The day after he had visited the orphanage, Harry had decided to sleep in. He had stayed there all afternoon and long into the evening. After trying their horrendous experimental meal, he had taken them outside and taught the bigger ones how to fly on a broom. Sel, the tiniest but not the youngest, had been sad that he wasn't allowed to fly, so Harry had made it up to him by reading him to sleep.
Then, he helped the Madam with the babies in the nursery. There were only a few, but it still pained Harry that any parent could give up a child so small. He cradled a little one to sleep, wondering if the Durseleys had been so kind to him when he was dropped on their doorstep. He doubted it. Finally, he had gone home and slept, and dreamed of a happier childhood, and planned to sleep very late.
Naturally, the plan was foiled when Hermione flooed into his house at eight in the morning and demanded he get up.
"Harry! You've got to get up." She insisted, leaning over him.
"Nnngghh…" He groaned behind closed eyes, pulling the coveres over his head.
"I've set you up a meeting with Adam Pennom." She snapped.
Harry sat up immediately. He looked at Hermione with wide eyes. She was standing in his doorway with her arms crossed, looking disappointed.
"Really?" Harry asked, climbing out of bed. She shielded her eyes as he found some pants to put on.
"Yes, he's meeting you today. He's willing to write for you." She said, hands still over her eyes. "He doesn't have any clue why we need him yet, so you'll have to tell him."
"And why is that again? I mean, him, specifically." Harry was fully dressed now, and she looked at him curiously as she pursed her lips in thought.
"Because of the article, of course. He's bent, too. I mean gay, sorry. I just think he's the right person! Okay?" Hermione was stammering, and she looked as though she was on the spot.
Harry took a few steps closer. "That article isn't supposed to come out for another few months though. Isn't that what we said?" He asked. He wasn't complaining at the chance to meet Pennom, but he was suspicious at her sudden jump towards it. "What are you planning, Hermione?" He asked accusingly. She sounded like she was hiding something. Oh, she could be vicious at times, and was excellent at devising plans and strategies, but she was no good at hiding things from her closet friends.
"Nothing!" She pouted. "Nothing at all. You're both just shrouded in mystery right now. When you both step out into the light, it will have the intended bang effect." She elaborated.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Fair enough." He said, though he didn't believe her, and it didn't answer his question at all. "Give me some time to shower and have breakfast, and then I'll be ready to go, yeah? What time is he expecting me?"
"Not until the afternoon. Take your time. I'll wait for you downstairs."
Harry listened to her, and took a generously long shower. When he was done, the bathroom reeked of peppermint, as it always did. There was something off about the showers in the Black home— everyone who used it came out commenting on a different scent, regardless of the aroma of the soap or hair products they had used. Ron had always said it smelled of currants, and Hermione said lavender. Glen, his ex, had thought it smelled like the ocean, and had questioned Harry about the quality of his water. Harry couldn't tell him it was magic, of course, so he told him that he was just imagining it, proving it to him the peppermint smell that remained after his own shower.
Harry flushed as he remembered Glen suggesting they try it together to prevent the smell. He cast the thought away, however, reminding himself not to romanticize the relationship; Glen had been toxic, even if they had had some fun times... though none of those times were in the shower, or even in the bedroom, he remembered wryly.
Sighing, he dried his hair with a towel. He exited the bathroom and redressed himself, this time with more care now that Hermione wasn't watching. He was vaguely aware of the nagging desire in the back of his head to impress Pennom… Which was purely for publicity reasons, of course. He laughed at himself.
Of course it wasn't. He hadn't properly been with another gay man in what seemed to be an eternity, and Hermione had said Pennom was young, handsome, and gay. There were a few (possibly misguided) romantic motives behind his dressing nicely, and Harry found himself almost as excited as if it were a date. He practically skipped downstairs to the kitchen, where Hermione had thoughtfully prepared some toast and eggs that she had placed a Warming Charm on. Harry grinned cheekily.
"Thanks, 'Mione." He said, seeing that she had not forgotten to leave out the strawberry jam for him. He sat down and began spreading his toast with it. Hermione snorted.
"You do know you have four open jars of that stuff, don't you?" she asked, watching with disapproval as he spread his toast with copious amounts of the red preserves.
He took a big bite out of his toast, and said, "You can never have too much strawberry jam."
"You're certainly in a good mood, now that you're awake." She commented, pulled out a chair next to him, and buttered her own toast.
"Mmhmm. A good shower will do wonders. Have you got anything more on Pennom for me?" Harry inquired, taking another bite that was more jam than toast.
Hermione just rolled her eyes. "Of course. He's the man of your dreams and he's dying to meet you," she snapped, her voice saturated with sarcasm.
"Really?" Harry asked, oblivious to her tone. He dropped his toast. Hermione only snorted. "No, you prat. Is that what you wanted to hear, then?"
Harry flushed red, and muttered a resigned, "Maybe."
She sighed in response. "Oh, Harry. I don't know what to tell you. Besides that you're meeting him in the Cobalt Records in Carkitt Market, and you'll have to explain what you want from him." She replied and rubbed her temples. She gave him a pointed look, obviously willing him to not ask him for any sexual favors.
"It's like you don't even know me, Hermione!" Harry laughed, though he didn't quite blame her for her concern. He had been acting pretty desperate as of late, though he wasn't going to be asking for any sexual favors.
"Just, don't be too surprised if he's not everything you've hoped for." She said, almost cryptically. "I don't know what kind of images you've built up in your head," she added with a shudder.
Harry shook his head adamently. "I haven't been fantasizing, Hermione!" He protested.
She held her hands up in the air, and stood up. "I won't judge you, Harry. But I do have to get going to work. It's nearly noon, you know." Without further warning, she apparated away, and Harry cast a tempus charm to see if she had been correct. He shook his head. Either he had slept in very late, or he had spent far too long in the shower.
He would apparate to Diagon Alley once he had finished his breakfast, and then walk his way over to Carkitt Market. Who knew; maybe he'd stop by the Hopping Pot.
Draco dreamed.
He was in a room full of objects. Unwanted objects, cast there without consideration or thought. He had spent plenty of time in that room, and not only because it was the Room of Requirement. He was not alone in the room, this time.
"Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" Draco had screamed, unsure if he was protecting Potter or himself by saying it.
Vincent had hardly listened. He cast a spell. Then, there was fire, fire shaped like the beasts from his childhood nightmares. Then fire shaped like his father, fire shaped like himself. It devoured the room, burning and scathing and destroying.
But he was flying, flying away from it, clutching to the dark haired boy on the broom, who had not been killed.
Vincent burned.
Draco awoke with a start, the words don't kill him still playing on his lips. He breathed heavily, clutching his chest and the reassuring truth that he was awake, and the fiendfyre was gone, and he and Potter had survived. He had had the dream dozens of times before, but in the past week, after seeing Potter again, the dream had not left him alone. Every night, he awoke sweating and panting and praying that not another person had burned.
It had always helped to strengthen his resolve. He would set things right, he thought, and the dreams would go away. Which brought his thoughts back to Potter. That had been happening a lot lately, he realized glumly. It was disturbingly much like his Hogwarts years. Now, his head revolved around Potter— Potter's furniture, Potter's friends, Potter's article. And today, he would be seeing him again. He wasn't sure if he was dreading it or if he was terribly excited (hopefully the former).
Draco rolled out of bed and set himself to washing up, and then tidying around his flat. And then probably the shop, too. Not that it wasn't immaculate anyway; Draco was a very orderly person, and he kept his shop rather organized, if he were to say so himself.
After another shower (with more apple scented products), he made breakfast for himself. He tried a fancy porridge recipe from a muggle cookbook he had bought at a "thrift shop" a few weeks ago. It ended up turning purple from the usage of berries, which bothered him a bit, so he tried casting a charm to remove the color. It worked, which pleased him. He had a strange penchant for white-colored foods, and the memory of his mother telling him to "eat the rainbow" nagged at the back of his mind. He just sniggered. That had become true in a different manner entirely. A false justification, perhaps, but Draco cared more about enjoying his food, and the rule that his food was mostly pale was essential to making that happen for him. A food rule, his therapist had called it.
Once he finished his porridge, Draco opened his daily copy of The Prophet. The front page was something about Celestina Warbeck, which naturally made him cringe. Upon further investigation, however, it was rather interesting. Apparently, a muggle had accidentally found a portkey and ended up at her concert. She had invited the hapless fellow on stage to sing A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love, after which his memory was erased. Draco shuddered. He had a sneaking suspicion that even more people would be coming into the shop for that record now.
Does it never end? If it didn't bring me so much profit, I would remove her records from my shelves completely. Sighing dramatically, he turned the page. Then, he froze…
Speaking of the shop, on page three:
Malfoy Heir Starts Anew With Record Shop in Carkitt Market
By Calla Gallows
For the past three months, Cobalt Records has sat quietly across the street from the Hopping Pot in Carkitt Market. Customers come and go to get their music fix— the shop offers music of all kinds, including records from up and comings like Wicked Punk, Celtic Chanters, Hallowed Howlers, Werewolves on Diagon, and Zombie Crystal. The eclectic selection also includes a (rather limited) selection of classic artists Celestina Warbeck and The Weird Sisters.
Little have its customers known, however, that the shop is run and owned by Draco Malfoy, the son of the notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. While his father is now imprisoned in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy won his freedom in 1999 after months on trial, with the helpful testaments of Harry Potter. A quote from the 1999 coverage of the trial shows Malfoy saying, "I didn't choose to be a Death Eater. It was thrust upon me by my father and the Dark Lord. I was expected to fail." Malfoy had continued to attest to his innocence, saying, "I was forced to hurt many people. I even said some very hateful things. But that isn't me now. I can and will get past this. I can change."
Many people will remember Harry Potter's say on the matter, which made front page news in February of that year: "Everybody deserves a second chance. Including Malfoy and his mother, both of whom saved my life. There's good in them, even if I didn't see it when I was younger."
Four years later, Malfoy has kept to his word. There have been no reports of him performing the Dark Arts or committing any crime. According to one Auror Weasley, "Malfoy's gone alright, I suppose. Last I heard of him, someone planted doxy eggs on his house." So, is Draco Malfoy truly a changed man? A misunderstood victim, even?, given the reported amounts of assault to his person whenever he enters the public eye. T
his reporter went to investigate his shop undercover just yesterday to find out. Malfoy sits behind his counter, scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. He is dressed in muggle attire, though slightly formal. He barks out a welcome, absorbed in whatever he is writing. This reporter hovers around the shop, which is completely devoid of Dark artifacts, though not lacking in muggle memorabilia. As I pick up Celestina Warbeck's new album and bring it for purchase, Malfoy scowls. "Not another one," he sighs, taking the record. "Anything but another one of these. Even the Hogwarts Choir."
Upon asking him several more questions, this reporter has come to the conclusion that the only thing worthy of suspicion from Draco Malfoy is his apparent lack of taste in music. Upon further interrogation, I discovered that he believes that "Warbeck isn't music," that "yes, muggles are quite fascinating," and that I "ask too many questions." Otherwise, he lives a quiet life living above his shop, staying low, and visiting the muggle world. As far as former Death Eaters go, Draco Malfoy appears to be fairly harmless. Go visit his new shop; you're bound to find an interesting record or two.
-CG
Draco dropped the paper and took a shaky breath. He knew it could have gone much worse, that they could have brought up much worse details from the trial. That didn't change the fact that for the past four years, he had been dreading the day that he was finally reported on. And, of course, he knew that Hermione had told him that she would make it happen… But he hadn't expected it to come so soon. Why did it have to come so soon? And why did it have to be on the shop?
Well, he knew enough about journalism (and Granger) to know why. Before they started reporting on any other movements, they had to reintroduce him to the world's eye. But, it still meant not being able to hide under glamours when any risky customers came in, and that he couldn't get any more sympathy tips now that people thought he was an heir, and perhaps it also even meant that there would be some more intentional doxy infestations.. but he knew that it had done something to clear his name. He just wished there were a different way to go about it.
Regardless, the article wasn't half bad…. Even though that reporter was an airhead. He remembered her, and cursed him for not realizing she from the press sooner. If he had known, he would have said something more redeeming.
He stood up, folded the paper in half, and wondered if Potter had read the article. If Potter had already figured out that he was Pennom— Hermione had already told him where the meeting was. He was bound to figure it out. Unless he's still as daft as he was in school.
Draco sighed and shook his head. What would happen would happen; he could only hope that Potter would keep his mouth shut until they spoke. In the meantime, he decided he would work on his record player a bit, and then open up shop early. He hoped he wasn't being presumptuous in hoping that the article would at least bump up his sales.
The record player sat in an esteemed spot on the shelf over the hearth in his tiny sitting room. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, besides the black leather chair that he had bought a number of days ago. Draco reminded himself again that he needed to go and buy the rest of his furnishing; he had been living there for nearly three weeks now, and he had yet to completely move in. In retrospect, he should have furnished it before he moved in. He had owned the shop for months prior… he just hadn't been expecting to need to move in.
He picked up the record player. It was very muggle— a black, square box that was only a few inches tall. It was nothing like wizarding record players, which resembled muggle record players from over fifty years ago. This was new. He had to lift up a lid to place in a new record, and there was no visible horn to project the sound. His—no, the person who had given it to him had said something about there being speakers on the inside, but he had yet to figure out how those worked.
His goal with the record player was to be able to convert it to magical energy instead of electricity, so people who lived at places like Hogwarts (or anywhere else with strong residual magic) could use it without worrying about frying the hardware. See, I'm getting it! Draco thought. I know how to use words like hardware! He wasn't sure quite what hardware was, but he knew that it was his problem as far as the magic went. His other problem would be getting people to like it. Wizards liked strange, flouncy looking things like the old record players. Why settle for this boring old box when they could use their old one just as easy? Never mind that it took up less space or was more portable; wizards didn't usually have those kinds of problems. There were always shrinking charms, or lightening charms, or extending charms…
But he was still determined to make it work, even if it was just for his own personal use. He could use it without worry in his flat above the shop, though he wasn't quite sure why. As soon as he brought a gadget downstairs, into the shop, it snap, crackled, and died. He usually just left it there; the small children who came into the shop were always fascinated. There were lamps, portable music and game players (too tiny for him to even bother trying to work on), a telephone, and even some interesting muggle toys that were supposed to talk (but obviously didn't anymore). Most of them came from the thrift shops he loved to visit, but the rest came from his old flat with—with—
Fuck.
He closed the record player. I can't avoid thinking about the asshole forever. A lot of the things came from the flat he shared with his ex, Matthew. They served as constant, little reminders, but he did well ignoring them. Not now, though.
Matthew, who ran his own record shop in muggle London, not far from the Leaky Cauldron. Matthew, whom he had dated for four months without realizing the bastard was fucking with every man and woman on the block. Matthew, who had finally broken it off with Draco because he had too many secrets (he was a wizard, of course he did!). The irony of it still stung, considering the other man's own secret life spent sleeping with anyone with legs.
But that was three weeks ago, and Draco was already over it, he told himself.. It hadn't bothered him much, and he wasn't going to let it do so now. He had to open up shop, anyhow.
Down the stairs he went, more aware of his muggle attire than usual. With a flick of his wand, he unlocked the door, and the sign in front of his shop now said Open. He was a few hours earlier than he was normally open on a Monday, but he had confidence that the article would send over plenty of people who didn't know better.
He was right, of course. He only had to wait a few minutes before his first customer entered. He looked a bit older than "middle aged," with shamelessly sported gray patches in his curly black hair and beard. He hovered excitedly in front of the records, choosing five after ten minutes of indecisiveness. As he came to the counter, he presented his choices to Draco.
"How much for these?" He asked, his voice keen and bouncing.
"Er, for the lot of them?" Draco asked. "Twelve galleons total. Because you get three galleons off for buying five."
The wizard nodded, pulling a handful of galleons from his pocket. "I read the article in The Prophet, you know. So glad to see that you've overcome your past and become a contributing member of society," he grinned, not noticing the offense in his words as Draco winced. "I mean, a record shop," the man said, looking around as if he were standing in the dome of the Hagia Sophia.
"Mm, yes. Thank you." Draco muttered, but the man wasn't done.
"I haven't been in a place like this since before I went to Hogwarts! Once I became a wizard, of course, I never really went back to muggle things… But I guess you just miss stuff like this. Not that there aren't any other music shops… But this one feels right. Feels properly muggle."
Had anyone said the phrase "properly muggle" to Draco five years ago, and meant it seriously, he probably would have laughed in their face and cast a hex. But Draco only smiled, and said, "It's a pity I haven't any muggle music to sell. But I'm working on it."
He spun back to face Draco. "Really?" He asked, pale green eyes alight. "How? Are you enchanting their records? I hear they've started using things called seedies instead." Draco almost shrunk under the fervent excitement the other wizard was radiating.
"CDs, yes. I mean, no. I haven't a clue how I could get those to work without muggle technology. But I'm trying to get one of those newer record players to work off of magic." He explained.
The wizard nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes. Well, I'm sure I'll be back to see it when you're done. The names Auror Micheals, by the way."
"Thank you, Auror Micheals." Draco replied, hoping the man would leave now, as there were a few more people beginning a queue behind him.
The auror smiled brightly. "Yes, sir, Mr. Malfoy." He turned around to leave, and called over his shoulder, "I'll see you in the papers, I'm sure, you brilliant young man!"
Draco flushed slightly with embarrassment, and was left smiling, because it was also the most positive interaction he had ever had with a customer. The smile faded, however, as the next person in line had come to buy not one, but two Celestina Warbeck albums. He took their money without a word, muttering a half hearted, "have a nice day," as they left.
After that, he had sold twenty albums before noon, which broke a new personal record (pun not intended). Many people came requesting to hear a sample of the artists listed in the article, which they had never heard of before.
Draco wondered why the reporter had chosen to endorse those particular artists; they weren't terribly popular. Maybe she was trying to make a point: Draco wasn't selling that many Top Hits, so there had to have been something off with him. He didn't mind, though. He was grateful for the new, more interesting clientele.
Well, for the most part.
A lot of people he had gone to school with had come in and bought more Celestina Warbeck albums, which had to have been a deliberate effort to spite him. He was glad when they sold out, no matter what that had meant. He wasn't restocking.
And finally, fifteen minutes past one o'clock, Harry Potter had wandered into his shop.
Yes, wandered was the right word—Potter was looking fairly lost, and also trying to act overly casual. Was he aware that meetings were generally mutual affairs, and he didn't have to act like he wasn't there to see him? Unless, of course, he hadn't figured out that Draco was Pennom. In fact, Draco didn't even think Potter noticed him yet. Which stung, considering he had found Draco with such ease in the muggle store, even with his glamours on.
Draco cleared his throat. "Hello, Potter. You know, its usually considered courteous to greet the shop keeper upon entrance."
Harry looked up from his ambling through the shop. "Oh, Draco! Hello. I hadn't seen you there." He mumbled, walking closer to the counter. "I didn't know this was your shop."
Draco leaned forward on the counter to watch him. What game is he playing at?
"Yes, it is. In fact, they announced it in The Prophet this morning. Wasn't really my wish, of course, but it brought me plenty of new business. I take it that's not why you're here, then?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. Two could play oblivious.
"Oh, no. I don't read The Prophet often," Harry confessed, finally meeting Draco's eye, and clearly not stating his motives. This aggravated Draco. You can't have everything handed to you on a silver plate! Just bloody tell me you're here to meet Pennom, you spoiled prat.
Then again, Potter didn't know he was Pennom. This could be fun, Draco decided.
"Oh, well, I'm in it quite often. Just last week, I was on page four." he boasted, thinking he couldn't have been more obvious.
Potter rolled his eyes. "Draco, I thought we weren't playing these games anymore."
"What games, Harry?" Draco asked, with false innocence, but honest confusion.
"This! You, boasting about how bloody great you are. Not all of us care about fame, Draco." Potter whined, turning to pick up a Werewolves on Diagon record and avoiding eye contact.
"It's called having a conversation, Potter. Besides, I thought you were trying to get back in to the paper." Draco replied, sounding as good-natured as possible. Potter dropped the record, and looked at Draco with fury. Draco didn't see the need for the animosity…
"Malfoy!" He snapped. "I never wanted to be in the bloody papers, no matter how much thought I was an attention whore or no! And that certainly hasn't changed!"
Draco stared in silence. He didn't know what he had done to invoke this sudden rage.
"I thought we were past this, Draco. I tried being nice to you in that furniture shop. I tried to make amends. But no, first you had to suddenly apparate away, and now you're acting just like you did in Hogwarts! Except now, you're so bloody calm and nice about it—you don't even sound angry!—and it's bloody infuriating!" Potter was gesticulating madly now, and Draco could feel his magic swirl around the room. The lumos he had used to light the shop began to flicker.
He couldn't think of what to say in response, and Potter continued talking without him.
"This is ridiculous. Pennom isn't even here... Maybe he's in the Hopping Pot... Yeah, of course he is, I'm twenty minutes late!" Potter grumbled, turning to leave.
"You won't find him there, Harry," Draco said, thinking that using his first name would calm him down. Potter spun back on his heels.
"Really? Did you see him? Did he tell you where he was going? Why didn't you tell me that?" he demanded, the fury only subsiding slightly.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Because, Potter, if you had been listening to a single thing I was saying, you would have figured out that I'm Adam Pennom."
