Stupidity combined with arrogance and a huge ego will get you a long way.
Chris Lowe
"What's left?" Harry asks, peering over Draco's shoulder to look at the list.
"Just the books and potion ingredients," Draco answers.
"We're near enough to Flourish & Blotts," says Professor Snape, lifting one hand to shadow his eyes from the glare of the August sun. Diagon Alley is bustling and sunny and loud, thick with people in brightly-colored robes.
"Can we stop at the broom shop?" Harry asks, craning his neck to get a look at the front door of Quality Quidditch Supplies through the crowd as they pass it.
Draco looks at him askance. "Thinking of trying out for Quidditch this year, are you?"
Harry looks back and grins clumsily. "Thinking of it, yeah. I did well during flying lessons. Madame Hooch says I'm a natural on a broom."
"Of course you are," Professor Snape says, sounding pained.
"So can we go?"
"Later. We'll get the rest of your supplies first."
"And then have lunch," Draco says. "I'm starving."
When they come upon the wide double doors of Flourish & Blotts, the bustle and clamor thicken exponentially. Draco frowns and stands on his tiptoes, trying to determine the reason for it.
"Oh, no," says Professor Snape suddenly. He's staring at something between the heads of the others in the crowd, looking horrified and slightly nauseous. "Oh, no, no, no."
Draco frowns up at him. "What's wrong?"
"No, no," he says. "No, you boys are on your own for this one."
"You're leaving?" Harry asks.
"I'll get your potion ingredients. We'll meet back at Cafe Leche. Good luck and godspeed."
And just like that, Professor Snape turns on a heel and strides away, robes billowing around his feet. Draco stares after him in silence for a moment, then looks back to Harry, who is wearing a mirrored look of confusion.
"Well," Draco says, "now I'm curious."
Harry's face breaks into a grin and together they push their way through the crowd.
It turns out to be easier said than done. Now that he's in the thick of things, fighting for a way into the shop, Draco can pick out snippets of sentences—
"—can't believe it's actually him!"
"Do you think he'd take a photograph—?"
"Look, there he is!"
There are camera flashes going off from all around, and when Draco manages to break through to the front of the pack, he finds a handsome, golden-haired man beside a stack of books, preening and smiling brilliantly for the cameras.
"Who's that?" Harry asks into Draco's ear.
"Gilderoy Lockhart, apparently," Draco answers, eyeing the books. They're all freshly-printed, starch and glossy, and all the covers seem to feature their author.
"He's the one that wrote all our textbooks this year, isn't he?"
Draco is about to reply, but before he can, there's a sudden voice that pierces through the noise:
"It can't be Harry Potter?"
Harry goes still and wide-eyed like a frightened deer. Gilderoy Lockhart is beaming at him, and he swoops right forward, grabbing him by the shoulder.
"Nice big smile, Harry," Draco can hear him say. "Together, you and I are worth the front page."
And suddenly the crowd is muttering equal parts Gilderoy Lockhart and Harry Potter and the camera flashing gets even more frequent. Draco watches, halfway between horrified and incredibly amused, as Lockhart puts an arm around Harry and gives his best dazzling smile.
Harry gives Draco a desperate look. Help me, he mouths.
On the one hand, Draco knows how much Harry hates the spotlight. On the other hand, this is hilarious and Draco's pretty sure he can't do anything, anyway.
Sorry, Draco mouths back, really trying to pretend this isn't funny.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary moment this is!" Lockhart begins loudly, and Draco immediately tunes him out.
His eyes move across the crowd. They've sectioned off a large part of the shop surrounding the table where, according to the poster, he will be signing copies of his autobiography, but Draco thinks he spies a way around to get into the store proper and start gathering the books off the list.
He worms his way through the crowd slowly but surely. He manages to grab two copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 when he hears a very familiar voice that sets his heart racing.
"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids…"
Draco swallows and looks over. Sure enough, his father is standing towards the back of the shop, opposite Arthur Weasley and much of the Weasley brood, looking pressed and polished and perfect as ever.
Draco has plenty of confidence in his abilities, of course. He's sure that he can be seen or even talk to his father without triggering the memories that Draco's obliviated. But if someone starts asking questions about his son – someone like Arthur Weasley, perhaps – there's no easy way to predict how he'll react.
"I hope they're paying you overtime?" his father asks, before reaching a hand into the cauldron of a redheaded girl – the youngest Weasley, no doubt – and producing a ratty, second-hand textbook. "Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"
Draco's eyes swivel to Arthur Weasley. His face is flushed purple and his hands are clenching at his sides. Draco is suddenly worried that he might actually attack.
"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," says Arthur Weasley.
"Clearly," his father answers, gray eyes narrowed. He drops the textbook back in the young girl's cauldron and—
—what was that? Draco narrows his eyes and cranes his neck. Tucked in against the textbook is another book, smaller, bound in green leather. Draco can smell the Dark Magic coming off it from across the room – he's certainly smelled it enough at the Manor to know.
Arthur Weasley is gritting his teeth and gearing up for an attack and Draco has to get that book back because this obviously has something to do with whatever plan the Dark Lord has for his father and without really thinking about it, Draco inserts himself between the two men.
He doesn't really have a plan beyond the knowing that neither of them will go for their wands when there's a child standing between them. And, indeed, both of them glance to him briefly and their hackles settle marginally.
"Let's just pay and go," says Arthur Weasley's wife urgently, pulling at her husband's sleeve.
"Good luck with that," his father ripostes, which draws a last snarl out of the Weasley patriarch before he and his wife turn and head for the counter to pay.
Draco looks back at his father without really meaning to, and quite to his surprise, his father looks back at him.
There's no light of recognition on his father's eyes, which is good, and Draco does not feel a tiny pang of sadness because he definitely does not miss him and Mother in spite of everything.
When his father notices Draco staring, Draco says the only thing he can think of:
"Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"
His father makes a face and strides away. Draco releases a breath.
"Good timing," says a voice from behind him, and Draco turns. The youngest Weasley, short and quiet and smiling shyly, is inching over. "I think they were about to rip each other apart. You're Draco, right?"
Draco looks down at her cauldron.
"Sorry," he says, "I think my father dropped…"
He reaches in and pulls out the book. The smell of Dark Magic is heavy, and Draco is glad that most witches and wizards don't recognize it. The girl blinks at the book in confusion.
"Yeah," she answers, "that's definitely not mine."
"Must have been an accident," Draco says. "I'll get it back to him. Thanks."
"You're friends with Harry Potter, aren't you?"
"Uh," Draco says. "Yes."
She grins and bites down on her lower lip. "Is he nice? I hear he's nice."
"He's very nice," Draco answers, deciding that he has to get out of this before it's too late. "See you at Hogwarts. Good luck with the Sorting."
He pushes past her before she can respond, tucking the book into his robe pocket. It's unbearably heavy against his chest.