The world of Harry Potter and the characters in it are owned by J.K. Rowling. None of them are mine.

Author's Note: So….yeah, I'm alive. It's been a while, I know. I actually don't know if there's many of you left waiting for this update, but here it is anyway. I'm sorry I haven't updated in a really long time—life happened and adulting is hard.. But! I am once again unemployed (sadly, my program ended and our company no longer has the funds to keep us) so this means I now have the time to continue this fic!

Act I ended with the last chapter, and now Act II opens with an explanation of how Draco has been doing before Harry runs into him for the first time in years. I initially started writing this fic expecting it to be a short Harmione one-shot, but alas, my imagination has gotten the better of me.

Once again, comments help a lot with writing motivation and would definitely be appreciated! Oh, and should you have any questions or would simply like to talk to me, you can definitely leave me messages here or on my twitter jinnieju!

(Speaking of twitter, any ARMYs here (let's be friends!), or at the very least people who are genuinely curious about the BTS hype but don't know where to start? There seems to be a lot of misconceptions about them, and I would be (very) happy to answer questions or introduce some of their work! They're actually a big part of the reason why I decided to continue writing this.)

Oh, and shout out to darkus1414 on reddit for recommending this fic on the H/HR forums last year! I was really touched!

Chapter 10: Making Do

Draco Malfoy awoke with a throbbing headache. Opening his eyes and taking the dark room in, he could scarcely tell whether it was still night or daylight outside. He never has; the location of his and his mother's flat seemed to be permanently covered with a layer of gloom. His room had a window, but when you open it, you'll only see a brick wall belonging to the next dingy apartment complex next door. The sound of someone's throat clearing came from the doorway and he turned to see his mother leaning against the open doorway, watching him with baleful eyes. He groaned internally. What had he done now?

"Harry Potter." His mother's voice was low and quiet. She almost never shouted at him as a child, pampered prince as he was. But whenever he got too much, or too exuberant, his mother used this tone with him, and he learned never to disobey her when she used it.

"Harry Potter." She said it again, slowly and almost so low that he could barely hear her.

"Do you care to explain why I had to open the door to you being dragged here piss drunk by Harry Potter?"

Draco stared determinedly at a hole on his bedsheet. "We only had a few drinks, Mother."

"A few drinks! A few? You could barely stand! But that's not the point— what were you doing drinking with Harry Potter?"

"He was there at Auror training, Mother."

"What? I thought we talked about this—the reason why I agreed to let you enter was because Potter was not around—that he had left to prepare for his wedding with that Weasley girl?"

"Well, I don't know about that, but he was still there."

"That still doesn't explain how you ended up so drunk he had to bring you here. Harry Potter now knows where we live! Do you realize how serious this is, Draco?"

"We ended up drinking because I invited him to go for drinks, Mother. And what's so wrong—"

"You invited him? What?" His mother was looking at him as though he had grown a second head.

She stopped leaning on the door post and straightened. "Draco! I thought we talked about this! I told you never to go near Harry Potter and his friends again, didn't I? I mean, if I had my way, I wouldn't even have let you into that training hall."

Draco looked at her, exasperation growing slowly into irritation by the second.

"So what would you have rather I done? Sit at the corner, and talk to no one?"

"I'm sure you could find other people to talk to there—just not Harry Potter!"

"That's where you're wrong, Mother—no one even deigns to talk to me when I'm there! All they do is whisper about me, some of them don't even bother keeping their voices low! They all hate me, and you know why? Because I'm a Malfoy and the whole world looks at us like we're scum now."

"Malfoys are not scum. We are a proud and noble family, and we will not be brought down by hearsay and gossip that the "decent" Muggle-loving set conjures up about us."

Draco glared at his dark window. His mother didn't understand— his need for companionship, his need to look at himself in a different way than everyone else did—a dirty, Muggle-hating jerk whose family is now in disgrace. He sought change, he sought to experience something different.

"I never want you near Harry Potter again."

"But why? I mean, I thought everything's over already—"

"Over? How is it over? Your father's still in Azkaban! It took us two years to get back into Britain after being banished! How could you think it's over? It's not over until your father is back with us. You do want him back, don't you?"

He nodded slowly.

His mother leaned back, satisfied. "So stay away from Harry Potter. He and his friends are nothing but trouble. Don't think for a second that they will not turn on you."

"Yes, Mother."

Satisfied, his mother turned on her heel, calling backward. "Breakfast is on the table."

Sighing, Malfoy pulled the covers back over his head. Maybe it would do well to skive off work today.

Ooo

Ever since he and his mother were allowed passage back into Britain, Draco had been working as a construction worker in London.

When they were on exile, they had spent their time in Romania, where they coexisted with the wizards in peace because not many have heard of them at all. They had heard of Harry Potter, of course, but not so much in detail that they knew all of Voldemort's Death Eaters names. They still went with aliases, of course, but they felt safer there in the knowledge that most people wouldn't have recognized the name Malfoy even if they heard it.

It was ironic, really—he had thought before. When he was younger, he would have told people his last name without being prompted. Being a Malfoy gave you special treatment, being a Malfoy made you special. Not only were they purebloods, they were also part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the circle of pureblood wizard families who thought of themselves as the closest thing to nobles in the wizarding world. Ironic, because amid all the pureblood pride, they were forced to pose as Squibs while on exile, probably because it provided an explanation on why they knew about wizards despite not owning wands and not being able to do magic. At least, that was what most of their neighbors knew—that they were Squibs on the run from an abusive wizard father.

It sickened him, that he and his mother had had to lie about his father like that, when his father had done nothing but protect them and uphold their pride and beliefs. But their lies bought them sympathy, and the many of the wizarding families living near them provided them with many of the protection and conveniences that most wizarding families were accustomed to. And so, he and his mother co-existed in peace with the wizarding people in the tiny town they had found solace in, and stayed there for the past two years until his mother told came home one day and told him to pack his things for they were going back to Britain. With her three grim-looking men—wizards, from the way he could clearly see them gripping their wands tightly in their pockets, as though he or his mother could lunge at them at any moment, though both of their hands were empty.

Draco later found out that his mother had contacted the Ministry, after hearing that the Dark Artifacts trade was once again in full swing. She offered information in exchange of the lifting of their banishment and the return of their wands.

The Aurors they were with had laughed at that last part when she reminded them. "We make the conditions, not you. The only reason you are here is because you're desperate to sell the last pieces of leverage you have to crawl back into the world your family helped to ruin." And they did make the conditions—he and his mother will not be given their wands until they manage to prove themselves useful.

They were also given the tiniest monthly allowance—a total of ten galleons a month. The officials overseeing their situation must have laughed hysterically to themselves that day. The once-great Malfoys, whose average weekly expenses used to be 400 galleons, now forced to make do with only ten galleons a month. Living in the Muggle world was far easier, and they had had to ask that the Galleons be changed to Muggle money before being given to them.

It was almost not worth it, Malfoy thought, thinking their life back in Romania had been much better—where his mother had been a saleswitch at a small robe shop owned by a kindly old woman and he had manned the secret apothecary that only the wizards in town knew about. He stopped at the reflection—of course it was worth it, if his father's freedom was on the line.

He prohibited himself from such thoughts as he settled down to work.

His conversation with his mother strayed into his thoughts, however. Making it difficult for him to focus. It was lucky that his job was only to lift the heavy stuff, to bring the heavy cement blocks and bricks from the corner at which they were stockpiled, to the areas where they were needed.

Not that he had a choice, he thought bitterly.

Given that he and his mother were only given ten Galleons a month, he knew that like Romania, he and his mother would have to work to earn enough money to get by. At first, his mother accompanied him on his job hunts, scouring old copies of The Daily Prophet for any vacancies or job openings.

But every establishment they had gone to had turned them away. Most of the wizarding community in England knew his family's faces, knew that his father was in Azkaban and that he and his mother were once his followers. Sometimes, they couldn't even manage to get a word in before they were turned out of shops. Other times, the storeowners would even play along and make them hope that maybe this time they would finally get a break, only to humiliate them and forcefully throw them out of the shop.

His mother, with all her pride, and after putting up a remarkably brave face, had crumbled what seemed to be the tenth time they were turned away.

It had been an apothecary, much like the one Draco worked at in Romania. Little did they know that the storeowner had had a son who had died in the battle at Hogwarts. He yelled at them, advanced on them with his wand out, screaming obscenities. Draco and his mother could do little in their own defense—Draco had not even recognized the name the man had shouted hoarsely in his face. In all their haste to hurry from the shop, his mother had tripped and fallen over on the pavement, and he was pulled down along with her. They were on the sidewalk, cowering at the mercy of a tearful, small man who had seemed to grow with rage as he walked towards them, shouting. He had bewitched his wares to fly at them, and they sat there, covered with bat spleens, frog warts, and Merlin knows what else until some of the nearby wizards placated the man. With no wands, they could do little to clean themselves up, nor could they simply Disapparate. Slowly getting up and walking away covered in slime had been one of the most humiliating things he had ever experienced, the wizards around them whispering delightedly, and the Muggles ogling at them on the bus ride back to their flat.

When they had arrived back at their flat, his mother had walked into the bathroom, cleaned herself up, and made dinner with the last of the food that they had, acting as though nothing had happened. Later that night, after Draco had washed the dishes and laid in bed reflecting dully on what had transpired that day, he thought he had heard a strange sound coming from his mother's room—it sounded like a sob. But that couldn't be, because he had never seen his mother cry—not during the two times his father had been sentenced to Azkaban, not even when he had given Draco the task of killing Dumbledore. Getting up, he opened his door and walked cautiously across the floor to listen.

Creak.

He had forgotten about the creaky floorboard directly in front of his mother's room. The sound stopped promptly, and after a minute or so of quietly listening, no more sound came from his mother's room that night.

The very next day, Draco dragged himself to Knockturn Alley. He and his mother had avoided the place as much as they could, only going to smaller wizarding villages. Being unable to Apparate and having no grate from which to use Floo Powder, getting into Knockturn Alley meant going through Diagon Alley. Going through Diagon Alley meant putting themselves at a risk of being seen by someone they knew personally, and while they were in Britain legally and with the knowledge of the Ministry, they still wanted to avoid confrontations with their former "friends" or more hostile acquaintances. Yesterday's incident had put Draco in a desperate position, and while it was extremely suspicious for him to take a job at Borgin and Burke's, no one at the Ministry had expressively forbidden him to do so, and he reckoned that it was time to collect the debt the storeowners owed his family.

The bell jingled as he pushed the door open, and while he was swathed deeply within his Cloak, the eyes of the man behind the counter widened as he beheld the person walking toward him.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Borgin."

The two men surveyed each other steely across the counter. The shopkeeper looked the same as ever, hair oily and slicked back, his sallow paunchy skin giving him a haggard look. The other similarly took in Draco's appearance, much different from the last time he had been here, with his dragonhide boots and velvet robes. A perfunctory look around him told Draco that Borgin had been hit hard by the Ministry's ongoing war with the Dark Artifacts trade. His shelves were mostly empty, save for the occasional enchanted candlestick or silverware; and very old, very shabby carpet fluttered weakly in the very back corner behind him.

"I had heard a rumor that you and your mother were back in the country. I did not deign to believe such rumors, but it looks like they were right. What brings you here, boy?"

"I've come to collect, Borgin," Draco said, trying not to bristle at the way Borgin calls him boy. "You owe my family for half the gold you've raked in the entire time your little shop has been open."

The dark eyes hardened. "And what do you want as payment?"

"I demand that you take me in as an apprentice here and pay me the necessary wages."

A startled laugh came from the old man's mouth. Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Are you asking me for work?" he was laughing deeply. "My, how the mighty have truly fallen."

Draco flushed. The shopkeeper was clearly enjoying this.

"Yes, I am. And I demand that you honor your debt and pay us what you owe."

"Pay you what I owe?" the old man cackled, Draco was feeling horribly uncertain now. "I don't owe you anything, Mister Malfoy. Do I have to remind you of the trouble you yourself have brought down upon my business since you used my shop to transport your accomplices to Hogwarts? That authorities came here after you so recklessly planted that cursed necklace on that girl and someone recognized it to have come from me? I had to pay Galleons and Galleons to make that bit of trouble go away, Mister Malfoy, so no, I do not owe you anything."

"You had agreed to let them use the shop, anxious as you were to please him. You knew what that entailed, you cannot blame me for your error in judgment and for not thinking ahead."

"I can, and I will, you entitled brat. Now get out of my shop. You and your family are finished."

Draco clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay calm.

"This isn't over, Borgin."

He speaks the words with as much venom as he can, but he can feel his stomach sinking. He turns on his heel, and makes his way out of the shop with as much dignity as he can, making sure to slam the door behind him.

He leaves Knockturn Alley and goes down Diagon alley in a daze, already used to ignoring the stares and whispers coming from the people he passes by. If the old Draco could see him know, he thinks bitterly, what would that child think of what he's become? Turned away from people his family used to think were beneath them, living on an allowance by the Ministry, when his family used to be the ones donating them gold.

His feet carry him to the bus stop, and it's only when he attempts to dig out change for the fare that he realizes that he does not have enough Muggle money to pay for the bus. He stammers his apologies to the driver as he steps back off the bus, and the bus leaves him behind in the smoke emanating from its exhaust pipe.

He has no desire to walk back to Diagon Alley to exchange the few Sickles he has into Muggle money.

So he decides to walk home. He's already walked about a quarter of a mile when he realizes that in hindsight, it was probably not the best idea for him, a wandless wizard who's only been to Muggle London a few times to walk the two-mile distance home.

But he trudges on, finding the long walk somewhat comforting. He knows enough about Muggle London now to know that if he simply follows the stream of people on the streets, he would be less likely to get run over by the vehicles careening down the streets.

He walks until the scenery changes and the crowds think out. He walks until the stream of cars no longer take up all sides of the road. He's no longer entirely sure if he's still on the right track home, but he keeps an eye out for a small pub that he uses as a landmark.

He's walking down one of the less busy roads when he comes upon it. A construction site where a number of men seem to be in the process of building a two-storey building. Draco has come upon a number of these construction sites in the past while taking Muggle transportation towards Wizarding areas. He remembers pitying Muggles for how tedious constructing their homes and buildings seem to be, when it only takes a scant few days for most Wizarding structures to be built.

Now he looks at it through different eyes, for on one of the barriers surrounding the perimeter of the site was a sign that said "Help Wanted – See Jack if interested."

Draco doesn't let himself hesitate, doesn't allow himself to turn up his nose at the first ray of hope that he's seen the past few weeks.

He walks in the narrow entryway into the site. Only a few steps in and he nearly gets run over by a small vehicle carrying metal beams. The driver shouts at him as it whizzes by. He stands there confused as the other men walk around him, shooting him looks. He must be a sight, he supposes, standing there in the middle of it all. The others seem to be wearing peculiar hats made of some type of hard material, and most of them are wearing rubber boots that came up to their knees.

Draco has never been more out of his element, and he wavers, almost about to whip around and walk back outside.

"Oy, you! What're you doing in here?"

An older man walks towards him from one of the few canvas tents set up on the far side of the site.

"Help wanted," Draco says simply. He clears his throat. "I saw the sign outside. It said 'help wanted'."

The man gives him an appraising look.

"What's your name, boy?"

The word is said with much less malice than when Borgin did. It prompts Draco to continue.

"Dr— Dan," he stutters. He's not entirely sure why he cut himself off. Maybe it's his reluctance to associate his real name with… this.

The man raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't comment any further.

"Well, Dan, I'm Jack. The foreman of this project." He holds out his hand for Draco to shake, and there is a beat of silence before Draco takes it.

"So, what's your past work experience? Ever done any carpentry or masonry work before?"

"Er—" Draco tries to look like he knows what those words meant. "A bit."

Another raised eyebrow from Jack. "I'm putting you in basic manual labor."

He gives Draco another appraising look. "You alright with heavy lifting?"

"Yes," Draco sighs in relief. He was used to lifting heavy barrels of supplies from when he used to work in the apothecary in Romania. "I can do that."

"You got any ID?"

"I…D?" Draco repeats slowly.

"You know, identification papers," Jack says.

"I—no," Draco says, his heart sinking. For the fifth time in ten minutes, he regrets going into the site. "I just… really need this job."

Draco surprises himself by finally voicing out the desperate truth.

Jack looks at him calculatingly.

"Alright, Dan. This is what's going to happen," Jack says sternly, and Draco's stomach plummets horribly. "You will be reporting directly to me at the end of the day. I can't put you on the official payroll since you don't have the right documents, so I will be the one giving you your pay at the end of the day."

Draco blinks, hardly daring to believe it. Did he really get the job?

"I—thank you," he manages to get out.

"Don't thank me just yet, boy. I'm taking a big risk taking you in like this, so you'd have to prove yourself first. I'm giving you a chance here."

A chance, Draco repeats in his head as he surveys Jack. The older man doesn't seem to be entirely bothered by how obvious it was that Draco gave him a fake name.

They stand in a few moments of silence until Jack clears his throat."

"Right—well, I'll see you tomorrow at 7 o'clock sharp. Got it?"

"Yes. I'll be here," Draco says. He watches Jack return to the tents before leaving the site in a daze.

I got myself a job, he thinks. The more he thinks it, the lighter his mood gets.

He manages to make his way home after a few wrong turns, and he smiles a little when he lets himself in.

When he tells his mother about it, however, the way she looks at him makes him want to shrivel up.

"What did you say?" she says coldly, when Draco tells her about the afternoon's events. "You, working for Muggles?"

Draco smile wavers. He can't find the words to reply to his mother.

"Absolutely not," Narcissa says in clipped tones. "A Malfoy will never stoop that low, no matter the circumstances. Anything is better than to have Muggles think they are higher than you, Draco. You will return to Borgin tomorrow and demand that he give you an apprenticeship."

"But—"

"Draco," the look his mother gives him leaves no room for argument. "You will go back to Knockturn Alley tomorrow."

"I— yes, Mother."

Satisfied, his mother stands. "Now eat, the food is getting cold."

ooo

Draco goes to the construction site the next day anyway.

He stands at the entrance, self-consciously tugging at his clothes. He made an effort to dress the same way as the others, sorting through his limited Muggle clothing that he only wore on days when he had to use Muggle transport. He manages to get the long-sleeved shirt and trousers right, but he couldn't hope to acquire the thick boots many of the men seemed to be wearing. He only has the battered pair of tennis shoes he found in a bin in the thrift store where he found most of his Muggle clothes.

The place was already bustling, shouts from different areas echoing to him over the booming din of the machinery they were using.

He approaches the tents he saw Jack emerge from yesterday and finds the man looking at a set of plans on the far side of the tent.

"Uh, hello," Draco says as he gets near enough, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din around them. "I'm here."

The older man gives him a smile and nods.

"I appreciate the effort, young man, but those won't do here," he motions to Draco's shoes. "What's your size?"

"My… size?"

The older man looks at Draco's feet appraisingly, and then moves to rifle through a small pile of boots in the corner.

"Here, these boots should fit you. You can keep your shoes here."

"Er—yes, thank you," Draco says. Jack looks at him expectantly, and he realizes that he's supposed to switch his tennis shoes to the boots.

Jack also hands him a vest and one of the hats the men are wearing. He waits until Draco puts them before continuing to speak.

"Right, so as I gathered yesterday, you don't seem to have construction experience at all," he looks at Draco sternly.

Draco flushes lightly; it's like the man can see right through him.

"But everyone has to start somewhere so I will be assigning you to clearing work. Come with me."

He follows Jack to the far side of the site, disappearing behind the building being constructed and emerging into a wide lot littered with debris. Jack approaches a small group of men gathered in the middle of the lot.

"Everyone, this is Dan," Jack says. "He'll be working with you starting today. He's also new at this, so Rick—" he gestures to a middle-aged brunette, "make sure he knows what to do, yeah? We can't have any delays or injuries if we want to finish this project on time."

"Sure thing, Jack."

"Rick's going to be your supervisor, alright? Just do what he says and you're golden," Jack claps him on the back as he leaves.

"Alright, you lot, we have a lot of work to do so we best start now. As you heard the boss, this one here's Dan, and Dan, this is everyone."

Draco nods self-consciously, feeling more and more out of his element.

"What we will be doing is clearing," Rick booms. "The client wants to construct a small warehouse out here in addition to the main building, and management wants to start laying out the foundations next week, so we'll only have until then to move all this debris.

'The backhoe's out of commission this week, so it's up to us strong, young lads to finish this with our bare hands."

"You mean us young lads plus you, Rick," a voice pipes up from the back.

Rick scowls good-naturedly. "I heard that, Waller. Haven't you heard that forty is the new thirty?"

The ribbing from the guys continue as Draco stares around the lot. The work they have to do seems daunting, the piles of mixed debris and rubbish seeming impossibly huge. He can't help but think how a task requiring ten men to work for a week would so easily be done by someone with a wand in less than ten seconds.

He keeps his face blank, however, and listens intently once Rick starts divvying up the assignments. He assigns Draco and three other men to clear the wood and shrubbery littering the lot and put them in the designated areas on the far side of the lot. He and the majority of the other men tackle the huge chunks of concrete debris scattered aroud with scraps of metal.

The work is tedious, and Draco sweats right through his shirt under the hot sun. The hard hat on his head makes him uncomfortable, and the gloves they gave him makes his hands feel itchy. But he goes on, not to be outdone by the others. He follows the rest to another makeshift tent where they were provided lunch where he eats his food in silence as the others burst into good-natured ribbing and laughter around him. He sits there observing the others and follows the first group of men to get up to return to the lot at the back.

He's seen some of them shooting him curious looks, but so far, no one has approached him. He realizes that he's somewhat grateful about it, seeing as he wouldn't have known how to act around this many Muggles at once on top of having to adjust with the work.

He doesn't keep track of the time, having left his pocket watch. He merely works in silence, piling the scraps of wood into their wheelbarrows and wheeling them to the disposal once they get full. His muscles strain, and his back aches from bending over so much, and it's not an exaggeration to say that he has never had this much physical exercise since Merlin knows when.

He almost weeps in relief when Rick calls everyone to gather round at the end of the day. He tells them that they did well today, and the group breaks apart, the men loping off in small groups.

Draco heads to Jack's station to get his shoes.

"You did well out there," Jack says as Draco trades in his boots for his tennis shoes.

Draco is so exhausted that he can only grunt in acknowledgement. He mumbles a goodbye before he staggers out of the site.

He makes it home somehow, taking care to fix his appearance a little before he lets himself into their apartment.

"Did Borgin agree to your terms?" his mother asks in lieu of a greeting.

Draco hesitates. The glint in his mother's eyes tells him to lie. He doesn't think any more of it before he drags his feet to bed and falls asleep on top of the covers immediately.

Everyday he continues to work, watching the area slowly empty itself of the trash and debris littering it just a few days ago. He doesn't make friends yet, but he does allow himself to smile at the jokes the others make. He learns their names and the names of their wives and children by listening as they talk, and some of them start to ask him questions about himself that he answers politely before deflecting the questions back as discreetly as possible.

At the end of the week, Jack hands him an envelope and says, "Here, for a job well done."

Draco opens it to find bills of Muggle money, certainly the most Muggle money he's held in his life.

He drops by a small market before he goes home, buying ingredients for a simple stew he knows his mother likes. He smiles at her as he walks into the apartment, feeling the lightest he's been in ages.

His mother stares at his purchases in wonder. They have not had fresh food in a long time, only stale bread and canned beans. He sees her smile before reaching for the chopping board.

Draco continues to work at the site for the following months, learning as he goes. Sometimes he commits mistakes that makes him terrified of being identified for what he is, but the others simply stare at him oddly before explaining to him the use of a certain object or concept.

He suspects that they think of him as a bit dim, and he's surprised that they don't treat him badly for it. He supposes he makes up for it in the effort he throws into work.

For months, too, his mother believes him to be working at Borgin's, and accepts the money and food he brings home.

When he tells her of his desire to attend Auror training, she looks at him with a look so incredulous he almost takes back his words right then and there.

"What? Why in the name of Merlin would you want that?" she asks, barely concealing her disbelief.

"I miss magic, mother. I miss the feeling of a wand in my hand," he says, and feeling that he might as well do it properly, he adds, "Do you know how horrible it feels to be surrounded by magic everyday and not being able to do it? Watching people who used to be below us use it and I can't?"

He's hit a spot, he thinks, as he sees his mother waver.

"But… aurors! They're the reason why we're in this mess, and yet you want to work with them—learn from them?"

"Through them, I might be able to gather information about how Father is doing. You know how they like to brag."

His mother wavers further at the mention of his father. "But…would they even let you? What reason do they have to trust us?"

"I've been reading the Prophet, Mother—that rag," he adds hastily. "The Dark artifacts trade incidents have been worsening, and sooner or later, they'll have to come for us for valuable information. We have that, we can use it as leverage."

He feels triumphant when he sees his mother relent.

To Draco's utter disbelief, his plan works out without a hitch. The Ministry, desperate for information, grants him his request. The instructors at the training hall put up an uproar but the higher-ups lean on them until they begrudgingly agree, but not after insisting that he be put under surveillance while there and to prohibit him from taking part in lessons. They let him use a wand but insist that he return it at the end of the day.

Draco doesn't argue; it's much more than he expected to receive in the first place.

He negotiates with Jack to adjust his hours, promising to work on the weekends instead to make up for it. He's on good enough footing with him for him to agree to his requests without much trouble.

So he begins his showing up at the Auror's hallowed training hall, already expecting the whispers and dirty looks when he gets there. And Merlin do they come. No one gets brave enough to do anything stupid, but feels the hostility emanating from them in waves.

But it's worth it, he thinks when he feels the exhilaration of having magic move through his veins when he casts his first spell.

It's worth it, he repeats in his head as the loneliness starts to creep in on the fourth week, and so far no one has even breathed a word in his direction. He accepts it—accepts the fact that he would never be accepted here, that he would always, always be treated an enemy.

He accepts it, that is until Harry Potter unexpectedly shows up in the middle of the cafeteria.