Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don’t sue me.
CHAPTER 2 - Diagon Alley
It had been nearly ten years since he'd last set foot in Diagon Alley, and he was looking forward to seeing how much, or little, it had changed since he'd last seen it. Of course, at that time, it had been devastated by constant Death Eater raids, and the bustling, prosperous district of his childhood had been all but destroyed. He'd heard that it had been rebuilt bigger and better than ever, from the occasional acquaintances he'd met on his travels, but his last and most vivid memory was of utter, complete devastation.
Making his way through the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron, he was aware of the curious eyes watching his progress, watching the stranger who'd walked so confidently into their world. They didn't recognize him, not yet - of course, Draco Malfoy didn't go about dressed in casual muggle clothes and with untamed, too long hair; Draco Malfoy, even in the midst of a battle, was never less than perfectly groomed, never less than perfectly composed.
Well, he had not been that Draco Malfoy for a long, long time. In the long years since Harry Potter, in his last year at Hogwarts, had finally defeated Voldemort once and for all, Draco had left his past behind, had left everything behind, and had been drifting somewhat aimlessly throughout the world, trying to forget. He'd left his uncle in charge of his affairs and had taken off - as irresponsible as it may have seemed, perhaps even selfish, particularly in such uncertain times, he'd felt that he needed to escape, to leave, to get away from the memories that were everywhere in Britain - so many, in fact, that he'd felt almost suffocated, and had had to get out before he went mad.
As a result, it had been ten long years since he'd spent more than a night in England - he'd come back, once a year on the Midsummer Solstice, simply to oversee the celebrations on his land, and then had left before dawn, before the memories could fully catch up with him. Last month, after he'd smashed the mirror, shattering his reflection, he'd finally decided that he needed to go home. He couldn't run anymore - he had to go back where it all started and face the memories, to find some kind of peace with himself.
And so here he was, on his way to a meeting with his solicitors and bankers, finally ready to take charge of his responsibilities. He'd met with his uncle last week, to go over the details of his investments and his estate - after his father's death, the Ministry had tried to confiscate as much as they could, believing him to be an easy mark...
They should have known better. Even devastated and grieving, Draco was not going to let them take even the smallest bit of the estate that had belonged to the Malfoy for thousands of years. Standing up to the Ministry had pulled him out of his grief, had given him a purpose and new strength - had given him the confidence and the drive to go on. He'd even increased the estate since he'd taken over. He'd been trained since birth in money and estate management, how to turn information into money and money into power, and it had all come back to him surprisingly quickly. He'd forgotten how fascinating it was, and just how heady power and influence could be.
The very name Malfoy commanded respect, conjured images of endless money and influence - the title of Lord implied power. Financial, social and political power. The Malfoy were the oldest of the wizarding families, the first of the High Clan - they controlled, through alliances, intermarriages and manipulation most of the aristocratic families in wizarding Britain. They were feared, hated and resented, toadied to and plotted against and courted by all, but no one, no one ever made the mistake of underestimating them and what they were capable of.
And after the two years Draco had spent hunting down Death Eaters under the official aegis of the Order of the Phoenix, no one had ever underestimated him again. His last two years at school, after he had been forced to kill his father, had been the bloodiest years of the whole war, and he had been right in the thick of it.
He still dreamed of it, even now.
Shaking his head deliberately, to disperse the memories, he turned his attention to his surroundings. There was Gringotts, standing in the same place it had occupied since Diagon Alley had been founded - it had been the very first building to be reconstructed, after it had all ended. The wizarding world had its priorities straight. Ollivander's, Flourish and Blotts, Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, they were all there, if not exactly as he remembered.
And there - there was the Quidditch supply shop, with young children clustering around the window; he remembered, with a faint sense of amusement, the days when he had been one of them, too well trained to gawk and stare, but inside, just as eager as the other children to possess (or even touch) a Nimbus 2000.
Contrary to public opinion, his father had not given him anything and everything he ever wanted, exactly when he wanted it. Draco had always loved flying, loved the freedom and the speed of it. His craving for speed - the faster, the better - had been the only reckless vice his father had ever allowed him. He'd been on the quidditch team because he was a Malfoy, and it was expected of him. He'd been a Seeker because he was small, and light, and extremely agile: it hadn't been his fault Potter had been an extraordinary Seeker, the best one Hogwarts had ever seen in at least a generation, or that Draco had always been more enthralled with the sheer act of flying than in actually looking for the Snitch.
Be realistic. He'd been too blinded by his hatred (oh yes, it had been hatred - instinctive, blind hatred) to concentrate on the game. He and Harry Potter had come to terms, eventually – by that time, rivalries and jealousies had seemed inconsequential, when compared with reality. They still hated each other, but could put that aside and work together effectively if they had to. He supposed that meant they had a curious kind of respect for each other, now.
His mind was fixed on business, on overseas investments and exchange rates, as he strode through the crowds, walking, despite his years away from the High Clan and the centre of power, as if he owned the world. The crowd parted automatically for him, but he was unconscious of the effect, because it had always been that way – even before he had left the wizarding world. But he was not so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't take note of a new shop, where a small printing press had once stood – odd, to see such a change in a place that had hardly changed at all in centuries.
A second hand bookshop? He would have to check it out, once he'd concluded his meetings. It wasn't every day you saw a new shop in Diagon Alley.
*************************************
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, the quietest time of the day, and she was busy planning her new image, the new, improved and fully responsible Ginny Weasley. Her list of things that needed to be done was quite daunting - heading the list was a new wardrobe, a new haircut that didn't make her look like she was still in her teens, a new confidence that would allow her to stand up to her brothers, and perhaps even a new man, although that might be going a bit too far.
She'd been wrapped up in Harry Potter for so long that she'd somehow missed the years where the rest of her peers gained their confidence in dealing with the male sex. By the time she realized she felt nothing more than sisterly affection for him she was seventeen years old, painfully shy and inexperienced.
Since then she'd somehow only managed to attract men who were...nice.
Gentlemanly.
Kind.
Respectful.
Safe.
Boring.
Her latest love interest was the perfect example - Gerald was financially secure, had a steady, well-paid job at Gringott's, and was a good prospect for marriage. He was solidly middle class and he liked classical music, expensive wine and French food. He had a social conscience and gave money to charity and good causes. He liked her family, and they him, even though he was not Harry Potter, and even if they did think him a little staid.
He was reliable, trustworthy, and financially solvent; he wanted a family, and marrying him would not turn her well-ordered, comfortable world upside down. Perhaps it was that realization that had given her the fatal jolt. Life with Gerald would be...comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
But not long ago, deep in the darkest hours of the night, she had realized that she wanted her life to be turned upside down and inside out. She wanted grand passion and drama. She wanted fireworks. She wanted...
She didn't want to end up like her mother.
Forced to be completely honest with herself, she had decided that, as much as she loved Molly Weasley, she simply didn't want to spend her life constantly looking after seven children and one husband, keeping a house and content with being shabby genteel, ignoring the pitying looks or the slights of those higher than them in the social strata. She wanted more.
Hence this new determination to grow a backbone, dispose of the baggy clothes and the unflattering hairstyle, and finally bring some excitement into her staid life. She wasn't looking for romance - all her experience with romance so far had been rather lacking, and not at all what she had imagined. But excitement would be good.
Perhaps even some sex. Wild, earth-shattering, screaming, no-holds-barred sex. Yes, that would be very good – and why not an incredibly rich, fantastically good-looking, unattached, heterosexual male as well, while she was at it? If she was going to do this at all, she might as well go all the way.
Laughing softly at herself, she was so preoccupied with her plans that she didn't hear the tinkling of the chime that announced customers entering the shop. But when she looked up absently, checking just to see if anything was happening, she felt her heart stutter, then give a huge thump. She looked into incredible silver eyes, and her heart stopped. She suddenly remembered her wish for a fantastically handsome, heterosexual male and offered up a small, entirely heartfelt prayer.
And then her brain, screaming a warning, caught up and started working again, and she looked past the eyes and at the rest of him. White skin, pale blonde hair, aristocratic features, and an unconscious arrogance. Her eyes slid down to his long, elegant white fingers, and saw an ancient, heavy silver ring engraved with a High Clan crest, and then back up to his eyes, which gleamed with unholy amusement. She shut her mouth with an audible click.
"Hello, Weasley," he murmured, all but purring.
She couldn't help it, she blushed. And then her temper, so rarely seen, came rushing to the fore, responding to the laughter that animated his entire face, turning it from a gorgeous mask into a real expression. In the six years she'd gone to the same school as he, she didn't think she'd ever seen him show any genuine emotion at all - not once. And here he was, in her shop, standing right in front of her, looking like a god...and laughing at her.
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of him, in no uncertain terms, gleefully anticipating wiping the smirk off his face, when the door chimes rang and another voice interrupted.
"Ginny, love, how about you shut up early and we go home for some privacy and a little fun, hmmm? Just the two of us?"
Ginny froze, horrified.
Malfoy blinked once, and his face blanked of any and all expression.
Gerald walked cheerfully into the shop and kissed her, then turned to Malfoy, eyeing his muggle clothes and shabby grooming with poorly concealed distaste. Malfoy said nothing, only watched him with impassive eyes.
Gerald, faint traces of condescension in his voice, turned to Ginny and smiled. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't see you had a friend here. My apologies." He looked back at Malfoy. "I don't think I've seen you around here before..." he raised an enquiring brow. Ginny winced, partly in mortification, partly because she could see the look in Malfoy's eyes and Gerald couldn't. She opened her mouth before she had even thought of it - knowing she would curse herself for later.
"Gerald, this is an old school friend of mine," she said brightly. "He's just come back from abroad."
Malfoy's sardonic eyes flicked to her, and then back to Gerald, who had held out his hand with a condescending smile. "Gerald Tarrant," he said jovially. Silver eyes stared with faint incredulity at the outstretched hand, and up to Gerald's face and smile. Ginny fought not to groan in dismay.
Finally, Malfoy took the hand and shook it gingerly. "Draco Malfoy," he finally said, polite but reserved. He didn't look at Ginny, and she was more than grateful for it. She didn't need to see what he thought of Gerald. He had immigrated to England some five years ago, and so knew little about the power and influence of House Malfoy, but even so, surely he would have been able to see past the surface and into the predator?
Because Malfoy was dangerous. She'd only needed one look to see it, to see the ruthlessness and the elemental strength, but evidently Gerald didn't see it, because he clapped the other man on the back with a patronizing smile, some male instinct satisfied that Malfoy wasn't a threat, and said, "Any friend of Ginny's is a friend of mine," Ginny winced again at the blatant possessiveness, "so perhaps we'll see you around some time?"
He made some polite, noncommittal answer, but she wasn't listening. She was looking at Gerald for the first time in a while, stunned at the change in him. She'd never seen him like this before - patronizing, condescending, almost pompous, and not half as...vital, as effortlessly dominant, as Malfoy.
They talked of other, trivial matters for a little while, until Ginny managed to usher them both out of the shop. But before he left, Malfoy looked at her with faintly quizzical eyes, and arched an eyebrow almost in question, or in challenge. She read it easily and scowled - and didn't stop to think why she agreed with him, or how she could read him at all.
CHAPTER 2 - Diagon Alley
It had been nearly ten years since he'd last set foot in Diagon Alley, and he was looking forward to seeing how much, or little, it had changed since he'd last seen it. Of course, at that time, it had been devastated by constant Death Eater raids, and the bustling, prosperous district of his childhood had been all but destroyed. He'd heard that it had been rebuilt bigger and better than ever, from the occasional acquaintances he'd met on his travels, but his last and most vivid memory was of utter, complete devastation.
Making his way through the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron, he was aware of the curious eyes watching his progress, watching the stranger who'd walked so confidently into their world. They didn't recognize him, not yet - of course, Draco Malfoy didn't go about dressed in casual muggle clothes and with untamed, too long hair; Draco Malfoy, even in the midst of a battle, was never less than perfectly groomed, never less than perfectly composed.
Well, he had not been that Draco Malfoy for a long, long time. In the long years since Harry Potter, in his last year at Hogwarts, had finally defeated Voldemort once and for all, Draco had left his past behind, had left everything behind, and had been drifting somewhat aimlessly throughout the world, trying to forget. He'd left his uncle in charge of his affairs and had taken off - as irresponsible as it may have seemed, perhaps even selfish, particularly in such uncertain times, he'd felt that he needed to escape, to leave, to get away from the memories that were everywhere in Britain - so many, in fact, that he'd felt almost suffocated, and had had to get out before he went mad.
As a result, it had been ten long years since he'd spent more than a night in England - he'd come back, once a year on the Midsummer Solstice, simply to oversee the celebrations on his land, and then had left before dawn, before the memories could fully catch up with him. Last month, after he'd smashed the mirror, shattering his reflection, he'd finally decided that he needed to go home. He couldn't run anymore - he had to go back where it all started and face the memories, to find some kind of peace with himself.
And so here he was, on his way to a meeting with his solicitors and bankers, finally ready to take charge of his responsibilities. He'd met with his uncle last week, to go over the details of his investments and his estate - after his father's death, the Ministry had tried to confiscate as much as they could, believing him to be an easy mark...
They should have known better. Even devastated and grieving, Draco was not going to let them take even the smallest bit of the estate that had belonged to the Malfoy for thousands of years. Standing up to the Ministry had pulled him out of his grief, had given him a purpose and new strength - had given him the confidence and the drive to go on. He'd even increased the estate since he'd taken over. He'd been trained since birth in money and estate management, how to turn information into money and money into power, and it had all come back to him surprisingly quickly. He'd forgotten how fascinating it was, and just how heady power and influence could be.
The very name Malfoy commanded respect, conjured images of endless money and influence - the title of Lord implied power. Financial, social and political power. The Malfoy were the oldest of the wizarding families, the first of the High Clan - they controlled, through alliances, intermarriages and manipulation most of the aristocratic families in wizarding Britain. They were feared, hated and resented, toadied to and plotted against and courted by all, but no one, no one ever made the mistake of underestimating them and what they were capable of.
And after the two years Draco had spent hunting down Death Eaters under the official aegis of the Order of the Phoenix, no one had ever underestimated him again. His last two years at school, after he had been forced to kill his father, had been the bloodiest years of the whole war, and he had been right in the thick of it.
He still dreamed of it, even now.
Shaking his head deliberately, to disperse the memories, he turned his attention to his surroundings. There was Gringotts, standing in the same place it had occupied since Diagon Alley had been founded - it had been the very first building to be reconstructed, after it had all ended. The wizarding world had its priorities straight. Ollivander's, Flourish and Blotts, Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, they were all there, if not exactly as he remembered.
And there - there was the Quidditch supply shop, with young children clustering around the window; he remembered, with a faint sense of amusement, the days when he had been one of them, too well trained to gawk and stare, but inside, just as eager as the other children to possess (or even touch) a Nimbus 2000.
Contrary to public opinion, his father had not given him anything and everything he ever wanted, exactly when he wanted it. Draco had always loved flying, loved the freedom and the speed of it. His craving for speed - the faster, the better - had been the only reckless vice his father had ever allowed him. He'd been on the quidditch team because he was a Malfoy, and it was expected of him. He'd been a Seeker because he was small, and light, and extremely agile: it hadn't been his fault Potter had been an extraordinary Seeker, the best one Hogwarts had ever seen in at least a generation, or that Draco had always been more enthralled with the sheer act of flying than in actually looking for the Snitch.
Be realistic. He'd been too blinded by his hatred (oh yes, it had been hatred - instinctive, blind hatred) to concentrate on the game. He and Harry Potter had come to terms, eventually – by that time, rivalries and jealousies had seemed inconsequential, when compared with reality. They still hated each other, but could put that aside and work together effectively if they had to. He supposed that meant they had a curious kind of respect for each other, now.
His mind was fixed on business, on overseas investments and exchange rates, as he strode through the crowds, walking, despite his years away from the High Clan and the centre of power, as if he owned the world. The crowd parted automatically for him, but he was unconscious of the effect, because it had always been that way – even before he had left the wizarding world. But he was not so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't take note of a new shop, where a small printing press had once stood – odd, to see such a change in a place that had hardly changed at all in centuries.
A second hand bookshop? He would have to check it out, once he'd concluded his meetings. It wasn't every day you saw a new shop in Diagon Alley.
*************************************
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, the quietest time of the day, and she was busy planning her new image, the new, improved and fully responsible Ginny Weasley. Her list of things that needed to be done was quite daunting - heading the list was a new wardrobe, a new haircut that didn't make her look like she was still in her teens, a new confidence that would allow her to stand up to her brothers, and perhaps even a new man, although that might be going a bit too far.
She'd been wrapped up in Harry Potter for so long that she'd somehow missed the years where the rest of her peers gained their confidence in dealing with the male sex. By the time she realized she felt nothing more than sisterly affection for him she was seventeen years old, painfully shy and inexperienced.
Since then she'd somehow only managed to attract men who were...nice.
Gentlemanly.
Kind.
Respectful.
Safe.
Boring.
Her latest love interest was the perfect example - Gerald was financially secure, had a steady, well-paid job at Gringott's, and was a good prospect for marriage. He was solidly middle class and he liked classical music, expensive wine and French food. He had a social conscience and gave money to charity and good causes. He liked her family, and they him, even though he was not Harry Potter, and even if they did think him a little staid.
He was reliable, trustworthy, and financially solvent; he wanted a family, and marrying him would not turn her well-ordered, comfortable world upside down. Perhaps it was that realization that had given her the fatal jolt. Life with Gerald would be...comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
But not long ago, deep in the darkest hours of the night, she had realized that she wanted her life to be turned upside down and inside out. She wanted grand passion and drama. She wanted fireworks. She wanted...
She didn't want to end up like her mother.
Forced to be completely honest with herself, she had decided that, as much as she loved Molly Weasley, she simply didn't want to spend her life constantly looking after seven children and one husband, keeping a house and content with being shabby genteel, ignoring the pitying looks or the slights of those higher than them in the social strata. She wanted more.
Hence this new determination to grow a backbone, dispose of the baggy clothes and the unflattering hairstyle, and finally bring some excitement into her staid life. She wasn't looking for romance - all her experience with romance so far had been rather lacking, and not at all what she had imagined. But excitement would be good.
Perhaps even some sex. Wild, earth-shattering, screaming, no-holds-barred sex. Yes, that would be very good – and why not an incredibly rich, fantastically good-looking, unattached, heterosexual male as well, while she was at it? If she was going to do this at all, she might as well go all the way.
Laughing softly at herself, she was so preoccupied with her plans that she didn't hear the tinkling of the chime that announced customers entering the shop. But when she looked up absently, checking just to see if anything was happening, she felt her heart stutter, then give a huge thump. She looked into incredible silver eyes, and her heart stopped. She suddenly remembered her wish for a fantastically handsome, heterosexual male and offered up a small, entirely heartfelt prayer.
And then her brain, screaming a warning, caught up and started working again, and she looked past the eyes and at the rest of him. White skin, pale blonde hair, aristocratic features, and an unconscious arrogance. Her eyes slid down to his long, elegant white fingers, and saw an ancient, heavy silver ring engraved with a High Clan crest, and then back up to his eyes, which gleamed with unholy amusement. She shut her mouth with an audible click.
"Hello, Weasley," he murmured, all but purring.
She couldn't help it, she blushed. And then her temper, so rarely seen, came rushing to the fore, responding to the laughter that animated his entire face, turning it from a gorgeous mask into a real expression. In the six years she'd gone to the same school as he, she didn't think she'd ever seen him show any genuine emotion at all - not once. And here he was, in her shop, standing right in front of her, looking like a god...and laughing at her.
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of him, in no uncertain terms, gleefully anticipating wiping the smirk off his face, when the door chimes rang and another voice interrupted.
"Ginny, love, how about you shut up early and we go home for some privacy and a little fun, hmmm? Just the two of us?"
Ginny froze, horrified.
Malfoy blinked once, and his face blanked of any and all expression.
Gerald walked cheerfully into the shop and kissed her, then turned to Malfoy, eyeing his muggle clothes and shabby grooming with poorly concealed distaste. Malfoy said nothing, only watched him with impassive eyes.
Gerald, faint traces of condescension in his voice, turned to Ginny and smiled. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't see you had a friend here. My apologies." He looked back at Malfoy. "I don't think I've seen you around here before..." he raised an enquiring brow. Ginny winced, partly in mortification, partly because she could see the look in Malfoy's eyes and Gerald couldn't. She opened her mouth before she had even thought of it - knowing she would curse herself for later.
"Gerald, this is an old school friend of mine," she said brightly. "He's just come back from abroad."
Malfoy's sardonic eyes flicked to her, and then back to Gerald, who had held out his hand with a condescending smile. "Gerald Tarrant," he said jovially. Silver eyes stared with faint incredulity at the outstretched hand, and up to Gerald's face and smile. Ginny fought not to groan in dismay.
Finally, Malfoy took the hand and shook it gingerly. "Draco Malfoy," he finally said, polite but reserved. He didn't look at Ginny, and she was more than grateful for it. She didn't need to see what he thought of Gerald. He had immigrated to England some five years ago, and so knew little about the power and influence of House Malfoy, but even so, surely he would have been able to see past the surface and into the predator?
Because Malfoy was dangerous. She'd only needed one look to see it, to see the ruthlessness and the elemental strength, but evidently Gerald didn't see it, because he clapped the other man on the back with a patronizing smile, some male instinct satisfied that Malfoy wasn't a threat, and said, "Any friend of Ginny's is a friend of mine," Ginny winced again at the blatant possessiveness, "so perhaps we'll see you around some time?"
He made some polite, noncommittal answer, but she wasn't listening. She was looking at Gerald for the first time in a while, stunned at the change in him. She'd never seen him like this before - patronizing, condescending, almost pompous, and not half as...vital, as effortlessly dominant, as Malfoy.
They talked of other, trivial matters for a little while, until Ginny managed to usher them both out of the shop. But before he left, Malfoy looked at her with faintly quizzical eyes, and arched an eyebrow almost in question, or in challenge. She read it easily and scowled - and didn't stop to think why she agreed with him, or how she could read him at all.
Leave a Review