AN HONEST DAY'S WORK (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: An Honest Day's Work
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen
Word Count: 1,225
Rating: PG
Warnings: Malfoy! I think that's it.
Summary: Draco's new job is changing him in ways he'd rather not think about.
A/N: Happy Birthday Draco Malfoy!
This is the sequel to The Opposite of War, and it follows on directly from it. A History of Violence fits in after this, as a little cookie.
Draco slumped down against an enormous pot that was large enough to hide a body in and still have room for a plant. He’d never felt more like he was going to die. Expire, right here, smeared in dragon dung and stinking, striking the final and irrevocable blow of disgrace against the Malfoy name.
He’d sat through a very tense and blessedly brief audience with Longbottom’s grandmother, who bluntly told him she didn’t trust him or his family, and that she’d only consented to having him in the house because she knew her grandson was more than a match for him with a wand. It seemed safer to nod and agree, though he’d laughed on the inside, later, when he was a safe distance away from the old lady’s suite.
The room he’d chosen at Leabrook was pleasant, if smaller and plainer than he was used to. It was a step down from his extensive suite at the Manor, but it was impeccably clean and the furnishings were solid and well made. It was also situated on a corner of the house, so he had several windows facing in two directions, which let in plenty of natural light and looked out over the grounds and down across the valley and hills, which were patterned with fields as far as the eye could see.
He hadn’t told his mother who he was working for, but she’d figured it out when she demanded the address. Her nose wrinkled as though he’d farted in her presence.
“If you must,” was her only response. She’d gone on to demand he spend at least one night a week at home, and be available when needed for meetings with lawyers and his father’s hearings at the Wizengamot. He was slightly offended she’d felt the need to mention it.
Right then, a little bit of gardening had seemed a fair exchange for getting paid and living in what was obviously one of Leabrook’s nicest guest bedrooms.
He was rethinking that, now.
“Hungry?” Longbottom asked brightly, in an irritatingly cheerful voice. He looked like he was having the time of his life.
Draco made some kind of sound, which Longbottom obviously took as affirmative.
“Come on, then. Daisy’s probably just finishing lunch now.” Longbottom leaned forward, grabbed Draco’s hand tightly and pulled. The agony that resulted took his breath away. His vision actually went black and white, and a roaring in his ears drowned out Longbottom’s words.
He possibly did pass out for a moment or two, because things became very muddled for a few seconds. The first thing he was properly aware of was Longbottom using some rather colourful words.
“You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?” Draco panted, with a weak laugh.
“You’re an idiot,” Longbottom replied, without a trace of humour. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?”
“I rather thought that was the point,” Draco said. “Besides, I wasn’t going to let you win. I wasn’t going to let you break me.”
“You’ve broken you,” Longbottom retorted, with a good measure of disgust. “Even with balm and a Healing Charm, you’ve put yourself out of action for at least three days.”
Draco was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing his gloves any more, and that Longbottom was holding his hands in his almost tenderly, examining them. Draco looked down at them properly, himself, and felt a bit ill. The blisters he’d known were there from very early in the day had burst and the flesh underneath was bloody and swollen. He swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes.
“When I said to bring protective gloves, I didn’t mean a pair as stiff as old boots,” Longbottom continued, slapping the offending pair against his thigh. He actually sounded angry.
“They’re good gloves,” Draco snapped back. “My father only bought the best for me.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” Longbottom said, his mouth a sarcastic twist. “That’s why your hands look like raw meat, now. Treat them with neatsfoot oil and stretch them out every day for a week or two and they might be worth using again.” Longbottom shoved the gloves into the waistband of his trousers. “Come on, let’s get you to Daisy. She’ll fix you up.”
Longbottom crouched at Draco’s side, slipped an arm around his waist and hauled him to his feet. Draco couldn’t help but groan as muscles that had tightened in the short time he’d been seated were stretched again.
“You have... your House Elf do your healing?” he gasped, in an attempt to cover his discomposure.
“Daisy was my Nurse, and my father’s Nurse before that. She’s well practised at basic Healing.” When Draco looked unconvinced, Longbottom continued, “It’s either Daisy, or my Gran, take your pick. I don’t trust my Healing Charms enough to not make a mess of your hands.”
Draco snorted rudely. “You always were crap at Charms. I’d rather keep all my fingers, thanks.”
“Oh, they’d heal, and without infection,” Longbottom said, leaning down to open the door to the outside. “But they’d scar, and you’d probably lose some sensitivity.”
“Yeah, right,” Draco replied, completely disbelieving.
“I did a lot of simple Healing Charms during the last year,” Longbottom replied, blandly. “I was never the best at them, though.”
Draco suddenly realised the territory they’d ventured into, and didn’t speak another word until they were back at the house. Thankfully, neither did Longbottom. There, Daisy scolded and fussed, and he submitted to her ministrations without complaint. Longbottom ate his lunch and vanished back out to the greenhouses, while Draco was patched up and shooed away to take a bath to ease his strained muscles.
He knew he should have felt smug at having the afternoon off while Longbottom toiled away until sundown, but he didn’t. He lay in the hot water, and then in bed, feeling not at ease but troubled and restless, and not knowing why.
***
A few weeks later, in an idle moment, he rubbed a thumb across the palm of his hand, and noticed the skin felt thick, and rough, and slightly number than he remembered. His first thought was to blame the Elf, who’d obviously damaged him with her inferior magic. But then, he held his hand in a loose grip, and thought back to those days when he had played Seeker on the Slytherin team, and the odd little hard patches of skin he’d developed from gripping his broom.
“Farmer’s hands,” his mother had tutted, when he’d come home for Christmas in his Second Year. She’d made him slather them in some kind of cream every night until they were smooth and soft again, and given him a large pot of the stuff to take back to school with him.
Draco imagined the thick handle of the shovel he’d been using that day in the open circle of his hand, pictured where on his hand pressed firmest against the shaft when he lifted it, fully laden, and matched the points exactly. He hadn’t had a blister in over a week, and had put it down to the two sturdy pairs of gloves Longbottom had bought and he’d grudgingly agreed to wear. At least, until his gloves were ready for use.
Farmer’s hands.
He bunched the offensive things into fists, and wondered who the hell he was, now; a Malfoy with callused hands from honest toil.
<- The Opposite of War ~@~ A History of Violence ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen
Word Count: 1,225
Rating: PG
Warnings: Malfoy! I think that's it.
Summary: Draco's new job is changing him in ways he'd rather not think about.
A/N: Happy Birthday Draco Malfoy!
This is the sequel to The Opposite of War, and it follows on directly from it. A History of Violence fits in after this, as a little cookie.
Draco slumped down against an enormous pot that was large enough to hide a body in and still have room for a plant. He’d never felt more like he was going to die. Expire, right here, smeared in dragon dung and stinking, striking the final and irrevocable blow of disgrace against the Malfoy name.
He’d sat through a very tense and blessedly brief audience with Longbottom’s grandmother, who bluntly told him she didn’t trust him or his family, and that she’d only consented to having him in the house because she knew her grandson was more than a match for him with a wand. It seemed safer to nod and agree, though he’d laughed on the inside, later, when he was a safe distance away from the old lady’s suite.
The room he’d chosen at Leabrook was pleasant, if smaller and plainer than he was used to. It was a step down from his extensive suite at the Manor, but it was impeccably clean and the furnishings were solid and well made. It was also situated on a corner of the house, so he had several windows facing in two directions, which let in plenty of natural light and looked out over the grounds and down across the valley and hills, which were patterned with fields as far as the eye could see.
He hadn’t told his mother who he was working for, but she’d figured it out when she demanded the address. Her nose wrinkled as though he’d farted in her presence.
“If you must,” was her only response. She’d gone on to demand he spend at least one night a week at home, and be available when needed for meetings with lawyers and his father’s hearings at the Wizengamot. He was slightly offended she’d felt the need to mention it.
Right then, a little bit of gardening had seemed a fair exchange for getting paid and living in what was obviously one of Leabrook’s nicest guest bedrooms.
He was rethinking that, now.
“Hungry?” Longbottom asked brightly, in an irritatingly cheerful voice. He looked like he was having the time of his life.
Draco made some kind of sound, which Longbottom obviously took as affirmative.
“Come on, then. Daisy’s probably just finishing lunch now.” Longbottom leaned forward, grabbed Draco’s hand tightly and pulled. The agony that resulted took his breath away. His vision actually went black and white, and a roaring in his ears drowned out Longbottom’s words.
He possibly did pass out for a moment or two, because things became very muddled for a few seconds. The first thing he was properly aware of was Longbottom using some rather colourful words.
“You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?” Draco panted, with a weak laugh.
“You’re an idiot,” Longbottom replied, without a trace of humour. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?”
“I rather thought that was the point,” Draco said. “Besides, I wasn’t going to let you win. I wasn’t going to let you break me.”
“You’ve broken you,” Longbottom retorted, with a good measure of disgust. “Even with balm and a Healing Charm, you’ve put yourself out of action for at least three days.”
Draco was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing his gloves any more, and that Longbottom was holding his hands in his almost tenderly, examining them. Draco looked down at them properly, himself, and felt a bit ill. The blisters he’d known were there from very early in the day had burst and the flesh underneath was bloody and swollen. He swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes.
“When I said to bring protective gloves, I didn’t mean a pair as stiff as old boots,” Longbottom continued, slapping the offending pair against his thigh. He actually sounded angry.
“They’re good gloves,” Draco snapped back. “My father only bought the best for me.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” Longbottom said, his mouth a sarcastic twist. “That’s why your hands look like raw meat, now. Treat them with neatsfoot oil and stretch them out every day for a week or two and they might be worth using again.” Longbottom shoved the gloves into the waistband of his trousers. “Come on, let’s get you to Daisy. She’ll fix you up.”
Longbottom crouched at Draco’s side, slipped an arm around his waist and hauled him to his feet. Draco couldn’t help but groan as muscles that had tightened in the short time he’d been seated were stretched again.
“You have... your House Elf do your healing?” he gasped, in an attempt to cover his discomposure.
“Daisy was my Nurse, and my father’s Nurse before that. She’s well practised at basic Healing.” When Draco looked unconvinced, Longbottom continued, “It’s either Daisy, or my Gran, take your pick. I don’t trust my Healing Charms enough to not make a mess of your hands.”
Draco snorted rudely. “You always were crap at Charms. I’d rather keep all my fingers, thanks.”
“Oh, they’d heal, and without infection,” Longbottom said, leaning down to open the door to the outside. “But they’d scar, and you’d probably lose some sensitivity.”
“Yeah, right,” Draco replied, completely disbelieving.
“I did a lot of simple Healing Charms during the last year,” Longbottom replied, blandly. “I was never the best at them, though.”
Draco suddenly realised the territory they’d ventured into, and didn’t speak another word until they were back at the house. Thankfully, neither did Longbottom. There, Daisy scolded and fussed, and he submitted to her ministrations without complaint. Longbottom ate his lunch and vanished back out to the greenhouses, while Draco was patched up and shooed away to take a bath to ease his strained muscles.
He knew he should have felt smug at having the afternoon off while Longbottom toiled away until sundown, but he didn’t. He lay in the hot water, and then in bed, feeling not at ease but troubled and restless, and not knowing why.
***
A few weeks later, in an idle moment, he rubbed a thumb across the palm of his hand, and noticed the skin felt thick, and rough, and slightly number than he remembered. His first thought was to blame the Elf, who’d obviously damaged him with her inferior magic. But then, he held his hand in a loose grip, and thought back to those days when he had played Seeker on the Slytherin team, and the odd little hard patches of skin he’d developed from gripping his broom.
“Farmer’s hands,” his mother had tutted, when he’d come home for Christmas in his Second Year. She’d made him slather them in some kind of cream every night until they were smooth and soft again, and given him a large pot of the stuff to take back to school with him.
Draco imagined the thick handle of the shovel he’d been using that day in the open circle of his hand, pictured where on his hand pressed firmest against the shaft when he lifted it, fully laden, and matched the points exactly. He hadn’t had a blister in over a week, and had put it down to the two sturdy pairs of gloves Longbottom had bought and he’d grudgingly agreed to wear. At least, until his gloves were ready for use.
Farmer’s hands.
He bunched the offensive things into fists, and wondered who the hell he was, now; a Malfoy with callused hands from honest toil.
<- The Opposite of War ~@~ A History of Violence ->