Chapter Text
The wind whistled through the wizarding quarter of London, picking up leaves and rattling windows as it went. The alleys were empty except for a few shoppers, their feet stuttering across the pavement. Their arms were full of bags and boxes, buckling and tired from a day well-spent. Draco Malfoy could hear their voices echoing between the closing storefronts; he could see them turning the corner, bodies illuminated by the yellow glow of lamplights and the golden aftermath of the setting sun.
Cogg and Bell Clockmakers’ was located on the corner of Carkitt Market and Horizont Alley, just a few steps away from the more well-trafficked Diagon Alley. Its emerald green storefront was sandwiched right between the Museum of Muggle Curiosities and Weeoanwhisker's Barber Shop. Draco’s workbench was tucked away towards the back of the shop, but he had a great view nonetheless.
When workdays were slow, Draco loved to watch the patrons come and go. He especially loved mornings and weekends, when he could watch wizards emerge from the barbershop with fresh trims, always amused by their whimsical beards and sculpture-like moustaches. They had it so easy, beards turning grey and moving through fashion after fashion without any care for the passing of time
This routine never grew old, Draco mused. He had spent his years right after the war apprenticing under the esteemed Catterick Cogg, who generously took him under his wing. “It’s an investment,” Cogg had said, though Bell disagreed, certain Draco’s sordid past would cast a shadow on the shop. Almost thirty years later, Draco now spent more time working in the shop than Cogg or Bell. Humbly, Draco wondered if they might leave the business to him someday.
He glanced up briefly from his desk, distracted by the wind. The market’s architecture, with its glass ceiling and wrought iron structure, creaked and groaned in the evening blusters. His eyes felt heavy and his hands moved slowly as he continued to tinker. He hadn’t realised how late it was, though his mouth quirked at the thought.
A hundred or so magical clocks hung staggered from the walls of the shop, ticking softly and steadily. Draco was so used to their constant drone by now, that he often didn’t notice it. There was a rhythm and sensibility to it that he always found comforting.
He looked back down at the magical cuckoo clock he was repairing, its hands unmoving. Time did seem to stop here, often. Especially when Draco found himself engrossed in a project like this one. This cuckoo clock was hand-carved by a Dutch wizard in the eighteenth century, in dark mahogany wood. It contained a mechanical Snidget, which was supposed to fly out whenever the clock struck twelve, but the clock hadn’t worked for years. Draco’s detective work had determined that the clock had accidentally found itself in the hands of a muggle. A muggle who unknowingly messed up the spell work, and removed integral magical parts. He winced as he prodded at the missing cogs, feeling the broken magical link.
Any clockmaker, magical or muggle, could tell you that clocks were tricky to repair. Their custom parts meant that there was no easy, standard way to go about it.
Draco had to rely on clues, and clues revealed themselves in a myriad of different ways. They were guiding marks, often manifesting as dents or scratches or miscolorations, granting insight to the clockmaker’s mind and the original layout of all the pieces. Sometimes they were magical signatures, or the residue of spellwork. It was like peeling back a painting brushstroke by brushstroke, meticulously looking for any hint at all, and uncovering the artist’s hand in the process.
He ran a hand over the curved wood of the clock, shaking his head at it. A bit of discoloration and empty screw holes was enough to get him started. He picked up the mechanical Snidget and rolled it in his hand, considering it, “But you’re a tricky thing, aren’t you?”
He pried off his magically enhanced lenses — he’d had them ordered specially when Cogg had transferred his apprenticeship to a full-time position. If there were more hours in the day, he might run his first experiment to more fully diagnose the clock’s damage, or search for the inbuilt custom charm that must be hiding deep inside.
But tonight, he was expected at an event, and would certainly need to put on some better robes. He made a face at his work robes, which were covered in metal shavings and sawdust.
Carefully, he wrapped up the clock and tucked it into a safe spot, already feeling his fingers itch with the need to keep working on it. Draco hummed as he put the small, metal bird away in a drawer. He set his lenses down on the workbench and levitated his tools away. His magic was thrumming through his hands, steady and pleasant. It was one of his favourite feelings, a telltale sign he had worked hard and well.
It was late, and the streets were empty again. The wind was groaning across the alley once more. With a wave of his wand, the curtains swept themselves shut, and the lights flickered out.
As he stepped outside, he tucked his hands into his pockets, collar turned up against the wind. The pop from his Apparition reverberated in his ears as the world turned around him, and the endless thrumming of the clocks faded into the solemn silence of his bedroom once more.
The Ministry Atrium was dazzling.
The gilded fireplaces and dark wood panels of the hall were polished to an almost impossible level of shine, reflecting the floating candles above them. Their glimmer bounced across the room, touching almost every surface, basking everything in light. As Draco’s eyes adjusted to the room, he found himself anxiously looking for dark red robes — sometimes Potter would frequent these events, still dressed in his Auror uniform. Potter, neatly pressed from head to toe in eye-catching red, was always the star of the show when he did.
Twenty-eight years after the war, and the Boy-Who-Lived still rarely turned down an invitation to throw his philanthropy and goodwill at any worthy cause who begged for it. But tonight, it seemed Potter was busy; he was nowhere to be seen.
Draco felt Pansy tighten her grip on his arm as they turned the corner, shaking him back to the present, “He's not here.”
"I don't know what you could be talking about," Draco huffed.
"You've spent the last ten minutes searching for him, leaving me on your arm, completely conversation-less. It's well past time to let this silly infatuation go."
“Who do you think I was looking for?”
“It’s been ages since I’ve had any reason to come here,” she said instead.
Ten years, Draco thought. Pansy preferred to avoid events at the Ministry, though she often accompanied him to the galas and fundraisers elsewhere. Last month, they’d gone to the Tate Magique for a M.A.K.E.D.O. (Magical Artists Kindly Engaging Donors and Organisations) gala. So much and so little had changed about the Ministry since they were last here together.
In the corner, a harp was charmed to play soft, lilting music. Tables and hors d'oeuvres floated around the room, serving people as they gathered and mingled in small groups. Banners for H.O.T. (Helping Orphaned Trolls) were hung on opposite walls. Draco desperately wanted to know who was in charge of these acronyms.
“Is that new?” Pansy asked, jutting her chin towards the centre of the room, where a large reflection pool shimmered. It had originally been the location of the “Magic is Might” statue erected by the Death Eaters during Voldemort’s siege on the Ministry, but that relic of evil had been defaced and then subsequently removed after the war. For the longest time, nothing but empty space and discoloured floor tiles had succeeded it.
The pool was the exact footprint of the statue, filled with silvery water. The words Reflectite, ut nunquam obliviscamur were inscribed on the side of the basin.
Reflect, so we may never forget.
“It’s a pensieve,” said Draco. “You’re meant to put in memories of the war, or memories of the people we’ve lost to it, so that they may always be remembered.” It was intended for all memories— including violent and horrific ones — so that even those could never be erased.
Pansy nodded, “Have you put any memories into it?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve only all the time in the world,” she laughed, and brushed his hair back from his face. Draco winced at the joke. Her tone was light-hearted, though the words felt like the twisting of a knife. He tried not to let it show.
“I like the wrinkle you’ve added there, by the way. It suits you, makes you look a bit sterner.” She had lowered her voice so only Draco could hear, and scrunched her forehead to mimic him, “Time has certainly softened you.”
Draco touched the wrinkle, which he had added to his daily glamour just yesterday, after noticing the way Blaise’s forehead creased there now. He had started adding more white in his hair, too, and small creases at the corners of his eyes. He kept his voice low, ducking his head to whisper in her ear, “Should I add more?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just right.” Her own face was still youthful, though she certainly glamoured the greys out of her hair. After all, it was normal — and rather expected — that witches and wizards used a few minor glamours to hide signs of ageing, the way muggles might use makeup. But Draco didn't need to make himself look younger; his glamours were meant to imply and add the passage of time.
Draco nodded, eager for the conversation to move on. He led them to a table, dropping a few galleons into a collection box on their way.
“I don’t know why you keep showing up to these things,” Pansy said. “Does throwing money at it help with the guilt? If so, perhaps I should give it a try.” She dropped in a galleon as well, teasing.
“I’m not throwing money at things. I am supporting worthy causes I care about.” Draco adjusted the front of his robes, chin lifted as his eyes swept the room again. His voice was clipped, though the corners of his mouth quirked into a smile.
“Orphaned trolls?” Pansy smirked back, “Sure. How chivalrous.”
“Besides, it gives us an excuse to catch up,” he said.
“Surely there are more exciting people to bring to these events.”
“I hate to remind you that we are both, regrettably, still single.” He narrowed his eyes at her, practically begging for her to snark back at that remark.
“Single in the romantic sense, I suppose.” She leaned over the table, cheek in her hand, her slim, satin gown hugging her in all the right places. “There is that witch from The Prophet who keeps tumbling into my bed. Though you do make a rather charming date.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me, Parkinson.”
“I always had a thing for younger guys, I suppose,” she laughed, and Draco shot daggers at her.
They moved around the room, making small talk with other tables as they went. It had taken time for these events to feel casual, but now Draco and Pansy each moved through the social masses easily. No one looked down at them anymore.
Hermione Granger, current Minister of Magic, was there. She was busy talking to various board members, though Draco made a point to wave at her as they walked by. She gave them a polite nod, returning quickly to her conversation. She looked exactly as he would have suspected – after two kids, and a high-stress job, she looked weathered, though in a beautiful sort of way. She stood with a type of confidence she’d never displayed in school, with the type of posture that commanded a room and exuded authority. Yet she was still soft around the edges, with kind eyes and gentle face.
Bill Weasley was also there with Fleur, which Draco found pleasantly surprising. Bill worked with Blaise in the same department at Gringotts, and they’d grown to be close friends over the years. He beckoned Draco and Pansy over, beaming.
“Draco!” Bill said, “Oh, thank Merlin you’re here. I meant to stop by Cogg and Bell’s earlier this week to thank you. Gringotts’s clock has never looked better, I swear!” He elbowed Fleur lightly, “I think we should have Malfoy fix your father’s grandfather clock.”
“Mmm, we’re thinking of spending more time in France,” Fleur said, “now that Victoire, Dominique, and Louis are done with Hogwarts. I should bring it back with us next time. If you could take a look, it hasn’t worked properly in years.”
Draco felt pride swell in his chest, along with another unnamable, sinking feeling in his gut. Lost in that heavier feeling, he managed only “I would be happy to.”
The next of the Weasley brood were almost done with Hogwarts. Where had the time gone? He couldn’t allow himself to slip into a spiral of feelings about it, so he shook the feelings off, forcing his attention back on the conversation at hand.
“—you would love it,” Bill was saying.
“You’ll need to have it shipped specially,” Draco interrupted, forcing himself back into the conversation. “No Apparating with a damaged clock.”
Bill nodded. “It was made by a famous French clockmaker, from what I can gather.”
“We had someone in Paris look at it long ago, but they found the spell work quite bewildering,” Fleur said, shaking her head.
Bill smiled. "That's perfect, isn't it?"
Pansy nudged him.
Draco shook himself again. It did no good to lose himself in these thoughts. "Yes, I'm sorry. I do like a challenge — and the chance to work on a Cogsworth-Lumiere..."
"And he's excellent at these kinds of projects, the ones that drive everyone else mad." Bill enthused, turning back to Fleur to regale her with the details of the broken clock at Gringotts.
Draco met Pansy's eyes, knowing she'd caught him in his hesitation. They'd have words about it after they left, but Pansy was very good at saving face in the meantime.
Later, as the evening slowed down, Draco and Pansy found themselves at a table all by themselves again. “Well, well,” she said.
Champagne flutes floated their way over, followed shortly by a bottle of Banshee’s Finest Bubbles. The bottle gingerly poured itself into the glasses. “That’s quite an expensive bottle. Aren’t they all supposed to be raising money here, not spending it?”
Pansy raised an eyebrow at the champagne, which seemed to duck and slink away self-consciously. Draco hid his smirk behind the rim of his glass. He hoped Pansy would never stop coming to these events with him, even if he found himself suddenly out of the throes of singlehood.
“Shush, you. Now, should we buy some raffle tickets while we’re here?”
She took his arm, and deep down, he knew she loved this too. “Lead the way.”
It was certainly past two in the morning when Draco and Pansy stumbled into the Manor. They decided not to Apparate, and had floo’d into one of the withdrawing rooms on the second floor instead. After all, Draco had no desire to end up splinched after indulging in one too many glasses of Banshee’s Finest Bubbles.
The Manor’s wards snapped around them, comfortable and warm and used to them. Draco sighed as Pansy kicked off her heels and draped herself across the couch.
“That was certainly an interesting event,” she said. “And I didn’t know you repaired the Gringotts clock! Merlin and Morgana, you rarely tell me anything at all these days.”
Draco shrugged off his robe, folding it over his arm. He could feel the flush of alcohol on his face, his mind a bit hazy, though that was probably because he was tired. An ornate pendulum clock chimed from down the hall. 2:30.
“It’s late,” he muttered. Pansy grabbed his wrist, slender fingers tugging him to sit down. He kicked his feet out, resting them on the ottoman.
“It’s early,” she corrected. Draco scoffed. Her voice was earnest this time, “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because I know you.”
Draco sighed, and toed off his loafers. Pansy continued, “And, you still have your glamour on.” Draco looked at her, face stony and unreadable.
She whispered a finite, and Draco felt her magic prickle across his skin as his own charm disappeared. The Blaise-inspired wrinkles faded back into unblemished skin, his grey hairs turned back to blonde. He didn't need a mirror to know what this time-turning transition looked like. Pansy didn’t flinch, she was used to his face. His real face.
“Victoire will be older than I am this year.”
Draco looked exactly the same as he had when he was twenty-five. He ducked his head and ran his hands through his hair. He could feel the magic in his veins, crackling with anger and sadness now. Something even deeper, perhaps.
Longing.
“I chose this,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t be the one to complain.”
Pansy swallowed, and rested a hand on his back.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t painful. You’re allowed to feel that.”
He met her eyes. So much of Pansy had changed since school – her hair, her body, her voice – but her eyes still looked the same. Green and bright and sparkling. They were always a bit serious, always a bit mischievous, and always cutting through anything she looked at with intent and ferocity. Much like her voice, they held an edge of lovingness, though sometimes Draco wondered if he was meant to perceive that at all.
“And do you?” He asked, “Do you feel it, too? The pain of it. Everything around me keeps changing, and I stay the same.”
“You’re not the same person, Draco,” she answered. “You may look like it, but you’re not.” Draco slumped backwards, and Pansy rested a head on his shoulder. He could hear between every heartbeat, all the words she wasn’t saying.