Who: Draco Malfoy and Tom Riddle Where: The pub (where else?) When: Wednesday evening What: Divulging information one might not divulge if one were sober Status: Incomplete
Draco had been sitting here, on this stool, for the past three hours. His bill was going to be atrocious, but he didn't care.
What was there to care about?
It wasn't like there was much to save up for. It wasn't like he could try to get his own flat somewhere else on the island, there were no other flats. There were no flats at all, just cheap bungalows that roofs tended to fly off of without rime or reason, not all of them, but some. A storm would come out of the blue and claim a roof at random. And maybe he wouldn't be expected to fix it each time, he told himself. They did have a fixing woman, whatever that job was called, and they had a thatcher. But still, sometimes, Draco would be called in to fix a roof - or a wall and some tables, like in the pub's case.
So all the work he did, the hours upon hours of blood, sweat and tears (literally, that fucking hammer was a menace) he put into work every day gave him money for food.... and whatever else he might like to buy, if he could afford it on his measly salary. But there was no such thing he wanted - without a room of his own, someone - maybe not Albus - could just come right in and take it. Or a storm might happen to hit his bungalow and the roof or a wall, or the whole damn bloody thing would get carried off into the water like a big ol' tumbleweed with all his shit in it.
It might've been a pessimistic way of looking at the situation and maybe it didn't agree with his possessive Malfoy attitude that the more you had, the more you were worth, but really, this was something you had to think about in this situation. He didn't live in the fucking Manor anymore, he lived in a tiki hut, and eventually, a storm would claim it as its bitch.
So yes. He had been sitting at this bar, the stool digging into his arse so that he had to shift every so often to get some blood back into his cheeks.
Because he worked. He worked hard and this place was hell and he hurt himself on an hourly basis - sometimes more than once - and he was getting paid nothing, he was getting nothing good out of his luggage and he was getting no magic!
It was such fucking bullshit that Draco couldn't see straight.
Or maybe that was the rum.
Could've been the rum.
When had his glass become empty?
"Another," he mumbled to Tom (yes, he was Tom now, not Him, not that animal, not that fucking egocentric psychopath who ruined my life, not anymore. No, now he was Tom) as he walked by behind the bar. Tom Riddle, hard at work... serving drinks. Mixing them, too. Little did people know that the man sticking colourful umbrellas in their coconuts was the Dark Lord himself.
The thought made Draco giggle for a moment until he realised that the Weasleys were flying around on Oliver Wood's broom and that all Draco would be able to do with said broom would be to try to beat them with it or shove it up their collective arses. Then, he waited for his refill.