Chapter Text
Chocolate-brown hair dye was incredibly unpleasant to apply. Without enough care, the sludge stained Draco’s hands and the entire interior of the small bathroom. He had no choice, however, but to struggle with this clunky Muggle invention. A Glamour charm consumed too much precious energy, a resource already in short supply, and prying eyes were only waiting for his slightest mistake.
He thrust his head under the tap, rinsing the dye with water too cold to be considered comfortable. Fingertips rubbed the scalp, trying to clear away any remaining residue. The shampoo, brewed from forest-gathered herbs, could not match the expensive products used in his youth, but with a touch of self-satisfaction, Draco had to admit that at least it was worlds better than the cheap, frothy swill from the local shop.
The blonde winced when, after straightening his back, the cold tips of hair fell wetly against bony shoulders. Curving his lips in a grimace of disgust, he reached for a coarse, faded towel. If there was one thing hardest to grow accustomed to in this new life, it was the touch of cheap, irritating material against skin.
The sharp sound of the doorbell pierced the air, jolting him from these thoughts. A flick of the wand toward the door silenced the annoying screech. However, he changed his mind. The hardest thing to get used to was not the coarse towels, but being a lapdog at someone else's beck and call. True, former service under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, even if he was no longer alive, consisted mainly of meekly following orders, but back then, Draco could at least feed his ego with the fear of the most powerful wizard of the century. That same excuse worked poorly in the case of a half-blood old man running a clinic somewhere between the end of the world and a complete backwater.
He dried the strands with a quick charm and reached for the baggy robes. The garment was not exactly the height of fashion, resembling a potato sack rather than the cashmere creations of French designers, but it had long sleeves. And only that, in the current situation, was truly important.
Relatively dressed and ready for the "oh-so-wonderful" adventures of another day, the boy finally left the room. It was necessary to hurry to avoid being shouted at for laziness once again by someone whom, just a few years ago, he would likely have deeply despised.
In the corridor, the smell of an old, rarely aired hut mingled with the faint, chemical odor of disinfectants. Draco moved toward the room already well known to him, trying as always to ignore the hideous, muddy-colored walls, which looked even worse under the light of a single, flickering bulb.
The handle pressed down, opening the door to the interior proudly called "the office." In reality, it was more like a storeroom for expired potions and broken Muggle junk, forgotten by time and health inspectors. It wasn't actually dirty, Draco saw to it daily that no new life forms were cultivated from mold, but the man had a strange weakness for a decor style that could only be compared to the communist states of the Eastern Bloc.
The walls had a strong orange shade, reminiscent of cheap wax crayons. The center of the room was occupied by a massive desk covered in scratched veneer. The desktop sagged under piles of papers and documents, as the old man remained faithful to the art of writing on scrolls.
Behind the desk, in an old, creaking armchair upholstered in faux leather, sat the employer, a man who ignored newspapers and the proper look of official documents. He was dressed in a faded medical coat that might have once been white, but now resembled material soaked in hippogriff urine.
Draco had to stop himself from giving the man a look of pure disgust as a cloud of cigarette smoke was blown in his direction.
“Sit, sit, boy. We need to talk for a moment.” A surprisingly kind look followed the words. If the situation were different, Draco might have even ventured to say that the expression was full of concern. Somewhat off-balance, the boy took the indicated seat.
“You know that I value your work immensely. You are helpful, intelligent, and very talented. If life had given you such a chance and a high enough birth, you would probably have become a healer like me.” Draco decided not to comment on the pride in the voice or the irony of birthrights; appearances had to be maintained. “Each of us is born, however, with certain limitations. Some can be overcome, but others are better accepted before we hurt ourselves or others.”
The boy became more and more unsettled with every word. He was used to the man's hour-long rants about saving local peasants, but never before had the voice been so, for lack of a better word, gentle.
“Maybe it doesn't always show, but I am a man of progress,” the old man stated loudly, while Draco used all his willpower not to laugh. “Many years ago, I supported the pursuit of work in healing for women and Black people, even though others considered it unnatural.”
The blonde sat a little more upright on the edge of the chair. His heart began to thud, as if it wanted to force its way out. He maintained, however, an expressionless face, identical to the one he had worn since childhood.
“That's why I hired you. You had so much potential, but I've been observing your condition. It's getting worse. Your magic is weakening, sucking the life out of your body and psyche. My eyes might be failing, but I've seen you standing by the cabinet with poisonous ingredients longer than you should. I don’t want to find you dead. You probably don't understand it now, but it really will be for the best.”
Draco stood up with such force that the chair toppled. Fists clenched until nails pierced skin.
“What am I supposed to understand by that, sir?” he hissed, trying to force eye contact that was being pointedly avoided.
“I sent a notice to the Curatela Servilis about an undocumented submissive in poor condition and without a guardian hiding here,” the man resignedly admitted.
Outside, the dog began to bark. Draco ran to the window.
A Black man was stepping through the yard with undeniable grace. The ebony skin of hands and face provided a striking contrast to the white acromantula silk robes of a Praeceptor Servilis. The fabric was so light that it reacted to the slightest breath of wind. The cut, though clearly inspired by the elegance of old riding coats, was devoid of their military stiffness. The open robe rose and fell like a cape, giving the gait an unnatural, almost fluid grace.
From this distance, the details merged into one, but the sun stubbornly reflected off the forest-green embroidery on the lapels. The intricate pattern of tangled, falling phoenix feathers shimmered with every step, threaded with gold that seemed to emanate a warm glow. Looking down, one could succumb to the illusion of a figure taken from a dream, rather than a professional involved in the training and care of submissives.
Without thinking for a moment longer, Draco bolted for the door.