Chapter Text
Chapter 1
ill at ease
- - - - -
July 14th, 2008
The Offices of Lethe, Deloitte and Bunch - Healers of the Mind, Body and Soul
Diagon Alley
He wasn’t going to speak first. He already had to admit in reception he was in fact Draco Malfoy, here for his appointment at 2pm, on a Monday. But that was his personal limit insofar as sharing his feelings: stating and/or agreeing to facts laid before him.
He sat in the waiting room, hands decorously folded in his lap, taking in his surroundings. The walls were papered in a medley of beige, and the chairs, seven of them, all sat in a row. Maroon. Imitation suede. A smell of sharp vanilla and musk hung in the air.
His eyes flitted over the witch two seats from him, her cloak awash with loud embroidered purple swirls atop red velvet. Hideously warm (and plainly hideous) for July in London.
Eventually (after four and half minutes) he was called back to the Healer’s office. A sturdy walnut desk sat to the right, with a smart tufted camel colored wingback tucked behind. Bookshelves lined the walls, light pouring in from three picture windows beyond the desk, while off to the left was a set of brown leather club chairs, sharing a squatty little table with a tea service on top.
He did not plan to indulge.
Healer Lethe took a seat facing him as he lingered near the doorway. She took out a notebook and quill and gestured to the chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Tea?”
He gave a curt shake of his head, taking the other seat, per her gesture.
“I think, Mr. Malfoy, it would be prudent for you to tell me a little about yourself. I find it’s a good way to start a relationship - getting to know the person on the other end.” Healer Lethe didn’t smile, instead squinting a fraction, staring down her nose at him as if she was daring him to disagree.
He decided he shall. “I’m not sure this set up warrants the title, ‘relationship’.”
“No?”
He shook his head again.
“Well. We are to be sat here, every week, for an hour. We might as well have a little chat to pass the time, unless you’d rather…” she waved her hand at him to encompass his entirety, “just do this.”
“I would very much, thank you.” His posture was rigid, refined, as if his governess was still behind him, whacking him with her wand anytime his shoulders dared to round.
“Ah.” Healer Lethe nodded. “That is your choice, then.” She set her notebook in her lap, resting her quill on the table with the tea service. She settled into her seat, and stared. At him. Right in the face.
A power move if he’d ever seen one- he was sure of it.
He couldn’t look away first, lest he… lose? Or look weak. He hadn’t any siblings so he didn’t know the rules of a staring contest but was of the understanding even blinking forfeited any semblance of victory. After no more than 30 seconds his eyes began to water.
Was the room getting brighter?
He could think of nothing but blinking, the desire consumed him. He squeezed his hands together, locked on Healer Lethe. Diabolical.
He blinked, looking away.
Healer Lethe seemed to be about his mother’s age, and as a pureblood gentlemen that was all he would say on that matter. Her dark grey hair was swept into an easy chignon at the nape of her neck, her black horn-rimmed glasses set on the tip of her nose so she could watch Draco over their top. Her robes were neatly pressed, charcoal grey, and had a pleasant weight to them. Her accent inferred a youth spent in Birmingham but her look felt decidedly European. Perhaps she went for a study abroad at Beauxbatons.
Her office didn’t give the air of ‘staged’, he had a feeling she’d read nearly all the books that sat upon her shelves. Some, maybe even twice. A well-worn copy of Meditation as Transfiguration - Manifesting the Magic You Want had a spine that suggested several dozen pass throughs.
The office was technically less beige than reception, but tanned leather and wood tones didn’t necessarily scream abundantly colorful; rather just beige in different contexts.
No less than 14 plants were potted about, and all looked healthy and cared for- which was probably a good thing considering she was someone who looked after minds. If she couldn’t keep aloe vera from browning around the edges he didn’t hope much for her roster of patients and their maladies.
He was glad she didn’t prattle on- stoic silence was an undervalued trait, especially when the world was now rife with oversharing.
“So what have you come up with?” She asked.
Draco angled his head ever so slightly, urging her to continue.
Stoic.
“You’ve cased my office, no doubt. What have you found?”
He blinked. “Nothing of note.”
“What tragically boring things have you found, then?”
Exhaling, in an exceedingly ‘I feel very put-out’ way, he gripped the arms of his chair, adjusting himself to cross one leg over the other. “You’re 49, 50… From money, up around Birmingham. Spent a year or two at Beauxbatons, which is why you dress like you actually think it matters, how you present yourself to the world- that is. It’s also where you learned to tuck your hair in like that. You practice yoga, here, in your office.” He pointed to the space behind them. “Just there, I would think.”
Healer Lethe didn’t open her notebook, her quill remained sitting next to the sugar box. “You are not… incorrect,” she allowed.
He held his palms up before clasping them behind his head, leaning back. “A gift.”
“My turn.”
He nodded as if to say, Be my guest.
“I would be remiss to not admit I have read the Prophet over the past ten years or so, and as such I have a general understanding of who Draco Malfoy is.” He nodded again, a slight smile appearing as she continued. “But I do not believe you and he are the same.”
“Oh?” He forced himself to keep the smirk affixed.
“You are Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy and Black bloodlines. The youngest person ever to take the mark of Lord Voldemort’s followers.”
He held up his left arm. “This old thing?”
“After the fall of Lord Voldemort, you went to trial for the crimes you committed on his behalf, and were sentenced to two years in Azkaban - a sentence you carried out in full.”
His dust jacket biography didn’t thrill him. “Yes, yes. And since?”
“Unremarkable.” She picked up her quill. “Parties, luxuriant stays in Ibiza and Mykonos, donating galleons whenever the pictures become too explicit to print.”
So she’d seen the spread from his time in Bali. A classic. “I figure I’m owed some fun after my… rehabilitation. A little of this, a little of that - and should I get restless, a jaunt to sunnier shores seems to shake the doldrums right off.”
She held his gaze. Something wasn’t adding up. She wasn’t buying it. “Is that it?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Is what it?”
“Your story? Spoilt, rich…. misled? Jaded.”
“A brilliant recap,” he looked to his watch. “Succinct. Impressive.”
“And all lies,” she mused, “well, not all. You are quite rich, as I am to understand.”
He waited for her to continue.
“The Director warned me you’d take some time to warm up.”
Draco’s heartbeat slowed to a glacial tick. He was under the impression his mandatory Healer sessions were off book. A 45-day mandatory suspension, and ‘go see a Healer’. That was what he was told. That was what The Director required of him in order to return in good standing to his position with the WI7.
“Oh yes,” she narrowed in on the flicker of emotion behind his well-crafted mask of nonchalance. “There are a few things you didn’t glean from the perusal of my office decor and the cut of my robes. I am a private contractor with the WI7. I was given your case by The Director, and I have been the Mind Healer for all suspended WI7 operatives since its inception. And even a few who have sought counseling per their own directive.”
He picked a spot on the floor, near her, where he kept his eyes trained while she continued. “So the other Draco Malfoy, the one I believe to be sitting in front of me, has a slightly different biography. It starts the same. Young, impressionable, cunning… eager to be branded but dubious of the whole affair when push really came to shove.”
Uncrossing his legs, he touched each finger’s pad to his thumb, over and over, a nervous tick he was incapable of quashing for the moment.
“This Draco was tapped early on to become part of a fledging UK Wizard secret op, the sole purpose of which is to stop dark wizards from gaining power… but he nearly mucked it up by having a hand in killing the man who was the one who nominated him for the program in the first place. To make a long story exceedingly short, this Draco never actually went to Azkaban. The day his Wizengamot trial ended, he was transferred to WI7 custody and taken to training at the North Rona base. He was there for two years, and upon graduation, he went home… but did not relish the life of the fallen Malfoy heir,” she continued. “He moved to America, to further his training with the WIE, and stayed for five years before returning to the UK. Years later, he is now the Alpha squadron leader, codename Triple-80.”
So much for classified personnel files. Draco wasn’t sure why a heads up wasn’t warranted, though The Director rarely felt any need to explain themselves.
“Two days ago, Triple-80 was placed on administrative leave due to a mission that…” She paused as she leafed through the pages of her notebook.
“Led to calamitous loss of life,” he finished for her.
“A mission in which three of your squadron were killed, along with 14 other casualties, both magical and Muggle,” she read. “Is that accurate?”
“Glaringly,” he said flatly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So, then. The jig is up.”
“Indeed. So shall we begin?” She smiled, one that felt genuine and not too patronizing. “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how was your week?”
He shook his head. He knew it.
Diabolical.