Chapter Text
The alarm on Draco’s mobile chirps loudly on his nightstand. He’s been awake and staring at the ceiling for at least an hour—sleep is elusive these days, but his body hasn’t quite shaken its old habits. He finds himself trailing toward his bed around midnight each evening and rolling blearily out of it again as the sun rises.
He’d thought about giving up the charade and letting his circadian rhythm do what it wanted, but it’s important to maintain some semblance of a normal routine. He knows he has to work harder than most to prove that he’s a productive, contributing member of society. At least that’s what he tells himself. The truth is that he just…doesn’t really have anything better to do.
So, he gets up in the morning and puts his trousers on, one leg at a time like any other wix. He goes to work, goes out for lunch (alone), and comes home (again, alone). Sometimes, on the good days, he gives in to Pansy’s pleading and meets the old gang at the pub for a pint before he takes himself home, where he bides his time until he has to do it all over again.
Draco grabs his mobile and silences the horrid screeching. He’s got it on the lowest volume setting, but it still grates against his ears like hippogriff talons on a chalkboard. His eyes take no time to adjust to the sudden, bright light, and he groans. There are five message notifications already waiting for him.
Pansy (6:03): Pub tonight. Millie’s back in town. Whole crew will be there
Pansy (6:03): DO
Pansy (6:03): NOT
Pansy (6:03): FLAKE
Pansy (6:03): xoxo 😘
He smiles, despite himself.
Draco (8:32): Salazar’s tits, woman. You couldn’t even wait for sunrise to harangue me?
Pansy (8:33): I’ll do a lot more than harangue you, dearest, if you even THINK about not showing up tonight
Draco (8:35): Alright, alright. I’ll be there. But YOU are buying the first round.
Pansy (8:35): Deal 😘😘😘
Draco chuckles to himself, clicks the phone off, and lets it drop onto his chest. At least he still has Pansy—always her normal, tremendously obnoxious, and exceedingly lovely self.
He takes a deep breath and resigns himself to the fact that this day is happening, no matter how much he’d rather hide away in bed for the duration. He figures getting fired from his job for not turning up would definitely not count as being a normal, productive, contributing member of society.
The mound of blankets Draco keeps on his bed tumble to the floor as he kicks his way out of them. He shivers, despite the several layers of jumpers and sweatshirts that he’s wearing, and pads into the bathroom where he turns the shower to the hottest setting. As the small, dingy room fills with steam, he strips off, layer by layer, saving his multiple pairs of socks for last. He hates the feeling of the cold, hard tile on his already-frigid feet.
He sighs as he steps under the stream of scalding water, letting it warm him from the outside in. Despite the temperature, his skin remains a pallid, almost glistening shade of white. A hot shower will make you feel alive again, his mother used to say when he was getting over an illness. He laughs, bitterly, as he squeezes shampoo into his palm—I don’t think a hot shower will be enough this time, Mother, he thinks.
When he finally steps out of the shower, he does feel a bit better. His body will retain the heat for at least a few minutes, so he rushes to towel himself off and find something to wear for the day. Since he’s going to be seeing friends, he opts for his most expensive pair of trousers—navy with thin blue pinstripes. Before he slides into the matching waistcoat, he puts on a long-sleeved thermal undershirt with a crisp white button-down over it. He’d lined all his jackets with fortified warming charms and shudders with pleasure as he slides into the matching navy blazer. Lastly, two pairs of woolen socks and his nicest brogues, shined to a high polish.
All the layering means he’d had to slightly expand most of his clothing, even his shoes. He looks just a little bulkier, more…filled out than he used to, which is ironic since he’s actually only gotten skinnier over the last few months. It took some getting used to, but anything that will help him appear more normal is worth enduring.
After he ties his long, wavy hair back in a neat half-bun, he wanders mindlessly into his kitchen and sets about making himself a cup of coffee. He’s going to need the caffeine if he wants to make it through a full day of work and a social gathering. He’s just about to tip the mug back and take a sip when the potent smell of the coffee hits him and he gags.
“Fuck!” he hisses as he jolts and sloshes brown liquid down the front of his waistcoat. That’s right—he doesn’t need the caffeine anymore. He can’t even tolerate it—the acid gives him horrible stomach aches. There’s really only one thing he does need these days.
As he siphons the coffee off of his shirt with his wand, he makes a mental note to pay a visit to the infusion clinic on his lunch break. If he’s going to be spending time in a crowded pub, he’ll have to be sure he’s not hungry.
Before he steps out his front door, he slides his sunglasses onto his nose—so black they’re nearly opaque—pulls on his dragonhide gloves, and pops open the black parasol that he’s taken to carrying with him everywhere. He doesn’t need it, but it makes going out just a bit more comfortable. Most people take it as a plausible excuse for his perpetually pale skin.
*
As soon as Draco steps through the doorway to the Prophet’s mailroom, someone lets out a loud wolf-whistle from a far corner.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco mutters under his breath as a small, wiry man with a bald head and thick-rimmed glasses approaches him. He tucks his sunglasses into the inner pocket of his jacket, tugs off his gloves and sets them on the table by the door, along with his parasol.
“Well, look at you! The most handsome widdle mail boy I ever did see,” the man says in a baby voice while pretending to pinch Draco’s cheeks.
Draco swallows down the bile—and insults—rising in his throat. “Chip, I’ve already asked you not to rifle through the mail before it’s sorted,” he says in a flat monotone, turning a withering gaze on the man, who automatically drops his hands and takes a step back.
“Alright, calm down! Just expecting a letter, that’s all. Anyway, I was just saying you look smart. Bit too smart for sorting parcels, if you ask me, but hey! A compliment either way!”
Draco doesn’t reply; instead he walks past the infuriating man to the buggy labeled “Overnight Post” that’s overflowing with unopened letters and packages. He hopes that Chip will take the hint and leave him to his work, but he doesn’t. He never does.
“Go on, then! Why so fancy? Got a hot date later or something?” Chip picks at his teeth with his pinky finger while he waits for Draco’s reply. Draco allows himself a scowl of disgust, but just a small one.
Draco has tried the silent treatment on Chip before and has found that it only makes him stick around longer, asking more and more absurd questions, trying to make Draco crack. The best defense, Draco has discovered, is to be so boring that Chip loses interest and wanders off to find another poor victim.
“No,” Draco says, waving his wand to levitate the mail onto the table in the center of the room, where it begins to sort itself into piles.
“Oh,” Chip says, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “Surely Barnabas hasn’t caved and finally agreed to take a meeting about your—,” he makes air quotes with his fingers, “writing.” His tone suggests this is the most absurd notion anyone has ever had.
“No,” Draco replies tersely, trying very hard not to tell Chip to go fuck himself.
“Hm.” Chip begins pacing in a small circle around Draco, looking him up and down. “Funeral, then? Your lot do seem to die off more easily than most. Must be all the murder, hear it’s bad for the cholesterol.” His eyes linger on Draco’s left forearm where the last traces of the Dark Mark still mar his skin under all his layers.
Draco growls quietly. “If you don’t mind,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’ve got a lot of work to do here, and—”
“Oh yes, busy busy with all your mail. Wouldn’t want to accidentally deliver something to the wrong person, now would we? Must require all your focus just to get it right,” Chip simpers.
Draco’s chest grows tight and his breathing accelerates. His hands clench into fists by his sides and a veil of red descends over his field of vision. He can see the vein pulsing in Chip’s neck, can smell the sharp, metallic tang of his blood, can almost taste it. His fangs push through his gums, and his other teeth slide painfully out of the way. It used to be agony, but now he quite likes the ache. It reminds him of being alive—really alive.
He takes a step towards Chip. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it must look intimidating because Chip’s insouciant grin falls from his face, and he takes a shaky step backward. The color drains from his face, and Draco can hear the pace of his beating heart ratcheting up—the scent of adrenaline and fear fills the air between them. Draco breathes it in, delighting momentarily in the way it coats the back of his throat, making him salivate.
Suddenly, a loud clattering comes from the back room as the enchanted window opens to allow in a flock of post owls. Their soft hoots sound like shrieks to Draco’s oversensitive ears, even the ruffling of their feathers sounds like thundering rain as they settle onto roosts. The commotion jolts Draco back to his senses.
He takes several large steps away from Chip. “The…owls. I’ve got to…” he says before retreating into the owlery. He hears the slap of Chip’s trainers as he hurries out of the mailroom and back to his desk without another word. Well, maybe that'll put an end to the harassment, once and for all.
Draco stands in the middle of the small owlery taking deep, cleansing breaths for several minutes. In through the nose and out through the mouth. The exhales whistle a little around his fangs. He’s practiced this, keeping his breathing in check and controlling his emotions to prevent the…the monster from taking over. He recites his mantra. Normal, productive, contributing member of society. Normal, productive, contributing member of society. Finally, his fangs recede and his breathing slows.
“Shit,” he spits when he finally looks up. The owls have all settled on a single roost at the very top of the room, far out of his reach. They’re huddled together and staring down at him with big, round eyes. They won’t come near him, not since…well, not for a while, now. He’s tried everything—coaxing them with words, and then expensive owl treats, disguising his scent with colognes and soaps, even using glamours and disillusionment charms, but nothing seems to make a difference.
They noticed the change in Draco immediately—unlike friends and coworkers, who he’s tried assiduously to keep in the dark. The owls used to fight for a place on Draco's head or shoulders as soon as he stepped into the owlery—something that Draco would never admit that he loved—but the morning after the attack they would barely look at him, let alone come near him. Not only has it made his job much harder, it breaks his heart a little.
“Just drop the post to the ground, I won’t come near you,” he shouts up at them. “Bloody stupid birds,” he adds, under his breath, “I’ve no taste for poultry, anyways.”
They stare at him for another beat before each lifting a leg and nibbling at the twine that keeps the letters secure. Finally, after a few seconds filled with the flapping of wings, a handful of letters and a few packages tumble downward. Draco just manages to get out his wand and cast a cushioning charm before they hit the floor.
He collects the fallen post and sends it over to be sorted with the rest. Once the fluttering of parchment and thumping of boxes stops, he summons the enchanted mail cart from the corner of the room and begins to organize the post on top of it for delivery according to department. He notices a scroll with Chip’s name on it, and instead of leaving it with the rest of the mail for the Sports and Games team, tucks it in the middle of the stack of mail for Obituaries.
Hunger feels different now—Draco no longer has hunger pangs, and his stomach doesn’t growl like it used to. After all, he’s not exactly digesting anything, not in the strictly human sense of the word. It feels more like an antsy, desperate need. The longer he goes between meals, the more restless and fidgety he gets. His temper becomes shorter and shorter, and he tends to snap at people out of frustration.
It isn’t until his tapping foot shakes a container of quills off a table that he remembers that he’d decided to go to the clinic over his lunch break. He pulls on his gloves and tucks his parasol under his arm as he locks the mailroom door and flips the sign hanging on the doorknob to the side that reads ‘Owl-t to Lunch!’.