Chapter Text
Brunch, according to Pansy, was the most important meal of the day. Draco disagreed, preferring a late supper, while Blaise was neutral—put a mimosa in front of the man, and he was happy enough. But Pansy was the one who'd been brave enough to venture into Muggle London and find establishments that were still willing to serve them, so Pansy made the schedule.
The food had already arrived when Draco, late as usual, flung himself into his chair with a sigh, tossing a paper towards his companions. The employment section of the Prophet fluttered to rest over the croissants, and Pansy plucked it from the table with an irritated huff.
“You could try to show up on time one day, you know.”
“Or we could meet at a civilised hour that doesn't interfere with my beauty sleep.”
“It's 11 am!!”
Draco looked to Blaise but was met with a shrug. “You’re no help,” Draco grumbled.
“Don’t harass him before the coffee’s kicked in,” Pansy admonished. “You know Blaise can’t deal with your temper this early.”
“Ah ha! So you admit that it’s early.”
Pansy rolled her eyes skyward before pouring another mimosa. “I admit nothing. Now tell me why this vile rag is on the table.”
Reaching for the butter, Draco gestured casually with a knife. “Take a look.”
“What exactly am I looking at?” Pansy asked, the Prophet held delicately between her thumb and forefinger as if it would bite her. Rita Skeeter had been scathing in her assessment of Pansy after the war.
“The one I circled,” Draco directed her. Pansy peered closer at the paper, her mouth moving as she read the advert in question, eyes growing wider as she reached the end with a delighted whoop.
“A caretaker? You’re applying to be someone’s caretaker?”
“Not someone, somewhere. A magical estate in need of looking after.”
“You’re going to be Filch!” Pansy cackled. “We’ll have to get you an awful cat.”
Draco stabbed the butter harder than necessary. “A caretaker is hardly a janitorial position. And a country estate of that size? There will be loads to keep me busy. If I don’t find employment, Mother will start finding other things for me to do.” He shuddered, well aware of his mother’s designs on re-entering society.
Pansy reached for the fruit bowl, dropped several raspberries into her mimosa, and sighed. “Darling, are you sure you don’t want me to ask around for you? Daddy is sure to know of some bookkeeping positions.”
“I’d rather not hang around London more than I have to. France has been lovely, this will be an opportunity to be away some more. I have the experience, from looking after the Manor and other references, too, since I helped Mme Debevoise clear out her château when we stayed there. And I refurbished her cousin’s portrait gallery.” Draco accepted the bowl as Pansy passed it to him, and glanced over the table. “Why are there no waffles?”
“You weren’t here to order. Blaise wanted croissants and yoghurt.” One look at Blaise told Draco that he’d asked for no such thing.
Draco turned to signal the waiter as Pansy scanned the advert again. “It doesn’t say who owns this estate. Have you written in yet?”
The waiter arrived with a wary expression; Pansy must have been in fine form when she arrived. “I’d like one order of waffles, please.” Draco noticed Blaise’s pleading expression, and added, “Make that two.” Pansy opened her mouth to protest, and Draco cut her off. “I sent the application this morning.”
She turned back to Draco as the waiter escaped. “This morning? It's not like you to be so trusting.”
“I'm not trusting.” Draco let the word fall from his mouth as if he'd eaten a bad strawberry. “I'm simply not letting an opportunity pass me by. I'll do my due diligence once I arrive.”
“But—”
Blaise set his empty coffee cup down with a clatter. “Draco can take care of himself. You know the second he settles back in at home, Narcissa is going to parade him around to every crusty old pure-blood grandmother trying to make a match, with a list of all the remaining Malfoy vaults, properties, and peacocks, and sell him off to the most well-connected, respectable prospect. He’s going to be miserable, we’re going to be miserable from listening to him whinge, and whoever his bride is will be miserable as well. Didn’t you say he was the most awful kisser, back in fifth year?” Both Draco and Pansy turned varying shades of red, but Blaise continued on. “That’s what happens when you try to make arranged marriages work. Bad sex and misery all around. Not to mention we’ve seen what trouble Draco gets up to when he’s bored. So this is all for the best! Draco gets to stay occupied, I get to stay sane, and you don’t have to worry about finding the right dress for a fancy wedding that no one wants.” He drew a long breath, and finished with, “And just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. By the way, croissants have just as much fat as waffles.”
Pansy stared at Blaise wordlessly, before slowly pushing her plate of croissants away. “Well, then,” Draco said, bemused. “Guess the coffee kicked in.”
He left his two best friends to bicker about the addition of whipped cream, and retrieved the paper from where Pansy had laid it, reading over the advert one more time.
Wanted: Caretaker
Seeking one witch or wizard to manage the reopening of a country estate. House has sat vacant for some years and includes 10 acres of garden. Familiarity with wards is a must; experience with historical artefacts is preferred.
Discretion required.
—————
Ireland had its charms. It was, as promised, rather green in the summer, and Draco did appreciate a nice bit of nature. More importantly, not a single person gave him a disgusted look or muttered under their breath as he walked down the main street of Letterkenny, returning from a pub where he'd had a quick nip to gather his courage before the interview.
Of course, the fact there was only a single Owl Post Office to betray the existence of the wizarding world could have something to do with that.
Thankfully, Pansy had neglected to notice the advert was under the Irish header of the employment section. He would have never lived it down. The English pure-blood elite still acted superior to the Irish communities, especially “the separatists,” as some people (his father included) quietly called them. Draco wasn’t exactly sure of the status of Ireland in the Muggle government—he was happy to go to Muggle restaurants and upscale shopping boutiques, but couldn’t be bothered to remember if they still had a Queen or what colonies they possessed.
He was definitely happy to drink their whiskey.
Out back of the Owl Post Office, there was a small park with a bench. The Concealment Charms extended all around the trees, to hide the owls when they were on break, and it was here that Draco's prospective employer had asked to meet. It was somewhat unusual—Draco would have expected to meet at the house itself—but not overly so. Perhaps the owner just didn't want to give up his privacy until he was sure about hiring Draco.
Unusual or not, this job was important to Draco. Not in the financial sense, as over a thousand years of Malfoy wealth (and that was just the British vaults) were hardly dented by war reparations and legal bills. But working kept him busy, and more importantly it kept him far from his mother’s machinations. Also, and he’d never breathe a word of this to Pansy, it made him different, almost special. No Malfoy had ever bothered to pursue a common career. There were politicians and investors and philanthropists (strike that, Draco was pretty sure no Malfoy had truly been a philanthropist) but no one worked. And if holding down a job like the common rabble went some way towards a bit of… well, maybe not forgiveness, but respect? Draco could handle that. And if he was good at what he did, that was simply icing on the Cauldron Cake.
Several owls fluttered in the trees, their natural penchant for sleeping in the daytime broken by years of training. Draco leaned back on the bench and waited. If nothing else, this trip was a nice diversion. Being thrown back into the bustle of London, expected to make social engagements, was emotionally taxing. Draco often caught himself talking to no one in particular in his own head, focusing on words and phrases to centre himself. Nice words, unique words. Words like Letterkenny. Perhaps it was mental, but who did it hurt? Draco repeated the name of the town slowly under his breath, syllable by syllable, calming his nerves.
Eventually, a man around his age, with dark hair and a badly trimmed moustache, entered the park. He spotted Draco quickly— there was no one else except for the owls—and stiffened. Could this be him? Draco wondered, and sat up straighter. Several expressions quickly flickered over the man’s face, and after what appeared to be an internal debate, he approached and sat down at the opposite side of the bench.
Up close, the man’s clothes were shabby: plain trousers and an ill-fitting shirt without a jacket. Draco held his tongue and waited for an introduction. The stranger looked Draco up and down and sighed in resignation—not a good sign.
“You must be here about the position.”
“Well, yes.” Draco held out his hand, but the man looked at it sceptically.
“Because I can’t imagine another reason you’d be in Letterkenny, Malfoy.”
Ah. He’d been recognised. There was a decidedly English accent to the voice—London?—and a deeply suspicious look in the man’s eyes. Draco floundered for something to say.
“I take it you aren’t Irish, Mr…?”
The man’s lips twitched under the moustache. “Jones. And you aren’t Mr Black.”
With a sinking feeling, Draco realised he had to answer for that. He’d applied with the name D. L. Black, not wanting his resume to be chucked on the bottom of the pile at first glance. He shouldn’t have been so hasty to assume the wizard looking for a caretaker was an old Irishman; now he’d started off on a bad foot, with a lie. Perhaps it could be explained away. “You can see why I used my mother’s maiden name on the paperwork. I wasn’t trying to be dishonest, just…”
“Just sneaky. You always were.”
Draco withdrew the hand that he realised he was still holding out. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
The man tensed further. “Why are you really here, Malfoy?”
Hearing his name spoken with such distaste set Draco on edge. “As you said, I’m here about the position. But if you aren’t interested in my credentials, which speak for themselves, I can just as easily go back to the pub.”
“I never said I wasn’t—wait. The pub?” Jones scrunched his nose up in confusion. “The only pubs here are Muggle.”
“I’m well aware.”
“You expect me to believe you were drinking at a Muggle pub? An Irish Muggle pub? Pull the other one, Malfoy.”
“I haven’t pulled the first one,” Draco answered dryly. “Now, I respect that you may have your doubts about me, Mr Jones, but I came here in good faith. Name aside, my résumé is perfectly in order.”
“The restoration of an English country manor, including removal of Dark artefacts and re-establishment of the wards,” Jones recited. “You must mean Malfoy Manor, don't you?”
“I do,” Draco conceded; he'd left property titles off his application, well aware of any preconceptions the public had about the house he'd grown up in. “The French estates provided their own challenges, and were absent any Dark artefacts or shady pasts.” Mostly.
“I'm sure,” Jones snorted. “Didn't think you needed to work. Why bother with peasant stuff like this?”
Being at a disadvantage was starting to grate on Draco's nerves. “It seems you know me well, Mr Jones, but I have no idea who you are. Have you lived in Ireland long? Is this a family estate you're hiring for?”
Jones picked absently at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers. “You don't need to know me, only the house.”
Draco disagreed, but it was a perfect segue if there ever was one. “May I suggest you show me this house, then?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jones sighed wearily. “Yeah, alright. You came all this way, I guess it can't hurt.” He rose from the bench and stood to the side, waiting for Draco to join him. “You’ll have to trust me enough to Apparate.”
“Do you trust me?” Draco asked, before biting his tongue. That was a stupid question; it was obvious that this Mr Jones didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Sneaky, indeed.
Yet the stranger held out in own hand, a repeat of Draco’s earlier gesture. “In general? No. But,” he added with a wry smile, “I suppose I do trust you with my life, Malfoy.”
Draco, unable to come up with a more eloquent answer than, “Huh?” took the proffered hand, and felt the twisting pull of Apparition.
—————
The world blurred, and after the familiar experience of being squeezed down to nothing and forming again with a ‘pop,’ resolved into a stark landscape of rocks and low brush. Gone were the trees and the half-sleepy owls of the park; in their place were chattering seagulls and a carpet of grass, dotted here and there with golden yellow wildflowers. Off to the left lay a small cluster of ruined buildings, and all before Draco stretched the wide, roiling sea.
The view took him by surprise, and he gasped, pulling crisp, salty air into his lungs. He spun around, and saw a hill rising behind him, topped with a grey sky.
“Where are we?”
“Inishtrahull,” Jones spoke from behind him. “It’s north, on an island off the coast of County Donegal. The farthest north you can get in Ireland, actually.”
“I can believe that.” The place looked absolutely deserted. “Where is everyone? Or anything at all?” Draco looked back over his shoulder, suddenly quite aware that he was all alone with a stranger. He hadn’t received any death threats lately, but that was only because people weren’t sure where to send the owls. He casually felt for his wand, currently in his pocket.
Jones must have caught the movement, because he grinned. “If I wanted to kill you, I could have done that in Letterkenny.”
Draco bit back a retort of you could try and cast his gaze down the coast, then back up the hill. “So where’s the house? Unless you mean those ruins over there.”
“Definitely not.” Jones started to walk up the hill, and Draco followed. “Those ruins are what remains of a small Muggle village. They left a hundred years ago, and now the Muggle Irish Government calls this a wildlife area, so I don’t have to worry about any other people living here. Very occasionally, Muggles come out here to birdwatch, but the house has been charmed to appear as a crumbling wreck.”
A vague sense of a path appeared as they ascended the hill. Draco gingerly stepped over some stones—he hadn’t worn the proper shoes for this. “What about Muggles with a sense of curiosity, don’t they want to explore?”
“If they approach, they suddenly get the sense the area is dangerous. It’s like Hogwarts, you know?”
“I’m familiar with the spell. You went to Hogwarts?” Jones didn’t respond to the question, only continued walking. They crested a rise and paused; Draco had to admit the view was spectacular. “How long until we get there?”
“Oh, we’re here. You just can’t see it yet.” Here Jones hesitated. “Merlin knows I might come to regret this, but… I’m going to give you a fair shake, Malfoy. But you have to agree to be Obliviated if I don’t hire you. Not entirely!” he assured, as if sensing Draco’s objection. “Just the address. It’s Unplottable and under a Fidelius Charm.”
This whole situation just kept getting more confusing to Draco. This man wasn’t Irish, was obviously wealthy, and concerned enough about his privacy to have a number of spells concealing his home. Yet Draco had never heard of him? All sorts of alarm bells were going off. Still… “As you said, I’ve come all this way. I’ll agree. But only the address. I don’t fancy waking up with holes in my memory.”
“The address and one other detail,” the man added. “You’ll see what I mean. Alright then: Inisview can be found on Inishtrahull island, Country Donegal, on the side of the tallest hill at the end of the flagstone path with a rosebush at the gate.”
What on earth kind of address is that? Draco wondered, as suddenly a large stone house shimmered into existence in front of him. Immediately in front of him, in fact—the gate with the rosebush was about six inches away from his feet, and he leapt backwards with a startled yip. Jones stifled a laugh and reached forward to unlock the gate with a key.
“It’s a nice place, yeah?” he said, gesturing at the house. It was three stories tall, maybe a quarter the size of the Manor, although Draco knew well that looks could be deceiving when it came to size in wizarding homes. The outside walls were covered in stones of various sizes which were worked into the mortar, giving the house a rustic look. The roof was pitched with a flat top, probably a viewing deck for watching the sea. Several more rose bushes crowded along the northern wall, and Draco supposed the rest of the garden must lay behind the house.
“It’s quite charming,” he conceded. “A very lovely retreat. I assume it isn’t used as a main residence? Since it’s been vacant for so long.”
“It was a summer house for the Doherty family,” Jones confirmed. “They used it for big family gatherings, too, any time of the year. Honestly, it’s mostly bedrooms.”
“I do hope you have a Floo,” Draco said, glancing back down the twisting, rocky path that had brought them up the hill.
“Of course,” Jones assured. “And if you take the job, I’ll give you access. You won’t be able to bring anyone else through. But I don’t expect you to move in or whatnot while you’re working. It doesn’t need to be a rush job.”
“Are you planning to use it as a main residence? That will affect what kind of wards I ultimately set, the kind that are elastic enough to withstand opening and closing often, or ones that act more like Stasis Charms.”
Jones scratched at his neck. “Huh, didn’t realise there was a difference. Guess that’s why I’m hiring someone.”
“And are you? Hiring me?” Draco hadn’t even seen the inside of the house yet, but his curiosity was so thoroughly piqued that he couldn’t resist. Also, I don’t think I can handle writing in to many more adverts.
There was a long minute of silence that had Draco assuming he was about to be told off and Obliviated. Instead, Jones let out a long sigh. “Your resume was perfect, and… well, it’s odd, but I’d rather have someone I know, even if we don’t get along, instead of a total stranger.”
“You’re a total stranger to me,” Draco reminded him. “I have no idea how we’d get along. But I’ll take it.”
“Let me give you that last detail before you accept, Malfoy,” Jones said with a grim smile.
“Why? Is there something wrong with the house? Is it haunted? I can’t deal with poltergeists but I’m versed in exorcisms.”
“I—wait, really? Like the movie?”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Look, I’m just gonna get this over with.” Jones pulled his wand out, and Draco thought he meant to open the door to the house. Instead, he pointed it at himself.
“Finite Incantatem.”
A Glamour—a rather excellent one, Draco thought—slid off the rather plain figure of Jones, and in his place stood Harry Potter.
Draco couldn’t help it: he jumped. To his credit, Potter didn’t laugh at him, but he did smirk.
It had been what, four years since Draco had seen him? Five? He’d caught a glimpse of Potter on one occasion in Diagon Alley, and ducked behind a post rather than face his old nemesis, who was trailing a crowd of gawkers. Draco would have fled entirely, but had to finish the errands for his mother, who was still on house arrest; once her three-year sentence was over and she made a beeline for the continent, Draco in tow, he and Potter’s paths had no chance to cross again.
He looked almost the same as his teenage self, maybe with a bit of weathering that Draco had to grudgingly admit he wore well. (Admit to himself of course, never to Potter.) Same messy, almost black hair, same piercing glance. No matter how much fuss the papers made about the green, Draco didn’t think it was the colour of Potter’s eyes that made him seem so intense. It was unnerving, being fixed under that stare again after so many years.
A million other thoughts ran through Draco’s head, and tried to come out of his mouth, before he finally managed, “I see why you have all the security.”
“I’m sure.” Potter rolled his eyes. “That all you have to say? Nothing about ‘famous Harry Potter’?”
Inexplicably, Draco was more annoyed at himself than with Potter for the deception. Seven years of paying attention to every move he made, and I couldn’t even tell him under a Glamour? Some Slytherin I am. He knew Potter expected him to revert to his same old self, the one that would have some dig about needing to make an entrance for attention, but Draco wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. They were twenty-four years old, for Merlin’s sake.
“I’ve learned to value privacy myself,” he simply answered.
Draco took immense pleasure in Potter’s impression of a landed fish, before he gathered himself. “I… alright. If you don’t have a problem…”
“I assure you I don’t.” He had several.
“And you think we can work together?”
“Together?” Draco laughed. “I need your instructions, and I’ll check in with you, but I have things well in hand. This is what I do, after all.”
Potter’s lauded green eyes were wide and curious. “I want to hear about that sometime, how this became your job.”
Oh, dear. Potter didn’t think they were going to be friendly, did he? Before Draco could object, Potter rambled on, confirming Draco’s dire suspicions. “I thought I could help out, you know? It’s my house, I want to feel like I’m part of it. It’s only for family holidays and the like, since the Burrow is outgrowing the extended family, or for when I just need to get away from London. And I like to put in hard work. Keeps me sane, yeah?”
There were a thousand things that could go wrong with him and Potter working together, and Draco took a deep breath, ready to enumerate them all. But the possibility of offending Potter, who was his prospective employer, combined with the remarkable circumstances that had honestly sent him reeling, stopped him. Sometimes, Draco had learned, life presented you with a forking path, and cowardice was rarely a rewarding option.
And so, not without trepidation, Draco held his hand forward once more. “Very well. I believe we can come to an accord, if you’ll have me.”
—————
After shaking hands (his eleven year-old self would have been over the moon) Potter took Draco on a tour around the outside of the house. There were indeed gardens out back: rose bushes, trees, herbs, and a small hedge maze. Given the rocky nature of the island, magic was obviously sustaining the plants, but it had been years since any upkeep was done and most of them were failing.
“The garden is the part I have the least experience with,” Draco admitted. Better to get that out of the way, than be caught in any more… bendings of the truth. “I can refresh whatever charms were out here and revive the plants, but if you want it truly restored to its former glory, I would hire a gardener. Or even better, a house-elf who’s been trained as a gardener and can live on the premises.”
“Really, Malfoy?” Potter scoffed. “You think I’d take on a house-elf? I know it’s been years, but I’m still me.”
“I suppose Granger would have your head. Does she still run that club?”
“More like a Department. Do you not read the papers in London anymore?”
Draco subscribed to seven papers, and knew exactly what Hermione Granger was doing with her time. Just like he knew Weasley was an Auror, Girl Weasley was still with the Harpies, and Potter had quit the Aurors rather abruptly only a year prior. The Prophet was beside itself trying to figure out what he did with his time now, but all they could turn up was a volunteer position coaching Novice Quidditch.
Not that Draco cared about any of that.
“I’ve had other things to keep me busy,” he sniffed. “And I’ve only just returned from France.”
“Right. Helping little old pure-blood ladies restore their chateaus.” The remark was dismissive, but Potter sounded almost amused. “Come on then, take a look at the house.”
Draco followed Potter through the front door, making note of which Locking Charms were used. The entrance wasn’t particularly grand, more a medium-sized foyer. Being Irish, the Doherty family hadn’t been a part of his great-grandparent’s circles, but he still knew the name—they were pure-blood social climbers whose family name had died out around 50 years ago. This foyer would have been where guests were greeted by a house-elf and turned over their travelling cloaks.
Under Potter’s care, it would probably become a catch-all for dirty coats and muddy shoes. Still, Draco could do his best to layer self-cleaning charms on the floor.
A large sitting room, a dining room, and a smaller parlour lay beyond the entrance, as well as an immense kitchen. Draco gave everything a cursory inspection, finding some residual magic but mostly cobwebs. Potter simply stood back and watched Draco intently. Eventually, he began to feel like an insect under glass.
“So!” he said, clapping his hands and startling Potter. Ha, payback. “I would like all the paperwork from when you bought the place, as well as any history you may have dug up. I’ll get to work reading that, and contact you in about a week with a plan.”
“There’s still another floor,” Potter pointed out, gesturing to the stairs. “Don’t you want to see that first?”
“Is it in the same state of neglect as this?” Potter nodded sheepishly. “Then no. Merlin, I hope you didn’t pay too much for this place, Potter. Never mind the freeloading spiders, it’s small.”
Potter turned red. “Don’t be a snob, Malfoy. It’s homey.”
“Homely, more like,” Draco muttered, knowing Potter could hear. That handshake had been good as a binding contract under wizarding law, and Draco was free to antagonise him now, verbally at least. It felt rather wonderful after all this time kowtowing to various madames. “Would you like to meet here or in London to go over the plan?” he asked, cutting off a retort.
Potter hesitated. “I was kind of hoping to stay here, have a bit of a vacation.”
“Not until it’s been cleaned and is in somewhat working domestic order.” Potter’s only response was… was that a pout? Draco was aghast. The great hero, pouting like a child! It’s almost… Salazar help me, it’s almost cute. Like an ugly puppy. “I’ll make one bedroom and the kitchen a priority, alright?” he rushed out. “You won’t be receiving guests anytime soon, but you’ll be able to sleep comfortably.”
Brightening, Potter nodded. “That’s fine, then. A week, you said? Can we meet on Saturday?
Saturday was five days away, not a week, but Draco didn’t argue Potter’s math. “Very well. As long as the Floo as been tested.”
“It’s fine. The estate agent fixed that and helped me with the security spells. You know”—and Potter elbowed him in the side, in a disturbingly chummy fashion—“Ron and Hermione are never going to believe this. Us working together.”
Draco could scarcely believe it himself.