Dizzy

Chapter One

Draco sat patiently in the waiting room of Harry James Potter, idly flicking imaginary dirt from underneath his fingernails. His tongue was perched inside of his mouth, poking out a little ridge of his cheek, as if he was in deep thought. He wasn’t. In fact, all his mind was doing was recounting every single encounter he had with Harry Potter that he could remember. All of them were negative.

He remembered a skinny little git of a boy with an outrageous scar dead on his forehead who’d challenged every tolerant nerve in Draco’s body. His whole exterior screamed ‘huffy victim.’ It’s what had, in the long run, disgusted Draco about Potter; his neediness, his adoration and his impulsive behavior. He’d never been punished for anything, since everyone decided that, for some unparalleled and unknown reason, he’d somehow defeated Voldemort at every turn.

Except the last.

It had been a long, fierce struggle for Potter; the last few years. He’d failed to irrevocably kill Voldemort (again) at the end of his last year at Hogwarts, which had seemed, for a while, to be Potter’s yearly status quo, and Voldemort had recently started to come back to power. Draco should know. He was aptly ’in’ with Voldemort - the Death Eater with the highest authority, barring his father.

Draco smiled, but only to himself.

Ah, yes. The life of a prestigious Death Eater. It wasn’t much of a change from his youth, honestly; of course he had more responsibility and was a vastly improved wizard, but in truth, his missions were much the same. He accompanied the Death Eater’s to muggle slaughtering and attended the meetings with any news he had of the fight against Voldemort.

Life was always the same.

He fucked, he worked, he slept, with few diversions in between. Occasionally, one of the activities was worth repeating more than once in a day.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco glanced up, his attention away from thoughts of everyday mundane activity, to see Potter’s secretary holding a clip board and looking at him expectantly.

“Pardon?”

“Mr. Potter will see you now.”

It bore a similar resemblance to when Draco had his taxes done. He stood up from the somewhat uncomfortable chair and strode over to her. She smiled, tilting her head to indicate he should follow her.

He did, walking down the blue carpet behind her, indolently glancing at the modest decor Potter had in his office. A few vases, some hideous sculptures and more chairs.

They stopped in front of the office at the end of the hallway, and the secretary gave a swift knock on the door. Potter must have answered, because she opened it after a brief moment, showing him in with a wave of her clipboard.

“Call if you need anything.”

And they were alone.

Draco took a moment to study him, after their years away from each other. He had changed, but not drastically. A few inches added to his wiry frame, his height greater than before, and his general stature changed. However, his hair was still black and might have been messy, but Draco couldn’t tell, for it was gelled back. The glasses were in place, this time with undersized silver frames. He looked more bookish than he had before, but certainly more refined.

His clothing was...simply put, drool-worthy. Draco admitted to being a bit of a fashioned hound (he often laughed at the archetypal gay trait), and found himself almost asking where Potter shopped. He wore a clean-cut navy suit with silk accents, a maroon shirt and no tie. Underneath the table, he assumed, were shiny black leather shoes. Draco could have fucked the very clothes Potter was wearing.

The face itself was handsome, but not prevalent enough to be considered the type of gorgeous Draco was.

“Malfoy, L. Draco. Have a seat.”

His voice was unexpectedly warm. Draco was knocked for six by the very absence of abhor in it. He took a seat, shuffling his body into a chair slowly, face unreadable.

“I must admit,” Draco said, before Potter could start. Harry folded his hands over the desk top. Unlike Draco, he did not make superfluous movements. “That I was surprised to be summoned.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “I assume you’re going to ask me about any possible affiliations with Voldemort?"

Harry had the gall to look amused.

“No, actually.” A reserved smile played over his lips. “I was going to ask whether or not you were willing to work for the Ministry.”

Draco flickered. He fixed his posture and thought process before continuing.

“Oh. I see. Well. You can understand why I thought it was the former, I assume.”

“Completely.” The same smile formed a dimple in Potter’s cheek. Draco followed its augment closely. “I want to offer you a job as a profiler of sorts - categorizing certain types of Dark Magic.”

Draco blinked.

“Why do you think I’d be qualified at the job?”

“Malfoy, be serious. I’ve known about your father’s exploits with the Death Eaters since first year. It doesn’t take a genius to realize you’ve been tapped, too.”

“What makes you think I’ll be faithful to you, then, if I’m following Voldemort?” Draco’s mouth was in a hard line, and he begrudgingly realized he was giving Harry clues.

“Of course,” Harry said, “you’ll have to swear an oath of loyalty to us.”

“Of course,” Draco repeated. He stalled for a moment, mulling over some private thoughts. “Do you mind if I don’t answer you now?”

Harry nodded. “Of course not. In fact, I’d rather you sat on it for a while. I’m going to suggest we meet again, sometime, probably for dinner, since I’m usually busy during the days.”

“Dinner is fine.”

The whole affair was surprisingly inane. They were speaking as if Draco was being offered a chance to join some sort of selective club - rather than joining with the world’s biggest wizarding organization.

“Great. I’ll have Rita call you and set it up. For now, though, Malfoy, I’ve got to get going.” Harry stood, holding out his hand apologetically.

Draco stared at his hand for a long moment, turning over old memories and new thoughts. He almost thought, for a moment, not to take it, bearing in mind a similar situation years before.

“I can help you there,” he’d said, offering himself as a friend and leader. Harry’d stared at him, before coldly refusing.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thank you.”

The rivalry, the hate and the house separation had made itself be known then, on the train.

Malfoy took Harry’s hand and shook it firmly, without surfeit of emotion or thought.

He smiled once, told Harry it was fine for the secretary to call, and headed out the door.

Harry stared blankly at the spot where Malfoy had been, while Rita poked her head inside the door.

“Did he buy it?”

“I’m not sure.” Harry sat down at his desk. “But keep the tailing units on him, extra close.” He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t want any slip ups.”

“Certainly, Mr. Potter.”

She left him alone with his thoughts.