The Apothecary / Madam Pimpernelle's / Madam Malkin's
On an overcast morning in early August, Draco and his mother step through the arched entryway to Diagon Alley, their shoes clattering against the cobbled street beneath them.
"It's changed," Draco remarks almost immediately. Where once there'd been bright window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons, he now sees only dull, text-filled posters from the Ministry of Magic. Collectively, they hide every inch of glass, all manner of security advice printed and ready to read.
You are advised not to leave the house alone.
Take particular care to complete journeys before nightfall.
Use security questions before letting anyone inside.
The posters continue for several lines, going as far as to warn that Death Eaters sometimes disguise themselves using Polyjuice Potion and that, as of late, they are known to force Inferi to do their bidding.
Inferi? How ridiculous. Draco shakes his head as he and Mother walk down the street, passing additional changes to observe. While the Ministry's posters are recent additions, there are plenty of deductions to notice as well. The unmanned vendors' carts are completely bare, several boarded up shops appear to be closed indefinitely, and the crowd is sparse and far less jovial than in years past.
Draco looks to Mother, seeking her reaction.
"Of course it's changed," she says. "You expected otherwise?"
Unconcerned. That's how she's been all summer, ever since her feud with Bellatrix and the related discussions which followed that afternoon. Draco learned that, like him, Mother's talent is for Occlumency, but she's skilled enough at Legilimency that she and Bellatrix can — and often did as children — engage in silent warfare.
So what looked like a staring contest in the dining room was actually an accusation, a rebuttal, and an acceptance. The accusation, obvious. The rebuttal, as follows:
Mother and Professor Snape are not having an affair. But Snape is leaning into their decades-old, platonic friendship to glean information about Father, to coyly uncover a path to his vacant spot as the Dark Lord's second-in-command. To further his plans, Snape has also offered to assist Draco in his mission, pointing out that he's well suited for it because Dumbledore believes them to be allies.
"I let him think what he wanted to think," Mother told Draco. "But do I trust him? No, not at all. You should know by now, darling, that I don't trust anyone. But it's safer to let him believe that I do."
Draco had pressed Mother on that point. Why is it safer? Why not call Snape out on his hidden motives? Why not stonewall him? But Mother gave only a wishy-washy answer in return, something about Death Eaters needing to get along in order to serve the Dark Lord. All in all, it did little to diffuse Draco's suspicions.
The acceptance, from Bellatrix, not him.
Since then, whenever he witnesses Mother's unconcerned reactions, his suspicions are triggered anew. He simply cannot accept that she's being genuine, that she isn't bothered by Snape's motives or the general state of the Wizarding World. It has to be an act, an attempt to hide something.
Draco has kept his suspicions hidden from Mother, though. He doesn't want to add to the list of topics they've been arguing about lately. He has, however, confided in Bellatrix. Despite initially impressing her with his Occlumency abilities, he knows he can't hide every single thought from her. So he figured why not.
"Is it possible Mother lied to us? Used misdirection, perhaps?" he asked back in July. "You said some Occlumens can do that, right?"
But Bellatrix hadn't taken his questions seriously. "Don't worry about Severus, dear nephew," she said. "It takes a lot of gold to capture your mother's attention. And, coincidently, a lot of gold to finance a war. Severus doesn't have enough for either. No, no, I'm the one you should be worried about. I have a real shot at taking over your father's rank, you know."
That had worried Draco. It still worries him. Right away, he thought of how the Lestrange family, Bellatrix's family by marriage, doesn't have the same level of wealth as the Malfoys, but they do pretty well for themselves. Besides, Bellatrix is a talented, ruthless witch. A real difference-maker in battle, and she's deeply devoted to the Dark Lord, too.
"You'll take Father's position for the time being, or — or for good?" he had asked.
"Oh, hard to say, hard to say. Maybe once Lucius is released from Azkaban, he and I can duel over it. You know, after the Dark Lord and I have won the war without his help."
Bellatrix cackled at that. She liked to cackle. And to goad Draco. He usually didn't fall for it, but when it came to his Father, he couldn't help himself.
"Without his help?" Draco challenged. "Tell me, whose gold pays for the meals you and the rest of the Death Eaters eat? And the roof over your heads? And why has Mother visited Gringotts so frequently this summer, if not to retrieve more galleons for the Dark Lord?"
Bellatrix leaned across the dining room table, grinning. "Do you really think Cissy's going to Gringotts that often? Or might that be a lie she tells when she's going to see her lover."
Ugh. Gross. Draco had shuddered when Bellatrix said it, and he shudders again now in Diagon Alley as he recalls the conversation. His movement catches Mother's attention. She glances sideways before linking her arm through Draco's and steering him across the street.
"I was thinking we'd stop at The Apothecary first. Replenish your potions supplies," she says.
Draco nods, but that plan only adds to his swirling, conflicting, frustrating thoughts. Don't mention Snape, don't mention Snape, don't mention Snape, he silently begs. Don't mention that filthy fucking slimeball! Mother, please, if you're —
Fuck.
Release all emotion.
'Release all emotion' is a phrase Bellatrix taught Draco, a tool to help him remain ready to Occlude at any moment. He repeats the phrase to himself as he steps into the shop and begins tossing ingredients into a basket. It works, and soon he's back to thinking about his summer lessons without feeling strongly about them, one way or another.
It's strange — but necessary, Draco supposes — to learn Occlumency from someone whose natural talent is for Legilimency. Perhaps, though, it's precisely because Bellatrix's natural talent lies elsewhere that she's developed so many tips and tricks.
They work well, Draco has to admit. Really, when Bellatrix isn't being a madwoman or twisting serious conversations into jokes, she's quite helpful. And her latest idea about Vanishing Cabinets?
Well, no, he shouldn't give her much credit for that. He loves the idea, but she doesn't. And it's mostly a happy accident that the idea came about and that it has any merit at all.
In a brainstorming session the previous week, Bellatrix offhandedly mentioned Vanishing Cabinets. "I'd kill for a pair," were her exact words. Draco had been certain she wasn't exaggerating. But he hadn't heard of Vanishing Cabinets before, so he asked her to elaborate.
Vanishing Cabinets, Bellatrix explained, act as a passageway between two places. Put a person inside of one and they'll appear in the other. They were all the rage during the First Wizarding War and a great cause of distress among Death Eaters.
"They came in all shapes and sizes," Bellatrix said. "Didn't matter what they looked like, as long as the pair matched. So how were we supposed to know that's how our targets were evading us? The Dark Lord grew angry about our many missed chances. Yes, very angry. But then Donal Borgin — you know, of Borgin and Burkes? He told us —"
It clicked into place then, and Draco leapt out of his chair with excitement. "They have one! At Borgin and Burkes! And it's match — Merlin! It's match is at Hogwarts already!"
"Don't be ridiculous. It's match was thrown off the White Cliffs of Dover by Borgin's partner, Caractacus Burke."
They argued about it for several minutes, Bellatrix certain that she knew the happenings of the First War better than Draco, who, she reminded him, hadn't even known what a Vanishing Cabinet was until she told him. But Draco was relentless. He was certain he had a story Bellatrix needed to hear.
"Back at school, last term, I stopped by the loo on my way to —"
He'd been on his way to Professor's Snape's office. For what reason, he could no longer remember. But he had no desire to mention Snape at that moment, so he told a small lie.
"I stopped on my way to the library, and this boy I knew from Quidditch was lying on the ground, bloody and wheezing. I ran to fetch a staff member, then back to the loo. And the boy, Graham — he said he'd been shoved into a cabinet and couldn't get out for days. Eventually, he managed to Apparte. I guess that's where the blood came from. Splinched himself. Anyway, he said — I swear to you, Aunt Bella — he said that while he was in the cabinet he could hear everything happening at Borgin and Burkes!"
It took a bit more arguing, but Bellatrix soon conceded that the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts must have been retrieved from the Strait of Dover, probably by Dumbledore himself as it would have required a great deal of magic to collect and mend all that shattered wood.
"But I can get it working properly again, can't I?" Draco asked. "If it's that close already —"
Bellatrix had cut him off to express concern. She figured if the Vanishing Cabinet could be fully repaired, Dumbledore would have done it long ago. But as far as Draco was — is concerned, it's destiny. Every powerful pureblood that ever lived must be reaching from beyond, guiding him down this perfect path.
Dumbledore will be dead before Halloween.
And yet, despite his confidence, Draco is in a foul mood. The day is going horribly because —
No, don't think of it. Release all emotion.
Draco reminds himself of his plan to visit Borgin and Burkes between shopping in Diagon Alley and heading back to Malfoy Manor. His anticipation to get there might be the real reason he's on edge, more worked up than usual about Mother's lack of concern.
Liar. That is not the real reason.
Dammit! Release all emotion!
The phrase isn't going to help this time, Draco can tell. More intentional misdirection, then. Lean into those thoughts about Mother. Why not? Anything's better than —
Right. So Mother's too calm. Too collected. Fake. Hiding something. First, she was unconcerned about the Ministry posters. Then, she made him think of Snape by suggesting they visit The Apothecary, and then —
"I know today's trip is about you, darling," Mother says, interrupting his thoughts, "but would you mind terribly if we stopped at Madam Pimpernelle's next?"
That's fine. Only — Well, Pimpernelle's is several shops beyond Quality Quidditch Supply, which is where he thought they'd be headed. Every year, at a minimum, Mother upgrades his servicing kit and riding gloves. She'll usually treat him to more too, so long as he asks.
Does skipping over Quality Quidditch mean Mother knows he plans to quit his House team? And if she knows, is it because Bellatrix told her? And if Bellatrix told her, what else has she been repeating from their lessons? Anything about Snape? Or, Merlin forbid, about his persistent sex dreams?
Release! All! Emotion!
Fuck, if he has to yell the phrase at himself, it's really not going to work. Misdirection. Think of anything else. Pimpernelle's. Mother's request.
"Sure, we can go there next," Draco mutters.
With everything he needs to start N.E.W.T. level classes, he heads to The Apothecary's register to check out. Two minutes later, he and Mother are back on the cobbled street, heading towards the beautifying shop.
A bell rings above their heads as they enter, then Mother points to a pair of plush sofas in the corner. "There's a waiting area over there. I'll retrieve you when I'm finished," she says.
Draco leaves her without a glance, not trying to disguise his increasingly bad mood but not trying to showcase it either. In the waiting area, he notices copies of Spellbound scattered across the tea table, a magazine which panders to high society pureblood witches like Mother.
He grabs a copy and thumbs through it, thinking of another one of Bellatrix's tips and tricks. Though Legilimency is about exploring thoughts, it's controlling emotions which guards best against it. Therefore, to remain ready to Occlude, Draco must do whatever it takes to keep even-keeled.
"Read something boring, if you must," Bellatrix once said.
It's was desperate-times-call-for-desperate-measures sort of advice, which Draco never expected to have to resort to. But these are desperate times, indeed.
Unfortunately, a few pages into the magazine, his eyes fall on a headline which causes the exact opposite effect of what he'd been hoping for. His stomach drops as he read the words An Affair Admitted at Long Last.
Too late now, though. Draco's intrigued, not only because the headline speaks to him, but because below it is a photograph of two people he knows, his classmate, Blaise Zabini and his mother, Gianna Moretti.
Mrs. Gianna Moretti (née Vecellio), the beautiful pureblood witch once poised to inherit the Vecellio Vineyards fortune, has finally admitted a truth which her closest friends long suspected. Her son Blaise, now sixteen, was conceived through an affair with the late Mr. Braxton Shacklebolt, of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Shacklebolts, and is, therefore, as pure as she is.
First known for her looks and for acting against her parents' wishes that she marry a pureblood, Mrs. Moretti eloped with Halfbood Roberto Zabini in their home country of Italy in 1978. Shortly after, the couple relocated to Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, England, where Mrs. Moretti took on humble work as a Healer's Assistant in St. Oswald's Home for Old Witches and Wizards.
It was there that she met and started her affair with Mr. Shacklebolt, who frequently visited his aging parents at the Home. A year later, Blaise was born, and from early on Mrs. Moretti's friends wondered which of the two men in her life was the boy's true father.
Since coming into this world, young Blaise has lost Mr. Shacklebolt, as well as the man who's name he shares, who raised him through his toddler years. He has also lost six subsequent Halfblood step-fathers.
Blaise's most recent step-father, the late Alessandro Moretti, was a childhood friend of his mother's. In 1993, they reconnected after he inherited Vecellio Vineyards from his own step-father, a pureblood who purchased the vineyard directly from the Vecellio family when they grew too old to manage the business themselves.
During their engagement, Mrs. Moretti returned to Italy, where she continues to reside after her husband's passing. Blaise, a Slytherin and rising sixth-year at Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, visits her in Italy during holidays. Meanwhile, Mrs. Moretti and her adult step-daughters, all Halfbloods, are set to attend court hearings this fall in an effort to determine which of them now owns Vecellio Vineyards.
Draco shakes his head no fewer than ten times as he reads the article. When he's done, he tosses the magazine back to the tea table. What a bunch of rubbish. Subtle attempts to make readers pity Zabini and envy Mrs. Moretti? Mentioning his losses and that he's in Slytherin? Mentioning her good looks and ability to attract suitors?
Not mentioning that she's a gold-digger and, most likely, a murderer too. Despicable.
And now Zabini gets to be pureblood, does he? He's probably beside himself with joy. Handsome, rich, and charming. The only thing he'd been missing all these years was blood purity. Lucky for him, mummy dearest decided to spill the beans.
Zabini's real father, like the other wizards Mrs. Moretti's been involved with over the years, is mysteriously dead? Unable to challenge the claim? How convenient.
Daphne Greengrass must be beside herself with joy too. No more fighting with —
Wait a second. Is it possible?
Taking the magazine with him, Draco marches through the aisles of Madam Pimpernell's, searching for his mother. He passes everlasting eyelashes, glamchops moisturizer, and much more before finding her in front of a shelf full of perfumes.
"Did you have something to do with this?" he demands, shaking the magazine under her nose.
Mother takes a moment to look at the article, to make sense of Draco's question, before laughing lightly. "How could I have anything to do with that?" she asks. "I've never met Gianna Moretti. I heard about it from Rilyn Greengrass, though. She's thrilled. Such a convenient ending for her oldest daughter."
"That's exactly my point. Too convenient. Perhaps because it's a lie? I know the Greengrasses are some sort of pet project of yours, Mother, and with Theo out of the way —"
Mother sucks in air through her teeth, making her favorite disapproving noise. Theo, the Greeengrasses, and marriage arrangements. These are the topics they've been arguing about lately.
"You will not speak his name in front of me," Mother commands, pointing an angry finger at Draco.
She turns away, planning to resume shopping or pay for her items, he assumes, but he catches her by her arm before she can get that far.
"You're a hypocrite, Mother. A sexist hypocrite," he says. "To hate Theo as much as you do but insist the Greengrass sisters are any different? You should resent, as I do —"
"I know it's unfair, darling —"
"You should resent, as I do," Draco repeats, his voice overpowering his Mother's, "that Daphne's going to get that convenient ending after all these years of turning her nose up at tradition. But, oh, that's right. Why would you resent it when you helped make it happen? Tell me, did you pay Mrs. Moretti to do this? Is that all it took, a bit of gold? Seems she's always in want of more, even though she has plenty already."
Mother tries the same line again. Annoyingly steadfast, she is. "I know it's unfair —"
"Father would hate this. He'd call this article a bunch of hippogriff dung, and he'd agree with me that Pansy's a better option than Astoria!"
Draco regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, even though they're one hundred percent accurate. Mother can handle it when he balks at her love for the Greengrasses, but whenever he brings up Pansy, shit really hits the fan.
But they're in public, and the worker at Pimpernell's register, Draco notices, is staring down the aisle at them. At least for now, Mother keeps herself in check.
"I know it's unfair," she says a third time, "that pureblood girls are allowed more exploration before marriage than pureblood boys. But that is the inescapable consequence of the gender imbalance we face. Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept it."
Mother turns away again. This time, Draco lets her. She walks to the register. He walks to the waiting area. He dumps the magazine on the table once more, exits the shop, then leans against one of the Ministry posters plastered to the window. He waits, arms crossed.
Once Mother joins him, shopping bags in hand, their argument resumes. He knew it would.
"Rilyn Greengrass has assured me —" Mother begins.
"That her daughters intend to marry as they should. Yes, you've told me countless times this summer. But why are you so willing to take her word for it? Is that really all you need to be convinced?"
"Of course not, darling. Haven't I told you I'm skeptical of others? I always need much more than a person's word."
"Then how do you know Mrs. Greengrass is right about her daughters?"
"I know because it is a mother's job to know."
Draco scoffs. "That's a shit answer."
"Language, darling," says Mother. She links their arms together as she did before they visited The Apothecary. "To Madam Malkin's?" she asks.
Draco begins to walk with Mother in that direction, but doesn't fall for her lame attempt to smooth things over. "You don't even have a good reason to like Astoria," he says. "You just have this unfounded belief that we're right for each other, lodged in your head since I was a child, and now you're too stubborn to let it go."
Mother shakes her head. "That isn't true," she says. "When you were a child, I wanted you to marry Daphne someday. Remember, there are many factors to consider when arranging a betrothal, including birth order. I only became interested in Astoria after —"
For once, it isn't an interruption from Draco that makes Mother stop talking. It's that she almost broke her own rule and mentioned Theo.
The young men grew up together. Neighbors, classmates, and fellow purebloods. And though Theo was always a bit of a loner — not shy, but selectively social — Draco considered him his closest friend.
But last summer, Theo's mother, Cecelia, betrayed the Dark Lord, then faced the necessary consequence. She was killed. Theo found her dead body in the garden at his family's manor, and was never the same. Distant. Moody. Vengeful, even, it would seem. Draco and the other Slytherins eventually learned that Theo had struck up a secret friendship with Harry Potter. And what other reason could there be for that than to to partner with him against the Dark Lord?
Theo disappeared once word got out. Went into hiding. No leads on his whereabouts. Which means he must be getting help from the other side. No one evades the Dark Lord without it. He knows far too much magic, including tracking spells galore.
Though disappointed and dismayed by Theo's actions, Draco isn't personally offended by them the way Mother is. To her, it's as if Theo spat in her face after she tried to help him. He was included in the trip to Mont Blanc with the Greegrasses because she meant for him to marry Daphne.
Even though she originally wanted Daphne for her own son, Mother's saying now.
The thing is, Theo and Daphne got on so well at school that a marriage between them made perfect sense. He fancied her while she fancied Zabini, but that didn't prevent a friendship as strong as Theo and Draco's own from developing.
He wonders now, though, if their friendship was always based on mutual dislike for traditional pureblood ideology. It's easy enough to picture: the two of them staying up late in the common room, whispering about their desires to marry for love, to fight for equality for all blood types.
Love and equality. Draco understands why so many people think they want those things. They sound nice. They sound like freedom. But as far as he can tell, they only lead to chaos. His philosophy is that it's better to live not for the follies of his individual heart, but for the advance of the magical world at large.
For the greater good, as they used to say.
Though Draco supposes there are ways to do a bit of both. He plans to marry a pureblood witch, even if he doesn't love her. But that doesn't mean he has to accept a blood traitor into his life. He raises his objections about Astoria Greengrass once again.
"You called it exploring, what pureblood girls are allowed to do," Draco says to Mother. "Have you forgotten that Astoria's been exploring with someone much worse than Balise Zabini?"
"That isn't true," Mother replies. She sounds as if she's arguing that two and two make four, as if only a great fool would dare disagree.
"It is true," Draco returns impatiently. "How many times do I have to tell you? Astoria came to my dormitory —"
"But you said yourself that you don't remember it clearly. You were delirious with fever. And according to Rilyn, Astoria denies that she's ever been involved with a Muggle-born."
"Well, of course she denies it to her mother. She doesn't want to be thrown out of her home, does she?"
"Why tell you then? Hmm?"
Draco groans, too frustrated for words. They're repeating all the same arguments they've made a dozen times before.
They arrive at Madam Malkin's and Mother brings them to a halt near the door. "And don't start with me about French girls, either," she warns. "Even if the Rosiers introduce you, no French girl is going to revere your lineage as well as she should. You come from two great lines —"
"I know, I know, I know. The Malfoys and the Blacks. The best of the best. But if I refuse to marry Astoria, and you won't let me marry Pansy —"
Mother makes another one of her disapproving noises. "You can't honestly tell me that Pansy Parkinson is good company," she says.
"Well, no," Draco admits. "I find conversation with her exceedingly dull. But when it comes to what's important, she'd be the perfect wife."
"How can you say that? She has a horrendous personality, and I'll eat my wand if it turns out she has any maternal instincts whatsoever. So what is it you consider important in a wife? That she's submissive? That's she'll follow you blindly?"
In their previous arguments, Draco and Mother never got this far. He seizes the chance to make a real case for himself for once.
"Pansy will complain until my ears bleed about incompetent house elves, and gardeners, and co-chairs of whatever event planning committee she's invited to lead," he says. "But she respects me. She respects my family lines. When it comes to what's important, yes, she'll do whatever I say. And, yes, I like that about her. I won't apologize for it."
Mother raises an eyebrow. "When it comes to what's important?" she echoes. "Such as?"
Draco should have been ready for that, but he's not. To give himself a moment to consider his answer, he deflects. "Why are we still standing out here?" he asks. "I need new can discuss all this in front of Madam Malkin. We pay her wages, don't we?"
Mother follows Draco inside, laughing at him as they go. "Your father doesn't own this shop, darling. Are you thinking of the garment factories up north? They probably supply fabric to Diagon Alley but, really, if you want to avoid my question —"
"Such as," Draco yells, "which sets of parents we travel with on holidays. What we do with our parents when they get too old to care for themselves. And whether or not our children are named after any of our parents."
He smiles to himself as they come to the end of the hall which leads from Madam Malkin's front door to the open room where she does fittings.
Mother greets the shopkeeper loudly. "Lorna! So good to see you!"
"Mrs. Malfoy. The pleasure is all mine." The two women exchange kisses on their cheeks, then Madam Malkin glances curiously at Draco. "Giving your mother a hard time today, as usual?"
Draco scowls. Before he can respond, Mother does so in his place.
"Draco has a soft spot for the youngest Parkinson girl," she says, "but I don't approve. You might recall from our school days, Lorna: I've never liked the Parkinsons. A boorish family. Not so different from the Weasleys, I'm afraid."
Madam Malkin snickers but doesn't outright agree. Draco remembers from previous visits that this is her typical way. He figures she takes the same approach with Mother as Mother has said she's taking with Professor Snape.
Let people think what they want to think.
Undeterred — or uncensored about the minimal response, Mother carries on. "Yes, I suspect in another generation or two, the Parkinsons will be blood traitors themselves. Then again —" She pauses to glance at Draco. "My son may know more about their family than I realized. He's already given so much thought to a betrothal with Pansy."
It's a jest, a belated acknowledgement of Draco's parents-this-and-parents-that comment. It makes him suddenly weary, painfully conscious that when it comes to the ongoing Astoria versus Pansy debate, he and Mother think and communicate too differently to find common ground.
"I haven't given it that much thought," Draco admits, defeated. He moves forward at Madam Malkin's beckoning, closer to her and the shop's trifold mirror. He stands perfectly still as she begins taking his measurements. "But on an instinctive level," he adds, turning his head to look at Mother, "Pansy just makes more sense to me."
Mother's eyebrows scrunch with confusion. "Darling, are you saying you're drawn to Pansy physically, despite that nose of hers?" she asks.
The question is so unexpected it makes Draco laugh. Actually laugh.
And then that funny little thing happens. A flash. It's as if he's briefly transported to another time and place. Or, rather, as if another time and place has briefly interrupted his current reality. It's been happening all summer, each instance different in ways he can hardly articulate. This instance reminds him of being outdoors. Somewhere as busy and colorful as Diagon Alley used to be.
Draco ignores the flash. What else can he do? He'll sound crazy if he tells Mother. "Pansy's not unattractive," he says.
"No, not terribly," she agrees. "But I was under the impression —" She hesitates a moment, then vaults forward. "Oh, darling, I was under the impression you rather like how Astoria looks."
Fucking hell. She's referring to the dreams.
Draco hasn't discussed them with her, which means she's either thinking back to that first lesson with Bellatrix, or the two of them have been gossiping behind his back. Either way, Mother's words make him want to scream.
I lied! The girl in the dream is not Astoria!
He'll never confess, though. Especially not after the way the dream ended this morning. Every other time, Draco has woken up just after pushing himself inside the girl, then used his hand to finish the job. But this morning —
Wait, no. No, no, no, no. Release all emotion.
This morning he fucked the girl against the lockers until they climaxed simultaneously. And then, still inside of her, still breathing heavily, he brushed her hair out of the way so that he could kiss her shoulder blade gently. And that —
Release all emotion!
Intentional misdirection!
Find a book! Read something boring! Anything but —
Anything but choosing acceptance.
That's another one of Bellatrix's tips and tricks. "Acceptance brings peace. And peace brings control. And control is necessary for Occlumency," she said once.
But how is Draco supposed to accept the ending of his dream when it revealed something so gut-wrenchingly horrible? He brushed the girl's hair out of the way, and that was when he realized who she was.
She had rich dark skin. He hadn't known that before. Dreams are funny that way, allowing you to see a whole person without seeing many details about them, even ones that are rather obvious in real life. But when he saw that detail and added it with the others — her hair, her periwinkle knickers — he knew.
The girl's a Mudblood. And that's the real reason he's been on edge all day.
Earlier, he called Mother a hypocrite, but if she's a hypocrite, what does that make him? Someone whose repeated dreams make no damn sense, he tells himself. He's not like Theo. He's not like Astoria. He's not even like Mother.
Draco hates all blood traitors and Mudbloods. No exceptions.
"Are you feeling alright, young man?" Madam Malkin asks. She's clutching a robe in her hands, ready to help him drape it on over his outfit, apparently. He hadn't noticed.
"Fine, thanks," he says. He moves his arms in cooperation.
A shuffling noise from the hallway behind Draco catches everyone's attention. Somehow, he is certain of the source. Not random patrons joining them in the shop, but the three people he least wishes to see.
Because why wouldn't the universe do that to him? Kick him when he's down?
Draco wanted to believe that powerful purebloods were reaching from beyond, guiding him down a perfect path. He had wanted to lie to himself a while longer. But he knows he's doomed. Totally fucked. Father in Azkaban. The Dark Mark on his arm. And Bellatrix training him to kill.
So of course the shuffling sound turns out to be Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and — and the Mudblood girl from his dreams. Hermione Granger.
Release all emotion.