Chapter Text
A potions master isn't meant to be working in sales; they are meant to be in a quiet dungeon, measuring moonstone dust to the exact grain, not smiling at potential clients and pretending loud lights and louder voices don’t feel like a curse.
When Draco was transferred from Alchemy to Sales, he didn't know what Fudge was thinking. He was told it was because of company reassignment. The Sales department was suffering from trying to explain to the clients details about the potions and what could they do for them. They needed an expert. They needed an expert to go out on the field with the salespersons.
Eventually, he was also assigned to make his own sales.
Draco didn't mind going with the sales team at first. He liked explaining the potions properly, making sure the clients understood what they were buying and how each ingredient mattered. It felt closer to real work, something precise and controlled.
During a client meeting, a salesperson confidently described a potion, slightly oversimplifying it. Draco stepped in, calm and precise. "Actually, that is not entirely correct," he said, before explaining the proper properties and risks. The room went quiet. The client looked impressed, but the salesperson scowled.
Later, in the hallway, two coworkers exchanged a glance as Draco walked past. Someone muttered, "Why does he always act like he has to prove that he's the smartest person in the room?"
Another time, a client thanked him for the clarification, yet the sales team still left him out of after-work drinks.
His face never changed. He spoke evenly, without raised emotion. People could see he focused on accuracy, not superiority. Still, the tension in the room was clear — stiff shoulders, forced smiles — showing that what he meant as professionalism often came across as condescension.
*
Michael Corner approached Draco after his turn in the presentation, holding a vial of shimmering liquid. "I just wanted to make sure I got this right," he said, voice hopeful. "The Draught of Moonlight—its core effect is to enhance memory recall, but I wasn’t sure about the crystallisation stage."
Draco glanced at the vial, straightening his posture. "Not quite," he said, voice flat. "The crystallisation happens after the infusion has cooled, not during. If you do it earlier, the mnemonic properties weaken."
Corner blinked, lips pressed tight. "Oh… right, yes, of course," he murmured, his smile stiff, a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes.
Draco frowned slightly, tilting his head. "Did I—?" He realised he had spoken with that same clipped, cold tone he always did when focused on precision. Corner wasn’t annoyed at the information, but at the delivery.
Draco paused, processing. The subtle shift in Corner’s expression—the hesitation, the edge of tension—was something he had missed, a cue most people would notice immediately.
"I… I see," Draco said quietly to himself, adjusting his tone for the next explanation. "I forgot to signal that I was correcting, not criticising."
Still, it was too late. Corner didn't approach him unless it was absolutely necessary. And if anything, often asked Draco to write down the explanation than verbally tell them to Michael.
*
Potter wasn't much different from the others around the office.
When Draco had first moved to this department, Potter had helped Draco carry his boxes, and showed him around the office. He was kind, cool, and everyone seemed to love him. Draco had felt an instant jealousy towards that. But he had first thought that he too could be well liked around the office, especially since he was the expert being brought in.
However, that hope didn't last for long.
Potter moved through the office with the kind of ease Draco could never manage. He spoke to clients smoothly, laughed at jokes without effort, and somehow made everyone feel like he belonged.
Every time he glanced at Draco, there was a polite smile, a nod, but never an invitation. He kept a distance, careful and measured, as if he knew Draco would falter if allowed too close.
Draco noticed it all, the casual confidence, the way Potter’s words landed perfectly, the way he drew attention without even trying, and felt that familiar mix of admiration and frustration. He wanted to approach, to connect, to prove he could keep up, but Potter’s quiet reserve made every step feel like walking on ice.
*
The incident that made Potter keep his distance from Draco was when a month before, Draco had been on his way to a client meeting and found Potter apologising to the client.
Mr Alaric Nott, a tall man with a permanent scowl, was glaring at Potter, snapping over minor details. Potter’s shoulders were tight, voice even as he took responsibility, but when their eyes met, Potter gave Draco a sharp look that he couldn’t read.
"You shouldn't have come."
Draco froze, unsure whether it was a warning, a reprimand, or something else entirely. He just stood there, feeling the heat of attention on him, letting Potter take all the blame while he couldn’t bring himself to move or speak.
When Potter came out of the meeting, he barely made eye contact with Draco. His jaw was stiff, and Draco immediately felt angry.
"You shouldn't have to apologise for me," said Draco.
"It's my fault, really, I should have noticed you couldn't handle it."
"I 'could' handle it. And if I couldn't, I should have been the one getting reprimanded."
"We are a team, Malfoy," Potter said, placing his hand on Draco's shoulder.
"Cut the superiority act, Potter. I understand you've been here longer, but I am not an idiot. I know how the potions work, it isn't my fault that your staff can't explain them."
Potter visibly rolled his eyes. "Maybe not be such an pompous arsehole to your colleagues and maybe you'll get some real work done."
Draco saw Potter visibly cringe and then walked away. Draco almost felt apologetic for the quarrel but he wasn't about to go and apologise to Potter. He was the one who had intervened with the client's meeting. Draco was certain he would have handled Mr Nott. And if there was any feedback, he could have taken back to the team himself.
He wanted the chance to explain it to the client. Otherwise, how could he learn what they actually wanted?
*
Since then, Draco had watched the world go on without him. He saw his colleagues come in, greet each other, and completely ignore him. He could tell that no one wanted to talk to him about his expertise. Everyone kept their distance. Everyone sent him notes to check things, rather than having a proper conversation with him.
"Don't invite him," Draco heard a colleague say to another. "He won't come, and you'll waste your time. He likes to be alone, anyway. Right?"
It was the only time he had overheard anyone actually suggest that he be included in a festivity after work or invited out for a drink at the weekend. Everyone else seemed against it. Against him.
Draco felt trapped in a world that didn’t make sense to him. He wanted nothing more than to return to the alchemy lab, to the quiet precision of measuring powders and watching reactions unfold under his careful control. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t undo the reassignment, couldn’t step back from the sales floor, and every attempt to succeed only seemed to highlight his failures. He refused to accept defeat, yet every day reminded him that he couldn’t truly succeed. The tension weighed on him, a constant, gnawing pressure, leaving him restless, bitter, and painfully aware of how out of place he was.
*
Draco had barely set his notes on the table when Umbridge swept into the room, her eyes sharp and calculating. "Mr Malfoy," she said, voice sweet but rigid, "I’ve been thinking. We’ll need the draught delivered with enhanced clarity and a slightly quicker infusion time. Can you manage that?"
"I can adjust the infusion time," Draco said carefully, scanning his calculations, "but accelerating it will reduce the potency unless we modify the cooling stage—"
"Oh, of course, yes, yes, we’ll handle that," Umbridge interrupted, her tone light, almost dismissive. "Just make sure it’s perfect. You have ruined by reputation enough."
Draco nodded, recalculating everything, trying to accommodate the last-minute changes. Every suggestion he made was met with a nod and a polite smile, never a refusal. Hours later, he received an owl, Contract cancelled. We found another provider.
By the time he reached the office, Fudge was waiting, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Draco," he said, voice clipped, "explain why this client pulled out. This looks very bad for your division."
Draco felt the weight of every precise calculation, every adjustment, crash down on him. He had been meticulous, accommodating, careful—and now he was in trouble. Accuracy had gained nothing, and approval was still out of reach. He clenched his fists, feeling the impossible tension of being expected to succeed in a system that seemed determined to punish him no matter what.
Fudge’s next words made Draco’s stomach drop.
"You’ll fix this with Umbridge. And take Potter with you. He’ll support the client-facing side."
Draco’s hands tightened around his notes. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to face Umbridge again, and certainly didn’t want Potter shadowing him.
"I… I can handle it myself," he said, tone clipped.
Potter gave a small, easy smile. "You don’t have to handle this by yourself, Malfoy. I’ll be there with you only for support.
Draco’s frustration snapped. "I don’t need your help! I’ve managed perfectly fine before!"
"It doesn’t matter what you think or what you know. I can help with Umbridge. I’ve dealt with her before."
Draco huffed, shoulders tense, and pushed past the door. He felt drained, every step weighted with irritation and resignation. Tomorrow would come, and somehow he would have to face it again, though the thought did little to ease the knot in his chest.
*
Draco walked through the quiet courtyard on his way home, the evening air sharp against his skin. He had been lost in thought, clutching his satchel, when he noticed the small wooden shrine tucked into a corner between ivy-covered walls.
It was old, worn smooth by years of rain, with a single crystal glimmering faintly in its center. A small brass plaque was set into the wood, engraved with words that shimmered in the light: "Speak your heart. What you long for may shape the world you see."
He stepped closer and rested a hand upon the cool wood, thinking it rather silly, yet convinced it could do no harm.
"I… I wish I could enter meetings without this incessant nervousness," he murmured, his voice low, as if the evening air might carry it away. "I wish to speak with clarity, to convey precisely that I understand my craft. I wish for others to acknowledge my skill, to respect my work rather than overlook it."
His throat tightened, and he swallowed deliberately. "I wish… to speak with Potter without hesitation, without the constant awareness that I do not quite belong, that I might be his equal." He exhaled slowly, letting the words linger in the quiet courtyard. "I wish to bear less tension, less fear. I wish simply to act with confidence and to be seen, truly, as I am."
For a long moment, he pressed his palm to the crystal, waiting for something, anything, to change. The courtyard remained quiet, the ivy swaying gently, but for Draco, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter, as if the shrine had heard him.
He turned to walk away, but a sudden gust of wind hit him in the face and nearly blinded him. He lost his balance and fell onto his back. His head throbbed, and he shut his eyes.