To everyone waiting for my next installment in the Keeping the Stars Apart verse - next week - I promise. I just needed to focus on something else for a little while...
This was my very first story. The first three chapters were originally a one shot of the same name which I published five years ago, with the intention of writing a sequel.
Three months later I sat down and wrote the first chapter of the sequel, got distracted, and was never able to pick it up again. Consequently, it has been sitting on my PC for five years and I am pleased to say that it is finally finished..
The story starts shortly after the end of The Half Blood Prince, then takes a rather different direction.
Rated T just to be safe. As usual, to my great regret, I do not own any of JKR's amazing characters. I just borrow them to play with occasionally. Neither do I own the lyrics of Bobby Goldsboro's Summer (The Very First Time) which was the inspiration for this story.
It was a hot afternoon, the last day of June, and the sun was a demon….
Under a sky the colour of sapphires the heat crawled over Diagon Alley like a living thing, smothering everything it touched in a breathless suffocating blanket. Those few brave souls that were foolhardy enough to venture out in the middle of the day clung to the scant shade, and cast longing glances at the burnt out and boarded up frontage of what had been Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. But Fortescue had "disappeared" in a Death Eater raid six months ago, and in these troubled times, no one was interested in re-starting something as frivolous as an ice cream shop.
The crowds were afraid, one-ten in the shade, and the pavements were steaming….
Inside the Leaky Cauldron everything was similarly quiet. Despite Tom's cooling charms the bar was still uncomfortably warm, and few were tempted to linger and talk, when who knows who might be listening. A few regulars dozed over their drinks and in the corner, shielded from view by the rickety staircase that led to the bedrooms, a hooded figure was get seriously stuck into a bottle of Tom's Firewhisky. With his white blonde hair charmed an undistinguished shade of brown and his hood pulled well down to shield his face even his best friend would have had a hard time recognising the Slytherin Prince now. On the run from the Death Eaters as well as the Order of the Phoenix since the recent debacle on the top of the Astronomy Tower Draco Malfoy had little money, no friends and nowhere left to run; hence his current expedition into the bottom of a bottle.
Truth be told, He Who Must Not be Named's newest recruit was discovering that he had little stomach for life as a Death Eater. How many seventeen year olds got to celebrate their coming of age by failing to murder a disarmed old wizard in cold blood, he thought bitterly. He had finally seen the reality of the life his father had brainwashed him into and he didn't like it – at all. With a sigh Draco downed the rest of the contents of his glass, and rested the cool surface against his pale cheek. What was the alternative? The Ministry would send him straight to Azkaban, and Potter and his little gang would kill him as soon as look at him. No – there was no alternative. Draco Malfoy was going straight to hell on a hippogriff. If the Dark Lord let him live that long. A pale hand – not entirely steady - reached for the Firewhisky bottle, and as he did so he looked up from the table, and across the bar.
He hadn't heard the door open – sloppy he chided himself - but he was certain that she must have only just arrived. It was the sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor that had caused him to look wearily upwards. A woman was standing by the bar, talking softly to Tom. He smiled, nodded, and slipped a key over the bar; with a rustle of her light summer robes the woman turned and headed for the stairs. She paused, barely a heartbeat, as warm honey coloured eyes met storm grey across the room; but then, with the barest nod of acknowledgement she moved on, leaving Draco to his misery.
She was just walking by, when I looked in her eye, and I swore it was winking
Her footsteps echoed across the ceiling, and Draco groaned softly, turning back to his bottle. And stopped, hand outstretched. Materialising on the stained wooden surface was a rose, a perfect damask rose, softly perfumed, it's silken petals the exact deep rich crimson of the mysterious witch's robes. Tied to the stem was a note – written in an elegant cursive hand were the words
"Room Seven"…
xx0xx
What was he doing? Draco thought, as he mounted the stairs. He didn't have the first idea who this woman was, for all he knew she was his deranged Aunt, under a glamour. If it was, he'd be crucioed before he'd even stepped through the door. Merlin and all Founders forbid she let her lapdog Greyback loose on him. Putting that horrifying image firmly to the back of his mind, Draco took a deep breath and knocked on the door of Room Seven, stepping back, startled as the door swung silently open.
The room was blissfully cool but full of sunlight as he stepped inside, blinking somewhat after the relative dimness of the bar and corridor. Despite staying at the Cauldron on many occasions, he'd never been into this room before, his parents preferred the slightly darker Room Nine for its views of the Alley, whereas this room looked across Muggle London. Nonetheless it was a large pleasant room, with a seating area at one end and a large curtained bed, in the centre.
"Good afternoon Draco." The woman's voice was soft and musical, but held a decisive note, clearly conveying that she was not some piece of fluff to be trifled with.
Immediately, he was on his guard, reaching for his wand. "How do you know my name?"
She emerged from a shadowed archway at the back of the room and stepped into the sunlight for the first time. A small smile played across her lips "I know many things Mr Malfoy. I know that you are no Death Eater, that you may be in need of a friend right now and perhaps…" her nose wrinkled as she came closer "a bath and a meal?"
He lowered his wand, looking down ruefully at his rumpled clothing and scowled, suddenly more schoolboy than desperate fugitive. "I've been on the run for two weeks now, I don't think I've done too badly. Scourgify is alright, but it's not quite the same as a hot shower"
"Please" she said with a smile "help yourself" she gestured back towards the archway. "In the meantime I will see what can be done about clean clothes - and a meal." 'Food' – with a grateful smile Draco pushed his suspicions aside, and headed for the shower.
The bathroom was spacious and old fashioned, with a big claw footed bath in the centre of the white tiled room. The shower above was more modern, but everything was clean and inviting. Best of all was the pile of thick fluffy towels, kept to the perfect temperature by a light warming charm. Shedding his greying muggle shirt and jeans Draco moved over to the mirror and winced at what he saw. His usually immaculate white blonde mane was now a non-descript mid brown and flopped any-which-way around his face, which was sorely in need of a shave. 'Hmm – blonde stubble' he thought, rubbing a calloused hand over his chin 'need to watch that in future'. He stepped back a little, and looked himself up and down. Never given to putting on weight, he was showing the evidence of a hard year, and two weeks living rough with little to eat. His ribs and hip bones were protruding significantly more than usual and his lean, Quidditch-honed body was decorated with now-yellowing bruises, relics of the recent fight at Hogwarts. Fortunately the sectumsempra wounds - inflicted, it seemed a lifetime ago, by Potter - were healed, although the scars across his chiselled abdomen were still livid against his pale skin. Unable to resist the lure of the big bath, he turned on the taps, filling the room with steam. Removing his underwear, he was preparing for a much needed soak, when he was startled by a knock on the door, followed by the voice of the witch.
"If you could pass out your clothing Mr Malfoy, I can get it cleaned for you". Securing a towel around his waist Draco obeyed. Meeting the witch in the doorway he felt her eyes running over his exposed torso, and was mortified to feel the heat burning in his face. Scooting back into the bathroom, he closed the door on her, a little faster than was perhaps polite. Leaning against the door, he groaned with embarrassment. 'Well done Malfoy. Very cool. One look from a witch and you're blushing and stuttering like a bloody Weasley for Salazar's sake. I mean – I suppose you didn't quite slam the door in her face, but you weren't far off it. Slick Draco, very slick.' With a sigh he shed his towel, and sank his weary body into the tub with a moan of ecstasy. If this witch was going to kill him, at least he would die clean – and hopefully fed too.
It was a very different Draco that emerged, nearly an hour later, wrapped in one of the thick fluffy robes thoughtfully provided by the management. His hair still needed a cut, but it was, for now, back to its normal pale shade, he was clean, shaved and very very hungry. Stepping cautiously into the bedroom, his nose was tickled by the tantalising aroma of the Leaky Cauldron's excellent catering, prompting his stomach to rumble in anticipation.
"Welcome back Mr Malfoy" the witch's voice, just behind his shoulder, made him jump. "I hope that you are feeling better." Reaching up, she brushed a lock of soft, damp hair away from his face, and smiled. "Much improved. I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself. My name is Morrigan, and I am here to help you. I think at the moment that that is all you need to know."
She was thirty one, I was seventeen
I knew nothing about love, she knew everything
So I sat down beside on the front porch swing
And wondered what the coming night would bring
She was standing close – much too close for the comfort of a teenage wizard – who was acutely aware that he was naked beneath his robe. She was a little below medium height, now at his full height of six-one, her head barely reached his shoulder; slender but sweetly curvaceous. He could see the shimmer of deep auburn in her dark hair, which was twisted up, secured by an elaborate silver and garnet comb. She was older than him, for certain, perhaps in her early thirties, but her skin was flawless, with a soft sheen of gold. Below long lashed eyes the colour of warm honey her nose was dusted with freckles, which somehow made her beauty more approachable. More human. Draco realised that he had somehow forgotten how to breath, and was blushing like a fool again.
Her shoulders were bare, and I tried not to stare, as I looked at her two lips
He was unable to resist allowing his eyes to drop from her face, to her long slender neck, to the low, swelling neckline of her crimson silk robe. To the pendant, which lay on the soft tempting curve of her breasts, a magnificent garnet, engraved with a bird in flight.
"The crow" she said softly, "Totem of my namesake, the Celtic Goddess of War, Life and Death. It was the gift of a friend."
"A lover?" Draco didn't know where the question had come from. His brain seemed disconnected from the rest of him somehow, and the subtle musky sweetness of her perfume was playing hell with his concentration.
Morrigan quirked an eyebrow. "You are impertinent Mr Malfoy" she tapped him playfully on the nose. "But yes – a lover – once, a long time ago. He has passed on now." For a moment her eyes clouded with remembered sorrow. Then her face cleared, as Draco's stomach reminded him again that it was a long time since his last meal.
"But come, the stasis charm will not last indefinitely. You must eat." She gestured to the table, where a bowl of steaming soup, bread, cheese, fruit, and what looked suspiciously like his favourite apple pie and custard, were waiting for him. Morrigan retrieved her wand from the sleeve of her robes and pointed to an empty flagon. "Would you prefer Butterbeer, or Pumpkin Juice with your meal?"
The food was every bit as good as he had hoped, and Draco attacked it with a ferocity that would have rivaled Ron Weasley. His hostess left him in peace to eat, going down into the bar to speak to Tom once more. When she returned he was asleep on the sofa, sprawled over its inadequate length like a Great Dane puppy. Morrigan smiled, and used a levitation charm to transfer him from the sofa onto the much more appropriate sized, and comfortable, bed. Taking a book from the shelf she sat down quietly on the sofa. But she did not read. Instead she gazed thoughtfully out of the window, watching a soft summer evening descend upon the London skyline.
