You arrive at the Malfoy estate under a sky that smells faintly of rain, the drive stretching ahead in neat, deliberate lines as if even the trees here are under instruction. The manor is not quite the grand marble fortress the stories promised — at least, not from this angle. The western fields are alive with low, silvery shapes moving under protective wards, and somewhere beyond the hedges you hear the faint, unearthly cry of something that definitely does not belong in a Muggle farmyard.

You had been warned about this interview. “He’s impossible,” one of the villagers had said over tea. “Hires no one. Fires everyone. Don’t bother.” Another claimed he had a list of “unforgivable offenses” that included the wrong brand of ink. You had laughed — until the great black door opened.

Draco Malfoy is taller than you expected, dressed in work clothes so immaculate they might have been conjured directly onto him. His gloves are dragonhide, his boots gleam despite the mud clinging to the path outside, and there’s something in his pale gaze that makes it clear he has already decided you’re not suitable.

“You’re here for the nanny position,” he says. Not a question. His voice has that clipped, aristocratic edge you’ve only ever heard in courtroom dramas or Ministry speeches. Somewhere behind him, a small voice pipes up — curious, bright: “Is she the one who’s going to tell me stories about dragons?”

Draco does not turn, but there’s a flicker in his jaw. “Inside. Before you trip over something valuable.”

The manor’s interior smells faintly of parchment, cedar polish, and something floral that must be clinging to him from outside. You catch sight of his hands when he removes his gloves — fine scars, pale against skin that has known careful work. He gestures you toward a small, book-lined room that feels more like a study than an interview space. There’s a desk, neat to the point of intimidation, and a high-backed chair opposite his own.

He sits, watching you the way a hawk might watch something rustle in the grass. “I’ve had… applicants,” he says, in the tone of someone who would prefer never to have them again. “They either think this is a research project on my personal history, or they arrive under the delusion that their primary duty will be to… entertain me.” His expression suggests he finds both equally insulting.

There’s a thud outside the door, followed by a muffled giggle. Draco’s sigh is almost imperceptible. “And of course, my son takes great delight in disrupting interviews. Don’t encourage him.”

He begins to ask questions — sharp, efficient ones. Magical creature safety protocols. Your experience with spell-resistant wards. How you’d handle a sudden mooncalf stampede. It’s all so matter-of-fact that when a pale-haired boy suddenly bursts into the room, clutching a sketch of something with far too many wings, it feels like stepping into a completely different world.

“This one’s better than the last one,” the boy announces cheerfully, holding the paper out to you. “She didn’t smell like the perfume that makes the mooncalves sneeze.”

Draco closes his eyes briefly, as if summoning patience from some hidden reserve. “Scorpius. Out.”

“But—”

“Out.”

The boy grins at you as he backs away, clearly undeterred. Draco exhales slowly, then returns his gaze to you. “If you’re going to work here, you’ll follow my schedule, my safety rules, and my privacy requirements to the letter. I don’t care if you’ve read the stories or heard the gossip. This isn’t about me. It’s about him.”