Even in the Darkest of Times (Draco/Astoria)

2 | Draco

Chapter Two: Draco

He got the job.

Draco didn't believe in such a thing as having a sixth sense—that sort of fanciful thinking was reserved for Muggles and all of their spiritual body-and-soul nonsense. It was just confidence. It was as simple as a lumos spell. He got the job and his sureness had been cemented by the owl that had appeared by his window side that morning, bearing a letter from the Hogwarts Headmistress herself.

Confidence wasn't a feeling Draco Malfoy was very accustomed to, especially not these days. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so cheerful putting on his lucky emerald tie, his feet bobbing along to Celestina Warbeck's husky voice belting out an acoustic rendition of 'Today I Met the One'.

"I'm a wicked witch with an eye for a wicked guy, do, do, do," he hummed, flicking his wand around at the same tempo as the song. The shirts and socks that lay strewn lazily across the expensive wooden floor of his apartment flew past him and into the laundry basket just as he began to pirouette in the most un-ballerina-like fashion.

"Dark brown eyes, a moment full of sighs, do, do, do!" It really was the most wonderful feeling. True it may be that the letter McGonagall had sent hadn't exactly, explicitly, stated that he had the job. Rather, it had requested his presence at her office. What else could it have meant? She could hardly summon him all the way to Hogwarts just to tell him he hadn't got the job. McGonagall may have made it plain that she didn't like him—she never had, the old bat—but Draco knew her enough to understand the woman didn't let such a thing as personal bias get in the way of her professional judgement. Draco's Potions' grades had been fantastic, his eye for the subject itself almost prodigal and—well, he was handsome too, in a pristine sort of way, and one could hardly discount that as an advantage.

"Oh Draco, darling, you really ought to have kept up with your ballet classes."

Draco let out a scream not unlike the one he had emitted back in third year, when that feathered beast had attacked him. He whipped around, wand at the ready, and let out a groan as his eyes focused on a familiar pair of gleaming blue ones.

"Mother." Lowering his wand, Draco ran a nervous hand through his hair, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "What I really ought to do is block the Apparition system so you don't jump up on me like that."

Narcissa Malfoy tutted, sidling past her son and into his living room. "Now, now," she said, setting herself down on his favourite armchair, "we both agreed before you decided to move in here that you'd have the security system set up in a way that would allow me complete access to the place." Her eyes glazed over with what Draco knew to be her standard 'I'm-Constantly-Worrying-About-You' look. "In case of emergencies. You know that, sweetheart."

Draco's cheeks turned pinker at 'sweetheart'. Thank Merlin she reserved her special names for him for when they were both alone.

"What brings you here?" he mumbled, walking towards her.

"My love for you."

Draco groaned again as his mother laughed. "Not funny."

"I heard about the position you obtained at Hogwarts," Narcissa said finally, and her expression turned from amused to—was that pride? Draco couldn't help but feel a warm glow in his stomach. "It is very good. Very reputable. Your Father expresses his approval."

"Oh he does, does he?" The warm glow quickly dissipated, leaving instead a cold scowl on Draco's face.

Narcissa sighed and it was only now that Draco, in startled surprise, really saw how old his mother looked. Her hair, once a silver waterfall down her back, now looked worn and weathered in its tight little bun. Her forehead had creased up into a thousand little folds, her pale lips turning down into a small, sad frown.