Thursday

Draco couldn't help it; despite being on the far outskirts of Diagon Alley, he couldn't help peeking around the corners to make sure he was avoiding large crowds or, god forbid, anyone he might know.

It was bad enough that the afternoon was bright and crisp following a fog-logged spring. The sun glinted off his hair, catching his eye whenever he passed a particularly spotless shop window. As he stepped back and rounded one corner - as though he hadn't just bent slightly at the waist to peer around it - hands shoved in his pockets, a toddler gurgled up at him, going by in a self-pushing walker. Chubby hands were raised into the air, grasping at nothing, and Draco was bothered briefly by the stirring in his gut.

Children. Once they had been a certain future, a duty. When had they become a desire that he had to tamp down with the embarrassment?

A young woman he could only assume was the child's mother strolled by a few feet behind, chatting with a friend, and her gaze went from the toddler's sudden fascination to his white-blond hair as he was almost completely past the trio. He heard the pause in the conversation; knew she was most likely doing a double-take, wondering if he was really who she thought he was.

But why would he be back here? he recited in his mind, having heard it whispered in his general vicinity many times. What could possibly bring Draco Malfoy - ex Death Eater and disgraced Pureblood - back to London?

Only two and a half weeks back and he often found himself asking the same thing. It had been a quick decision, as was every decision that followed after. The train ticket back, one way. A new luggage bag. A flat that was rented monthly. And the piece of parchment, worn from being folded and re-folded, in his pocket now, where he fingered the thin corner.

We have found ourselves with a sudden vacancy due to unfortunate circumstances.

When he woke in the mornings, in the unfamiliar flat and the double bed, his mind flashed through every event that had led to him being here. In London. Had he dreamed it all? Had it all been wishful thinking?

Of course not - he scoffed aloud, drawing the gaze of an old man sweeping just outside of a parchment shop. Draco Malfoy dreamed of many things, but returning to London under these circumstances was never one of them. He found himself fighting back hope the same way he'd snuffed out any thought of a real, normal future. He reached across himself and gripped his left forearm, where now there was only a faded opaque mess. What he was being offered, what he was tentatively returning for, was the only future he could hope for.

"Is that Draco Malfoy?" he heard, and couldn't help turning his head to find the speaker.

The boy was ginger, and young, but obviously too old to be a student. For a moment Draco's heart pounded in his chest and his mouth went dry. A Weasley -

But no. It was just some other redhead, freckled in the heat of the day, although he could have been related for the indignant look on his face. "Can you believe - " he spat, and Draco ducked down the next alley to the right, looping back toward the quieter streets. There would be no quidditch shops today.

This alley was more than the average alley, and a quick glance told Draco that it was partially residential. The windows above the few shops contained plants, curtains, figures moving and voices floating out of open windows. It was blessedly empty except for a few people walking with their heads down, going about their business.

He slipped his hands back in his pockets and slowed to a stroll. A shop on the right sold magical fish. He paused here and watched one circle lazily before winking out of existence; appearing again in the next tank over, to his surprise, and the frustration of the shopkeeper, whose muffled yell sounded agonized. In two seconds the new occupant of the tank swallowed the original; a smaller fish, periwinkle blue and innocent looking with huge eyes. It left behind a smudge of red in the water; the Jumping Fish, as the sign advertised, having sucked it down in one big gulp before appearing back in its own tank.

Draco blinked and continued on.

Maybe a fish wouldn't be so bad, he mused, thinking of the empty nightstand back at the apartment. But not the kind that could suddenly appear damp and flailing on his face as he dozed - no thank you.

A small herbalist with basic remedies and low prices was next, as well as a knitting shop with yarn piled precariously in baskets that took over every available space. A small group of older women chattered within. And then down on the left, there, just after a large potted plant that seemed to be stretching lazily in the blocks of sunlight that made it down into the alley - a very bright, slightly ornate door.

Draco slowed completely as he neared it, intrigued by the setting of the bricks around it and the curled iron over a long glass pane. He ducked his head as someone passed by close enough for him to feel a robe play at his ankles, and then glanced up to read the small black and gold plaque just to the side of the door: A New Chapter.

That pesky bit of hope that Draco had beat down earlier suddenly swelled in his chest again. He ignored it as he reached for the handle; it wasn't a sign. Such things didn't exist. But he had four more days until the meeting, and time to spare. He couldn't spend every waking hour wandering the streets of Diagon Alley, chancing being recognized and reminded of every mistake he had ever made. Though it could be no worse than the list he went over in his own head every morning as he brushed his teeth.