THE OPPOSITE OF WAR (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: The Opposite of War
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen, not even a friendship fic (though there are hints of potential).
Word Count: 2,008
Rating: PG
Warnings: Malfoy! Don't worry, he's still a bit of a shit, and he doesn't get to touch any Gryffindors.
Summary: After the War, everything is different. Draco knows he has to change to survive, but he doesn't have to like it.
A/N: Happy Birthday trubbleclef!
For a prompt, you gave me: 1) Harry forgot, just FORGOT to mention what Narcissa and Draco did for him during the war (the lying about his identity and being dead). Now he has to make things right. That would be gen, I guess, unless it took you to H/D land.
Naturally, I took this and ran off sideways with it. Consider this fic as being a prequel to the fic that I haven't written that would have matched that prompt. Does that make sense? Didn't think so.
The advertisement in the Daily Prophet was short.
Labourer Wanted, it began, for outdoor work and garden maintenance. No experience required, but some knowledge of Herbology and exotic plants preferable. On-site accommodation and meals provided.
That wasn’t what grabbed him. Heavy lifting and grubbing about in the dirt had never interested Draco, and was better left to servants, in his opinion. What caught his attention was the final line.
No references required. No questions asked.
In Britain, post-War, it seemed every position on offer these days, from Ministry official right down to floor-scrubber at the local pub, required some kind of proof that you weren’t a Death Eater or a criminal or both before they’d even deign to consider you. The last interview he’d been to, they’d taken one look at him and laughed in his face, before he’d even said a word.
No questions asked.
He found a sheet of parchment and responded, knowing that he’d likely be rejected by this latest potential employer, regardless of what the advertisement said.
***
There was a reply by his plate at breakfast the next morning, giving him an appointment time for that afternoon, and the address of a country house in Yorkshire.
Dress for work, it specified, and bring with you a sturdy pair of protective gloves. If you do not own any, a pair will be provided.
He searched his wardrobe from top to bottom, trying to find something he could wear that wasn’t made of silk or satin or brocade. In the end, he settled on his old Hogwarts robes. They were black and plain, and once he picked the Slytherin badge from the breast, relatively uncontroversial. There was nothing he could do about the emerald-green trim, but it was subtle, and maybe the employer wouldn’t notice. The gloves he had, though the leather was stiff from a year of disuse. They would most likely chafe and give him blisters until they softened, but they would do. He wasn’t really expecting to get the opportunity to wear them, anyway.
***
When Draco Apparated onto the drive of Leabrook at ten minutes to three, he was a little surprised. For some reason, he’d been expecting grandeur; a stately home similar to the Manor. Although Leabrook held hints of former glory, it was dimmed and lessened by the ravages of time.
The house itself was obviously the surviving wing of what had been a much larger building, and appeared lopsided because of it. And the grounds, though spacious enough, weren’t manicured and neatly ordered. Rather, they felt a little wild, as though for many years the plants been used to looking out for themselves.
Side door, the note had said, and he swallowed hard and walked past the main entrance with its marble columns. The gravel crunched crisply under his shoes as he walked up to a much plainer, more modest door of solid oak, with a serviceable, unornamented handle. A wizened, elderly House Elf answered at his knock.
“You is here for the job?” she asked, in a wispy voice.
At his nod, she waved him inside and pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
“Master is having tea with the Mistress,” she explained. “You is hungry.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement, and before he could argue its validity, a plate with two thick slices of bread and butter and a cup of milky tea was placed in front of him, and the Elf was watching him with a firm, unflinching gaze. “You should eat if you is working soon,” she told him.
Rather than ruining his chances of employment by arguing with a House Elf, he picked up a slice and took a large bite. The bread was still warm from the oven, and the butter was melting slowly in daffodil-yellow rivulets that dribbled down his chin and fingers, despite how carefully he ate. The House Elf nodded approvingly, and when she was convinced he’d finish his meal without supervision, she turned back to the counter and resumed chopping vegetables.
He was just licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers (a habit any number of canings as a child had never broken), when the door to the rest of the house swung open, and a familiar voice asked the Elf, “Is he here yet, Daisy?”
“Master is ready for you, sir,” Daisy said, somewhat unnecessarily, since he was already staring, dumbfounded, at his would-be employer, Neville Longbottom.
“I’ll just throw myself out, shall I?” Draco drawled, attempting to sound unconcerned. “It’ll save you the effort.”
“Why would I throw you out?” Longbottom asked.
“Why wouldn’t you?” he retorted.
“Because I knew you were coming, since I owled the address and details directly to Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor,” Longbottom responded with unarguable logic. “And because you’re the first person that responded that didn’t think I was setting up some kind of illegal plant and potion den, and my ad in the Prophet was some kind of code for wanting a grower or a seller in Knockturn Alley. The Potions Squad from the Auror Department turned up on my doorstep unannounced on the day it was printed. Searched the house and grounds from top to bottom, upset my Gran and my plants, and called me a blithering idiot before taking off again.”
“You are a blithering idiot,” Draco said, before he could help himself.
“Apparently,” Longbottom agreed mildly. “Do you want to see the greenhouses?”
***
The greenhouses were tucked around behind the main body of the house. There were three of them, and although one appeared in relatively good condition, the other two were in a sad state of disrepair.
“They were my grandfather’s,” Longbottom explained, moving towards the first one. “I’ve been working on tidying this one up since I was thirteen, in the holidays. It used to be as bad at those.”
Draco was mildly impressed. “You used your wand outside of school? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the balls.”
“No,” Longbottom replied, opening the door with a quick Alohomora.
“The Elf, then. She helped you,” he concluded.
“Daisy doesn’t do outside work, and my Gran needs her more than I do, these days, though she won’t admit it.”
They stepped inside. The slightly shabby exterior belied the interior, with its multitude of plants laid out in orderly rows, climbing on trellises or growing out of squat, heavy pots of unglazed terracotta. Everything was neatly labelled with white markers, and the mixed scents of flowers, water, earth and dragon dung reminded Draco instantly of Herbology class. He watched a bottle with a spray nozzle float past them independently and hover in front of a delicate fern, before misting it lightly with water. The fern perked up and purred melodiously.
“You did all this yourself? Without magic?” Draco asked, disbelievingly.
“Most of it.” A nearby vine had reached out a friendly tendril and wound it around Longbottom’s upper arm, and he was stroking it absently, like a cat. “The physical stuff, that is. My great uncle cast the charms for me when I was underage, so that the plants wouldn’t dry out and die while I was at school. Hermione helped me re-set the matrix recently to make it more sensitive and specific to each individual plant’s needs.”
“You and Granger, eh?” Draco said, with a smirk. “I thought that she and the Weasel -”
“We’re not,” Neville said coolly. “And they are.”
Draco went to say more, but bit his tongue. As much as he despised the thought of working for Longbottom, he needed this job. He’d probably already said too much as it was. “So what do you need me for, anyway?” he asked instead, gesturing around the greenhouse. “This thing looks like it runs itself.”
“I want to restore the other two, and possibly build a fourth,” Longbottom said, gently freeing himself from the vine. He turned and headed back outside, closing the door carefully behind them.
The difference between the first greenhouse and the second was striking. Most of the plants looked dead, and those that were alive were wildly overgrown and feral. Panes of glass were missing here and there, and the potting table stood drunkenly, its legs clearly rotting away.
Something next to the path at Draco’s feet began to make a sharp clicking sound, and he jumped back a step in fright, expecting some creature, possibly with giant mandibles, to be preparing to nip at his toes. Instead, he saw only a clump of foliage with leaves that were a sickly shade of yellow. Longbottom knelt down and poured potion from a little vial around its base.
“Why don’t you just transplant it?” Draco asked. Even to his relatively untrained eye, he could tell the plant was ill.
Longbottom shook his head. “It can’t be moved. There are a few others like it, in this green house and the next one over. Those that I can transplant, I already have. We just have to work around them as best we can.” He stood up, and looked Draco firmly in the eye. “So, do you think you can handle it?”
“I haven’t a wand,” Draco admitted. “Potter never returned mine, and I’m not allowed to buy one.”
“That won’t be a problem. Most of the things we’ll be doing aren’t made any easier by using a wand, and too much magic flying about just upsets the plants anyway,” Longbottom said, agreeably.
“Why are you doing this?” Draco snapped, suddenly losing his temper. “Why are you trusting me, offering me this? I’m going to be living here, eating your food, touching your precious bloody plants! Doesn’t that frighten you? We fought against each other in a war, for fuck’s sake!” Draco pushed up his sleeve for emphasis, and showed the scar, the clearly visible outline of where the Dark Mark had been imprinted on his skin. “No questions asked. Why did you advertise like that? Why did you even respond to my letter?”
“Because people deserve second chances,” Longbottom countered. “Because you wouldn’t have been replying to job advertisements in the first place unless you really needed the gold. And if you really needed the job, then you’d do it right, no matter who hired you.”
Draco deflated a little. “The Ministry froze our assets two months ago,” he heard himself admit. “We’ve had to hire out our House Elves. Last week I sold half our furniture and my broom for a tenth of its price because the lawyers who’ve taken my father’s case wanted a percentage of their fee up front. The small amount the Ministry doles out to us every week is barely enough to live on.”
“Just because people deserve second chances doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences,” Longbottom said softly. He didn’t sound smug. Rather, he almost sounded sorry for Draco.
“I don’t need your pity, Longbottom,” he spat.
“Then don’t try and manipulate me into giving it,” Longbottom replied. “I generally start at dawn, so that I get plenty of work done before the sun is high. That’s one of the reasons I offered accommodation. That, and by the time you’ve done a full day’s work, you’ll be so tired you’re liable to splinch yourself if you try to Apparate home. There are two or three rooms on the upper level that are free. You’re welcome to come up and look at them now and choose one you like, so that Daisy can take the dustsheets off and air the bedding.”
Draco stared at Longbottom for a long moment before he realised his mouth was hanging half-open in shock. “I’ve got the job?” he asked, faintly.
“More or less,” Longbottom said. “You’ll have to meet my Gran, and get her approval first, though. I wouldn’t try that ‘woe is me’ trick on her, either. Not if you value what’s left of your dignity.”
Draco warred between the contradictory urges to sulk, shout and laugh. In the end, he settled on a genuine, if rusty, smile. And Longbottom, damn him, returned it.
~@~ An Honest Day's Work ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen, not even a friendship fic (though there are hints of potential).
Word Count: 2,008
Rating: PG
Warnings: Malfoy! Don't worry, he's still a bit of a shit, and he doesn't get to touch any Gryffindors.
Summary: After the War, everything is different. Draco knows he has to change to survive, but he doesn't have to like it.
A/N: Happy Birthday trubbleclef!
For a prompt, you gave me: 1) Harry forgot, just FORGOT to mention what Narcissa and Draco did for him during the war (the lying about his identity and being dead). Now he has to make things right. That would be gen, I guess, unless it took you to H/D land.
Naturally, I took this and ran off sideways with it. Consider this fic as being a prequel to the fic that I haven't written that would have matched that prompt. Does that make sense? Didn't think so.
The advertisement in the Daily Prophet was short.
Labourer Wanted, it began, for outdoor work and garden maintenance. No experience required, but some knowledge of Herbology and exotic plants preferable. On-site accommodation and meals provided.
That wasn’t what grabbed him. Heavy lifting and grubbing about in the dirt had never interested Draco, and was better left to servants, in his opinion. What caught his attention was the final line.
No references required. No questions asked.
In Britain, post-War, it seemed every position on offer these days, from Ministry official right down to floor-scrubber at the local pub, required some kind of proof that you weren’t a Death Eater or a criminal or both before they’d even deign to consider you. The last interview he’d been to, they’d taken one look at him and laughed in his face, before he’d even said a word.
No questions asked.
He found a sheet of parchment and responded, knowing that he’d likely be rejected by this latest potential employer, regardless of what the advertisement said.
***
There was a reply by his plate at breakfast the next morning, giving him an appointment time for that afternoon, and the address of a country house in Yorkshire.
Dress for work, it specified, and bring with you a sturdy pair of protective gloves. If you do not own any, a pair will be provided.
He searched his wardrobe from top to bottom, trying to find something he could wear that wasn’t made of silk or satin or brocade. In the end, he settled on his old Hogwarts robes. They were black and plain, and once he picked the Slytherin badge from the breast, relatively uncontroversial. There was nothing he could do about the emerald-green trim, but it was subtle, and maybe the employer wouldn’t notice. The gloves he had, though the leather was stiff from a year of disuse. They would most likely chafe and give him blisters until they softened, but they would do. He wasn’t really expecting to get the opportunity to wear them, anyway.
***
When Draco Apparated onto the drive of Leabrook at ten minutes to three, he was a little surprised. For some reason, he’d been expecting grandeur; a stately home similar to the Manor. Although Leabrook held hints of former glory, it was dimmed and lessened by the ravages of time.
The house itself was obviously the surviving wing of what had been a much larger building, and appeared lopsided because of it. And the grounds, though spacious enough, weren’t manicured and neatly ordered. Rather, they felt a little wild, as though for many years the plants been used to looking out for themselves.
Side door, the note had said, and he swallowed hard and walked past the main entrance with its marble columns. The gravel crunched crisply under his shoes as he walked up to a much plainer, more modest door of solid oak, with a serviceable, unornamented handle. A wizened, elderly House Elf answered at his knock.
“You is here for the job?” she asked, in a wispy voice.
At his nod, she waved him inside and pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
“Master is having tea with the Mistress,” she explained. “You is hungry.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement, and before he could argue its validity, a plate with two thick slices of bread and butter and a cup of milky tea was placed in front of him, and the Elf was watching him with a firm, unflinching gaze. “You should eat if you is working soon,” she told him.
Rather than ruining his chances of employment by arguing with a House Elf, he picked up a slice and took a large bite. The bread was still warm from the oven, and the butter was melting slowly in daffodil-yellow rivulets that dribbled down his chin and fingers, despite how carefully he ate. The House Elf nodded approvingly, and when she was convinced he’d finish his meal without supervision, she turned back to the counter and resumed chopping vegetables.
He was just licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers (a habit any number of canings as a child had never broken), when the door to the rest of the house swung open, and a familiar voice asked the Elf, “Is he here yet, Daisy?”
“Master is ready for you, sir,” Daisy said, somewhat unnecessarily, since he was already staring, dumbfounded, at his would-be employer, Neville Longbottom.
“I’ll just throw myself out, shall I?” Draco drawled, attempting to sound unconcerned. “It’ll save you the effort.”
“Why would I throw you out?” Longbottom asked.
“Why wouldn’t you?” he retorted.
“Because I knew you were coming, since I owled the address and details directly to Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor,” Longbottom responded with unarguable logic. “And because you’re the first person that responded that didn’t think I was setting up some kind of illegal plant and potion den, and my ad in the Prophet was some kind of code for wanting a grower or a seller in Knockturn Alley. The Potions Squad from the Auror Department turned up on my doorstep unannounced on the day it was printed. Searched the house and grounds from top to bottom, upset my Gran and my plants, and called me a blithering idiot before taking off again.”
“You are a blithering idiot,” Draco said, before he could help himself.
“Apparently,” Longbottom agreed mildly. “Do you want to see the greenhouses?”
***
The greenhouses were tucked around behind the main body of the house. There were three of them, and although one appeared in relatively good condition, the other two were in a sad state of disrepair.
“They were my grandfather’s,” Longbottom explained, moving towards the first one. “I’ve been working on tidying this one up since I was thirteen, in the holidays. It used to be as bad at those.”
Draco was mildly impressed. “You used your wand outside of school? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the balls.”
“No,” Longbottom replied, opening the door with a quick Alohomora.
“The Elf, then. She helped you,” he concluded.
“Daisy doesn’t do outside work, and my Gran needs her more than I do, these days, though she won’t admit it.”
They stepped inside. The slightly shabby exterior belied the interior, with its multitude of plants laid out in orderly rows, climbing on trellises or growing out of squat, heavy pots of unglazed terracotta. Everything was neatly labelled with white markers, and the mixed scents of flowers, water, earth and dragon dung reminded Draco instantly of Herbology class. He watched a bottle with a spray nozzle float past them independently and hover in front of a delicate fern, before misting it lightly with water. The fern perked up and purred melodiously.
“You did all this yourself? Without magic?” Draco asked, disbelievingly.
“Most of it.” A nearby vine had reached out a friendly tendril and wound it around Longbottom’s upper arm, and he was stroking it absently, like a cat. “The physical stuff, that is. My great uncle cast the charms for me when I was underage, so that the plants wouldn’t dry out and die while I was at school. Hermione helped me re-set the matrix recently to make it more sensitive and specific to each individual plant’s needs.”
“You and Granger, eh?” Draco said, with a smirk. “I thought that she and the Weasel -”
“We’re not,” Neville said coolly. “And they are.”
Draco went to say more, but bit his tongue. As much as he despised the thought of working for Longbottom, he needed this job. He’d probably already said too much as it was. “So what do you need me for, anyway?” he asked instead, gesturing around the greenhouse. “This thing looks like it runs itself.”
“I want to restore the other two, and possibly build a fourth,” Longbottom said, gently freeing himself from the vine. He turned and headed back outside, closing the door carefully behind them.
The difference between the first greenhouse and the second was striking. Most of the plants looked dead, and those that were alive were wildly overgrown and feral. Panes of glass were missing here and there, and the potting table stood drunkenly, its legs clearly rotting away.
Something next to the path at Draco’s feet began to make a sharp clicking sound, and he jumped back a step in fright, expecting some creature, possibly with giant mandibles, to be preparing to nip at his toes. Instead, he saw only a clump of foliage with leaves that were a sickly shade of yellow. Longbottom knelt down and poured potion from a little vial around its base.
“Why don’t you just transplant it?” Draco asked. Even to his relatively untrained eye, he could tell the plant was ill.
Longbottom shook his head. “It can’t be moved. There are a few others like it, in this green house and the next one over. Those that I can transplant, I already have. We just have to work around them as best we can.” He stood up, and looked Draco firmly in the eye. “So, do you think you can handle it?”
“I haven’t a wand,” Draco admitted. “Potter never returned mine, and I’m not allowed to buy one.”
“That won’t be a problem. Most of the things we’ll be doing aren’t made any easier by using a wand, and too much magic flying about just upsets the plants anyway,” Longbottom said, agreeably.
“Why are you doing this?” Draco snapped, suddenly losing his temper. “Why are you trusting me, offering me this? I’m going to be living here, eating your food, touching your precious bloody plants! Doesn’t that frighten you? We fought against each other in a war, for fuck’s sake!” Draco pushed up his sleeve for emphasis, and showed the scar, the clearly visible outline of where the Dark Mark had been imprinted on his skin. “No questions asked. Why did you advertise like that? Why did you even respond to my letter?”
“Because people deserve second chances,” Longbottom countered. “Because you wouldn’t have been replying to job advertisements in the first place unless you really needed the gold. And if you really needed the job, then you’d do it right, no matter who hired you.”
Draco deflated a little. “The Ministry froze our assets two months ago,” he heard himself admit. “We’ve had to hire out our House Elves. Last week I sold half our furniture and my broom for a tenth of its price because the lawyers who’ve taken my father’s case wanted a percentage of their fee up front. The small amount the Ministry doles out to us every week is barely enough to live on.”
“Just because people deserve second chances doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences,” Longbottom said softly. He didn’t sound smug. Rather, he almost sounded sorry for Draco.
“I don’t need your pity, Longbottom,” he spat.
“Then don’t try and manipulate me into giving it,” Longbottom replied. “I generally start at dawn, so that I get plenty of work done before the sun is high. That’s one of the reasons I offered accommodation. That, and by the time you’ve done a full day’s work, you’ll be so tired you’re liable to splinch yourself if you try to Apparate home. There are two or three rooms on the upper level that are free. You’re welcome to come up and look at them now and choose one you like, so that Daisy can take the dustsheets off and air the bedding.”
Draco stared at Longbottom for a long moment before he realised his mouth was hanging half-open in shock. “I’ve got the job?” he asked, faintly.
“More or less,” Longbottom said. “You’ll have to meet my Gran, and get her approval first, though. I wouldn’t try that ‘woe is me’ trick on her, either. Not if you value what’s left of your dignity.”
Draco warred between the contradictory urges to sulk, shout and laugh. In the end, he settled on a genuine, if rusty, smile. And Longbottom, damn him, returned it.
~@~ An Honest Day's Work ->