𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

And it was true. Life went on and I barely thought of the man.

Did you think I would be spending my days pining after Potter? Big, strong Auror with the firm grip. Please.

That came later.

Well, perhaps I'm not being completely honest. One cannot avoid Harry Potter. He is the Boy-Who-Lived. A Hero. A force of nature. A right bloody pain in the arse. I'd see him striding down the corridors of the Ministry whenever I'd go to plead for the release of my dad, a scowl on his face, his robes snapping around his ankles a way that might've impressed Snape.

Anyway, we hardly spoke. Why would we?

Then one day everything changed.

1.

To be the son of wealth is to live an idle life. I had no job. I could have, I suppose, continued my studies -- It would have pleased my mother, but that would have interfered with all the many hours I needed to spend brooding when I wasn't listening to Pansy recount the many ways that Harry Potter was the surest path to the devil outside the Dark Lord himself.

Since I was young and had no more ambition than to spend my time wandering aimlessly around London, I did just that. In my travels I had discovered something quite shocking. Muggles, with their fast cars and their harried lives, never seemed to notice that a tall wizard in long velvet robes was walking amongst them. I could have been a ghost for all the attention I drew, or a madman or maybe just another eccentric fop. The point being, of course, is that I could disappear. I had no name, no past. I was no one. Then one afternoon I heard someone call out my name. It had just started to rain, and I was in the process of trying to transfigure a tree branch into an umbrella without the passing Muggles noticing -- it's trickier than you think -- when I looked up and saw Potter. He was carrying the largest umbrella I think I've ever seen, and trying very hard not to laugh.

I told him to fuck off. Again.

Like Potter ever listens anyone.

"Here," he said, as cold wet streaks of rain had begun to soak through my robes.

"What?" I said.

"Take it."

"Take what?"

"The umbrella."

I started to laugh.

"Don't be so stubborn. Take the fucking umbrella."

"No."

"It's raining, you arse."

And so on, the two of us arguing back and forth on a crowded street corner, while the heavens rained down upon us.

"Are you daft?" I finally yelled out, loud enough that people were starting to stare, "I can't take this from you. What's wrong with you?"

Potter stared at me. Whatever good humor he may have had at my predicament vanished. He looked seriously pissed off. "Fine, Malfoy. You want to suffer. Have it your way."

And then with a loud snap he Disapparated. I think Potter was so angry that he forgot there were Muggles around, and his sudden disappearance was causing a stir. A woman started to scream and another pointed her finger at me, calling out. I panicked, and then I ran. I think I was just as frightened of them as they were of me.

A week went by, and I began to wonder if the whole incident was a product my feverish imagination. And then one afternoon an owl came.

It was a small screech owl. I recognized it as the kind the Ministry liked to employ to save money on postage. A scroll was attached to the owl's leg, and when I unrolled it something small fell to the ground from inside. As I bent down to pick it up, I saw that that something was narrow with a hook as the end and colored black, and it took me longer than it probably should have for me to realise that what I was holding in my hand was a tiny black umbrella.