𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐒

Single Chapter

then

2007

Mrs. Dietrich is refusing to eat again.

"I'm sorry, lovely," the woman insists from underneath her teetering pile of blue-black honeycomb hair. Draco very briefly fantasizes about sticking a hand in the monstrous nest and twisting until the woman screeches and submits, but then decides he doesn't quite want to subject his precious hand to such an experience and sighs instead. "It's just not right, not right at all—my house-elves know just when to pop the roast out, you've obviously got subpar creatures working here. I won't put that rubbish anywhere near my body, I simply couldn't."

Draco is very tired. He is hungry. He has been working for 16 hours and will have to work for another 12 after some eight hours of food and sleep. He is actually considering grabbing the thick cuts of roast beef and stewed vegetables on the plate in front of the recalcitrant woman and wolfing them down, and he is appalled with himself for considering it. He decides that it's Girl Weasley's fault; obviously, prolonged exposure to her wild and unrefined behavior has warped his proper pureblood sensibilities.

He briefly reminds himself that yes, his house-elves know when to pop the roast out, too, and he can hold out for that well-cooked roast just a little longer, once Mrs. Dietrich has eaten.

"Mrs. Dietrich," Draco says smoothly, plastering on his best old people love me smile and turning it on her full blast. Her eyelashes flutter and he suppresses a shudder. "You must understand how important it is for you to keep up your strength during your treatment. Your body is undergoing a process of extreme transition—it needs to remain virile and hearty."

Mrs. Dietrich giggles airily, the honeycomb wobbling precariously. "Oh, but dear, you couldn't possibly expect me to eat that—"

"But I must insist," Draco insists, gritting his teeth and letting it look like a pearly smile. Mrs. Dietrich giggles again; Draco wonders how flammable the honeycomb is.

"I'm sure you can scrounge up something more suitable for an old friend like me—"

"Look." It bursts out harsher and angrier than he'd intended, but that often happens with him. A few heads in the sparkling new Abraxas Malfoy Ward whip around to stare, but most of the patients are absorbed in their (okay, admittedly dry, but what the fuck ever) roast dinners. The few nurses who are still bitter that he's taken cluck their tongues and shake their heads, and he realizes that there will be trouble in paradise rumors floating around by next shift and can't bring himself to care.

The honeycomb quivers; the witch underneath looks scandalized. Draco ploughs on ahead, because this often happens with him, too: once he starts, it's hard to stop. "If you don't eat, the Forget-Me-Not potions will not absorb properly in your system. Your magic will start to deteriorate again; your mind and body will follow, and soon you'll be upstairs in Spell Damage, as limp and saggy as those vegetables you keep turning your nose up at. So unless miserable Squib is back in this year—and I

don't know, you see, I haven't been keeping with the trends, I've been in here, begging you people to eat your sodding dinner—I'd eat the bloody roast and call it a night. Is that suitable enough for you?"

Dietrich stares at him, whiskery (ugh) chin quaking slightly. Draco decides he will actually kill himself if she cries, it will be much easier that way—oh, sure, Luna will miss him, his parents might mourn a bit, and Girl Weasley will probably see it as a personal insult to her, but it's a winning situation for everyone else. Maybe the Malfoy house-elves can serve Dietrich up some nice roast at Draco's wake.

And then, a miracle—chin still wobbly, eyes still wide, a shaky, gnarled hand reaches out and grips a fork daintily. Haughty eyes flash and a mouth coated in uneven lipstick firms up, and Dietrich gives him a cold, determined nod.