Sif worked through her summer, as any normal, seventeen year-old girl would do for life experience, in a part-time position as a clerk. Unlike normal, seventeen year-old girls, the shop she worked for sold exclusively magical books, for magical people, for the magical community she had suddenly found herself apart of, nearly seven years prior. This sudden realization would have been more plausible had her parents told her about her adoption; she had come from a wizarding family that had perished just six months after her birth in the middle of what, she later found out, was called the Wizarding War.
Her case had been a curious one, solely for the reason that her parents were of 'pure-blood', and yet still chose to reject the dogma of 'blood purity', which would have naturally harboured them, had they been wizards of a meeker sort. Beyond that, of course, Sif knew little of who her parents were, and had since decided that their choice would have meant nothing beyond their loss had she not learned, and then adopted, what little she knew of their philosophy.
To her peers, she was still the child of a set of Muggles; they were, for the most part, unaware of her heritage, with as little or as much as her heritage still applied to modern life. She had ultimately decided, in her fourth year or so, that this hidden truth was best kept as a secret- there were far too many bad conversations to be had that involved blood-purity, which she was convinced had little to do with much, anyway. However, many were still convinced that being pure-blooded was the Muggle equivalent of being born into a royal line. While Sif was flattered to be considered the sole heir to her family bloodline- at least, the only 'heir' that she was currently aware of- she had no idea what throne she was supposed to sit on...so therefore, it must be a fairly unimportant seat to take.
Sif stood behind an antiquated cash register, a tall shelf of the shop's most valuable property locked away behind her back. Her eyes scanned over an out-dated muggle newspaper that she had smuggled beneath the counter, a mug of coffee tucked into her other hand. It had turned out to be a very slow business day, whereas most wizard's were not thinking about books on a Wednesday- or at least, it appeared so- and just a few souls were drifting through the aisles, only indicating their presence with a stifled cough or the soft, papery shuffle of a book being lifted from its shelf.
Sif was reading about a religous turf war in Muggle Africa when the shop-bell suddenly sounded. Anxious, her hand immediately shoved the foreign newspaper as far back into the cubby beneath the register as her arm would comfortably allow. She had a tight-lipped, professional smile already tacked on her face as she glanced up to regard the person who had stepped into the shop.
She recognized him immediately.
This man, whose pale, blond hair and strikingly aristocratic profile was unknown to the world written about in her Muggle newspaper, was infamous in this one. Lucius Malfoy, whose name had been well feared during the aforementioned war, had somehow- Sif could make many cynical assertions as to how, but- had somehow cleansed his name since, and even had the confidence to walk without a faltered step under the suspicious and fearful glances he continued to inspire.
Sif did her best to still the quiver developing in her underlip. After all, there were only so many Death Eaters during the war that had been known to be active within the neighbourhood where her true parents had lived, and Lucius Malfoy had been named one of them. By all probability, it was quite likely that Sif was now standing not three feet away from the man who was responsible for murdering her parents. A man who might have been responsible for her own death, had her parents not excersized the caution they had by sheltering their child in an orphange far away, just a week before their deaths.
But, Sif had grown up with no knowledge of these people, who, if they were still alive and she had still been adopted, would have been perfect strangers. She felt no true attachment to the story of her parents, for it seemed only a story, beyond a sentimental longing to know which of her parents had given her their beautiful, blonde hair, what values and lessons they might have taught her, or a deep wonder at the thought of who she might be, if she would even be working at this bookshop, if she would have even liked books, if they were still alive.
Lucius Malfoy had pled insanity, or at least the Wizarding equivalent, fourteen years before, a time beyond her full comphrehension; and, by all fairness, it seemed to Sif that the only crime he could still be held accountable for was the killing of, what now was, just an idea, if he had happened to be holding the wand that had taken their lives. So, there were two things that kept Sif firmly planted in her place behind the register. Somehow, impartiality seemed to have been bred into her, despite. Her apathy had been the effect of witnessing the breadth of cruelty capable of man's hand at an early age.
Sif wasn't surprised to see that Malfoy was only interested in the oldest books, too valuable to keep out in the open. His cold, grey eyes were fixed on the tomes hidden behind the locked, glass doors behind her, and Sif was forced to stand in his shadow as he casually considered the titles. He gave her presence no acknowledgement, instead thrusting his strong chin into the air. Sif wanted nothing more than to let him know of the mercy she had just afforded him, of the significance of the asylum that the Ministry had granted him, and how fortunate he was that she had known nothing of the people who should have been her parents. Sif knew the likelihood of his guilt, but also the power of his influence and how it had paid for his freedom whether he was guilty of her parent's murder, or someone else's.
And she was frightened by how her left hand was twitching, too eager for the justice that might be brought by simply returning one of his curses, of which he was likely owed many, despite her lack of evidence to incriminate him.
When he found the book he was searching for, which he indicated to be a thick spellbook wrapped in golden brocade that was worth far less in weight than the sum required to purchase it, his cold eyes finally fell down upon her. She stiffly jerked into action, rather not wanting to return such a stare, finding the rusted iron keys required to open the display in a partition beneath the register. Her fingers were trembling as she worked the old lock, and nearly lost the keys several times before the doors finally sprung open.
She averted her gaze as she brought the book to Malfoy, quickly reaching for the lengthy form required during the sale of every book within that cabinet, and immediately began to fill out its fields while Malfoy examined the spellbook.
When she finished, she spun the form around, and held out her quill so he could sign it.
She watched as his eyes rapidly scanned the text, when they came to a short pause near the end of the document.
"Is there a problem?" She asked, her expression bemused.
A frown flickered over Malfoy's face, betraying his thoughts for less than a heartbeat, before his hand scrawled his florid signature across the page. He picked up the parchment carefully, his lips puckering to set the fresh ink with a single, steady breath.
His eyes were glinting as they came up to hold her.
He had expended so much effort in ignoring her at this point, and his gaze now held such cruel, predatory precision, that Sif felt a stroke of fear, very much like the child of the greater fear her parents must have experienced before their deaths.
"Sif.., is it?" He simply observed, his lips curling.
Sif nodded meekly.
His eyes were without any colour, empty, and very much like the eyes Sif could imagine capable of cold-bloodedness.
"Quite an uncommon name." He said, gently handing back the document. "Nearly obsolete, in fact."
"...It is." Sif agreed, her voice timorous through the knot tightening in her throat. She took back the document, and stowed it hastily away beneath the register.
"There, there." He coddled stiffly, some coldness disappearing from his face. "I'm merely making polite conversation." His tight smirk returned as he swept the book into the crook of his arm.
Sif's grip on the countertop tightened as Malfoy swiftly turned and left the shop. Her knees had grown weak with the sudden realization that she was experiencing much more terror than she had initially anticipated. She needed to sit down on the tall stool beside her while his silhouette crossed the large, front window, his stride just as cool and confident as when he had first entered.
There were four hours until the bookstore closed for the night, and even Sif's Muggle newspaper did little to ease the creeping feeling developing on the small of her back. She had become ever vigilant, a cautious eye turned to the front of the shop, certain in the probability that he would return again. But, when?
