Work Text:
July 2004
“Malfoy, tell me you’re nearly done with those articles there.”
Draco glanced up and made eye contact with the greying, frazzled-looking man standing in the doorway of his minuscule, windowless office. The Ministry was good at finding the most remote corners of the vast center of the British wizarding world. With the help of some carefully placed undetectable extension charms, they turned those dusty corners into usable, if cramped, office spaces. As someone hired by The Daily Prophet less than a year ago, Draco was relegated to the darkest, most dank corner of the department. It was close to the bathroom, which meant that it leaked often and smelled weird.
But he was a diligent and determined editor. He knew it was only a matter of time before others noticed how much his editing decisions and insistence on fact checking were helping change the perception of The Daily Prophet. Articles were being printed at a higher quality than ever before. Which wasn’t saying much considering the drivel they used to print, but nevertheless, Draco was proud of what he’d done.
The wizard in the doorway didn’t appear to care or even notice Draco’s bleak accommodations, however. His hair stuck up in multiple directions like he’d been pulling on it.
“Hello? Malfoy? Anyone home in there?” He waved his hand in front of Draco’s face in an effort to bring him out of his daze. Draco shook his head.
“Sorry, Mr. James, I wasn’t expecting you. I must have been in shock,” said Draco.
“Well? Are you nearly done with the pile of articles you were handed yesterday?” asked Mr. James.
“I’m about halfway through, sir. I’m confident they will be finished before I leave today,” said Draco. “They’ll be on your desk this evening.”
“Brilliant. In that case, I need you to do something for me.”
Oh joy, more tasks before my original ones are complete! Figures…
“Alright, what is it?”
“The higher-ups are trying out a new feature… I dunno, sounds sort of like a fluff piece to me. Anyway, it’s essentially an advice column,” said Mr. James.
“Ah, I see what you mean,” replied Draco.
“Yeah… they hired some brand new, hot-shot shrink. Some guy-- I’ve never heard of him. They’re getting them to write responses to people who ask questions,” said Mr. James.
“What about?” asked Draco.
“How should I know? The guy’s job is to mess with our heads. Could be any number of nefarious topics,” said Mr. James. “Anyway, I need someone to do the copy edits and line revisions before publication each day.”
Mr. James handed Draco a folder tucked under his arm, which Draco accepted immediately. He flicked it open and saw there were a number of papers inside-- fourteen total. Seemed like a lot to publish, even in a week…
“How much space are we allotting for this column each day?” asked Draco.
“800 words at most. We don’t need this thing to dominate a page when there are more hard-hitting stories that readers would much rather spend their time reading,” said Mr. James.
“That could be interesting… at least tell me this poor sod can write. I’ll not go easy on them,” said Draco. “The editor’s red pen is mightier than the sword, after all.”
“I haven’t bothered to look. But you’re my best editor on staff-- you’ll surely make quick work of whatever they give you. Honestly, I don’t expect this little column to last more than a week. Mark my words-- the people don’t need to be therapized over their morning cuppa. You won’t be editing this kind of thing for long,” said Mr. James.
***
DRAFT 2-- PLEASE SEE NOTES
MAKE CORRECTIONS AND RETURN TO EDITOR VIA OWL POST OR INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO
Dear Charlie is an advice column presented for the first time by the Daily Prophet in conjunction with one from our community who is both a certified Muggle psychologist and licensed Mind Healer within the Wizarding World. While the responses to these letters sent in are written by a professional, the Daily Prophet urges readers who may have experienced similar problems to take the presented advice at face-value and consult with a Mind Healer for a treatment plan that may befit the individual and their specific circumstances. Thank you.
---------------------
Dear Charlie…
Advice on Mental Health and Interpersonal Relationships from a Mindhealer Who’s Been There
Our letter for this week comes from Wishing in Dreamland. If you wish to ask your own question, you may send your letters via owl courier to the Daily Prophet care of “Dear Charlie.”
~***~
Dear Charlie,
Ever since the end of the second wizarding war, I have not slept well. I wake up with nightmares frequently and find it difficult to get back to sleep after waking up in the middle of the night. I feel run down and exhausted most of the time. Between the nightmares that involve memories from during the war and not sleeping nearly enough, I feel like I can’t leave the war behind and move on with my life. What do I do?
Sincerely,
Wishing for Dreamland
~***~
Dear Wishing,
It’s the worst feeling in the world when all you want to do is sleep and you just… can’t.
I mean,← Filler phrase I’m sure I don’t need to tell you twice.The most important thing to know is that you can’t outrun your past, as much as you might want to. Running away doesn’t solve anything and it certainly doesn’t give closure. Our minds are most at ease when we are able to get closure around things we’ve been through. It must be noted, however, that closure does not always mean getting the ending that is most favorable to us and it doesn’t have to mean that we come to accept what happened to us. Especially when those things happened in the middle of a war that very few of us, if any of us, asked for.
I will always recommend consulting with a Mind Healer to help you understand and develop coping strategies for your specific situation-- some memories require more help than we are able to offer ourselves sometimes. But if you’re not ready to seek out a Mind Healer or are on the waiting list to be seen by one, here are some things you can do on your own that may help you cope better than you have been… ← For legal reasons, make sure to give this disclaimer EVERY time you write a response. The DP doesn’t want to take responsibility one way or the other for the advice you give.
I recommend making your experiences from the war known outside of yourself. That can mean writing in a journal, especially about the things that are waking you up in the middle of the night. That can also mean talking about it with a trusted friend or family member. If there is any kind of silver lining to living through war, no matter how involved in the actual fighting you were, it’s that we didn’t go through this alone. In fact, there are probably a number of Mages in your community that feel similarly to you and also feel alone. You may be doing them a favor by reaching out and connecting with them. We don’t have to be an island in this vast sea.
When I was younger, I would often wake up due to nightmares. They often repeated themselves. In those moments where I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep, I would write to a family member or a friend and send it. I had at least one person in my life who explicitly asked me to tell him when I had nightmares. I don’t know that I would send those letters today, but even the act of writing down your thoughts in this way can be helpful and you may even be able to fall back asleep afterwards.← Too personal. Keep it about the reader.Speaking of sleep, creating a routine that signals to your brain that it’s time to start winding down is helpful too. That routine can look different from person to person. For me, that looks like having a cup of tea in the evening, maybe soaking in the bath, and revisiting a favorite book. The day I discovered that this was my ‘magic’ combination was life-changing… but it did take time to get there. There was a lot of trial and error. ← I know I just said keep it general and just about the reader, but this illustrates your meaning. Keep this.
Sweet dreams and wishing you the best!← Sweet dreams?! Ugh, no…. Choose something more professional. We’re an established news source with a reputation to uphold…Sincerely,
Charlie
December 2006
After working for The Daily Prophet for just over two years, Draco was sure that he had seen it all. He wouldn’t have expected this of an editing job. Maybe the odd comma splice or the gratuitous adjective where one simply wasn’t needed, but certainly not extreme (read: life or death) stress over deadlines, broken marriages, and a near impeachment of the Minister for Magic. And that was just what he experienced within the first year!
But through it all, Draco Malfoy, though he was rarely named for being an editor on any specific article-- by request-- he had never felt more alive. He was seemingly editing half of the articles in print now-- Mr. James trusted few others. But none were more interesting to edit than the advice column written by that psychologist Mr. James was positive would flop as a columnist-- Dear Charlie.
It had started out small. A response to a single letter, the first of which had been ghostwritten by other writers with too much downtime at The Prophet. The letters themselves were a bit whiny. He’d had to edit those notes for tone on top of Charlie’s response. No way would the real letters see the light of day. Draco wondered if they were playing up the witches and wizards going through some kind of post-war psychosis they couldn’t seem to shake. After all, it had been years since the Dark-- no, no, he could say it now-- Voldemort had been defeated. Surely they should be over this by now?
Reading the responses to these letters had been… surprising… he hated to say it. They were… insightful. They were grounded.
They were… helpful? Not that Draco needed the help, but… well, they offered good advice to those who might happen to need it. There was surely an audience somewhere if the Prophet was letting this tosser publish things of this ilk. One of the first ones he read contained tips for sleep and dealing with nightmares. He found himself drawing a bubble bath late that evening when he finally returned to his flat-- something that he was pretty sure he hadn’t done since he was a child. What did that say about him?
He’d never slept better than he had that evening. Not even his upstairs and downstairs neighbors could wake him up with their late night shouting and highly necessary early morning hoovering session. Hadn’t they ever heard of a silencing charm? Then again, maybe they were Muggles… Draco hadn’t exactly stopped to ask.
When he wasn’t busy taking bubble baths and nodding off in the middle of said bath, he was burning the midnight oil, scratching out erroneous diatribes, correcting the appalling grammar of the people who were supposed to be in charge of this bloody newspaper… trying to write some of his own work. Not that it would ever see the light of day. There wasn’t a market for denounced Death Eaters trying to rebuild their names. No… he’d had to start from the ground up if he was ever going to make something of himself. The name “Malfoy” meant nothing but trouble now.
Or in the case of his boss, the ever-incompetent (not that Draco would ever say that to his face) Mr. James, the name Malfoy meant, “Individual made of Time-Turners and fairy dust,” the way he would assign more and more tasks and expect them to complete themselves, magic or not.
“Malfoy, did you finish those articles I handed you yesterday? They need to go to print by this afternoon,” said Mr. James.
“I’m in the middle of getting them done, sir,” said Draco, not looking up from the typewriter in front of him. “Should be another hour and I’ll have the edits ready to send back for final review.”
Maybe he needs reminding that there are other people working within his purview besides me, thought Draco.
“Good. We can’t afford to have another back-up like the one Van Buren caused the other day. Absolute nightmare, that lad… where do they find these people, am I right?” said Mr. James, chuckling jovially.
“I’m not sure, sure,” said Draco, not returning the casual jab.
If I’m not mistaken, you’re in charge of the hiring, Mr. James.
“Well, at least you’re reliable. Glad there are some parents who know how to raise children right,” said Mr. James.
Draco wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Did this man know of his parentage? Draco had gotten enough snide remarks about his surname to know that people didn’t exactly think highly of him anymore… if they ever did… maybe Mr. James was more dense than he thought.
“Well, back to work, then!” said Mr. James, slapping Draco’s desk in a way that Draco suspected was supposed to be encouragement.
A few more slashes of his pen here and there, a giant X through a paragraph that had no business being committed to parchment, and a comment about a small addition that needed to be made to ensure utmost accuracy before the paper was put to bed, and Draco was done. With the pile he’d been given yesterday, at least… that was to say nothing about what had been demanded of him this morning.
Draco leaned back in his swivel chair which gave an almighty creak in response. He stared up at the ceiling that held a water stain in the shape of a hippogriff, but that offered him no scope for the imagination either. Nothing in this cramped little office offered him any kind of mental break. If the room could speak, it would tell him “Get back to work!!”
With a sigh, he stood up. He needed a walk. Maybe some coffee. Or perhaps tea at this hour… he didn’t want to be awake into the wee hours of morning. He’d be up late regardless, but he didn’t want the reason to be too much caffeine.
Either way, he needed to get out of this office as soon as possible.
He made his way to the lifts and jammed his finger into the button that would bring him to the main atrium. There was a tea cart there and plenty of places to sit to take his mind off things for a little bit before he dived back into the wretched pile of mediocre writing that had come his way.
“Malfoy?”
Draco stopped and slowly turned. That voice was so familiar he’d been transported back in time. He was eleven years old and sneering across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table where he’d lock eyes with him.
“Potter,” spat Draco.
Draco had seen him around the Ministry on occasion, but never before had he addressed Draco when their paths crossed. It had been years since they’d last spoken.
At the trials, shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. It had not been a day Draco looked forward to remembering anytime soon.
“It’s been a while,” said Harry. His voice was calm, not reacting to the venom that had seeped from Draco’s words.
“Glad you finally learned to tell the time,” retorted Draco.
Potter sat at a small bistro table alongside the fountain in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, papers in front of him and scattered across the table. Looking at Potter’s face, they locked eyes, green searing into gray, holding them hostage.
“This isn’t your office, you know,” said Draco, gesturing at the piles before him.
“It’s a public place, Malfoy,” said Potter. “I’m allowed to be here.”
“I’d think you’d want to tuck yourself away in some private backroom so the Savior of the Wizarding World wouldn’t have to deal with the plebeians roaming about the Ministry,” said Draco. “Wouldn’t want anyone to pry into whatever business you’re up to these days.”
“Why are you acting like this?” asked Potter. He sounded confused more than hurt. “I thought we’d gotten past our stupid childhood rivalry.”
Because I don’t want to feel like I owe you. And because I don’t want you to think I suddenly owe you a favor for saving my life.
Because I don’t need anyone looking at me and seeing a Death Eater.
Because you remind me too much of the past that won’t let me go.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” said Draco.
“Okay, Malfoy,” sighed Harry, standing up. “I hope your day gets better.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Draco.
“Exactly that. Look, if you just want to be an arse, we can be done with this conversation. I’m not trying to fight you,” said Harry. “We’re not kids anymore, you know?”
“Always so noble…”
“I’ll just get back to it then…” said Harry. “Goodbye, Draco.”
With that, Harry returned his gaze back to the papers in front of him. Draco tried to lean in enough to see what was written on the scattered parchment. The parchment looked blank. No, not blank, but like something had been frosted over.
“There’s nothing on these papers,” said Draco.
“Not that you can see, no,” said Harry, shuffling his papers together into a neat pile and sticking them in the bag that hung over the back of his chair. “Good to know you’re nosier than you look.”
“I’m not nosy,” said Malfoy.
“What would you call it then?” asked Harry.
“Curious… interested… pick your adjective,” said Draco.
“Well, whatever you are, this is private information. You can’t look,” said Harry.
“What are you even working on?” asked Draco.
“You can’t have it both ways, Malfoy,” said Harry. He threw in his quills and ink bottle and slung the bag across his body. “The table’s yours.”
With that, he hurried away, disappearing into the crowd.
***
DRAFT 2-- PLEASE SEE NOTES
MAKE CORRECTIONS AND RETURN TO EDITOR VIA OWL POST OR INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO
Dear Charlie is an advice column presented by the Daily Prophet in conjunction with one from our community who is both a certified Muggle psychologist and licensed Mind Healer within the Wizarding World. While the responses to these letters sent in are written by a professional, the Daily Prophet urges readers who may have experienced similar problems to take the presented advice at face-value and consult with a Mind Healer for a treatment plan that may befit the individual and their specific circumstances. Thank you.
---------------------
Dear Charlie…
Advice on Mental Health and Interpersonal Relationships from a Mindhealer Who’s Been There
Our letter for this week comes from Moment of Peace. If you wish to ask your own question, you may send your letters via owl courier to the Daily Prophet care of “Dear Charlie.”
~***~
Dear Charlie,
I’m a mother of four children, the fourth of whom was born around the last Christmas of the war. I’m lucky in that my husband was able to stay out of the fighting and so was I, but we still had four children at home. Even though the area where we live was pretty quiet, we would still see the cloaks of the Death Eaters flying over our village. I grew too afraid to let the children play outside. I was so worried that I’d look away for just a moment and they would be taken and held hostage by the Death Eaters. I couldn’t bear the thought. I just kept them inside… I’m probably a terrible mother for that.
Now the war is long over-- You-Know-Who has been confirmed dead and I have double- and triple-checked my sources. I should be able to let my children out to breathe the fresh air, stretch their legs, etc. But I just… can’t… I can’t seem to convince myself that there isn’t anything to fear and that I can give my children some space. Instead, we spend that time in the house with the curtains closed. What should I do? We can’t go on like this much longer, but I can’t seem to force myself to let this fear go…
Sincerely,
Moment of Peace
~***~
Dear Peace,
You are a wonderful mother. Anyone who can help their children survive a war and come out reasonably well on the other side is incredible.
It’s time to clear up the negative self-talk.You did the best you could in some of the most horrific conditions. Your children might not be able to articulate their gratitude for this right now, but their brains and bodies understand more than we can put into words. But now, it’s time to clear up the negative self-talk. ← Move here for a smoother read.We spent so long during the war holding tightly to the hands of our loved ones, looking over our shoulders, triple checking our locks and wards at night and that our wand is always holstered and at the ready… but for the first time in a long while, we don’t have to be vigilant about these things in the same way.
We formed a lot of habits that kept us safe during the war and many of us had our own sort of exclusive communities of people we felt we could trust. My advice: lean into that community again.← Move this later. It’ll make a bigger impact later in your response.
I’d recommend startingStart small-- let your children play in the back garden or in the park under your supervision. If you feel like you can’t trust anyone else right now, you can at least trust yourself enough to keep your children safe.You’ve made it this far.← Unnecessary. Remove. From there, be open to the community you have built. (Insert from above) We formed a lot of habits that kept us safe during the war and many of us had our own sort of exclusive communities of people we felt we could trust. My advice: lean into that community again. (Start new paragraph) The next step would be letting your children visit someone or somewhere under the supervision of a trusted adult who isn’t you, with or without you being there,depending on if you need more of a transitional step in between.Whatever you’re comfortable with first. In time, you’ll feel more comfortable letting your children go somewhere on their own with a lifeline of communication to you.Remember, there is no set timeline for how long this should take. I’d encourage you to let your children have a say in when you take the needed steps and who else should be involved. This could be a moment of growth for all of you.
Wishing you all the best,
Charlie
***
Pansy was in town for the first time in… well, Draco wasn’t sure how long it had been. She’d gone to Berlin to attend a muggle university where she studied law and practiced her German after graduating Hogwarts. She’d become much more fluent in the time she’d been away but she also came home at every opportunity, which is why she had owled Draco the day before asking him to meet for lunch. He agreed under the condition that they find a place close to the ministry, since he wouldn’t be able to get away for too long without hearing about it from Mr. James. So they met at a Muggle café chain down the street and tucked themselves in a corner, away from everyone.
“This place is rather…”
“Don’t start. It’s the best I could do,” said Draco, blowing on his espresso. “My boss isn’t exactly known for having reasonable timelines. I’m wading in editing up to my ears and of course no one else is capable of doing it properly…”
“Why do you work there if your boss is such a dick?” asked Pansy.
“Because I’m not exactly receiving better offers anywhere else,” said Draco. “Even when I leave out any mention of my acquittal, somehow people always find out and then have feelings about it. At least my boss doesn’t ask many questions, you know?”
“Ugh, you’re making the workforce sound like such a drag… I should have just become a nepotism hire or married rich like my parents encouraged,” complained Pansy. “You should have too.”
“Not an option, Pans.”
“Sure it is.”
“If I wanted to live a life where no one asked what I wanted and where I had no self-respect, sure.”
Pansy let out a huff and sipped at the foam of her latté.
“You know, I read something very interesting last week,” said Pansy.
“What’s that?” asked Draco. “Can’t be good if you’re the one bringing it up.”
With that, Pansy reached into her bag, quickly glancing around at the muggle patrons nearby before pulling out a rolled up copy of Witch Weekly.
“Take a look. Page three.”
Draco quickly took it and flipped open the magazine. It was the gossip column The Coven Commentary, which had been in circulation at least since they’d been thirteen, which is when Pansy got her own subscription to Witch Weekly. Glancing down the page, there didn’t seem to be anything special-- Celestina Warbeck was spotted in Diagon Alley in disguise… and not a very good one at that. The Weird Sisters had played an exclusive sitting room show amongst their wealthiest die-hard fans to raise money for children suffering with dragon pox. The Minister of Magic lost his hat to some suspiciously placed wind while out on a stroll at lunchtime. And then…
Oh no…
Heir Draco Malfoy, former (?) Death Eater, pictured with Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter, in the Ministry of Magic atrium over the lunch period. Mr. Malfoy was seen having a heated confrontation with The Boy Who Lived who looked positively flabbergasted to see his school rival. It appears that even when your Master is vanquished (for good this time), old habits are hard to shake. Is Mr. Malfoy attempting to keep hatred for the Light alive after all this time? Are we witnessing the rise of the next Dark Lord in the form of a sad, defeated young man who doesn’t know when to quit? Only time will tell.
Until next week, dear readers xx
Cressida Vane
The picture was of Draco the last time he had run into Potter. Draco stood over him looking positively irate. But how could they make the assumption that he was threatening Potter and trying to unite the Death Eaters once again? Draco had been acquitted! Did that mean nothing to the rest of the world?
Clearly…
“What the fuck is this, Pansy?!” exclaimed Draco.
“Watch your mouth, young man!” scoffed a middle-aged woman sitting at the next table over.
Draco shot a glare at the woman before turning back to his friend.
“Who wrote this? This is slander. I ought to report this,” said Draco. “Who is Cressida Vane?”
“Hell if I know,” said Pansy. “All I know is that ‘Cressida Vane’ is a pseudonym. No one has any idea who the writer actually is. Or, from what I hear, anyone who does know has been forced to make an unbreakable vow to never reveal her true identity.”
“I’ve spent how long after my trial trying to keep my head down and now this is what grabs the attention of the public?!” seethed Draco.
“Come on, Draco, it’s all a bit of fun. Once the next scandal hits the newsstand, no one will remember that you were ever a feature here. It’ll come to pass, so just calm down,” said Pansy. “I found it amusing. I mean, you? The next Dark Lord? Please… don’t make me laugh.”
“Hey, I’d make a great Dark Lord, if I really wanted to be one.”
“Sure… keep telling yourself that.”
“And I’m not sad.”
“You’re a little sad,” said Pansy. “You just don’t have the emotional intelligence to recognize that that’s why you spend so much time alone. But it’ll hit you one day.”
“Have I ever told you you’re a terrible friend?” asked Draco.
“You have, and I have yet to believe you,” said Pansy. She took a long drink of her quickly cooling coffee. “Seriously, don’t let this keep you up at night.”
Draco knew she was right, but it still greatly disturbed him to know that someone was paying that much attention to him to make any kind of commentary on his life and dealings, positive or negative.
Why can’t people just leave well-enough alone? I have…
***
Draco put his pen down on the table near the candle lighting his way. He ended up having to take work home again in order to keep on top of things. He wanted to be resentful, but he actually didn’t mind the distraction. Better than battling his own late night thoughts while alone in his apartment… The Coven Commentary of all things still weighed heavily on his mind… luckily, editing for the Dear Charlie column was an excellent counter.
He hated to admit it, but he rather liked ending the night with a Dear Charlie draft. They were small sources of hope. They were reminders that he wasn’t the only one still struggling after all of this time.
Immediately after the end of the war, he’d been arrested, gone to trial, and received 300 hours of community service in order to earn a legal pardon for his role with the Death Eaters when he was underage. He would have gone straight to Azkaban for the rest of his life… if it hadn’t been for Potter.
Potter.
He’d been working on something when their paths crossed at the ministry the other week. Something he wouldn’t let anyone else see. But why?
Stop thinking about him. You don’t want anything to do with him and he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you. Maybe even moreso, after what that stupid Cressida Vane wrote.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
Stop thinking about that horrific column… it doesn’t matter.
He put the edited column in a large envelope. Across the front he wrote “Dear Charlie Columnist” and gave it to the barn owl sitting on his windowsill-- a bird called Archibald.
“Don’t take any side trips, go straight to the columnist. These edits need to be done by tomorrow afternoon,” Draco instructed the owl. Archibald flew off with one last glance, soaring into the night.
His eyes were heavy, but his mind was racing. Instead of letting himself spiral, he took out another piece of parchment and set it on the table before him. It was nearly the end of the month-- he father would be expecting a letter from him. He was only able to receive messages in Azkaban once per month. If Draco missed that cut-off, his correspondence would have to wait until the end of the next month, which he had done before. His father was extremely unhappy with him for that.
“Too good to write to your father now that you’ve been pardoned?” he had written. Draco could hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind. He could imagine the sneer in his voice being as evident as it was on his face. He felt inadequate. He felt stupid-- like he was the failure here.
Draco breathed out and took out a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill in the ink pot. The point of his quill hovered over the page, hesitating…
Why did his father have this effect on him even from all the way in Azkaban on a life sentence? If only someone could give him the answers…
But there was someone.
Maybe… who knows if he’d even get a response. But there was only one way to find out. What was the worst that could happen?
Without thinking too hard about it, Draco began writing:
Dear Charlie,
In the past, my family did some things I’m not proud of and it put me in a difficult place. As a result, my family’s reputation precedes me. Others hear my surname and they make assumptions about what I’m like and they think I’m going to be just like my parents. Or… worse… I’m fine now, but it made it hard to get a job or to convince someone to take me on as a tenant when I went to find a flat of my own. I had to come up with clever workarounds to make these things happen for me.
I wanted the months immediately after the war to be a fresh start for me. I wanted to finish my education, get out in the world and make my own way. But the world seems to have a long memory. They are hellbent on seeing me only in one light, and it’s not a flattering one. My parents are disappointed I’m not living up to the future they envisioned for me. My father is specifically bitter that I am keeping my distance. My feelings about my father are more complicated than they are for my mother. I don’t feel that I can ever discuss this with either of them, but I’ve also spent enough time stuck in my head and feeling really alone as I try to figure everything out on my own.
All of this to say… does it get better? How can I step out of the shadow of my past and that of my family when wizarding society seems to want to keep me down?
Sincerely,
Overshadowed
It felt good to write out what had been circling his mind for ages. He allowed the ink to dry, reading his words over and over again. Then he folded it and put it in an envelope, writing “Dear Charlie” carefully and neatly on the front, leaving it on his desk for when Archibald returned. He didn’t know how far away the owl had to go, but he knew that he would be back before sunrise. If he still felt like it, he would send it then.
January 2007
Draco was hunched over a pile of papers at his desk when Mr. James poked his head into the tiny office space.
“Oh good, you’re in here. Have a good holiday?” he asked.
Draco lifted his head from his work to make eye contact with his boss. He desperately didn’t want to have this conversation. No one wanted to hear about how he and his mother had shared Christmas dinner and then haunted different parts of Malfoy Manor. It was pathetic.
“Yes, it was lovely, sir. I hope you had a good New Year,” said Draco politely.
“Listen, are you busy?” asked Mr. James.
“Always, sir,” said Draco, glancing around at his desk, half buried in parchment in various states of use.
“Wonderful. It’s good to keep busy. Healthy,” said Mr. James. “Here, I forgot to give you next week’s Dear Charlie letters and responses. These need to be edited and returned before the Prophet is put to bed Sunday evening. Think you can handle it?”
“I always do, Mr. James,” said Draco, taking the thick envelope from him.
“Good… good… well, crack on then!” said Mr. James.
As much as Draco hated being his boss’s go-to editor for everything, this was a welcome delivery. The article he was working on required extensive fact-checking and was horrifically written-- it was taking forever to get through. But the Dear Charlie letters… those were a breath of fresh air. He didn’t have to make very heavy edits on those anymore. Not like in the beginning. And it didn’t hurt that the columns were usually about topics that Draco found generally helpful as someone recovering from war.
He opened the large envelope and pulled out the sheaf of letters. He scanned the first one on top: “Dear Overshadowed…”
It couldn’t be.
He kept reading, scanning through at lightning speed.
It was: Charlie was responding to his letter. He read on.
Dear Overshadowed,
It sounds like you’re under a lot of pressure right now and have been for a while. While I don’t know the specifics of your situation, I do understand the feeling in some ways. Even when we are no longer with the people who raised us on a daily basis, they still come with us wherever we go. Maybe they’re even the voice of our conscience as we figure out how to navigate this world and make decisions for ourselves.
I’d encourage you to notice when you’re feeling uncomfortable or under scrutiny and examine why you’re feeling that way. Then you’ll be able to determine if that feeling is worth keeping. It’s possible that you’re not worried about your family’s approval (or lack thereof), but that you’re very unsure of yourself and the path you’re taking in life.
We are not the people who raised us-- we are their children. It is their job to guide us and help us learn right from wrong. But as we experience the world, meet new people, learn new things, we have to recognize that all of those things are different from the experiences of our families. We are not their carbon copies and we are not magically duplicated for the convenience of others-- we have to grow to be our own people. It’s okay if that looks different from what we thought we would grow up to be and different from what our parents envisioned.
I won’t sit here and pretend that things will miraculously get better overnight. In fact, I’m sorry to say there are difficult times ahead. You have to have confidence in the decisions you make for your life. Own them. Find the people who will support you, even when you make mistakes (because you will make mistakes). Your family’s reputation may follow you for a while, but time heals all wounds. Eventually people will see that you’re different and will have less of a reason to believe whatever rumors or reputation followed your family.
Go with confidence. I believe in you.
Wishing you all the bravery and encouragement you need,
Charlie
Draco sat back in his chair, reading the letter for a second time. Then a third. Of course it wasn’t what he wanted to hear-- no one wanted to hear that things might still be hard to handle for a while. Perhaps a long while. But he needed to hear it anyway. Something resembling peace settled in Draco’s chest.
Wow, my words will actually be published in the Prophet, thought Draco. Which was silly to think, because his work was regularly an integral part of the publishing process. How many pieces had he torn apart with the power of his correction quill and ruthless editorial vision? But the fact that Charlie, whoever he was, had deigned to respond to him was flattering.
Draco quickly scratched out a few edits, replacing that response back into the envelope. He couldn’t just finish the rest of the Dear Charlie responses though and go about his life like this was a normal day though. It certainly wasn’t. So before starting in on the rest of the letter responses, he pulled a new, albeit wrinkled, piece of parchment in front of him and using the deep red ink he used for corrections, he scratched out his response.
Dear Charlie,
Sorry, this is not a submission for your column. I just wanted to say, I was delighted to learn that you received my letter and was flattered to realize that you had replied to my letter (re: not feeling adequate and reconciling what I want with what my family wants for my future). I appreciate your honesty and for your words of wisdom. I have yet to act and plenty to learn and unlearn, but I wanted to send my appreciation anyway.
Sincerely,
Overshadowed
Draco reached over and stuck the letter in a new envelope. He didn’t want anyone to make the bold (but not incorrect) assumption that the writer of the initial letter was connected, even remotely, to him by sending his response and edited work in the same envelope. He’d send the letter when he got home that night.
***
A few days later, Draco once more sat at his desk in the dead of night at home. A fire was dying down in the grate and his tea was starting to go cold, but he couldn’t stop now. There was too much to be done and Mr. James had put yet another mound of editing on him that he didn’t need.
There was a tapping on the window that jolted him from his reverie. It was the smallest, most hyperactive owl Draco had ever seen. Against his better judgement, he let the creature in.
“Hello hello, what can I do for you?” said Draco with a smile.
The tiny owl seemed to hover in mid-air like a hummingbird and dangled an envelope in front of his face. It took a moment, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw that the front of the envelope was labeled “Overshadowed.”
“No way…” muttered Draco, taking the envelope and ripping it open. It was not a dignified display, but then again, who was there to see the excitement on his face? No one he needed to impress.
The letter was written in the usual somewhat messy scrawl he was used to seeing when he received the drafts of Dear Charlie. But this did not contain the usual heading of a draft. This was a personal missive.
Dear Overshadowed,
Thank you for your note! I don’t get a lot of responses to the articles I write, so I appreciate you sharing your thoughts with me. Your story really spoke to me and my response practically wrote itself. Living under the shadow of someone’s legacy is difficult, to put it mildly. I’ve been there too and in a way, I’m still in the thick of it. What I know is, you’re asking the right questions. It sounds like you’re trying to make your own way however you can.
Send a letter any time-- for the column or otherwise! I’m happy to listen.
Take care,
Charlie
Draco reached across his table and pulled a blank piece of parchment in front of him. The little owl let out a shrill screech and nipped at Draco’s fingers.
“You’re a menace, little one…” he muttered. He took an owl treat from the jar near the window and gave the owl one. He looked very pleased with himself.
With that, Draco began to write:
Dear Charlie,
Thanks for your letter. Your little owl was very eager to deliver it. I’ve reassured him that he’s done a good job. He must not be very old-- he’s very small. It just made the delivery that much more endearing. It’s one of the ways that the wizarding world hasn’t let me down-- Owl Post.
Your words are very reassuring to read, has anyone told you? Your response made me feel like less of a mad man. Is this something that everyone goes through, no matter what your parents’ legacy or reputation is? It’s hard to not feel like an island in the middle of the North Sea. I don’t really have anyone in my real life that I can talk to about this…
Draco told Charlie about his father being sent to Azkaban. He told Charlie about growing up as a pure blood heir. He told Charlie about how he was worried about his mother and couldn’t bring himself to see her more often. He didn’t want to sit there and look for traces of disappointment in her face. And Charlie responded in kind. He talked about his parents and how he wished he could have known them for longer and he loved them, but it felt like there were enormous shoes to fill for the longest time. He talked about going back to school after the war ended and figuring out what it meant to be just him, standing on his own two feet. He talked about feeling the weight of expectations that other people had for him and how there were days that he just wanted to give up. Draco could relate to that and said as much.
For the next several days, notes were sent back and forth. Sometimes multiple times a day. When the little owl (who was named Pigwigeon… what a strange name…) became too tired, then Archibald took flight and blew off some steam.
When Archibald returned, carrying another letter from Charlie with him, he was less cranky than usual.
“What’s got you in a good mood then?”
Archibald let out a soft screech.
“Charlie must be giving you some excellent owl treats then,” chuckled Draco softly, scratching the top of Archibald’s head. He took the letter that the owl offered and slit it open with his finger.
Dear Overshadowed,
You know, it feels a little weird to be calling you “Overshadowed.” It’s not like you’re writing to an advice column anymore, you know? Overshadowed indicates that you feel hidden, but… I don’t know, I feel like I’m seeing you fairly clearly after so many letter exchanges.
Maybe that’s too bold to say. It’s not like we’ve been writing to each other for very long. But even so, it already feels like I’m writing to a friend. I look forward to receiving your replies and feel excited when one owl or another arrives. It’s easy to talk to you.
So… all of this to say, “Overshadowed” feels inappropriate, wouldn’t you agree? What should I call you? Maybe Shadow, if you don’t feel like sharing your real name yet.
I hope this isn’t overstepping. It might be. But please let me know if it is.
It’s getting late, so I’ll end this here, but I look forward to hearing from you, friend.
Yours,
Charlie
“Shadow…” muttered Draco, turning the word over in his mouth. “I… rather like the sound of that. Charlie and Shadow, taking on the world.”
March 2007
It was beginning to feel like spring. Draco pushed open the window to let in the cool night air when suddenly, Pansy’s face appeared in the fire.
“Draco! Let me come in!” shouted Pansy.
“Shut up! Not so loud… I do have neighbors, you know,” said Draco.
“Yes, yes, we all know you’re living in the poor house nowadays. Now let me in!” demanded Pansy.
Draco gestured for her to step through and she quickly did, carrying yet another copy of Witch Weekly with her.
“What do you want then?” asked Draco.
“So rude. Can’t I visit my best friend when I feel like it?” asked Pansy. She spoke sweetly, but Draco knew that what she actually meant was Try and stop me, you prick.
“I have a feeling you’d come through even if I’d said no,” said Draco.
“Damn right,” said Pansy. With that, she flounced over to the loveseat near the fire and sat down. “Go about your evening. It’s like I’m not even here.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. Then a loud screech sounded at the window and a small feathered lump crash-landed on the windowsill.
“Hey, Pig,” said Draco
“What the fuck did you call me?” demanded Pansy.
“What? Pig is an owl, you twat. Use your eyes,” said Draco. Pansy scoffed loudly from the loveseat.
He crossed the room and did his best to calm the excitable owl before taking the envelope he carried. His name was on the front of the envelope and he immediately recognized the writing and smiled to himself. He tore it open.
“Who is it?” asked Pansy.
“Umm… it’s a friend. Pen pal. An acquaintance,” said Draco.
Pansy sat up and looked at him suspiciously, examining his face with surgical precision.
“This is more than just a casual acquaintance,” said Pansy. It wasn’t a question. She stood up and moved closer. “Why so cagey, Draco Malfoy?”
“I’m not cagey,” said Draco, standing his ground.
“You’re blushing,” said Pansy.
“It’s warm in here.”
“I’m not buying it,” said Pansy, closing in on him until they were only a few inches apart. “Tell me. You know I’ll find out one way or another.”
In that moment, Draco was thanking his lucky stars that Pansy Parkinson, with all of her wit, intelligence, and uncanny ability to be in everyone else’s business, did not know legilimency. How would he even begin to explain this connection he had with Charlie? This connection that he was definitely feeling… something. But who was to say if this connection was even real? It could all be in his head… Yes, he and Charlie both confessed that reading the other’s letters felt like they were talking to a friend, but with every conversation, it started to feel less and less like a friendship and suddenly like the spark of something more.
There was no way Pansy would understand that.
“They’re just a friend, Pans,” said Draco, moving past her.
“Someone we both know?”
“Not… not really.” Draco knew he couldn’t hold her off much longer. He had to give her something. “Their name is Charlie.”
“Charlie? We don’t know anyone named Charlie,” said Pansy. “Sounds like a Muggleborn. No self-respecting pureblood family would name their child Charlie of all things.”
Pansy backed off, returning to her spot on the loveseat.
“Well whoever they are, why are you trying to keep them a secret?” asked Pansy.
“I’m not. I just know how you are,” said Draco.
“Whatever. Don’t give me the details then,” said Pansy, rolling her eyes and taking up her copy of Witch Weekly once again.
Draco sat at his desk and started penning his reply to Charlie once he’d finished reading. Charlie revealed that he lived in London and was going out with friends later in the week. He liked to keep to himself, but he found it hard to say no to the most important people in his life and allowed them to get him out of the house once a week to see people.
Sometimes even our friends can be our greatest enemy. But I suppose they do it out of love or something, right? I wish I was going to be there with you too, but do enjoy your time out on the town with your friends. If you’re like me at all (and I think we are-- alike, that is), you’ll have more fun than you think. I also live in London and I still rely on my friends to get me out into the open. Otherwise, my regular routine is to go to work and conquer whatever nearly insurmountable list of tasks my boss sets for me and later come home and work some more. Don’t be jealous, I know I lead a glamorous life.
Draco finished off his letter, folded it up and gave it to Pig who was still hopping madly around the windowsill. Without a single glance back, the little owl took off into the night.
“Ugh…” muttered Pansy.
“What?” asked Draco, turning to look at her.
“Potter’s managed to show up in my magazine again,” complained Pansy.
“Alright…” said Draco.
“The Coven Commentary got to him. Listen: ‘Pictured left, Harry Potter has been spotted on several occasions writing owl post to a mysterious recipient. This has been happening nearly every day for at least two and a half months, by my estimate. I have observed Mr. Potter reading over letters written in an elegant hand-- all written by the same person, dear readers. How interesting. Could it be that Harry Potter has found a beau? One can’t help but wonder who the lucky witch is. While the identity of the writer remains unknown at this time, rest assured, I will find out who has earned the affections of Mr. Potter and has him blushing and smiling in public in the middle of the afternoon.’ I’m telling you, ever since he defeated the Dark Lord, he’s just gotten more and more boring. It must be a slow news day or something…” said Pansy. “Anyone who was around Potter for even a second would know that blood traitor Weasley girl is his girlfriend. It’s old news. Who’s going to break it to Cressida?”
“I thought he broke up with her shortly after the war ended,” said Draco.
“Doesn’t matter. No one cares,” said Pansy. “This is a weird picture they took of him though… with a dopey grin like that, you’d never know Potter had a brain in that head of his. Look.”
Pansy turned the magazine around and Draco glanced over. Potter was sitting at a table outside a cafe in what looked to be Diagon Alley, holding a small pile of parchment in his hands and smiling. Every once in a while, his shoulders trembled with silent laughter.
And then Draco spotted something odd.
Looking closer at the picture, there was an owl perched on the edge of the same table Potter sat at. At the same moment that Draco had the thought of What a filthy habit, letting your owl on the same table where you’re eating, Draco’s brain nearly short-circuited. That owl was tiny and even had moments where he was flittering about Potter’s head while he read and wrote. It was behavior Draco had only ever witnessed in one bird he had come to know.
Pig? Is that you? thought Draco.
No, it couldn’t be. Ridiculous. Pig was not the same owl as this one. There must be an influx of tiny, annoying owls flooding the wizarding world… right?
Yes, overbred owls. That had to be it. It certainly couldn’t be that he and Potter were…
No. That was too much for Draco’s brain to even start considering.
“Yeah. Hilarious,” said Draco half-heartedly.
But no matter how much he didn’t want to think about it, his mind kept wandering back.
Potter.
***
Later that night, Draco sat brooding at his desk, looking at his collection of letters from Charlie… if he could even still call him that. He couldn’t sleep-- there were too many things on his mind.
I am not falling for Potter. I would know if I was writing to Harry Potter, of all people.
He stared very pointedly at the wall in front of him, studying the pattern of the wallpaper to try and distract himself.
It wasn’t working.
“Fuck,” he breathed, running his fingers through his hair.
Leave it to him to catch feelings for his former nemesis. He’d finally found someone he felt like he could trust. He’d told Potter so many things he hadn’t even told his friends… He’d never explicitly talked about the trial in detail, of course, but he’d told him about how it felt to have someone stand up for him. To try and let him have a second chance after spending his entire life on the wrong side of the war. To recognize that that might be something he’d actually want. He was grateful. He felt like the debt he owed to Potter was insurmountable. It was easier to avoid him and live his life in peace. He figured Harry wouldn’t want anything to do with him anyway once the trial was over.
He’d told him that he liked writing to him-- that he looked forward to it.
Almost as if on cue, Pigwigeon was tapping and screeching at the window. Draco let him in and took the envelope from the owl, returning to his desk.
Dear Shadow,
You know, you could come with us. My friends wouldn’t mind at all. Actually, they’ve been asking about you. Well, they’ve been asking about “that guy I”ve been writing to.” But I’d love for them to get to know you. And… I’d love to see you too.
Look, I know it’s a lot to ask. It puts us both in a vulnerable position, certainly. But we’ve been writing for a few months now and… well, I like you, Shadow. Maybe that’s insane to say. How can either of us possibly claim more than a casual friendship with the other? But I’m sitting here right now and thinking to myself that saying “Shadow is my friend” feels wholly inadequate. I don’t know how else to explain it.
If you want to take that next step together, I’ll tell you everything, including who I am. I’m no seer (divination class was the absolute worst), so I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I want you in my future in some capacity.
No pressure, honestly. If you’re not ready, that’s okay. I still want to keep talking to you. No hard feelings. But let me know what you think and what you want to do.
Yours,
Charlie
He couldn’t let this continue any longer.
They hadn’t been writing for very long in the grand scheme of things. Maybe cutting contact right now would be the easiest. A clean break. Sure, it might hurt for a while to not talk to Charlie-- no, Harry-- any longer, but they would both get over it. Right? Harry never needed to be the wiser. He’d be horrified if he knew what he and Draco Malfoy once had. Because… it had been something, hadn’t it? It was better this way.
Draco pulled a new piece of parchment in front of him and dipped his quill in the inkwell. The point hovered over the page.
It’s the right thing to do, Draco. After how you’ve treated him and after all he’s done for you, there’s no way you can be equals with The Chosen One.
Draco sighed and began writing.
Dear Harry,
I can’t do this anymore. A friend of mine is subscribed to Witch Weekly and saw The Coven Commentary. Your picture was one of the first there… I recognized Pig in the photo. It had to be him. I looked it up: miniature scops owls like him are very rare in the UK.
I know this would make a hell of a lot more sense if you knew who I was, but please trust me that this isn’t a good idea. You don’t want anything to do with me and it’s already painful for me to know who I’ve been writing to for the past few months. I don’t want to ruin your life more than I already have. It’s easiest if we just… stop this. Stop while we’re not more attached than we already are.
I’m sorry.
--Shadow
Before he could think too hard about it and grow to regret this decision, he folded up the note and gave it back to Pig who immediately took off into the night.
April 2007
The flowers were starting to bloom. As Draco took the long way to work by walking through Kensington Gardens, he tried to ground himself in his senses… the smell of the last rainfall, the earthy smell of soil in the flower beds, the fragrance of the plants that were early bloomers.
He needed to forget. It had been a couple of weeks and he found it hard to forget and move on. Mostly because he received note after note from Harry.
Shadow,
How did you…? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You’re right-- it’s me. I’m sorry I was hiding who I was-- I just needed a fresh start after the war ended and this was the only way I could think of if I still wanted to make a difference in the public without carrying around the baggage of being The Boy Who Lived or The Chosen One or whatever… I hope you understand.
What I don’t understand is why you feel like you need to pull away. What about knowing who I am now makes you think this wouldn’t work? You of all people know all too well how people can overcome the worst things if they decide to. Why does this have to be different?
Please talk to me.
Yours,
Harry
---
Shadow,
Please, can we talk? It’s been a few days. I don’t understand what I did wrong. Did I do anything wrong? Please, you’re so important to me-- I don’t want to lose you. Or at least, if you really insist that this is a bad idea, I’d like to know why.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours,
Harry
---
Shadow,
My mind is swinging wildly between rational and irrational. Rationally, I know I should give you the space you need and respect your wishes, but then I can’t help but think: No. My feelings for you are very real. I need to fight for this. For us. I can’t just give up on us…
Please talk to me.
Yours,
Harry
---
Shadow,
Can we meet for coffee or tea? We can go wherever you like. If it’s the press you’re worried about, we can go into Muggle London where they won’t follow us. I’ve developed a bit of a repertoire of strategies for dealing with them. But I really think we should talk. If that’s too much, then please, just a short response to my letters would help so much. I believe in us.
Yours,
Harry
Draco let every single one of them go ignored. Then the last letter showed up.
Shadow,
I’m sorry, all of this is super inappropriate. I know better than to act like this. I’m not your therapist, but I know what I would tell my clients if they were in a situation. I would help them make steps to move on-- you can never force someone to be in a relationship they don’t want. Everyone has to choose to be involved for anything to work out. So… I’m going to follow my own advice… partially.
I think I know who you are. I won’t get into how I know right now. I promise I’m not trying to make this weird-- hear (read?) me out. I want you to know that even while knowing who you are, that hasn’t changed how hard I’ve fallen for you. We acted like idiots around each other. As Hermione and Ron like to point out (not because of these letters… they don’t know about them), we have always lost our minds around each other. Maybe we just didn’t recognize it for what it was. Whatever the case may be, I love how you’re effortlessly smart, clever, and extremely resilient. The world was not kind to you, especially after the war, but… even before that too, I imagine. You didn’t deserve any of that then and you don’t now. And after all you’ve been through, you’re still moving forward.
You’re incredible.
I would love to be able to say this in person. I’ve been dreaming of holding your hands and looking into your eyes so you know how sincere I am when I say all of these things. If, after all that you’ve read, want to give us-- give me, really-- a sliver of a chance to see what we’re like together, I will be at Elosia’s Cafe in Chelsea this Saturday from the time it opens until closing. If I don’t see you… well, I suppose I’ll have gotten the message.
Yours Always,
Harry
How would he know who I was? How long has he known? Or… could he be bluffing? What does he gain from that?
Draco felt flutters in his stomach. It was nerves. It was feeling exposed. It was… excitement… relief. He expected to feel a lot of things, but the last two weren’t emotions he would have picked.
Does he actually feel that way?
“‘Incredible,’” Draco read aloud to himself. “He said that.”
“What’s that?”
Pansy. He hadn’t heard her knock. He couldn’t believe she was entering through the door for once.
“Nothing. Just another letter,” said Draco.
“From that guy?” she asked.
Why is she acting so weird?
Draco was used to a much more abrasive Pansy who had once smacked him in the back of the head when he was being too hard-headed back in school. The one who would tell him to fuck off and pull his head out of his arse when he’d been too insensitive to one of her many plights. This quiet and carefully treading Pansy was unnerving, to say the least.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said Draco.
“Sorry, maybe I wasn’t being clear enough. You’ve gotten another letter from Potter, haven’t you?” said Pansy, crossing her arms.
“How did you--?”
“I’m not an idiot, Draco. You got all weird when I showed you that article about Potter and you kicked me out. Not to mention that you’ve been receiving these mysterious letters from someone and your face gets all silly and lovestruck,” said Pansy. “Really, it’s adorable. It sickens me.”
“I don’t love Potter,” said Draco.
“Okay, whatever. Call it what you want,” said Pansy. “But I’ll tell you this: ever since you’ve started writing to Potter, however many months ago, I can’t help but notice that you’ve seemed… happier? More okay with the life you’re living? You’re different. In a good way.”
There were too many thoughts swirling in his brain. Was Pansy right about all of this?
“What did he say this time?” asked Pansy.
Draco handed her all of the last several letters he’d received from Harry.
“Draco, he’s going insane,” said Pansy. “Why aren’t you saying anything back?”
“Potter doesn’t know it’s me. He has to be bluffing. The moment he figures it out, he’s going to walk right out the door. He wants nothing to do with me,” said Draco.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s always how it’s been between us,” explained Draco.
“He testified on your behalf in front of the Wizengamot,” said Pansy.
“He has an insufferable savior complex. Ask anyone.”
“I heard he went back for you in the Room of Requirement when he didn’t have to.”
“My point stands.”
“He was obsessed with you during sixth year.”
“He was suspicious of me.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that last one, but the others certainly don’t seem to me like someone who wants nothing to do with you,” said Pansy. “But I get it, we were kids when those things happened. It’s all in the past. But let me show you something again…”
She reached into the deep pocket of her traveling robes and pulled out a rolled up copy of Witch Weekly.
“I know you’ve seen it before, but look at this picture again,” said Pansy.
Draco took the magazine and was confronted by the picture of Harry sitting at the table with a pile of parchment in front of him. Pigwigeon still scuttled around his head, even as he held a paper a short distance from his face. Draco watched the picture-Harry glance over the paper and smile a little wider with each passing second. Then he’d become aware of his face and covered his mouth with his hand. Even then, his eyes seemed to smile and light up his face all on his own.
“And just think, you had this effect on that dunderhead,” said Pansy. “He’s not going to care that it’s you writing to him. When he finds out, he’s going to know that you were the one that made him feel this way. And that matters a hell of a lot more than your stupid rivalry or whatever baggage you have with Potter since the war ended.”
Draco stared a bit longer at the magazine photo and then looked up at Pansy.
“I know that’s what’s been holding you back. It’s basically the same thing that’s been holding you back from any kind of post-war happiness,” said Pansy.
In that moment, Draco knew what he needed to do. He needed to get to that cafe. And he would get the answers he wanted so badly.
***
The cafe was on a busy street, but as soon as he walked inside, he was engulfed by greenery that perched in every window. He may as well have been on a different planet. There was hardly a trace of London to be found inside. Smells of strong coffee were in the air and mingling with the smell of soil.
Draco paused in the doorway and his heart stopped.
There he was. It was only a few months ago that he had seen Harry in person, but he didn’t look all that different from when they had left school. His hair was still a mess, like he’d gotten caught in a particularly strong wind. He had what looked like the scratchy beginnings of a beard growing on his face and there were was looked to be circles under his eyes that were slightly darker than the rest of his skin. At the time of the bell on the door, Harry looked up in barely masked surprise.
“You came,” he breathed.
“I did,” said Draco quietly.
They stood there looking at each other for a time before Harry broke the spell.
“I-- I’m sorry, what can I get you?” he asked, standing up from his chair.
“I don’t need your charity. I can get my own,” said Draco. He winced at his slightly defensive tone.
“I know,” said Harry. “I’m offering anyway.”
“Just tea is fine. Oolong,” said Draco.
“Sure thing,” said Harry.
Harry ordered the tea from the girl behind the counter and returned a short while later with a teapot and some cups.
“Thank you,” said Draco, pouring the cups.
“I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you would really come,” said Harry.
“I can leave, if you want,” said Draco.
“No! No. I’m just… I was pleasantly surprised,” said Harry. “I thought I’d freaked you out too much.”
“I lived with a Dark Lord under my family’s roof,” said Draco. He smirked. “It takes a bit more than that to scare me away.”
“Yeah,” huffed Harry. “I imagine.”
They each took long sips of the tea in front of them, as if they could drink enough courage to bolster them for the conversation ahead.
“So… Charlie,” said Draco. “Are you disappointed?”
“Not a bit,” replied Harry.
“You said you knew who I was,” said Draco. “How? I thought I was careful.”
“I recognized your owl,” said Harry.
“Archimedes hasn’t been with me all that long. You wouldn’t have seen him at Hogwarts,” said Draco. “Even then, I didn’t sign my name on any of the letters.”
“There’s a bit more to it. I recognized your handwriting, both from school and from the editor notes. I umm… I reached out to the Editor in Chief--”
“Mr. James, my boss.”
“Yeah, him. I asked who you were, since there’s never been an editor credited on the Dear Charlie articles. I just… I had to confirm,” said Harry.
“That bastard…” muttered Draco. “But why?”
“Because it felt too good to be true.”
“I’m… not following,” said Draco.
Harry seemed to hesitate, playing with his fingers on the table. Draco watched and held back from reaching out to touch.
“I’ve had the biggest crush on you since we were sixteen. I don’t really know how it happened, but suddenly this thing we had felt different from when we met as eleven-year-olds. There was suddenly a spark of something,” said Harry. “Not that I was willing or able to put a label on it or even figure out what any of that meant at the time.”
“Because of the Dark Lord thing?” asked Draco.
“Because of the Dark Lord thing,” nodded Harry. “But after lots of intensive mind healing, going back to school and starting out life away from being the Boy Who Lived, it clicked. But I thought that ship had sailed and I’d never have a real chance with you. Maybe we’d been through too much to have anything between us. No one had really seen you around much in the years since the war ended anyway. So imagine my surprise when I found out what you do for a living. And again when I received your first Dear Charlie letter.”
“That feels like so long ago…” said Draco.
“What you said in that letter just hit me on a very personal level,” said Harry. “I spend a lot of time reading and listening to other people’s problems and giving advice… but this was the first time I’d really felt seen by someone who wrote to me. Both of our family reputations precede us and we both just want to be--”
“-- Defined by our own merits,” finished Draco.
“And for that to just be good enough,” said Harry. “The more we wrote, the more connected it felt like we were becoming. None of this should have happened, statistically. It kind of felt like fate,” said Harry. “And I didn’t lie to you in my last letter. I’m in awe of you. You’re incredible. Every letter exchange just confirmed that for me.”
Draco let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and something stung at his eyes. He blinked away the feeling and focused on staying in the moment.
“I was awful to you. Even a potential danger to you, in the end. How do you just… move past all that?” asked Draco.
“I think it’s easy enough when your life has a very distinct before and after. For me, there was a time before Voldemort--” Draco winced at the name. “--and a time after he came to power. In that ‘after’ time, everything changed. Including us. My whole life was tilted on its head and had to recalibrate to this job-- this responsibility-- that lay ahead of me.”
Harry took a sip of his tea. It had cooled considerably.
“Then there was a time before the letters and whatever now is. You showed me a side of you that I don’t think a lot of people get the privilege of seeing,” said Harry. “I can’t un-know that about you. The more I learned, the harder I fell. I wanted more of you. As much as you’d be willing to share.”
Draco took another sip of tea, letting Harry’s words sink in.
“I must sound really pathetic,” said Harry.
“You don’t… at least you’re honest with your feelings,” said Draco.
“You’re here, aren’t you? That says something,” said Harry.
“Maybe… but you don’t know what it took for me to bring myself here,” said Draco.
“You can tell me,” said Harry.
“I don’t know how well you know Pansy Parkinson, but she can be awfully convincing when she wants to be,” said Draco, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s quick to tell me when I’m being stupid.”
“Hermione does that for me too,” said Harry with a lopsided smile.
“She pointed out that I’ve been nothing but miserable since the war ended. No one has been willing to give me a chance or separate me from my father. But… I realized I’ve kind of done that to myself a bit too. I don’t think I did it consciously, but kindness never felt really genuine and I felt like I needed to work for everything I got,” said Draco. “It turns out I come from a family of cowards and I felt like I had to prove myself.”
“You’re not a coward,” said Harry. “Your mother isn’t a coward. That isn’t a Malfoy family trait, or something.”
Draco nodded at this-- not in agreement, but in acknowledgement.
“I don’t want to be miserable for the rest of my life,” said Draco. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life punishing myself for things I did as a kid when I’ve been beating myself up for so long.”
Draco felt unsteady and in that moment, without thinking too hard about it, he put his hands around Harry’s clasped hands. Harry inhaled sharply in surprise.
“I can’t remember the last time I felt as happy as I felt when we were exchanging letters. You didn’t look down on me for what I’ve done or things I’ve said and shared with you. You made me laugh and I actually smiled to the point where my face hurt. I’ll probably have wrinkles long before I’m old and gray because of that,” said Draco. “But I don’t care. Because they’ll be a reminder of the happiness that I felt with you. And that’s irreplaceable.”
Harry twisted his hands so their fingers intertwined. His heart skipped a beat when Draco didn’t immediately let go. Unconsciously they drew closer to each other, their foreheads nearly touching over the tabletop in the middle of this cafe. It felt like they were the only ones there.
“So… what does this mean?” asked Harry, locking eyes with Draco.
“I don’t know…” said Draco. “But… even though we’ve only been writing for a few months, this feels like a long time coming…”
Harry let go of Draco’s hands and slowly reached up, gently touching Draco’s jaw, his cheek, his neck, and slowly drew him in. When their lips touched, it felt like fireworks and warmth, exhilaration coursing through their bodies. Harry felt fingers tangling in his unruly hair and the kiss deepened. After what felt like age, they broke apart, their breaths coming quickly like they’d just run a marathon. Harry let out a nervous laugh and giddy smiles spread across each of their faces.
“What is this?” asked Draco.
“I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out,” said Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”
***
“Draco?” called Mr. James.
Draco rolled his eyes before turning around to face his boss.
“Yes sir?”
“I have something a little different for you,” said Mr. James. “Witch Weekly is a bit shorthanded this week and I offered to have some of their work edited to this week before they go to print.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir,” said Draco, masking his sarcasm.
“The article for them is in the big envelope and next week’s Dear Charlie responses are in the other. These need to be returned in the next few days, ready to go,” said Mr. James.
“No problem, sir. I have it handled, just as I always do,” said Draco.
Mr. James gave a slight bow and handed over the paperwork. When he left Draco’s closet of an office, Draco immediately tore open the envelope for Witch Weekly and pulled out a page of parchment, typed with a typewriter, which not many people had around in the Wizarding World. He began to read:
Another mystery solved, dear readers, thanks to my contacts in the field. Last week, our savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter, was seen sending mysterious messages to an unknown recipient. After trailing the path of the owl post messenger, I believe you will find it most fascinating to know that Heir Draco Malfoy was on the receiving end.
Curious about the nature of these messages, Heir Malfoy was tailed discreetly until he reached Elosia’s Cafe in Chelsea. A most peculiar destination, popular among Muggle and Wizarding kind alike. It was at this location that it was revealed Mr. Potter and Heir Malfoy have some sort of clandestine romance brewing.
We will continue to follow this story and provide any juicy details we are able to glean about the situation!
Until next week, dear readers xx
Cressida Vane
Draco calmly took a quill in his hand and drew the parchment close to him. With a flourish, he drew a great big X over the entire article. Underneath, he left a message that he intended to return to Witch Weekly:
Cressida Vane,
It is this editor’s opinion that this story is conclusively and categorically NOT your business. You will scrap this article and write some other drivel that has nothing to do with Harry Potter or his romantic interests.
If it interests you, however, we are very happy together. But that’s as much of a story as you’re going to get.
Yours Most Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Then, with great finality, he tucked the article into the envelope it came from and sealed it. It was time to see his boyfriend work his magic on the page.