. But just to be accurate.” 

“You’re crazy.” muttered Paper-bag.

Draco sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Do you ever listen? We literally just went over this—okay, you can stop with the ice now.”

“Uh, sorry, no.” said Paper-bag, that bloody traitor, after all the knowledge and wisdom Draco had imparted on him. “You’re potentially a hazard to society.”

“What the fuck, mate.” said Draco.

“I’m turning you in.”

“Um.” said Draco. “No.” and then, lightning quick, he threw another garbage can at Paper-bag. This one hit the target.

While Paper-bag was distracted, Draco levitated some rocks to break the ice around his limbs. Once free, he threw another three garbage cans at Paper-bag. Four garbage cans was apparently Paper-bag’s limit, because that’s when the wind around Draco let up, and Draco fell to the ground. He managed to land on his feet, by some grace of fortune, and wasted a precious minute addressing his raptured audience. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he began, mainly to Court, who was staring back, wide-eyed. “You have my word that Paper-bag will clean it all up. He seems the sanctimonious, stick-up-my-arse, type.” then, he turned briefly in Paper-bag’s general smelly direction, and said, “Paper-bag, this has been horrible! Let’s never do it again!” and then, because he’d never get the chance to say this ever again, “Your personality is kind of fucked, but you have a nice arse!”

And then Draco waved at his audience and began sprinting away as fast as he could. When he turned a corner, he jumped on an abandoned cardboard piece and used it to levitate himself up to the roof of a building. And then, finally alone, he collapsed in exhaustion for a good fifteen minutes.

“Draco.” his mum opened the door, an arctic tundra in her voice.

“Mum.” said Draco, “Mummy, listen to me, please.”

“No, Draco.” his mum said. “You listen to me.”

“Mummy, please.” said Draco, “It’ll all make sense if you just let me explain myself.”

Draco’s mother stared at him in silence. Then, she shut the door in his face.

Thirty minutes later, Draco’s mother opened the door again. “I’ll listen to your explanation. Get inside, it’s cold.”

Draco smiled up at her from the floor. “Thank you Mummy.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I love you, Mummy.” Draco flattered.

His mother pursed her lips. “I love you too. But you’re still grounded.”

“Triple-grounded?”

His mother glared at him. “Quadruple-grounded. Regardless of your explanation.”

“That’s rather utilitarian—hahaha, never-mind, I love you, Mummy.”

When his father saw him, his face turned, quite literally, scarlet. 

“Where have you been, you irresponsible boy?”

“I can explain myse—”

“I will not listen to any of your explanations, you disappointment of a son.”

Draco felt his face fall, despite his very best efforts. “Sorry father.” 

“Apologising isn’t good enough, Draco—”

“Lucius.” his mum interrupted, her voice zero degrees celsius, her glare absolute zero.

His father startled slightly. “I,” he began, “will be in my room should any of you need me.” and then his father ran away.

Draco grinned at his mum, “Thank you, Mummy.”

His mum looked at him warmly. “You’re still in trouble.”

“Oh, I know.” and then his mum made him some tea and Draco explained himself.

To his absolute surprise, all his punishment (disregarding his first grounding) was revoked.

“I’m proud of you, Draco,” she smiled as she kissed his forehead.

“Even if I made at least three people cry?”

“I’d be proud of you if all you did was flush the toilet after you defecated.”

Draco smiled. His mother loved him very much.

Pansy’s call woke him up at 1 am. Draco rejected it in a fit of bad temper. He had, after all, pulled an all-nighter the night before.

A notification popped up on his phone screen.

Ugly Cow: ANSWER

And she called again.

“Fuck you, Pansy.” Draco said, as soon as he had answered.

“Explain.”

“No, you nosy cow, I’m sleep deprived. I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“No. Do it now.”

“Fuck you, Pansy.” and Draco cut the phone.

When she called him again, Draco shut his phone off. 

Draco had a wet dream.

About Paper-bag.

It was the first time in a long while that he’d dreamt of anyone other than Blaise.

“Explain.” said Pansy when she saw him, “Before I kill you. Quickly.”

“We’re in public.” said Draco.

“I don’t care.”

“Pansy.” Draco sighed, gesturing towards a couple of boys who were ogling her exposed cleavage.

Pansy turned towards the boys, “In your dreams, darling.” and then she smiled, “Actually, no.” when their faces brightened, she added. “I wouldn’t touch you even if I was in your dreams.”

Draco laughed as the boys hurried away, red faced. “You’re horrible.”

“I get it from you.”

“Yeah, probably.” Draco smiled at her fondly.

Pansy grinned back and put his arm around her shoulders before snaking her own around his waist.

“Let’s not talk about what happened right now, please. I’m exhausted.”

“Okay, fine.” said Pansy, “But only because I’m in a good mood.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “You do realise that it’s because we do things like this that everyone thinks we’re shagging, right?”

“Oh, I know.”

“Pansy,” said Draco, gleefully scandalised. “You’re dating Blaise.”

“Oh, right, about that,” she said, “We’re not dating.”

“What.” Draco gasped.

“We just pretended to so that you’d get over your crush on Blaise.”

“What.” Draco gasped. “I don’t—”

“Shut up, Draco.”

Draco scowled into the distance.

“Stop sulking or I’ll force you to tell me everything.”

And so Draco had to force himself to stop sulking. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Pansy grinned.

“No I don’t.” Draco agreed, unwillingly and after a long silent while. “Why did you tell me about your fake dating Blaise anyway?”

Pansy looked up at him, “I just got a feeling.”

“Care to stop being cryptic and start making sense?”

“I feel that you’re over him. Or you fancy someone else now or something.”

Paper-bag’s butt popped up in Draco’s mind. Draco felt his face heat.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Nah,” she said, “It’s my best-friend’s intuition.”

Twitter broke. Because of a video that someone had taken of him and Paper-bag. Or more importantly, because of Draco. Draco broke Twitter. He vowed to never let anyone who knew him intimately ever forget.

“I cannot believe you were irresponsible enough to actually—”

“Oh come off it, Pans.” Draco groaned. “I broke Twitter. Come on, let's celebrate.”

“You have to scrub titties today, remember?” Pansy said, because she ruined everything, always.

Draco made a face.

And then Blaise showed up. He sat down across Draco, next to Pansy. Draco found he didn’t really care anymore. The thought made him smile.

“You finally got to cross-dress.” said Blaise to Draco.

“We haven’t gotten our history test back yet, so I wouldn’t get cocky yet, Blazey-bun.”

Blaise pointed his phone screen at Draco. The video that broke Twitter began to play.

“What a sexy drag-queen, If only I could see her face—” began Draco, dedicated to feigning ignorance till his last dying breath.

“Draco.” said Blaise, uncharacteristically serious, “I’ve known you since we were nine. This is you.”

“What are you on about, Blaise?” Draco asked, and it would have been very convincing as well if Pansy hadn’t glared at Draco at the exact same moment and said, “You’re so irresponsible!”

“You’ll be the death of me one day, Pansy Parkinson, mark my words.” Draco grit at her.

Blaise stared at them both, frighteningly sombre.

Draco took a deep breath. “That is me.” 

“I know.” More sombre staring. 

Draco took another deep breath. “I have superpowers.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Funny, Blaise.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. Draco was glad for the small crack in the sombre face armour. “I’ve figured for a while now, you’re really not great at hiding it.”

“Well shit.” said Draco, “How many other people do you think know? D’you think Longbottom knows? I think Longbottom knows. He looks at me with terror in his eyes.”

“That’s because you used to bully him viciously back in first year.” Pansy replied. “And second year. And third-year. And fourth. And sometimes even now, when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Ah yes.” said Draco, hit with a sudden wave of awkward guilt.

“Stop changing the subject, Draco.” Blaise said.

Draco sighed. “What else do you want me to say? I have powers. Telekinesis and also mind-control, or mind-bending kind of, I don’t know, I don’t really use the second one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

“It’s meant to be a secret, Blaise. People die for this sort of thing. I wouldn’t have told Pansy either, but there was this incident when we were seven where I accidentally made her believe she was a dog—”

“DRACO MALFOY!” Pansy yelled.

“Oh shut up, you’re making a scene.” Draco muttered, irritably.

“We made a vow.” Pansy hissed at him. “You wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, well.” 

“You have to cut off your dick now.”

“I’d rather not, darling.”

“You never use it anyway, I can’t imagine it’d make much difference not having one.” she said, unkindly.

Draco smiled at her. “Yes, I don’t urinate. How did you know?”

“You’ll still have a hole after it’s go—”

“Oh my god, it’s so exhausting being mad at you two,” Blaise complained. “You don’t even pay attention.”

Draco shrugged. “You’d have gotten over it.”

Blaise groaned. “Yes, but you didn’t know that.”

“Oh, we knew.” Pansy said. “Beggars can’t be choosy, after all.”

Draco forced Blaise and Pansy to accompany him during detention. This meant that they sat next to each other gossiping and making fun of Draco as he engaged in physical labour. Draco immediately regretted forcing them to come. 

“Fuck off, both of you.” he said, for the eleventh time, as he scrubbed at a long green knob.

“But this is the most action you’ll ever get.” Blaise replied. “It’s an emotional milestone, we wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“Oh, for fu— okay, fine, go through the headlines then, if you’re going to be here. Tell me what they say.”

“Your wish is my command, My Little Draconian Knob,” Pansy replied. “Lets see… Skeeter, Skeeter, Court, Skeeter, oooh, the new winter fashion—”

“Pansy.” snapped Draco. “Focus.”

“Right, sorry—Court, Immigration Quota—”

“Stop.” said Draco. “Click on Immigration Quota, skim through it and tell me what it says.”

“Fuck no, I haven’t read a book since I was three.”

“Pansy.” said Blaise. “You couldn’t read when you were three.”

“Exactly.” she replied.

“Useless. All of you.” Draco insulted, as he threw Filch’s cloth on the floor and stole Pansy’s phone out of her hands.

The article was a critique. Draco beamed.

“You’re such a loser, Dracon.” Blaise remarked.

“You just realised?” Pansy asked. “I’ve known since we were seven.”

“She’s lying,” said Draco, “She had a huge embarrassing crush on me when we were seven.”

“I hate you, Draco.”

Draco blew her an air-kiss. And then he sort of froze mid-air.

“Draco? Hello?”

The headline: Superhero and Supervillain break Twitter

No, thought Draco, in denial. He sat down on the floor.

“Draco?” asked Pansy, concern leaking into her voice.

He clicked on the headline. He read the reporter’s name. And then he cussed.

Rita Skeeter. Fuck.

“Draco, mate.” called Blaise’s voice. “You alright?” 

The article had dubbed Paper-bag, ‘Golden-boy,’ for his ‘Golden-heart.’ Draco took one look at that sentence, screenshotted the page, and then burst out laughing.

“He’s finally lost it, Blaise.” Pansy muttered.

And then Draco saw what they had nicknamed him.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” he said.

“Use your words, Dracon.” encouraged Blaise, “Come on, you like words.”

“It’s an article about me.” said Draco.

“What.” said Pansy. “Who wrote it?”

“Rita Skeeter.”

“That bitch.” snarled Pansy. “You should’ve ruined her when you had the chance.”

“How’s the article?” asked Blaise.

“Sensationalist.”

“English, Dracon.” 

“It’s over-exaggerated bullshit.”

“Right.” said Blaise, “So why the overreaction to the over-exaggerated bullshit?”

“They,” began Draco, haltingly, “called me a supervillain.”

“Let me ruin Skeeter on Twitter.” said Pansy. “I can do it. I can ruin her life.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Draco, “It’s more satisfying to watch her ruin herself.”

“Our little terrifying Dracon.” said Blaise, with glee.

Pansy eyed Draco. She knew him too well. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing.” said Draco.

Pansy looked at him. And then the horrible cow snatched her phone out of his hands.

“Pansy!” 

She skimmed through the screen, frowned, and then started laughing

“What is it?” Blaise asked.

“They,” said Pansy, in between laughs, “They named—”

“Pansy.” Draco grit out, in warning.

“They named Draco,” she continued, undeterred. Draco tried to physically restrain her, but alas, “Tranny-pillar.”

“What.” said Blaise.

Draco retreated in sorrow back to his wall in order to continue his physical labour.

“Tranny-pillar.” Pansy laughed, “As in—oh my god, she's in so much shit— Transvestite Caterpillar.”

And then Blaise started laughing as well.

Draco threw his cloth on the floor. "Stop laughing! It's derogatory!"

"Oh definitely." Pansy agreed. "Skeeter's ruining herself just fine."

Draco sniffed. "Stop laughing, then." And he glared at them until they stopped.

“Looney, you waited for me.”

“You asked me to, after all.” Looney smiled, slightly.

“That I did.” Draco grinned. “Well, in you go,” he opened the car door for her.

“Luna!” smiled Maximilian, in blatant favouritism. “I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Maximilian.” smiled Luna. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

Luna hummed. “There are certainly less Wrackspurts around you than last time. Have you tried soaking your fingers in ginger tea before bed?”

“Not yet.”

“You should, it’ll repel the last few.”

“Hello everyone, I’m fine, thank you for asking.” said Draco, “I’ll soak my fingers in ginger tea before bed as well, don’t you worry about me.” 

“Oh Draco, don’t be silly,” giggled Luna, “It won’t work for you.”

“Don’t tell me the Wrackspurts show favouritism as well.”

Luna hummed again, “They like the way you smell, I think.”

“That,” remarked Draco, “is awfully creepy.”

And then they were on their way home.

“These,” pointed Draco, at a small mound of clothes, “Are the clothes I got for you.”

Luna stared at the clothes.

“The clothes you wear are awful, remind me to teach you how to dress properly one of these days.” He added, as an after-thought, “I bought a hoodie for you as well, but, well, circumstances happened and now I’m kind of stuck with it, somehow.” 

Luna blinked up at him. “Was it the one you wore in the Twitter video?”

“Oh my god.” said Draco.

Luna smiled. “Don’t worry, it was the Dapperblimps who told me. Nothing you said or did gave it away.”

“Looney,” sighed Draco, in wonder, “Oh Looney, you’re kind of amazing, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Looney shrugged. “I think I’m just normal.”

“No.” said Draco, “You’re amazing.” and then he turned to get the other stuff he’d gotten for her. “I got you a book about fascinating creatures,” he handed her the book first.

“That’s so kind of you, Draco.”

“Yeah, well.” he pulled out the pens next. “I got you gel pens that you can use whenever you want, and then I got you a replica of your favourite turquoise pen, because I don’t trust those arseholes to ever return your stuff—don’t worry about them, by the way, I’ll deal with them sooner or later—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Draco. The Nargles are after them, currently.”

“Looney, you do know that the incident at school with all of us was me, right?”

“Oh, I know. But the Nargles really are after them now. I know that for a fact, don’t worry.”

And, after everything, Draco found that he really did believe her. “Good on them. I hope they’re especially cruel.”

Looney giggled. Draco smiled back at her and handed her the yellow version of her favourite turquoise pen.

“This is the yellow version of your favourite turquoise pen.” explained Draco, very unnecessarily, because it was immediately apparent. “I thought you might like to have the yellow version.”

“I do like having it,” she smiled, softly, “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco cleared his throat. “I bought you socks, as well. Thigh high, because they’re the most versatile in terms of how you can wear them. I bought you three kinds, but, well, I kind of had to use one of the stripy kind, so there’s only really two types left.” and he gave her the spotted socks and then he gave her the ones with the ravens.

Luna smiled up at him as she took them.

“And,” began Draco, a bit nervous for no reason that he could tangibly discern, “I got you some beetles,” and he handed her the small box that the cashier had put the two earrings in. He found, for one of the very few moments in his life, that he couldn’t really think of any words to say. So, instead, he watched anxiously as she opened the small box and took out the earrings.

One of the beetles was larger, and the chain it hung on was shorter. It was a rich emerald green colour, and darker, closer to black, around the edges. The other beetle was smaller, on a longer chain, and a brilliant silver, turning iridescent where it caught the light.

Draco eyed Luna’s face. Trying to discern her reaction carefully. He’d never seen Luna ever dislike anything, but there was always a first time for everything.

But Luna—lovely, lovely, Looney—smiled slowly when she saw the beetles. Like the sunrise over a still lake, her smile lit up every single feature on her face. “The Dapperblimps guided you, didn’t they?” she asked.

“You know what,” said Draco, thinking of Misha, “I think maybe they did.”

“They’re beautiful, Draco.” beamed Luna, “I love them.”

“Oh thank fuck.” he exhaled in relief. “Thank fuck, oh my god, I think I would have cried if you didn’t like them.”

“Silly,” Luna giggled.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“You are.” Luna nodded, still smiling.

“You know what, Looney, I think I’m corrupting you. I think being in my company is making you more of an arsehole.”

Luna blinked at Draco. “I’d rather be an arsehole in your company than an angel without.”

And Draco really was silly, because that nearly made him cry.

So he took a few deep breaths and sat down on the floor in front of Luna. And then he took a few more deep breaths because he promptly started losing his nerve.

“It’s alright, Draco.” Luna smiled at him, “Your Wrackspurts will support you.”

“They better,” muttered Draco, “if they’re hanging around all the time, sniffing me free of charge.”

Luna laughed.

“Okay, Looney—Luna—what would you prefer I call you?”

“Anything you wish,”

“Right, okay, I think this situation calls for Luna, what do you think?”

“I’ll ask the Nargles,”

“Sure.”

Draco waited in silence for a while.

“What did the Nargles say?”

“They think that Luna is fitting.”

“Okay, cool.” Draco took a breath, “Luna—wow, that sounds so formal, doesn’t it,”

Luna giggled, “It’s alright, Draco, just say whatever it is you want to say.”

Draco wrinkled his nose at her. “You really are too intelligent for your own good, aren’t you?”

“Maybe sometimes,” Luna admitted, smiling.

“All the time.” Draco corrected. “Always.”

“Draco.” Luna beamed.

“Okay, okay, fine. Luna.” said Draco, “I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you when we were children. I made fun of you and teased you and even ate your dessert and gave you all my carrots. And I said cruel things to you and didn’t behave as a relative should have. I tried to ignore you in school and didn’t stand up for you when—when people were being rude, and that is unforgivable, because I broke the unspoken oath that I was meant to take as your cousin.”

“Oh Draco,” sighed Luna, “There’s no unspoken oath.”

Draco stared at Luna, “My company is making you more arsey, oh my god, Maximilian is going to kill me.”

Luna smiled, “There’s no oath, you silly. You weren’t obligated to do anything. And I was alright with you doing all those things to me when we were children because I liked that you were speaking to me. I was a lonely child.”

“Don’t say that, Luna,” said Draco, sad for Luna’s loss, and angry for his own behaviour, “Don’t say that you were alright with it. It wasn’t alright.”

Luna shrugged, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.”

“You can think of it as that bad if you wish, Draco.” Luna said, “You can blame yourself, if it helps you. But just know that I don’t blame you.”

“Oh Looney,” said Draco, feeling a lump in his throat, “You’re too good to me.”

“I think maybe you’re too horrible to yourself.”

Draco stared at her, “You know, I think maybe you’re too horrible to yourself, too.”

Luna wrinkled her nose, “Do you think my company might be making you more intelligent?”

“Doubtlessly.” said Draco. “Well, this has been adequately sentimental. What do you think?”

“Adequate.” agreed Luna.

“Right. Want to go watch The Looney Toons downstairs?”

“Alright,” Looney smiled.

And Draco spent the rest of the afternoon watching American cartoons with Looney. 

Like this passed what eventually became quite a pivotal week in Draco’s life. It was a week of frustration, changes and happy welcomes. And also one very unhappy welcome. Draco never really got over the whole ‘Tranny-pillar,’ thing. Luckily, neither did most of the internet—Skeeter was very brutally torn apart.

Draco found the ironies of life beautiful. Karma was such a very charming bitch.

The whole situation was made all the more satisfying when Skeeter nearly lost her job. 'Nearly,' because she posted a very public apology to the Trans community about her ignorance—at which point The Daily Prophet started posting all these articles about 'second chances' and 'forgiveness' and 'redemption'. (Those Bloody-Fucking-Hypocrites.)

It's not like Draco didn't understand—he was a big believer in the potential for redemption, after all; it would have been pretty much impossible to live with himself if he wasn't. But Skeeter was a fucking troll who was quite possibly beyond redemption. And also, well, he absolutely hated her guts and had been having so much fun watching her get her just desserts.

Suffice to say, he was a tad disappointed that public outrage had quietened so fast. And quite significantly disappointed when Skeeter re-wrote her fucking article and re-named him Tacky-pillar.

What the fuck. 'Tacky-pillar.' God, Draco hated her so much.

"Tacky-Pillar," Pansy howled, her face completely red. "Draco—tacky—"

Draco pushed her off her chair. The horrible cow continued to laugh on the floor.

"I could make you live your entire life as a dog." Draco commented, calmly.

"Go for it, Tacky-Pillar." she roared.

"It won't stick." he hissed.

"Oh, it definitely will." Blaise refuted, wiping tears of laughter out of his eyes.

"It won't."

When it unfortunately stuck, Draco was followed by so many Wrackspurts that Luna had to stage a physical intervention by sprinkling him with lemon-infused ginger tea. Oddly, it seemed to work. Draco grudgingly accepted the nickname.

And so came to be: Tacky-pillar, The Well-Dressed Transvestite Superpowered Diva. Also known as Draco’s alter-ego. Or, as The Daily Prophet liked to call her, The Psychopathic and Oddly Alluring French Super-villain.

Quite obviously, Draco was hesitant to commit to his super-bodied individual persona. But, well, he kind of had a schedule to follow if he wanted to ruin The Daily Prophet, and Tacky just made it so much easier. The funny thing, Draco found, was that Paper-bag—whoops, Golden-boy (Draco had spent a solid ten minutes laughing in Golden-boy’s face when he’d shown up the second time they’d met)—wound up every single place that Tacky made a huge fuss.

“Well, would you look at that.” Draco drawled. “It’s Golden-boy, what a surprise.” and then, after a satisfying silence, “If any of you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. He shows up everywhere I go, this is very expected.”

“I can’t believe you tore down an actual billboard.” Golden-boy castigated. “And stop calling me that.”

“But your heart,” defended Draco, emulating a damsel in distress with his posture, “It’s just so—golden.”

“Stop. It.”

“I think not, Golden-boy.”

Golden-boy stared at him for a while before beginning, “Fine then, Tacky-pillar.”

And that is the day that Golden-boy turned out to be not so very gold of heart at all. And that is also the day that Draco ascertained that his arsieness was physically catching, because all these coincidental moral corruptions just didn’t add up otherwise.

Anyways, so Draco continued to fuck shit up, and The Daily Prophet continued to be mocked. Eventually, the mocking spread to their content rather than just their barmy reporters. And, well, following the domino effect, The Immigration Quota and The Prophet’s biased news coverage came up as well. Draco spent the entire morning grinning when he read a trending Twitter chain about Cornelius Fudge’s manipulation of The Prophet in order to further his own nationalistic political agenda.

And then, Weasel took one look at Draco’s beatific grin and told him he looked like Chucky from Child’s Play and ‘Stop smiling, Ferret, you’re scaring the younger children.’ And so, Draco flipped him off and spent the entire day grinning—especially so at passing younger children. Because fuck Weasel. 

Draco also continued persevering in his fight towards Being Nicer, despite what many very rude people seemed to think.

Around the end of February, his father went to the US for a business trip and Draco invited Maximilian, Rosie, and her unfortunately named husband, Jerry, over for lunch. Suffice to say, Jerry was, indeed, an idiot. Though his mum and him instilled fear in his heart, all the same—it’s always better to be safe than sorry, after all. Draco also nearly managed to bully Jerry into legally changing his name to Jerome, but then Rosie laughed and called Draco funny and Draco kind of didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was being serious so he let it go.

He continued visiting The Fair Heart, from time to time. It was nice to see Court make it her own place. After all the noise during the opening, The Fair Heart had ultimately gotten loads of good publicity, so it ended up being quite a popular niche establishment. Draco even had a few conversations with Court herself, who turned out to be exactly as ambitious, and even nicer than Draco had imagined. To his surprise, Court started dating Arnold—Skeeter’s old photographer, of all people—and the experience seemed to make her even happier than before.

So, well, yes. Draco coincidentally met Lily at The Fair Heart from time to time, as well. Thankfully, Potter had stopped working there after the first time Draco had seen him during the opening, so they could gossip about him quite openly. Draco found he quite liked Lily, so he often persevered to drive the conversation away from Potter and towards other genuinely interesting things, such as Lily’s job. He learnt quite a lot about human behaviour, this way.

Maybe it was all the catharsis he was achieving through his conversations with Lily, maybe it was the odd balance Tacky-pillar had brought to his life, or maybe it was Golden-boy’s nice butt, but, well, Draco found his rather obsessive hatred for Potter begin to ebb. He stopped picking fights quite so often, and found that the jealousy wasn’t really as big of a deal as before. Sometimes, him and Lily would even talk about Golden-boy and how he was so insufferable but had such a very nice bottom. But then, Lily said that she was old enough to probably be Golden-boy’s mother, and speaking about the attractiveness of his bottom was making her uncomfortable so they stopped.

The Arseholes did actually manage to give back some of Looney’s stuff. Oddly, they all became avid members of the new Nargle Protection Club at school. They tried to get Looney to join, but then Draco overheard and he kind of just stared at them until—Arsehole #3, if Draco was recalling correctly—burst into tears. Then, Looney smiled and forgave them, or tried to forgive them except Draco intercepted and stepped in front of her to tell the Arseholes that they now had an irrevocable blood vendetta between their families and did they know that his father was Lucius Malfoy, the owner of Malfoy Enterprises? Arsehole #2 burst into tears as well. And then they all fled. It was rather hilarious.

“I think they’re quite terrified of you, Draco.” commented Looney, watching them flee.

“Good.” replied Draco. “They’ll never try to fuck with you again.”

And Looney smiled at him.

And then— and then— Pansy Bitch-face Parkinson started looking at Looney strangely and Draco knew exactly what that look meant because he’d once been the unfortunate recipient of that very look himself.

“No.” he said, simply, to Pansy.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Pansy returned.

“Ha!” he laughed, mockingly, “Sure. The answer’s still No.”

“I haven’t,” she grit out, “asked you anything.”

“And you never will, either, because the answer will always, unequivocally, be No.”

So that happened.

Then, just before GCSEs began, came the referendum. Draco pleaded sick to his mother so that he could stay home and keep an eye on things because this would quite possibly decide the very future of his country. His mum sighed “Draco,” and so he was forced to go to school.

Still though, he kept an eye on the figures over the two stressful weeks. And it turns out things didn’t always go according to plan because the deadline for the referendum was extended. Quite a lacklustre ending, but Draco would take what he could get. And anyways, it wasn’t an ending at all, it was just a postponement. 

Then: GCSEs. Draco killed himself studying.

When they were over, Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Millie, Vince, Daphne, Greg and him snuck into a bar and got very splendidly pissed. The evening was glorious. The morning after was agony. But, well, the circle of life and all.

Throughout it all Potter continued to be himself. This meant that he continued to be the star of the football team, and the most popular in the year. He even broke up with his girlfriend, which was endlessly entertaining for Draco in the weeks afterwards when he witnessed them both awkwardly avoiding each other in the corridors. But, well, that was all, really. Draco didn’t cuss at Potter every time anything went wrong. He only really cussed at Potter when something very significant went wrong, so he was making startling progress.

In the summer between fifth and sixth year, Draco had such an open expanse of free time that he began making a fuss as Tacky-pillar with the sole purpose of fucking with Golden-boy. It was really very entertaining until Golden-boy had to go and remind Draco that in every single of their super-powered interactions, Golden-boy had technically won. And Draco couldn’t just reveal that in the larger expanse of things, his objective had been largely achieved, because, well, on a personal level, Golden-boy was winning their stupid super-powered fight.

“You’re foiling my plans.” accused Draco.

“Well,” began Golden-boy, “You’re a hazard to society.”

“You, sir,” said Draco, “are a sanctimonious bitch.”

Golden-boy sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Let go of the hostage, Tacky.”

“I think the hostage can make his own decisions, thank you very much.” snided Draco.

“Fine.” Golden-boy sighed again. He directed to the sticky faced boy sitting on a floating sofa next to Draco, “Hello, young child.”

“Hi, Golden-boy!” the child smiled. “I love you!”

Honestly, Draco rolled his eyes.

“Er, thank you, young child. I, also, um,” replied Golden-boy, “love you?”

“Did you hear that, Tommy? That inflection at the end means that Golden-boy’s lying about loving you.”

“M’name’s Patty.” the child answered, touching Draco with a sticky finger.

“You told me your name was Tommy—why are you so sticky.”

“I wanted to be named Tommy but my name is Patty.”

Draco eyed Patty. “You are a lying agent of chaos. I like you, Patty.”

“I don’t like you.” Patty replied, touching Draco with another sticky finger, “You’re the bad-guy.”

“No, no, Patty, I’m a morally-grey diva. Where did you hear that bad-guy nonsense?”

“M’mummy told me.” 

“Your mummy’s a dirty liar—”

“Okay!” Golden-boy interrupted, loudly. “Let him go, now.”

“Suck my arse.” Draco answered, cheerfully.

“You’re saying bad words, Miss Bad-guy.” Patty pat a sticky hand on Draco’s fuzzy-green-hoodie clad arm.

“And you’re gendering me correctly,” observed Draco, pleased, “I like you, Patty.”

“Hmmm. Okay.” said Patty. He turned to Golden-boy, “Are you going to save me?”

Golden-boy sighed, “Yeah.”

“Patty,” said Draco, hurt, “I thought we were having fun.”

“Hmmmm. Maybe.”

“What does that mean, you chaotic malignity.” Draco complimented.

“Tacky. You’re corrupting him.” called Golden-boy.

“Oh, bite me.”

“Patty, do you want to be saved?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Draco laughed in glee.

“Tacky, seriously, you’re corrupting him, stop.”

“Am I corrupting you, Patty?”

“I think so. You smell very posh.”

“It’s the smell of beauty, darling.”

“Patty.” called Golden-boy, from the ground, “Listen to me. Your mum’s very worried for you, you need to come down now.”

Draco had a soft spot for mothers. “Right, well, you’re boring me now, Patty.”

“Okay.” Patty nodded. “Thank you for the candies.”

“You took candies from a stranger?” yelled Golden-boy.

“I’m not a stranger,” Draco rolled his eyes, “I’m the bad-guy, remember?” and then Draco pushed Patty off the sofa. 

Patty fell forward in a delighted squeal before he was caught by a gentle current and deposited into Golden-boy’s arms. Golden-boy let him down on the ground softly.

“Are you alright, Patty?”

“Yeah!” Patty exclaimed, “Can we do that again?”

“Uh, no.” then Golden-boy turned to Draco, “Are you fucking insane?”

“Language,” Draco tutted. “Also, you’ve foiled my plans again, I hate you.” 

“You—”

“Your butt is nice today too, though,” Draco grinned, before he levitated his floating sofa up, up, and away.

So that also became a thing that happened—Tacky-pillar’s sporadic plans of chaos and evil for the sake of politics, sometimes, and the sake of fun, others.

Along with the sudden jump in academic pressure at the start of the A levels course in sixth year, and all of Draco’s continued extracurricular involvements, Draco found himself quite excessively overwhelmed. He’d somehow gotten out of being made prefect again, but he found himself becoming the president of the debate team and the co-chair of the chess club (somehow, by the curse of Satan himself, Weasel had traipsed into the chess club one day and beaten every single one of them in a game. Consequently, he was now the other co-chair despite not having stepped foot into the club even one day prior to sixth year). And then football: He’d made the Under 18s B team.

And, well, social obligations grew as well. There were parties to go to and an entire reputation to fix, after all. Draco finally had his first kiss (with Theo, both of them half-way pissed, behind the club that they’d all been partying at), and his acne started clearing up completely (he’d found this new dermatologist and began incorporating a very strict skin-care regime). Beyond that, there was fun to be had. He was sixteen now, for fuck’s sake.

Pansy discovered the beauty of K-pop and roped Draco into learning her favourite dances and streaming her favourite videos. There was this amazing new crime thriller that Draco started to watch on Netflix, about this intelligent serial killer. When Blaise found out that Draco had been watching it he sat Draco down very serious like and explained why murder was never the answer to anything, and was Draco seriously considering throwing his humanity away for the sake of some sick satisfaction?

Pansy had laughed herself sick. No, seriously, she’d eaten too many chips and the sudden movement made her quite literally throw up on herself a little. Looney passed her a napkin. Pansy smiled at her coquettishly as she accepted it. And Draco watched it all happen with narrowed eyes. Blaise started his tirade on why murder was completely unacceptable, once again.

Draco also had to keep up on politics. The referendum had been postponed again, and Draco began to suspect that it would perhaps never occur now. Still, though, there were other matters to attend to. Opposition to the new government sanctioned trans-inclusive toilets, for one.

His relationship with his father just kept getting worse. Snide remarks turned into shouting arguments, and on one particular occasion Draco had even had to sleep in the garden before his mum returned from a late-night business meet-up and set his father straight. It was more difficult for his Father to accept that Draco was queer now that it was increasingly obvious to him that it wasn’t just a phase, actually.

So, all in all, it began getting a bit too overwhelming. Draco was getting, on average, maybe four hours of sleep per night. Luna had to stage another Wrackspurt intervention. And so, with absolutely no regret at all, Draco quit the football team.

And that is when Potter started stalking him. 

He’d just— show up everywhere. At first, Draco thought it was an unlucky coincidence, but the third time it happened he realised that Harry James Potter was genuinely, honest to goodness, stalking him.

“Is that,” whispered Pansy, “Potter?”

“Probably.” Draco huffed. He called, loudly, “Oi, Potter! Fuck off!”

“He’s still there,”

“Fuck’s sake.”

This was during the period that Draco was excessively sleep deprived and staying in a comfortable position for too long would risk him beginning to fall asleep. He was also, according to Luna, completely smothered in Wrackspurts. In other words, he was pretty much perpetually pissy. He couldn’t even enjoy the satisfaction of Potter being pathetic and creepy. He was just too exhausted.

And after one particularly bad fight with his father—one involving homophobic slurs—and a really shit chemistry test, Draco had had a bit too much. So, during his free period, he walked into the abandoned girl’s bathroom at the far side of the campus and had a bit of a cathartic cry—the whole scrunched up face, snot running down his nose, shebang.

And that is when he glimpsed Potter’s reflection—he was just standing at the entrance like some creepy fuck, spying on Draco as he had a little vulnerable moment. 

“Why.” he croaked. “Why are you here.”

Potter shifted awkwardly, “I didn’t kno—”

“Oh, you never know, do you? You just act without thinking and make everything a thousand times worse.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t you dare pity me.”

“Malfoy,” said Potter, gently.

And Draco lost it. It must have been the Wrackspurts.

He picked up his bag and flung it at Potter’s body. Potter just stood there as it hit him. Draco laughed a little cruelly and strode forward, twisting his hand around the front of Potter’s shirt as he slammed him against a wall.

What will hurt him the most?

“You’re following me around,” snarled Draco, “Nothing else to do? Or maybe you’re bored of all your blind followers.”

“Malf—”

What will hurt him the most?

“Granger and Weasel finally got bored with you, did they? It’s so lonely when the only people you’re truly friends with stop talking to you, isn’t it?”

Potter wound his own fist around Draco’s shirt, “Don’t you dare talk about them.”

“Who? Granger? Weasel? Or maybe the Weaselette, the one who’s dating Thomas.”

“Stop it.”

Not yet. What will hurt him the most.

“Or maybe it’s none of them.” Draco narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice harshly, “Maybe it’s just me. What, Potter, you’re not bent, are you?”

Bingo. thought Draco as Potter pushed him away roughly.

That’s the last thing he remembered thinking before losing consciousness.

He woke up in a hospital bed. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, “Well, this is all rather dramatic.”

“Draco.” hushed his mother.

“What happened?” asked Draco, “Was I on the brink of death? That’s so exciting.”

“Draco.” his mum repeated, her voice colder.

“What?” demanded Draco, “Come on.”

“You lost consciousness due to fatigue and sleep deprivation.” explained the doctor. “Your classmate was rather worried.”

“You’re not talking about Potter, are you?”

“Harry Potter, yes.”

“Ew.” groaned Draco, resting his head back on his pillow. “Mum, that’s so gross.”

“Draco.” his mum repeated.

Draco looked up at her, “I’m sorry for worrying you, Mummy.”

His mum took a small, shuddering sigh. She sat next to his bed and stroked his hair.

Draco glanced at the doctor, “Was it very serious?”

“Oh no, not at all.”

“Oh, come on.” Draco moaned, frustrated.

“Your RBC level is a bit low right now so we’ll get you on some iron supplements. You’ll also have to increase the amount you sleep per night—the recommended daily amount for teenagers is ten hours.”

“What?!” exclaimed Draco, personally affronted by this data.

“Ten hours, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Oh my god, please don’t call me that, my father’s Mr. Malfoy.”

The doctor smiled a little, “Ten hours, Draco.”

“Where’s your proof?” Draco demanded. 

“If you want, I can email you the studies on this matter.”

“Yes, email me—”

“Draco.” his mum sighed, exasperated. “Stop it.”

Draco sulked up at the ceiling.

“Would you like a note for school?” the doctor asked, a smile in her voice.

“Yes.” said Draco, and then, thinking about all the work he’d have to catch up on if he missed school, “Actually, no. There’s no need.”

“Do you recommend he take some time to recover before going back to school?” his mum asked the doctor.

“I’d recommend he take tomorrow off, since it’s the weekend the day after, anyway. That way he’ll get three whole days of rest. No strenuous physical activity for at least two weeks, though.” The doctor tore a post-it off her pocket and wrote a note down, “Come back for a blood test on the 23rd, we’ll monitor if the iron supplements have helped with his RBCs. And Draco.”

“Yes?” Draco sulked.

“I expect ten hours of sleep for the next three days and then at least eight every night. Okay?”

“Oh, I suppose.”

“Increase your intake of complex carbohydrates and stay hydrated. If your responsibilities are getting overwhelming, consider cutting back. Are there any other sources of major stress in your life?”

“Well,” said Draco, unabashed, “My father.”

“Right, well.” began the doctor, perplexed with how to continue.

“Oh, don’t fret, attack is the best defence.” Draco yawned, “He’ll be in here with a coronary before you know it.”

The doctor burst into startled laughter.

“Draco.” said his mother, trying to hide a smile.

“Didn’t any of my friends come to see me?” asked Draco.

“Oh, well,” coughed the doctor, awkwardly.

“You can let them in now, doctor, thank you,” said his mother.

Draco looked at his mother, “Don’t tell me she’s crying.”

His mother remained silent. Draco groaned.

“Draco!” Pansy sobbed, as she burst in through the open doors, her face completely red. “I thought I’d never see your ugly mug again!”

“Hello, Dracon,” smiled Blaise. “You’re looking the very pinnacle of good health.”

“I tried to tell her that your Wrackspurts would take care of you,” Looney shrugged. “Pansy behaves very irrationally when she’s scared for the people that she loves.”

“Hello Luna,” smiled Draco’s mother.

“Hello Narcissa, I like your necklace.”

“Why thank you, I like your earrings. The mismatched-in-harmony trend is very popular nowadays, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. Draco bought these earrings for me, actually—”

“Draco!” Pansy sobbed, “Your ugly mug!”

“Oh, come here.” commanded Draco, crossly, as he moved around to make space on the bed for Pansy. “Don’t you dare get snot on me.”

The ugly cow got so much snot on him.

Draco learnt how to take care of himself a bit better after that. He was still averaging around seven hours daily, but it was definitely better than before. Luna stopped having to stage quite so many Wrackspurt interventions.

And life just kind of fell into a nice, pleasant harmony. He still had loads of stuff to do, but every time he found himself getting too overwhelmed, he’d take a quick step back. Breath. Then, he’d reorganise and start again. His skin cleared up, to his immediate joy. He had a growth spurt, to his mother and Maximilian’s immediate joy. He fucked shit up as Tacky-pillar, got to meet Golden-boy and his very nice bum, and watched as the political climate calmed, slowly.

It was nice. Draco was happy. 

Potter was super awkward around him after the whole bathroom tragedy, but he at least stopped stalking Draco around quite so blatantly. And Draco mostly ignored it the other times.

Arnold and Jane got engaged, Rosie and Jerry were expecting their first child, and Draco turned seventeen. Half-way through summer, Lily told him that she was moving to India for a year, so they had a small little good-bye party where they mostly just drank tea and chatted about the crime-thriller on Netflix that Draco was obsessed with. Remus and Sirius moved close-by and began coming for lunch more often, when his father was away.

His father and him still fought, but Draco got better at handling it. He got better at calming his father down, and turning the entire argument into a huge joke. Sometimes, it almost seemed like his father would maybe accept him, finally.

Seventh year started, things got better, surprisingly, not worse. Looney’s fashion finally reached Draco’s standards. The government sanctioned trans-inclusive bathrooms became a thing that happened. Theo kissed him a few more times when they were both drunk. Daphne’s little sister kissed him a few times when they were both drunk. Pansy finally backed off of Luna, so Draco stopped having to raise his shackles every time she’d make a suspicious move. Blaise continued to be his gorgeous self, as always. Strangely, Granger and him even began talking a bit during English. He found she wasn’t so bad. Still a know-it-all, but not so insufferable anymore.

Draco applied to universities. He took the LNAT. He got into his first choice, and his mum held a little celebratory party. He began making final exam timetables and reviewing his content. Chemistry stopped fucking his arse quite so hard, and began making a bit more logical sense. His mocks came close, but he wasn’t stressed. He was prepared. He was chill.

Life was good. Draco had begun to realise that he could do this. He could do it. It was okay.

He could achieve his dreams. And there they were, he could see them. His fingertips were grazing them. Did he get stressed sometimes? Yes. Did he still want to punch Potter in the face out of unexplainable anger? Well, Yes. But it wasn’t so bad. It was okay.

And then, in the middle of his A Level History mock exam, some fucking super-idiot cut off all the power in the city. And Draco was not having it.