(no subject)
Draco Malfoy was no artisan. Apart from schoolwork and carrying out orders barked at him from his father and The Dark Lord, he'd hardly lifted a finger his entire life. Magic guaranteed he'd never have to work with his hands. Now, stripped of that for nearly four years, he'd grown bored. Idle. Directionless. The kiln, the cold seal, the tanks, the jugs and barrels of supplies hidden in the building behind his home, had a layer of dust so thick the workshop had taken on a sad, fuzzy gray appearance.
It was a whim that brought him in there one day, tinkering with dangerous equipment he didn't understand. The thing about Malfoy that was easily forgotten was his intelligence. He'd excelled at potions, once. Been a master at charms and occlumency. He'd been near the top of his class, and not simply because his father had bought his way there.
So, he'd slowly, secretly, begun collecting books, even watched an instructional reel or two, and quietly, he'd begun experimenting with the equipment, until, after months of error -- Horrible error that had almost lost him his eyebrows and a finger or two -- he had a thin, wavering sheet of glass to show for it.
Once it was cooled, he took it outside to have a look at it in the sunlight, frowning at the bubbles and imperfections in the uneven sheet. It was awful, but with a bit more practice, maybe he'd move on to passable. And from there, who knew.
It was odd, being proud of something so simple, but standing in the clearing around Lyra's Glassworks, wearing fireproof coveralls, gloves shoved in his pockets and goggles hanging 'round his neck, Draco Malfoy smiled.
[[The Glassworks is on the south beach. Use whatever excuse you can think of to come down there. His sad little windowpane isn't quite usable yet, but he's not far off, now. Open to all. ST/LT always welcome.]]
It was a whim that brought him in there one day, tinkering with dangerous equipment he didn't understand. The thing about Malfoy that was easily forgotten was his intelligence. He'd excelled at potions, once. Been a master at charms and occlumency. He'd been near the top of his class, and not simply because his father had bought his way there.
So, he'd slowly, secretly, begun collecting books, even watched an instructional reel or two, and quietly, he'd begun experimenting with the equipment, until, after months of error -- Horrible error that had almost lost him his eyebrows and a finger or two -- he had a thin, wavering sheet of glass to show for it.
Once it was cooled, he took it outside to have a look at it in the sunlight, frowning at the bubbles and imperfections in the uneven sheet. It was awful, but with a bit more practice, maybe he'd move on to passable. And from there, who knew.
It was odd, being proud of something so simple, but standing in the clearing around Lyra's Glassworks, wearing fireproof coveralls, gloves shoved in his pockets and goggles hanging 'round his neck, Draco Malfoy smiled.
[[The Glassworks is on the south beach. Use whatever excuse you can think of to come down there. His sad little windowpane isn't quite usable yet, but he's not far off, now. Open to all. ST/LT always welcome.]]