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Auror Constable Draco Malfoy.
Born in Wiltshire and schooled somewhere in the arse-end of nowhere in Scotland.
Graduated from Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1999 with Outstanding N.E.W.T. scores in Potions, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Charms.
Attended auror training college, displaying great aptitude in field exercises; notably, urban pacification and riot control. Academically excelled in theoretical coursework and final year examinations. Received the Wand of Honour. Graduated with distinction into the Metropolitan Auror Service.
Quickly established both an effectiveness and popularity in the community.
Proceeded to improve skill base with courses in advanced broomstick riding and advanced magic carpeting.
Became heavily involved in a number of extra vocational activities. To this day holds the Met record for the 100-metre dash.
In 2003 began active-duty with the renowned BAT13 armed response unit. Received a bravery award for efforts in the resolution of Operation Pigfarts.
In the last 12 months has received nine special commendations, achieved the highest arrest record for any officer in the Met, and sustained three injuries in the line of duty - most recently in December, when stabbed in the hand by a man dressed as Dolores Umbridge.
Draco stops at Longbottom’s office, straightens his robes, and knocks twice. He had no idea why they were calling him in at 9 AM in the morning, since in the past two hours he’s been in the building there have been no immediate crises such as a breaking down of the coffee machine, or Potter either getting his hand stuck in the biscuit jar or accidentally gluing his office door shut. There have also been no major incidents, most of the Floo-calls being related to cats stuck up trees. If cats get stuck up trees so often, and evidently hate it, Draco wonders why the hell do they still do it.
“Yes, do come in,” Longbottom’s voice leaks from within the glass doors. Draco lets himself in and takes a seat across from Longbottom’s desk.
“Hello, Draco,” Sergeant Neville Longbottom greets him by his first name, which is odd. It’s like he’s trying to be friendly with him, but it’s not working very well.
“Hello, Sergeant.”
Longbottom folds his hands together in what Draco is assuming is supposed to be a graceful manner and asks, “How’s the hand?”
“Still a bit stiff,” Draco admits.
Longbottom sucks in a loud breath of air and looks a bit queasy. “It can get awfully hairy out there,” he remarks. He smiles at Draco sympathetically, in a way that Draco doesn’t completely like. “I’m surprised you weren’t snatched up sooner for a nice desk job,” Longbottom points out. “That’s what I did.”
“I prefer to think my office is out on the street.” Draco is resisting the strong urge to sneer. Of course Longbottom wants out of action. He’s a wuss. They both knew it.
“Indeed you do,” Longbottom nods uncomfortably. “Your arrest record is 400% higher than any other officer,” Longbottom notes as he flips through a folder conspicuously labelled MALFOY, “Which is why it’s high time that such skills were put to better use.” He looks back up and smiles weakly at Draco.
Draco looks at him with a raised eyebrow. He’s suspicious.
Longbottom leans in. “We’re making you Sergeant,” he says, with his best guess of what a smile looks like.
The surprise takes Draco, well, by surprise. “I see,” he manages to say, instead of choke out, in his shock.
Longbottom then looked askance and the words “in Hogsmeade” dribble out of the side of his mouth.
Oh no they didn’t. Draco narrows his eyes. “In where, sorry?”
Longbottom looked up sheepishly. “In Hogsmeade.”
Draco, “That’s … in the country,” he manages to not call it the arse-end of nowhere in front of his supervisor.
Neville perks up and says, “Yes, lovely!” and Draco tries his best to not roll his eyes.
“Isn’t there a Sergeant’s position here in London?”
“No?” Longbottom tries to answer, but with obviously no amount of certainty in his voice.
“Can I remain here as an AC?”
“No,” Longbottom looks guiltily at him, and it’s clear that this isn’t his doing.
“Do I have any choice in this?” Draco trains his icy reserved-for-not-very-hard-to-crack-suspects look onto Neville Longbottom.
“No,” it barely comes out of Longbottom’s mouth.
Draco tries his best not to sound too vindictive. It’s not very convincing. “Sergeant, I kind of like it here.”
Longbottom looks around guiltily. “Well, you’ve always wanted to transfer to the country.”
“In 20 years or so, yes.”
“Well done, Draco.” Longbottom squeaks out.
Something feels wrong. Like there’s ants crawling on the back of Draco’s hand. But it could also just be because his hand is still healing. Or, it could be because Neville Longbottom is a BIG, DISGUSTING SPY. He grits his teeth and glares at Longbottom. “Hang on, I don’t remember telling you that!”
“Yes, you did, you said,” Longbottom nervously opened the file marked MALFOY, flipped through it, found a slip of paper, and read in a small voice, “I’d love to settle down in the country sometime, just to get the fuck away from you, Potter.”
Draco clenched his fists. “I’d like to talk to the Inspector.”
Longbottom’s hands trembled as he reached for the phone. “You can speak to the Inspector, but I can promise you he will tell you exactly the same thing as I have.”
Anthony Goldstein wheeled in next to Longbottom. “Hello Draco, how’s the hand?”
“Still a bit stiff.”
“And how are things at home?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir?” It was common knowledge that, well, he didn’t go home. To Wiltshire. Also in the arse-end of nowhere.
“How’s your mother?” Goldstein asked in a friendly, I’m-not-making-a-big-deal-out-of-this sort of off-hand way.
“I haven’t talked to her in five years,” Draco answered. Though, he neglected to tell them that he did send her Christmas cards every year. Because he’s a bad son, but not a terrible one. But that’s about it. They don’t need to know that. They only need to know that he’s a hardened man who is entirely devoted to work and not at all anything else.
Goldstein dropped the topic. “Draco, we’re offering you a smashing position with a delightful cottage, in a lovely place that I think has won Village of the Year …” Goldstein tries to count off his fingers, but Draco knows that he was never good with numbers in school. They briefly shared an Arithmancy class before Goldstein quit, like, three lectures in. “... I don’t know how many times,” Goldstein finally settles with, having given up on trying to impress Draco with numbers. Figures. That wasn’t a pun. “It’ll be good for you,” Goldstein tries to convince him.
Who even says “smashing” anymore? Draco looks at him coldly. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“Yes?” Neville suggests nervously.
“Yes, thank you?” Goldstein offers in a I’m-not-really-mocking-you-except-I-am-but-hopefully-it-looks-endearing sort of way. It doesn’t.
Draco looks at them as if they’ve gone mad. Well, not as if. They are mad. They are totally, insanely mad, and this is just incomprehensible. “No, I’m sorry,” he says although he doesn’t really mean it, because who the FUCK would, in THIS scenario, “I’m gonna have to …”
Goldstein gestures at the ceiling like the idiot he is. “You want to take this … higher?” He asks.
“Yes, yes I do.” Draco glares at him.
“You want me to bother the Chief Inspector with this?” Goldstein looks at him uncertainly.
Draco puts on a smug smile. Nothing would make him happier than to have Potter tripping down the steps to see him. “Yes,” he insists.
“You want me to get the Chief Inspector to come all the way down here?”
It’s only two flights of stairs! “Yes, I do!”
Goldstein shrugs. “Okay.” He puts his wand to his throat and through a silent Sonorus. “HARRY!!” He yells as Draco and Longbottom put their fingers in their ears.
Potter apparates into the room and nearly stumbles into Draco’s chair. “Hello, Draco, how’s the hand?” He asks in an annoyingly apologetic way. Even though it was technically his fault that Draco got stabbed, and he has a right to be apologetic. But he’s Potter. He’s just always apologetic. It’s annoying.
“Still a bit stiff,” Longbottom answers and Draco glares at him. He shrinks away from Draco’s glare.
Draco stands up. “Chief Inspector Potter -”
“Keep your seat,” Potter gestures towards it as he takes the seat on the other side of Longbottom. “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Potter starts, and Draco nearly sneers, because of course Potter thinks he knows what Draco is going to say. Potter is like that. “But the fact is,” Potter looks aside nervously, not wanting to meet Draco’s eyes. Of course he doesn’t. He’s scared of Draco, always has been. With good reason, too. Draco is ruthless. “You’ve been making us all look bad,” Harry finally says.
It hits Draco like a Knight Bus in the chest. Of course that wasn’t what Potter thought, because he’s a self-centered peacock, but that was what the department felt? “I’m sorry, sir?” Draco found himself saying. It was too much. The only silver lining to this massive, unbelievable, obscuring, terrible, nonsensical grey cloud was the fact that he just heard Harry Potter admit that Draco Malfoy is better than he is. But even that wasn’t enough to dispel the gigantic fucking joke hanging over Draco’s head. “Potter, are you fucking with me?” He found himself talking again.
Potter is refusing to look Draco in the eye. Possibly because Draco can turn his eyes into silver daggers whenever he wants and Potter is scared shitless. As he should be. “Of course we all appreciate your efforts,” Potter tells him, “But you’ve been rather letting the side down.” Obviously not Potter’s words, who the fuck says “letting the side down”? Probably Shacklebolt. This is probably all Shacklebolt’s doing.
Goldstein leans in. “It’s all about being a team player, Draco.”
“You can’t be the Sheriff of London,” Longbottom adds shakily.
Goldstein leans in a little bit more, which isn’t even necessary, the dramatic bastard. “If we let you carry on running ‘round town, you’ll continue to be exceptional and we can’t have that.” He chuckles and adds, “You’ll put us all out of a job.”
“With respect,” Draco spits out, “Sir, You can’t just make people disappear.”
Potter looked a little sick. “Actually -”
Disgusting. But Draco knew that the team wouldn’t be able to function without him, because without him they’re just a bunch of blathering fools. They’ll beg for the higher-ups to keep him so he can keep on saving their sorry arses. It’s just how it works. Draco gets up and reaches for the door. “Well, however you spin this,” he decides to direct his glare to Potter, who positively cowers, Draco notes with satisfaction. “There’s one thing you haven’t taken into account - and that’s what the team is going to make of this!”
The walks outside Longbottom’s office, and is nearly attacked by … streamers?
Oh fuck. Oh no.
There are streamers everywhere. Balloons, in blue and white. Some bunting hanging from the ceiling, reading GOOD LUCK DRACO. By Jove yes, he’ll need it to not fucking murder Longbottom, Goldstein, and fucking Potter. And he would murder them, soon. It will be fucking brutal. And slow. As much as he’d rather not think of his dark and dangerous past, it’s left him with more than a couple aces up his sleeve. Oh they’re gonna ge-
The belated pop of the confetti cones brings Draco back into reality from his murderous fantasy. It was a rather good fantasy, too. He was pissed.
They were all smiling, holding little plastic cups of butterbeer. Ungrateful bastards. Draco turns his nose up and walked all the way to the back of the room, where the little cups of butterbeer were. He picks one up and knocked it down his throat like a shot. What the fuck.
The rustling amongst the chattering crowd indicated that someone was making their way through it. Draco already knew who it was. He sighs inwardly and turns his back against Potter.
“Hey, Draco?”
“It’s Malfoy to you,” Draco spits out as he crushes the empty plastic cup in his fist.
“Right.” Who the FUCK even says that as an acceptable response? Then Draco remembered that Potter was literally raised by animals. He remembers reading about an incident with his cousin. Who ended up having a tail. For a while. “I’m really sorry,” Potter continues to apologise in his I’m-Harry-Potter-the-Saviour-of-Draco-Malfoy voice.
Draco sneers even though Potter can’t see him sneering, with his back turned to Potter and all that. “I suppose you’re trying to convince me that you tried to stop them?”
“Yes.” Potter says guiltily. And then adds, “Um, I mean, yes that I tried to stop them, not that I’m trying to convince you, because the fact is that I did try to stop them, not that I didn’t and am lying to you and trying to convince you, just, argh, this is coming out all wrong, listen, Draco, I really, really tried -”
“To save me?” Draco turned around this time, sneering even more and training his eyes to look down on Potter, savouring every hair of the two inches of height he had over Potter. “Look, Potter, you’ve saved me from Azkaban. Then you volunteered to be my reference for the auror college. Now, you’re trying to save me from the life-threatening danger that is Hogsmeade.” Draco’s not half kidding. He might just kill himself over accepting a position there. “Stop trying to fix everything for me! I’m not a maiden in need of having her honour defended, least by the likes of you!”
Potter flushes and Draco didn’t know that his skin could get darker. “Draco, I’m really sorry. I tried to convince the others but they won’t believe me, they all say that, that I have a soft spot for you because your mum saved me,” Draco flinches at the mention of his mother, coming from Potter’s mouth. “That’s not true. I just think that you’ve proven yourself to be an astoundingly talented auror, and that they’re all making a mistake chasing you away like this, and that all of this is stupid and I would really, really like for you to stay, except the order comes from higher up than me, and really I have no control over what Kings -”
Ah, so it was Shacklebolt. Draco narrows his eyes at Potter and Potter stops talking and splutters a little. “I’ve heard enough, Potter. Leave your fucking pitying to someone else. I don’t need your pity.”
“Draco, that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Piss off, Potter. And it’s Malfoy to you.”
“Malfoy, please.”
Draco has had enough of this. Besides, he needs to head back to his flat. His Japanese peace lily needed watering. Also, he needs to pack. “Goodbye, Potter,” he spits out the side of his mouth, which is really a little more venomous than Potter had deserved, because Draco actually believed Potter had stood up for him, because that is exactly the annoying, Potter-ish thing that Potter would totally do, because Potter is Potter and he can’t help it.
Draco turns around on his heel and heads for the nearest exit, but before he could take a step he felt Potter’s hand enclose around his forearm. “Draco, wait!”
Draco whips around and sets his most withering look at Potter. The one he reserved for the hard-to-crack suspect interrogations. Potter, much to Draco’s dismay, did not seem bothered by it. He then looks down at Potter’s hand on his sleeve, gripping the arm that had the Dark Mark scar on it. Potter looks down too and quickly realises which arm he had grabbed, and lets go of Draco as if he were burnt. Draco looks back up and sneers at Potter.
“What, is the Golden Boy too good to touch the ex-Death Eater?”
Potter looks guilty and also like he wants to just Vanish himself at the spot. Which would be amusing if it did happen, Draco thinks. “I didn’t mean that.” Potter says. Draco knew, but he is going to milk as much fun out of this as he can.
“Of course you didn’t,” Draco continues with a wave of his hand. “Of course you didn’t. That’s what everyone says. That’s what you and everyone say to avoid hurting ickle Draco’s feelings, is that right?”
“No, Dra -”
“Malfoy.”
“That’s not true, Malfoy.”
“So you don’t care about my feelings, then.”
“That’s not what I said! You’re just putting words in my mouth!”
“Potter, I’m not just some poor victim of fucking bullying you can practice your Saviour skills on. Don’t patronise me like that.”
“I never mean to.”
“You do a poor job of convincing me.”
Potter sets his infuriating, determined eyes on Draco. It's really annoying. He’s just formed an idea. Draco really should have seen this coming. “How can I convince you?”
“Don’t. I don’t need you.”
“I nee -” Potter starts and then blushes furiously. It is hilarious. But also sadly true. Of course Potter needs Draco. If Potter didn’t have Draco, London would be overrun with criminals. Because the truth is just that Draco is a way better auror than Potter is.
“What, can’t say it out loud in front of the team?” Who are actually not listening to them. But whatever. “Too embarrassed to admit that without me, your Auror Service is nothing?”
“Oh shove off, Malfoy.”
“I have every intention to. In fact, I’ve been told that I have to, by tomorrow morning.”
“Listen, I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Draco.”
“Malfoy.”
“Goddammit, Malfoy. Look, I obviously can’t convey to you how sorry I am about this. Obviously I want you here. I need you here. We need you here. But they just won’t listen to me. And now you won’t either, fantastic.”
“To be fair, Potter, I never really listened to you.”
“True.” Potter opens his black auror notebook and scribbles something down, then tears off the page. He hands the torn-off page to Malfoy. “Here. This is my personal number. If you need anything, please, call it.”
“Potter, what did we say about the whole Saviour thing.”
“This isn’t about the whole Saviour thing. Goddammit Malfoy, I’ve let that thing drop ages ago. I don’t care.” He runs a frustrated hand through his disgracefully disheveled hair. “Malfoy, look, I really like you, and I care about you, and I just feel really bad about this entire ordeal.” Draco didn’t know it was possible for Potter to blush darker. If he weren’t about to murder Potter for giving him his number like a help hotline then he probably would have dropped to the floor laughing.
“Are you trying to be my friend.” It wasn’t even a question because of course Potter wanted to be friends. He’s pathetic like that.
Potter looks down and shuffles his feet. “If you’d like to be. Friends, that is.”
“Potter, we went out for drinks once, like, two months ago. And I had just gotten out of the St. Mungo’s, so it’s not even a friend thing. It’s just a Malfoy-hasn’t-got-pissed-in-two-weeks-and-it’s-all-your-fault-so-you’re-buying thing. We’re not friends.”
Potter sighs. A little dramatic, Draco thought. Potter is always so dramatic. “Malfoy, just take it. I hope you have a safe trip.” He looks back up at Draco, face still aflame. “I’ll miss you.” He extends a hand.
Because his mother had taught him manners, Draco took it. But no. It was a trap. Potter wasn’t going for a handshake. He was going for a full-on, fucking bear hug. The kind that involves slapping the victim’s back in a vigorous and painful way that is meant to be manly and reassuring. It’s not. Manly or reassuring. It’s fucking painful.
“I’m telling the truth,” Potter says to Draco’s shoulder. “I am going to miss you.”
“If you cry on my robes I will murder you. Not in your sleep. When you are awake.”
Potter laughed and it was annoyingly nice. “I bet you'll do it nice and slow.”
“You’re fucked up.”
“I don’t deny it.”
There was an awkward silence. “You can let go of me now, Potter.”
“Oh! Right! Sorry, Draco.”
“Malfoy.”
“Right.”
“Goodbye Potter.”
“You can call me Harry.”
“No, I’m still calling you Potter.”
“Alright.”
“Anyway, goodbye.”
“Goodbye Malfoy.”
Draco turns around and leaves through the nearest exit, and apparates back to his flat. He doesn’t notice it until he reaches into his pocket to grab his keys. And felt it. The slip of paper. Potter’s number. Fuck. Sneaky little bitch, that’s why he kept his ferocious hug-grip on Draco.
Draco was really going to murder him the next time he saw him.