Chapter Text
Muggles had such fascinating ways of preserving music. Nothing as elegant as the record player but Draco was fond of the radio. He liked listening to the scratchy but upbeat music and the radio hosts cheerful banter.
He tapped his quill on his parchment and looked out into the gardens, humming along to the ABBA throwback that was currently playing.
'I work all night I work all day
To pay the bills I have to pay
Ain't it sad
And still there never seems to be
A single penny left for me
That's too bad'
He sighed and ran a hand through his platinum hair.
"Don't we all, ABBA," he muttered under his breath, "don't we all."
The War had seen most of the Malfoy fortune liquidated and relinquished to the Ministry as penance and while Draco did sorely miss not having to work his bloody arse off, he can't say he misses it too much. It's freeing, in a way, to be able to earn his own money.
Besides, what little of the fortune remained, he donated towards charity and the rebuilding of Hogwarts.
He sighed again and looked down at the essays he was grading and fought off an impending headache.
"No wonder Snape was always a miserable git," he muttered, scribbling question marks over a fifth-year Ravenclaw's poorly constructed essay on the properties of gillyweed.
"And that's all the ABBA we'll be playing today, folks! If I get another caller asking just who they are, well, I might check myself into a senior living home early."
A warm laugh that has Draco sitting upright in his chair, vexing essays forgotten.
Is that...?
"For those of you just tuning in, I'm Harry Potter and I'm dead envious of you. Can't remember the last time I was able to sleep in past 8 o'clock."
A heavy sigh. Draco's heart leaps into his throat and he grips his quill so hard it snaps in his hand.
"On the bright side," the host continues, voice full of mirth and just a little bit of guilt, "And you guys have to promise not to tell Lee or he'll bloody well kill me, I have completely raided and subsequently freed the breakroom of bakewell tarts. Six of them to be exact, mercifully liberated by yours truly and currently living a lovely life in my stomach along with a cuppa."
He laughs.
"Anyway, due to popular request, next I'll be playing Jacob Banks 'Unknown'. For those of you not in the know, Jacob Banks is an up-and-coming artist born in Nigeria and raised in Birmingham with a voice so smooth and deep it'll give you chills. Following that, we'll be playing 'Mercy' and my personal favorite, 'Monster.' I'll be right back after a word from our sponsors!"
Draco flicks off the radio just as the Spellman's Sparkling Soap jingle starts to play and he notes, rather distantly, that the damn thing is probably going to be stuck in his head.
"Potter," he mumbles to himself, "On muggle radio."
He stares absently down at his essay and then out the window and into his gardens. He can just see the top of his mother's hat and knows she must be planting her tulips.
"Potter," he repeats, steadier this time, "On muggle radio."
Perhaps he'd be less shell-shocked if the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die-And-Live-Again hadn't disappeared from public eye shortly after the war. He'd stayed to help rebuild Hogwarts and then he was gone without so much as a 'by your leave.'
The Daily Prophet speculated wildly about where he was and what he was doing; some saying Potter was living as a recluse in the Forbidden Forest and eating Acromantuals, some saying he'd joined the circus as a sword-swallower and the Quibbler saying he was quite happily wooing Blibbering Bandersnatches in the North Pacific sea and would be back around the holidays.
Granger and Weasley, despite being questioned numerous times, remained steadfastly close-lipped about the whole situation and the Weaslette had shrugged and suggested everyone 'bugger off and leave the poor sod alone.'
Needless to say, Draco mused, getting up from his desk, the whereabouts of Potter was still widely regarded as a mystery and an interesting one at that.
"Muggle radio," he said again and couldn't help the snort that escaped him.
"Prat."
He shoved his hands in his pockets and, deciding he wasn't going to get any more work done, went to help Narcissa in the garden.