verity || d.m.

01 - useless coupons, equality programs, and dinner parties

24 AUGUST, 2001

—

soon to be a whisper of a memory
always remembered in perfection

- excerpt from poem #5, "hidden dance," from my poetry book aftertaste

—

There's not many things throughout the 21 years of Draco's life that he can count on to remain the same, but at least the mail is delivered at the same time every day without fail.

He looks over at the old mahogany clock detailed in gold next to the bookshelf. Sure enough, the bewitched hands read 8:45, like always. Draco glances over at the window just in time to see Cygnus fly in and drop three small envelopes into his lap. He gives the eagle owl a few head scratches and a treat from the jar he keeps inside his drawer before the bird flies away, leaving Draco to open his letters.

He's always liked that the owl gives him privacy when checking the mail. It's not like Cygnus can read, but it gives Draco an extra armor of security knowing he has no prying eyes intruding on whatever business he's caught himself in. Nobody dares send anything suspect in the mail anymore, and even if they did he highly doubts he would receive some, but after years of being a pawn in a game played by corrupt men you grow weary of anything addressed to you.

The first piece of parchment is printed in a faded dark grey ink. Draco scoffs, realizing what time of year it is. The days have blended together seamlessly like the colors of the sunset, coral kissing lavender, indigo embracing navy. Yet, these letters seem to remind him what week it is without fail. Every year, he's received advertisements from various Diagon Alley stores trying to convince him to "save 20 galleons on your fourth book at Flourish and Blotts!" and "buy two scoops and get one free from Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour!" You would think three years after graduating from Hogwarts they would know not to send those to him. He tosses the letter aside and reaches for the next one.

It's not that he doesn't like Diagon Alley; in fact it's quite the opposite. It's always brought a sense of comfort to him, like hot soup after quidditch practice in the pouring rain. Trips to Diagon Alley always symbolized a new year ahead, a new chance to prove himself worthy to his father. But in recent years, even when his old friends ask to meet up for a cup of tea or look at the new broom series, Draco can't bring himself to go.

It's almost like the nostalgia is this pulsing reminder against his temples that haunts him, the shadow of his past nagging inside his ear. Draco would much rather spend his days alone in his room, not having to show this shell of a person he's become to anybody who might recognize him.

The second piece of parchment is inked in a dark green, almost black color. He's not sure why he expected to see new letters when he's been sent the same ones for the past few years. Printed at the top reads "Pureblood Reparations for International Muggleborn Equality." The letter details the work he has to get done for this upcoming week and where he can find resources if he needs guidance or additional support.

While PRIME has been a real pain in the arse these years, Draco is grateful for something to keep him busy. He has to keep his eyes on the prize, however. If he can clear his family's name at the end of this, it will be worth it. Or at least that's what he thinks.

When the ministry tried to send his father to Azkaban once again, he told his mother he would be willing to be a part of the program. He knows people, especially his peers, were shocked to find out that Draco, the Malfoy heir, was interested in anything that would not harm muggleborns, let alone help them, but he's already used to the whispers in the alleyways and the eyes burning holes in the back of his head.