A/N: Thank you to everyone who has continued to read and follow this story and for the review from afedrigo and Dragon Girl 203 on the previous chapters. Your support has made me so happy and continues to inspire me to write. While reading this next chapter, I would like to remind you that this story will deviate from canon. Yes, I know that Draco's interactions with the trio in Diagon Alley are different in the Half-Blood Prince than they will be below. I am not changing things because I am lacking knowledge in the original books but because this storyline has to change if we want the inevitable paring of Draco and Hermione. Also, the Borgin and Burkes' scene is exact dialogue from "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" chapter six, "Draco's Detour." All rights to JK Rowling, of course. Now, onto the story!
Chapter Three: Notions From Youth
The streets of Diagon Alley had lost their light. Once colourful and inviting, the shops lining the cobblestone lane were mere shadows of their former glory, cowering in the peripheral lest a gaze should be turned on them. Even the sky seemed darker, the grey clouds curling sinisterly above the small handful of people rushing from shop to shop, stealing furtive looks at other patrons about them. Old, veiny wizards had perched themselves on the sidelines, grinning toothless smiles as they coaxed passersby to purchase bits of junk. Such was what came of Voldemort's presence in the world.
Hermione observed this with great sorrow seeping inside of her. Remembering the summer preceding her first year, she saw magic as a beautiful, if occasionally nonsensical, form of expression, a wondrous thing to base a society off of. Coming to Diagon Alley as a child had been exciting and glorious. Her being a witch felt nothing short of miraculous. Now, though, she was older. She understood that magic had a dark side. A cruel side. One that was shaping the wizarding world in new ways, none which would be kind to someone like her.
Ron and Harry walked briskly beside her as the three did their shopping, with Hagrid following closely behind. While there were little actual anomalies occurring in their collecting of school supplies, with the exception of one man approaching Ginny in an attempt to sell "protection" devices, their group and any others on the street pressed together shoulder to shoulder, fairly running to navigate between the foreboding shops.
They had nearly stepped through the threshold of Madam Malkin's, when another body filled the space.
His stature lacked much of the imperious disposition that he had carried in the past five years. His blonde hair, usually so tamed, now fell in scraggly clumps over his weary grey eyes. His shoulders were hunched over his curled spine. At first, he did not notice their approach, for his gaze was fixed upon his feet as though willing them to move. At last, he looked up, revealing a face so pale it was hard to imagine a heart still beating within him. It took him a near minute before he recognized the young wizards standing before him and, once he did, his lip began to curl back in a sneer before falling, impassive again, as though the effort were no longer worth it.
This shadow of pride, sliver of prestige, shell of a man could not possibly be Draco Malfoy.
"Malfoy," Harry said in surprise, readying to combat whatever spiteful comment Malfoy would dole out. Yet, nothing came.
"Are you going to move, Malfoy?" Hermione finally said, yet her words lacked much emotion behind them as she was still slightly confused. Confusion was not something she was used to and it was a bit unsettling.
Malfoy nodded, eyes moving off past her shoulder. She turned, but there was nothing there. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Just as he was stepping around them, another figure exited the shop. Her eyebrows knit together disdainfully and her nose wrinkled. She carried a neatly tied package in one arm as she closed the door. "Mudbloods," Narcissa Malfoy muttered. She seemed about to say more, then stopped, eyes flickering to her son for a brief moment. "Shall we get your books then, Draco darling?" She asked. With one last glare from Mrs. Malfoy, the pair strode off to Flourish and Blotts.
"Bloody git," Ron muttered. "Wonder what he'd say if his mummy weren't hanging over him?"
"Did he seem strange to either of you?" Hermione asked.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked as he opened the door to the shop.
"He didn't look like himself. Almost like he was ill..."
"Serves him right. His people did all this. I hope the bastard's sick for a long time," Ron said darkly.
Harry seemed about to respond when Madam Malkin approached them, eager to to get their measurements and make three more sales. Or, Hermione thought as she caught the shopkeeper cast an anxious glance outside, in a hurry to get three possible threats out.
/
"You're right, Hermione," Harry said as she wandered closer to him and Ron. She drew her eyes away from the overwhelming, albeit impressive, displays of magical products the Weasley twins had cobbled together, looking curiously at her friend.
"Right? About what?"
"He is up to something," Harry said then, seeing her all the more baffled expression, jerked his head to the window. "Look."
Upon peering out the window, Hermione spotted Malfoy, glancing about conspicuously before backing into the shadows of Knockturn Alley. "I never said he was up to something..." Hermione said, trailing off.
"Well, he must be. He has to be. We should follow him," Harry turned away quickly, nearly walking into Ron. He stepped around him and his friends followed.
"Wait!" Ron said, lowering his voice as they passed a group of students huddled about some Pygmy Puffs. "Don't forget the cloak!" Harry nodded and the three stepped outside the shop.
/
Draco entered the ill-lit shop, hunched over and moving with a significant lack of his usual grace. His eyes darted cautiously about the room, studying the larger artefacts, leering from the shadows, in the event they were perhaps unwanted patrons. Fortunately, the rise of the Dark Lord had not yet consoled the majority of wizards to venture into the most controversial of shops and Draco was the only soul within Borgin and Burkes', if one discounted Borgin himself.
The aforementioned shopkeeper's eyes laid upon the young werewolf as he entered and he gave a stiff bow, a slippery smile sliding across his face. "Ah, young Master Malfoy," He simpered. "How awful it was to hear of your father's sentencing. I trust his imprisonment won't be too long?"
"I am not here to discuss my family's personal affairs," Draco said coldly, however his spine tingled as though a Dementor had grasped it at the mention of his father. What would he say when he got out? What would befall his half-breed son?
"Alright then, young Master," Borgin sneered. "Are we buying or selling today?"
"Neither," Draco said. His eyes danced back to one of the larger artefacts in his peripheral, which appeared to be as tall as a fully grown wizard at least. "That wardrobe. It has a pair that needs fixing. Would you know anything about that?"
"Ah," Borgin smiled more, a disquieting rictus. "The Vanishing Cabinet. Quite a rare find. You have excellant taste, Mr. Malfoy."
"Yes, yes," Draco waved his hand impatiently. Perhaps a bit nervously. "The pair though. You mean to tell me you know how to fix it?"
"Possibly. I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?" He seemed hesitant, unsure if he should be putting so much effort forth to assist an underage wizard, wary of the threat of the true Master Malfoy, locked away so fleetingly while the Dark Lord continued to rise.
Draco saw all of this, he was quite observant when he wanted to be, and he knew that if it came to it, he may have to convince Borgin through less than ideal means. "I can't," Draco sighed. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."
"Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything." Borgin was nervous in a distant way, nervous that perhaps this seemingly foolish task was somehow important to the Dark Lord and maybe he would pay for his incompetence some day. Maybe when Lucius was out of Azkaban. Draco knew, despite how much he loathed it, he had to show Borgin that he was facing a very real threat, far more significant than a mere underage wizard. His future was at stake.
Striding forward, Draco hid behind a mask of cruelness, a face of stone. "No?" he sneered, in mock arrogance. "Perhaps this will make you more confident." Draco began rolling up his left sleeve and, as he did, he could tell by Borgin's fearful admiration that he was expecting the Mark. So, when his face twisted into revulsion and then shocked into proper, horrific terror as he thought through those bite marks and their significance, Draco broke a little inside. He had always admired the fearful respect his father and his associates had garnered from people. But, this...Borgin did not respect him. He was not envious of him. He saw him as a monster. And he feared the same fate could await him if he was not compliant.
Profusely shamed and horrified at his own recklessness, Draco quickly covered up the still fresh scars. "Tell anyone and there will be retribution," he warned defensively. Then, after a bit of thought, he added, "You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."
He and Borgin continued the deal and, though he had succeeded in earning the shopkeeper's attention, he had lost his respect. He had lost the envious gleam in Borgin's eye. He had gone from being the imposing estate owner to the savage watchdog. Something to run from, not to tremble in a shadow. When the matter was complete, Draco exited the shop, glancing up and down the street and hoping fervently that his mother had not worried too much.
He thought of his father, as he returned to Diagon Alley. How he had always wanted to be like him one day, how he would have been like him, was expected to be like him. But, that was when he was young and was ignorant to the fleetingness of power. Rich men could go to Azkaban. Strong women could break into pieces. Pure blood could grow dirty. Now, he had one chance. Kill Albus Dumbledore and his fate would be secure.
Somehow, Draco never thought once when he was younger why the Malfoy name struck such respect, such envy and admiration. Such fear. He never realized how much blood must have been spilled behind closed doors. But now, he was there.
/
Harry continued to go on about Malfoy as the three made their way back to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but Hermione wasn't listening. There was something off about the whole ordeal, yes, but she didn't think Malfoy was truly behind anything. He was up to something, of course. But, it felt more like he had been playing a part. His words had been hollow, rehearsed, not his. Hermione thought maybe this new world Voldemort was twisting might be more than Malfoy had expected too.
