Empty Spaces

Chapter 22

They were more free in their interactions now; Draco felt the invisible weight lifting as he allowed himself the freedom to simply be. No reputation to uphold, no family honor, none of that... just... Draco. And Harry.

It felt terrifyingly nice.

Their lunch break passed far too quickly and they faced the cold once more. The snow was now coming down in droves, building up on the ground and whirling in the increasing wind. They almost had a full blown fight because Potter chivalrously insisted Draco borrow his hat and mittens for the rest of the day, an offer Draco initially refused, eventually saying something to the extent of "nobody gives anything away for free," to which Potter replied with "People do it all the time. It's called being friends," and it hit somewhere so deep that Draco just accepted and took the damn mittens.

People do it all the time. Do they really? No they don't. Do they? What people are you hanging around with, Potter?

They went their separate ways when they returned to the castle and Draco once again found himself distracted during class. All his life, he'd been taught that everyone is only looking out for themselves, that every interaction you have with another person is another move in the game, a game where there is only one outcome: Win. Or lose. And a Malfoy always wins.

But then there's Potter, who seems to have no endgame in mind and no strategy in place. Potter, who leaves his friends to sit with Draco just because he "feels like it?" Potter, who simply hands over his own stuff or buys coffee with no conditions, no return favors asked? What the hell, Potter?

Draco faced the cold once more that evening to go around the various Hogsmeade shops, picking up simple cookware and ingredients. As much as he would have liked to arrange another date-not-date with Potter that night, there was no escaping the fact that without any source of income, he would burn through his savings far faster than he was comfortable with. Sure, he would miss his espresso and yes, his kitchenette was far too small to really prepare anything particularly exciting, but it was one more step towards freedom, true freedom. And then there was the general satisfaction of knowing that Lucius would shit himself if he saw his only son and heir making dinner on a hot plate in a dingy inn. Up yours, Lucius.

The next morning, Draco opened the door to find Potter ready with a black espresso in hand. Torn between gratitude and annoyance (mostly gratitude though), Draco handed over another four sickles. He would have to find a job eventually, either that or just let Potter start paying for everything. Neither option was particularly appealing, but then a solution of sorts just kind of fell into his lap.

He was doing homework at the bar one evening, half hoping Potter would show up, when the innkeeper appeared at his side, looming over him with what looked like a letter in hand.

"Hey, kid, you speak a lot of languages, right?"

"Yes..." Draco looked up from his Arithmancy, "German, French, Spanish, Italian, and Latin, in that order of fluency. Why?"

"Who the hell speaks Latin?" Aberforth scoffed, but Draco could hear the humor hiding just below the surface and decided his opinion of the innkeeper just increased. "Anyway. I got a letter from some bloke in France, probably looking for a room. I get loads of these, folks from abroad looking for a place to stay, but usually I just throw 'em out, seeing as I have nobody to translate."

"I'm listening," Draco said, turning on the Malfoy charm. Do I sense a quid pro quo?

"Think you could translate this for me?"

"I could," Draco said, thinking fast and giving his best Malfoy smile, "But I am also quite busy with my schoolwork at the moment. I could, however, perhaps set aside some time, but it would have to be worth my while..."

Aberforth cracked a grin, and Draco abandoned all preconceived notions about how Malfoys shouldn't have dealings with lowlife innkeepers– he decided he liked the man.

"Smart kid," Aberforth said, nodding his approval, "Tell you what. I help you, you help me. You read this letter for me, help me write a response. I can pay you for your time, and then for any translating you do during his stay. Got an inquiry from Madrid yesterday too, so that's two for you to start with. Think on it. Just let me know by tomorrow."

Aberforth took his letter and disappeared behind the bar, leaving Draco feeling strangely excited about this new prospect: A source of income by doing something he didn't hate, with the added bonus that Lucius might actually have a heart attack upon finding out his son was now working for the barman at the Hog's Head... he might just take Aberforth up on his offer, if for no other reason than shoving it to his father...

A blast of cold air announced someone's arrival into the bar, and Draco found himself smiling at the sight of Potter coming in, shaking the snow out of his hair and schoolbag.

"Hey," Potter sat himself down, "You look happy. What happened?"

I might have found a job. And now you're here. It sounds so trivial, though... I haven't won anything or one-upped anyone or gotten some revenge or put someone in their place...

"Dunno," Malfoy shrugged.

"Well... I'm happy you're happy," Potter said simply, pulling out his own homework.

Really, Potter??

Draco had always viewed the world as a complex game with no rules and every rule at the same time; a game where each player is in it to win it and take out as many others as possible in the process; a game where nobody can be trusted and everybody's motivations must be questioned; a game that he had been conditioned to play since birth because above all else, life is a game that Malfoys win.

And then there's Potter.

Potter doesn't play the game.

Does this mean I don't have to, either?