The Boy Who Lived

April Fools

2002
(Nearly four years after the Battle of Hogwarts)

Draco hummed quietly to himself as he prepared for his morning surgery appointments. He leafed through the papers on his clipboard, eyeing through the details of his patients due to come in. It promised to be a fairly mundane April morning that would match the drizzly grey day outside. He shuddered against the chill fog that seemed to creep under the doors despite the bright clean brightness of his practice building.

First up was an emergency: a Kneazle with a suspected broken tail. Followed by a Crup booked in for neutering that afternoon; a check-up on a Tawny Owl that had broken its wing a week ago; another Kneazle, suspected pregnancy; a Rat that was off its food; a young Eagle Owl who was refusing to fly; a Marmoset who was perfectly fine but an owner who was neurotic; a Irish Wolfhound puppy coming in for its introductory 'interview' and its first inoculations; and a Python, prognosis unknown.

He scanned the list of names and snorted softly to himself; he had wondered when their paths would cross once more. He knew it would have been unfeasible to never see each other again, despite the very different circles that they moved in.

He brushed a suddenly nervous hand down his mushroom-coloured work polo shirt, his fingers lightly brushing over the embroidered letters of his name and his practice position. Not for the first time, he sighed in relief that the Dark Mark which had once tarnished his arm had practically faded to nothing. It was still there, for those who looked closely, more of a detailed scar and faint ridges. Most forgot to look, especially as he tended to wear short sleeves these days and didn't try to hide anything. Draco found it was better that way. His once-marred arm was simply perceived as 'normal' unless someone suddenly remembered. Though he grimaced that today, of all days, was the day he was wearing his brown dragonhide trousers but they were a necessity. They were a necessity partly because he knew from previous experience that patients like Mr Squeers treated normal trousers as no more than 15-denier tights if he decided to sink his claws in one's thighs but also because, after his afternoon surgery, he was booked into visit a Hippogriff breeder and birthing Hippogriffs tended to get a bit messy: dragonhide protected against nearly everything. He blamed Hagrid, hadn't Hagrid told him all those years ago that 'no shit sticks to dragonhide'.

He pressed the intercom buzzer to his receptionist. 'Hi, Agatha?' he said through the small microphone. 'When was my 10.30 booked in?'

'Late yesterday, Dr Malfoy, you were still in surgery with the conjoined Bowtruckles.'

Draco sighed, it had been a troublesome and delicate operation and he'd nearly lost one of them.

'Is there a problem, Dr Malfoy? Do you want me to cancel it? Only it's...'

'...no, it's fine, Agatha. I'm ready for Mr Squeers...'

He shook his head softly in amusement. It was without a doubt that Agatha was going to say; 'only it's Harry Potter!' in that tone of commingled awe and worship that people tended to use when they spoke about him. Undoubtedly Potter hadn't realised Draco was the veterinary surgeon; he knew there was a convenience to the location of the practice that was just off Diagon Alley on the outskirts Carkitt Market. It had happened more than once since he'd opened his practice. Surprisingly, only one person had actually left in disgust. The rest stayed, it seemed intrigue and curiosity was a key motivator.

Draco hadn't kept his return to the Wizarding World a secret but nor had he shouted from the rooftops of Diagon Alley. Not that he'd really left either. He had spent his time studying with Hagrid and in Muggle London, getting his Veterinarian Medical Degree and an Apprenticeship in Care of Magical Creatures.