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Summary
The faint scratching sound of quill on parchment ceased immediately, replaced by a baleful snap as said quill broke unexpectedly in two – the delicate spine of the feather unable to withstand the sudden added pressure exerted from Draco's white knuckled grip.
Apparently the know-it-all swot had also enrolled in healer training at St Mungo’s after the war. And now she was here. In France. In his hospital. Waiting in the lobby. Part of the group of exchange healers he would be working with for the next year.
Fuck him.
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Living in France as a respected mediwizard, Draco has left his past far behind him and across the English Channel. Now... if only his past had stayed there– Apparently someone didn't get the memo.