It really isn’t a plausible excuse. He’s been at the Ministry for the better part of a year now. And he still hasn’t fully settled into the flat, in all that time.
There’s a contemplative pause, Draco chewing over that realisation. Why hasn’t he gotten proper bookshelves? The sofa and the bed both look like something out of an interior design magazine: pristine but soulless. And does he actually want to peel back those layers and burden Hermione with whatever thoughts are ping-ponging around his skull?
But, somehow, he realises he hates the idea far less than he thought. Because who the fuck else can he talk to? He hasn’t really hung out with Goyle since Crabbe died; they’re always too-aware of that missing third in their group, and it hadn’t felt right, and they’d never been equals as friends anyhow, and so they’d gone their separate ways after graduation. Nott and Zabini were capable of keeping up with him, but they’d always been closer to each other than to Draco.
He’s still a terrifically lonely boy.
“I think,” he says slowly, discovering this about himself even as he broaches the theory and says it aloud, “I’ve been holding off in case the whole Ministry thing falls apart. If I can’t cut it and I’m sacked and have to go back to Wiltshire in shambles. I don’t want to, obviously. But I think I’m— waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Lucius kept treating it as such. Thinking the whole honest job thing was a lark; expecting his son to give up any day now, and to go back to the safety of the idle rich and the family fortune.
no subject
It really isn’t a plausible excuse. He’s been at the Ministry for the better part of a year now. And he still hasn’t fully settled into the flat, in all that time.
There’s a contemplative pause, Draco chewing over that realisation. Why hasn’t he gotten proper bookshelves? The sofa and the bed both look like something out of an interior design magazine: pristine but soulless. And does he actually want to peel back those layers and burden Hermione with whatever thoughts are ping-ponging around his skull?
But, somehow, he realises he hates the idea far less than he thought. Because who the fuck else can he talk to? He hasn’t really hung out with Goyle since Crabbe died; they’re always too-aware of that missing third in their group, and it hadn’t felt right, and they’d never been equals as friends anyhow, and so they’d gone their separate ways after graduation. Nott and Zabini were capable of keeping up with him, but they’d always been closer to each other than to Draco.
He’s still a terrifically lonely boy.
“I think,” he says slowly, discovering this about himself even as he broaches the theory and says it aloud, “I’ve been holding off in case the whole Ministry thing falls apart. If I can’t cut it and I’m sacked and have to go back to Wiltshire in shambles. I don’t want to, obviously. But I think I’m— waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Lucius kept treating it as such. Thinking the whole honest job thing was a lark; expecting his son to give up any day now, and to go back to the safety of the idle rich and the family fortune.