Disclaimer: I don't own anything out of the Harryverse (dreamed up by J. K. Rowling) or The Music Man (written by Meredith Wilson). I do, however, own my fangirl crushes on Professor Harold Hill and all things Drarry. I'm not getting paid for this. If I were, my children could go to college.
Warnings: Beware the randomness. General warnings throughout for scattered swearing, mentions of sex, fluff, and a bit of OOC-ness.
A/N: This isn't a crossover fic; there are no characters/worlds other than Harry Potter. It was born out of my musings that if canon-Draco were a little bit nicer/had a bit more of a conscience, he would remind me a lot of Harold Hill. So I wrote what might have happened.
Updated to add: I've updated a few chapters to fix mistakes, and there's a sequel up as well.
Chapter 1: In the Leaky Cauldron
Glancing around furtively, Draco Malfoy paused outside a squat, brown building wedged between an office park and a restaurant decorated with tacky American flags and a large sign proclaiming that it sold 'Authentic New York-Style Pizza!'
Surreptitiously casting a charm on the window to make it more reflective, he inspected every inch of himself in the large front window of the building. Normally, one might assume this was out of simple vanity. In this case, Draco had a different reason for making sure that not a hair was out of place. He had to be certain that his glamour was holding before he set off.
Years ago, Draco had perfected the art of the semi-permanent glamour. He had created the unique combination of spells himself, using the standard charms, a stasis spell, and a potion adapted from Muggle technology. He might think Muggles were beneath him, but he certainly wasn't above using their inventions whenever it proved useful.
He had bound the spell he had created to a bracelet made of small, colourless stones that changed shape and texture slightly with each new glamour. He could easily hide it under the sleeves of his robes, and even long-sleeve Muggle shirts mostly covered it.
At that particular moment, Draco was critiquing the look he had chosen. He had darkened his hair four shades or so, lengthened his nose, rounded his normally slender (he refused to think of himself as pointy, even if he knew it to be true) features, and turned his grey eyes to a somewhat bland brown. He sighed; it was difficult, sometimes, to appreciate his own skill. He missed looking like himself. However, the look he had chosen suited his purpose. It left him attractive enough that people would notice, but not enough to gather a love-sick group of fan-girls. He appeared professional and well-groomed but without any appearance of aristocracy.
Upon completing his self-examination, Draco checked to see that the way was clear. He straightened his low-end suit and made for the corner. Fortunately, it was only a few blocks to the Leaky Cauldron, and the foot traffic was light so early in the morning. With any luck, he would be in and out and on his way in a respectably efficient amount of time.
Unfortunately, luck was not on his side that morning. Draco suppressed a groan of frustration. While not busy, the Leaky Cauldron was doing steady business. A fair number of early risers were sipping their tea or coffee and reading the Daily Prophet. He recognised several of them from previous encounters. More than likely, a fair number of them were doing much the same as he was—gathering their bearings before setting out on business.
The difference was that most of them had legitimate business.
Thankfully, the glamour would hold just fine, and it wasn't one he'd used before. It was getting a bit iffy, whether or not someone would recognise a previous incarnation. He couldn't take the risk. So although it was more work, he put greater effort into developing his characters, creating an entirely new persona each time. He donned his robes and stepped further inside.
A witch with frizzy blond curls led him to a table near the front window. This suited Draco just fine; he rather enjoyed watching the passing Muggles. It was amazing to him that none of them had figured out a more efficient way to travel than by foot or by car. He gave a tiny shrug, deciding that it probably wasn't worth close inspection.
As he settled in with his tea, Draco listened to the low buzz of conversation around him. Patrons were drifting in and out, but a group of three wizards and two witches were carrying on a spirited discussion of an article in the Prophet.
"Yes," the dark-haired man with the wiry moustache was saying, "he's gotten away again."
At first, Draco had a moment of panic. He thought they might be talking about someone escaping Azkaban. Though he would not care to admit it, there were several people he would not like to find waiting for him should they break out. It soon became clear, however, that they were speaking of a recent crime wave of sorts.
"He's making it difficult for all of us," a slender witch with a large nose complained. "When people like that go about scamming the villagers, they don't trust the next person who comes to town."
The others nodded in agreement. The short, mousy wizard piped up, "He's been at this as long—maybe longer—than I have. He goes underground for a bit, but he always shows back up."
"And they can't catch him, because no one can ever identify what he looks like," added the tiny, plump witch.
With a start, Draco realised they were talking about him. After recovering from his initial shock, he decided to have a bit of fun with it.
Leaning over, he said, "I couldn't help overhearing you. You're talking about the Vanishing Salesman, yeah?"
The others nodded vigorously. "I take it you've heard of him, then," Moustache said.
"Who hasn't? Been damn hard to make a sale in any village he's visited," Draco said.
Mousy Wizard motioned Draco to join them. He gathered his cup and his bag, gracefully sliding into a seat next to Large Nose.
The third wizard, a balding man with a broad, red face, chimed in. "Last time I was in the town of Rose Hill, I couldn't sell a damn thing. He'd already been and gone, pretending to be in the same line of wares. After that, not a single witch or wizard was interested in location-specific Floo powder, because he'd already tried to sell them on ward-repellent Floo powder."
Draco suppressed a snigger. That had been one of his best takes, in fact. With the Department of Magical Transportation still heavily regulating Floo travel, it wasn't hard to get people to believe there was such a thing as ward-repellent powder. Too bad it hadn't been a real product.
"I hear he hasn't hit Hogsmeade," Tiny commented.
Balding snorted. "I wish him luck if he does. The villagers aren't keen on either sales or cons. He'll have a devil of a time selling anything there, in any case."
"McLaggen, are you still selling cauldron sets?" Large Nose enquired.
McLaggen snorted. "Yeah. Some people do actually find it useful to own a full set, after all."
"What are you selling these days, dear?" Tiny asked, addressing Large Nose.
"Self-cleaning cookware," Large Nose told her. "What about the rest of you?"
Draco listened while the others claimed to trade in encyclopaedias of magic, songbooks that taught the buyer to sing, and owl grooming kits. They looked at him expectantly.
"Broomsticks," he said automatically.
"Broomsticks?" Tiny was peering at him quizzically.
"Yes," Draco replied, leaving it there.
"Isn't that what the Vanishing Salesman trades in?" asked Moustache.
"Nah," the one called McLaggen said. "He's all over the map, though I don't doubt he's tried to sell broomsticks before."
Tiny wrinkled her nose. "As if you couldn't just buy one here."
The others just stared at her, and she flushed.
McLaggen went on, "He convinces the villagers that whatever he's selling, it's bigger, better, or fancier than whatever anyone else has got. He gives 'em enough to make 'em think he's the real thing, but he never delivers on his promises. He just takes the money and runs."
"How dreadful!" Big Nose said.
By this time, they had finished their breakfast and were beginning to collect themselves. Moustache was folding his copy of the Prophet and shoving it into his case. Draco stood to leave as well, gathering his belongings. He nodded to the others at the table.
McLaggen stood to see him off, extending his hand. "Best of luck to you," he said. "I don't believe we caught your name…"
Taking his hand, Draco said, "Todd Hadley."
He turned around, suppressing a smirk. Casting a mild confundus over his shoulder, he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron and onto the busy London street.