Another night, another Knut, as the saying went.
Draco Malfoy, third favourite bachelor of Which Witch magazine punched out of work and slung his satchel over his shoulder.
His broad hands, once silken from lack of labour were calloused, with the slightest tinge of green at his fingertips. He'd been chopping potions ingredients for the last two hours, and god if he didn't yearn for a nice, hot bath, a glass of firewhiskey, and his warm familiar bed.
After school had ended, instead of following his father to a job at the ministry, he'd decided to take some time away. Explore his options, find out who he really was, maybe discover his passion. But as of yet, nothing. Nada. Just days and days and weeks and months of neatly slicing, dicing and grinding various ingredients. It was monotonous work, but Draco forced himself to think of the upsides. It was important. Someone had to do it, why not him? He'd found pride in his work, and himself.
But still. The hours were long, and some of the ingredients they had him prepare were straight up vile. He was stubborn enough to push through.
Diagon Alley was packed. Children screaming as they picked out their familiars, shopkeepers hawking their wares, and one particularly loud couple 'making out' outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour . At first, the din had been near unbearable. But, like many things, Draco had got used to it...warmed to it, even. It was a far cry from the stillness of Malfoy Manor, but the noise, the bustle.
Diagon Alley was alive.
Diagon Alley was alive, and so was he.
He wound his way through the crowd, an expert at this point. He'd become a lot more skilled at blending in, even with his silver-blond hair being a goddamn beacon. In the year or two since he'd left Hogwarts, Draco really had changed a lot. In looks as well as temperament.
He held himself with a less impertinent air, though he was still confident. His shoulders had filled out some, and his face wasn't quite as narrow and pointed. He'd let his hair grow, and though it would have been curtains of ivory silk if he had it loose, he'd taken a page from his father's book to tie it back in a leather binding.
Draco was no longer a child. He was a man in the world, and he was proud of himself. When his father heard about the goings on in his life, they were far less negative. Less bratty. Instead, he found himself enthusing about a funny occurrence at the Apothecary, or a silly run-in he'd seen at Madam Malkin's. Life was just better. He hoped it would continue in that vein.
Sliding into a seat at the Leaky Cauldron bar, Draco cast his eyes about. The same old group, old witches and wizards sitting around with pints, reminiscing. Younger ones drinking away their sorrows, and a few just making their way through. He ordered a Firewhiskey and put down a few coins – now that he earned his own money, he was far less flashy with it. Indeed, he'd learned the value of a hard-earned Galleon.
The glass was slid his way, and he took a sip. It burned all the way down. Satisfying.
He kept looking about, and the glass was halfway to his lips again when he paused. God, that was someone he definitely hadn't expected to see.
As if of their own volition, his legs brought him to a stand, and propelled him forward to the small corner booth. His footfalls were silent.
He took a deep breath and smirked. God, memories.
"Potter."