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“I talked to Robards.”
Draco hadn’t even heard Potter enter his cubicle. He supposed that’s what happened when you stared into space for too long, daydreaming about all the glory you wouldn’t be receiving. He looked up as Potter approached his desk, wary.
“And? I suppose he simply showered you with praise. ‘Potter, our Saviour, you’ve done it again! Rescued us from the clutches of evil, the darkness permeating society as we know it. Why, I should relinquish my position to you today! How about I go fetch Rita Skeeter so she can write up your front page article, while I sit, think of a catchy headline, and bask in your utter brilliance as an auror?’”
There would be no headline for Draco, even though it had been he who had encountered the Head of the DMLE whispering to a shady-looking man in an unfrequented corridor of the Ministry; he who had hid around the corner and listened in; he who had recognized his station in this office and brought the matter immediately to Potter instead. Because better to catch the evil than risk him going free under Draco’s less, ah, trustworthy testimony.
Well, at least one person here trusted him.
“That’s a spot-on impression, yeah,” Potter said, light.
Draco glared.
“He, uh,” Potter ducked his head, grin fading. “He was definitely skeptical at first. Couldn’t believe Griffith could be a Death Eater. But I explained what you heard, and he’ll look into it.”
Draco nodded tightly, turning back to the scattered papers on his desk.
He could feel Potter hesitate.
“I wish I could’ve told him you were the one to catch on. I shouldn’t be taking the credit.”
Draco sighed, looking back at Potter’s sympathetic frown. He’d wallowed in the shadows for so much of his life, and now that he finally wanted to leave them behind, he was held down by people’s preconceptions of him.
“You have to.”