Muggles ✧ Drarry

᥊ꪜ𝓲𝓲𝓲

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ 3ʀᴅ, 2021
!!ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴs sᴍᴜᴛ!!
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Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, Draco Malfoy was self-conscious about his magical concentration.

And having Harry Potter around didn't make him feel any more assured that he was something special. Of course the saviour was gifted in the magical sense, everyone knew that, but seeing it first hand was downright unnerving.

For instance, the house magic situation. If anyone were going to be able to train a house to do as they so wished, then Draco Malfoy, of all people, was right for the job. He was commanding, and intelligent, and fucking powerful. It didn't take a genius—or even someone of remote perspicaciousness—to understand that.

And yet, here he was, sitting down at his house with what had to be his fifth glass of wine that week, (and it was only a Tuesday), and with Harry Potter, feeling down about the fact that he didn't know how to do what Potter could. Draco was perfect for doing the impossible. He had been able to hide his unwillingness to be a Death Eater from Voldemort—one of the most accomplished Legilimens ever, mind you—using his Occlumency as a sixteen-year-old. It wasn't like he was unimpressive.

To top all, he was the smartest Slytherin to pass through the house in the longest time, rivaling Granger in terms of being top of the class, and gained almost all of the intellectual points for his house out of anyone else in his year. He had learned some of the most challenging magic known to Wizardkind in his bloody Sixth Year, had led a very convincing double-triple life, if he did say so himself, and had gotten the highest scoring N.E.W.T.s out of anyone at Hogwarts that year when he took them over the summer (save for Granger, who had come back to take them the following year and scored just the tiniest bit higher than he had).

So yeah, Draco Malfoy was really fucking smart. And he was really fucking qualified to be able to do what Harry Potter, a lucky bastard who hadn't even attempted his N.E.W.T.s, could do. At least magically speaking.

But yet, by some cruel twist of fate, Draco Malfoy was second-best. In fact, probably third since Granger was sure to be quicker at picking up how to train a house with her control of her own magic. Once she heard about this discovery, which she must have—since Potter owled her about everything—she was certain to figure out how to manage it before she even returned from her trip.

The realisation that Draco was losing his edge, that his influence and mental capabilities were being tested as time went on and on and on, was a bizarre phenomenon. On the one hand, challenge always created room for improvement, but on the other, he wanted to be recognised for his talents. Draco wanted to be appreciated for his abilities, rather than demoted to third place. Bronze was not a colour for Draco Malfoy, he looked much better in gold. (And silver, but, he also looked fantastic in everything, so let's not get too bogged down in the details, shall we?)

Potter was rambling about something or another, talking fast and expressively about how "connected to his inner core" he felt now that he had been detached from his magic. This, of course, made no logical sense, but Draco wasn't really listening, so he pretended not to notice the obvious flaws with Potter's garrulous speech.

Instead, he cradled his glass of wine (his fifth one that week) ((it was a Tuesday)) (((he already said that, didn't he?))) and stared into the hearth of the fireplace which shown brightly in the semi-dim lighting.

As lovely as it made the room seem, having the lights low, and such, it was rather impractical as well. It was dark enough to notice a considerable difference in eye function, but still bright enough to walk about without stumbling or bumping into something. Draco wasn't such a fan of these in-between brightnesses, but Potter liked it, ("it creates ambiance", the man would claim), so the blond didn't try to argue.