Title: More Than Meant To Be
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: Harry's made his choice, and Draco goes to a job interview.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling; I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash
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Chapter two: Regrouping
It was a small flat, Harry noted, but it would do. He turned back to the man who would be his landlord, one Mr. Quentin, and smiled down at him.
"I like it," he told the small, dour faced Asian man.
"Good. Here's the paperwork." Harry was given the mentioned papers, abruptly. "Have them signed and given to me..." Mr. Quentin paused. "When did you say you're moving in?" He seemed annoyed.
Harry suppressed amusement. He could tell this was going to be a beautiful relationship. "I didn't, but I'd like to move in as soon as possible."
Mr. Quentin made a 'humph' noise in his chest. "Two days, then. Paperwork in tomorrow, first month's rent due a week from then. Normally," he glared up at Harry, "rent is due the day the move-in is complete, but since you're rushing yourself I doubt you'd manage it."
Harry nodded his understanding. With a return nod, sharply done, the landlord turned and walked out the door, leaving Harry to get acquainted with his new home.
The door faced a landing with a staircase leading down to the small side street on which the apartment complex sat. Another door with an unknown neighbor behind it was across the landing. The apartment, though small, was open and fresh, with a big window in the modest bedroom, light colors, and most of the scant space belonging to the kitchen. The facilities were clean, probably due to the tyrannical dynamo of a landlord, and Harry could see his meager furnishings fitting nicely into place.
A now-familiar voice wafted in through the open door. "And don't think I'm encouraging rushing into things! It'll only be this once, mind you!"
He allowed himself a small smile, a rare occurrence while he was alone. He could breathe easier now that he was starting to rebuild.
Two days later, the apartment had a comfy queen-sized bed, an equally comfy couch, a coffee table, and a few necessary kitchen appliances. Harry planned on a telly and some bookshelves at some point (his books currently resided in a box), and was contemplating the virtues of a dresser. All in all, things were fitting together. He'd even annoyed Mr. Quentin by giving him the month's rent early. With home on its way to being settled, there was the simple matter of something to fill the days with. He was leaning towards employment instead of a hobby. Harry sat on his couch perusing through the local newspaper for a job of some sort.
His efforts weren't promising. The only things he had circled were openings for a clerk (with his handwriting?), an assistant grocer (but the market was so far from the apartment!), a magazine editor (would they take someone with no experience?) and an athletic trainer (would Quidditch training help with Muggle sports?), and none looked very likely.
Another ad he'd circled was an empty building for lease. It had caught his eye because it was – as far as he could make out – only a few blocks from the apartment. He didn't really have any idea what to do with it, should he choose to rent it. Obviously start a business of some sort, but what?
Beside the Muggle newspaper he was looking through sat a copy of the Daily Prophet. It was a last-ditch effort. A job in the wizarding world was barely above living off his inheritance on his list of preferences. Harry stretched, relieving tension from his hunched position.
He considered his options once more, rubbing his neck. Well, about that lease... Perhaps he should check it out. If he looked at the shops around it, he might get an idea of what to do with it. At least he could rule out the types of businesses that were near.
In fact, the option was more appealing the more he thought about it. Harry stood, grabbed his coat from the hall closet beside the door (he mentally added a coat rack to his list of things to buy), and headed out the door. He didn't want anyone getting the spot before he could at least look at it.
A scant hour later, Harry was on the payphone with the lease agent, negotiating the payment. The empty spot was in a building complex set off a little ways from a main street, making it convenient for foot traffic without detracting from its accessibility. It was neighbored by a couple of specialty bookshops, a coffee shop, an ice cream and yogurt place, and a small, independent magazine. Harry was pretty sure they were all simple home-run businesses, just as his would be. He still didn't know what the hell he was doing, but at least he had some people to help him with any kinks.
The place he was leasing had facilities for food preparation, though, and the agent said a café used to be there. The previous owner had to close because of family troubles depleting his money, apparently. It hadn't been due to lack of success, so maybe he could make it another café of some sort? Hmmm... Broomstick Café had a nice ring to it. Harry shook his head at himself. His thoughts kept running away with him.
The agent said he'd be sending the necessary information and paperwork to Harry's address – unfortunately to the Privet Drive one, due to his inability to remember his new place – and they'd get things squared away. The man hadn't sounded surprised at Harry's eager nervousness at all, much to Harry's relief. The sales pitch about the place being "perfectly suited to Mr. Potter's needs" had been unnecessary, but pleasing nonetheless. Not that a Muggle could know what his needs would be, he mused. Hanging up the phone, he headed back to the coffee shop near his – his – lease.
Once inside Aroma Therapy (the name brought a smile to his mouth), he ordered a coffee from the young girl behind the counter and took the only empty table of the three that were inside. He sat down and flipped absently through the sports section of the newspaper that was already lying on the table.
He ignored Quidditch stats and pictures of players scoring and such, too preoccupied with trying to make plans for his café to take much notice of what –
What?!
Quidditch?!
...
Harry stared at the paper before him, unaware that his mouth hung open. It was the same edition of the Daily Prophet that still sat, unopened, on his coffee table. What was it doing in a Muggle coffee shop?
A voice from his past resurfaced...
Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems.
This was a serious breech of security, surely!
A cough made his jaw snap shut. He blinked up at a worried looking woman, holding a cup of coffee. She was a motherly looking woman with a light complexion and dark curly hair, and she didn't look particularly pleased with him. She warily set the coffee cup down and returned to the counter without a word, giving him a lingering once-over of suspicion.
Harry closed the paper and shakily picked up his coffee for a sip. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed...
And found the five or so people present looking at him with similar expressions of wariness. When he looked around, they hastily returned to books and drinks.
What had he gotten himself into now?
A man came from a curtained doorway to stand behind the counter. His pleasant, open face was tempered by a frown as he looked around. The woman who'd given Harry his drink leaned in to speak to him, and the frown deepened. Harry sighed, stood up, picked up the newspaper and started for the door. Whatever was going on, he'd just leave. Hopefully no one had seen the newspaper. He'd call the lease agent and see just what that man had been thinking when he described the neighbor businesses as "a friendly and homely lot."
Halfway to the door, a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He felt himself stiffen in mild alarm. He swallowed and turned around, finding himself facing the man from behind the counter. Behind the man, the girl who'd taken his order and the older woman watched nervously.
"You'll need to leave that newspaper here, sir," the man told Harry somberly. "It's just a gag newspaper, see? A new technology." He sounded nervous, too, and he stumbled over the word 'technology' as though it were in a foreign tongue.
Of all the things Harry was expecting the man to say, this certainly wasn't close. He took a better look at the man; He was middle-aged, balding, and wore a smudged apron over a pair of red flannel pants and a white t-shirt. Looking at the other customers again, Harry saw a woman in her twenties wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but fidgeting with a pen that looked suspiciously like a quill. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair had his shirt buttoned wrong, and a small copper coin glinted near his coffee cup. Harry faintly thought that the woman across from him said something like, "Don't know how a Muggle could have wandered in..."
It all slid gently into place, and he breathed easier. He handed the Prophet to the man who still held his hand out for it, giving him a faint, relieved smile.
"The realty agent didn't say anything about the shops around here being, er, of the wizarding world," Harry explained hesitantly.
The man's frown fell away, and he let out a breath. He, too, looked relieved. "So you're not a Muggle, then?"
Harry grinned. "No! And I'm glad I finally realized that you lot weren't! I saw the newspaper, in what I thought was just a Muggle coffee shop in London, and nearly freaked..." Harry trailed off with an embarrassed shrug. He could feel his face heating up but was relieved to hear scattered laughter and renewed conversation around them.
The man turned around and said, "It's ok, Willa! He's a wizard! No worries!" This provoked another round of laughter because the woman gave him an annoyed look at his obvious statement.
Turning back around, he introduced himself. "I'm Ady Fridolf, and that's my wife Willa and daughter Gina behind the counter. This place is ours."
His wife was there, then, shaking his hand and welcoming him. The other customers introduced themselves as well, but Harry was too caught up in his embarrassment to note many names. The woman with the quill was Emma, and the two with the knut were the Knoxes.
They were laughing about the misunderstanding, with scattered comments like "You dress Muggle so well!" and "Like you'd never seen a picture move before!" floating around, when the question came. It ended the lightness with an immediacy that stung.
"Oh! My, what manners we lot have!" Mrs. Fridolf exclaimed. "What's your name, dear? I'm afraid we didn't give you much of a chance to introduce yourself before we got to joking around!" She sent the room a lightly admonishing look.
Harry felt his grin fade and the lingering remnants of his blush flee as the color drained from his face. Oh. He berated himself mentally for not seeing this coming.
Silence soon descended once more, and he took a breath, looking downward. He couldn't lie, not when they were so nice... but what would happen when he told them...?
Consequences be damned. He looked up at newly worried faces and forced the words from his mouth. "I'm Harry Potter... er... pleased to meet you all."
Silence.
"Oh. OH," was all that Mrs. Fridolf could say, putting her hand to her mouth. Everyone else just stared.
Mr. Fridolf licked his lips, made a small noise in his throat, and gestured in the general direction of Harry's forehead. Harry felt his impassive expression give way to sorrow, and his throat tightened. He'd gotten past all of this, given it up as over, as done with. And this was why he'd disliked the thought of going back into magical society! He didn't want to be placed on some pedestal. Please, he thought, not now, not when things were getting good...
No one said anything, still, and Harry gave up. He felt his jaw clench, and he turned to leave. It was Gina Fridolf that caught his arm before he could reach the door. He refused to look back at the people behind him, but she was already speaking.
"Guys! He's a person, too! You know you're all sick of hearing mothers tell their children to 'act like Harry', and such, like he's superhuman! He's a good soul, obviously, and strong, but think of what he's been through. Treat him the same as anyone else you'd just met? Without judgment?"
It was the questioning plea in the last two sentences that finally made Harry turn back around. Gina let go of him, and he took a deep breath.
"That is all I can ask for," he added, "and all I would like."
"Of course it is, you poor, poor dear!" Mrs. Fridolf near bawled, enveloping him in a bear hug. She wasn't a large woman, but her strength was imposing.
A new bout of chatter broke out: "Didn't recognize you without your glasses!" (Harry had his eyesight magically corrected before the Final Battle for obvious reasons), "You look so different from all of your pictures!" and "Why, your scar's almost invisible!"
Harry was amused at that last one. "It's fading," he conceded with a small smile. It felt good, now, instead of an emptying factor.
When at last the noise died down – Harry was amazed that so few people could generate so much talk! – he mentally collected himself. Speaking to the room at large, he said "Thank you for not asking the questions I don't want to answer." Most of them looked away. "And I'd really, really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that you met me here." Their gazes returned to his face; a few lips were bit, a couple of feet shuffled.
Gina nodded from beside him. "It would be awkward, and we'd probably have the entire world squished into this place just to get a look at you, not to mention the press wanting a word." She gave him a small smile of encouragement, and Harry smiled back.
Gingerly, the people around him agreed that this would remain confidential. The Fridolfs offered to talk to the people that ran the other – equally magical – shops around the 'square', as the people called the group of shops (Harry supposed they made a square-ish shape).
It was with a slightly lightened heart that Harry returned to his apartment. He was looking forward to getting into this new venture of his and building some relationships that didn't center around his destiny. It was a new life, in every sense of the phrase, and he was going to do it as right as he could manage.
That night he climbed into his new bed, between crisp sheets and a warm comforter, and settled down into a delightfully pleasant slumber.
*************
The Ministry was a decidedly unpleasant place, Draco noted. He was sitting in yet another uncomfortable chair, waiting yet again, for the occupant of the comfy one behind the desk to return. Surely it wasn't this much trouble to get a damned certificate saying that he'd completed his schooling.
They were just upset that he'd done it in a matter of months, probably. But he'd passed their damned tests, hadn't he? He muttered ingratiously. The stuffy bastards.
Finally the stiff young man wearing dull brown robes returned, bearing a promising folder. All the other returning administrators had been empty handed, though full of directions of who he should be seeing at the moment. As if they all didn't work on the same damned floor of the Ministry! Draco smoothed his features with an effort. Now that it looked as though he was getting somewhere, but he'd hate to botch the job by having a bad attitude – though he had one hell of a right to it at this point.
The young man cleared his throat as he sat behind his desk, opening the folder and picking sheets from the contents. "Mr. M-Malfoy," he stuttered, pausing to clear his throat again, "I believe you'll find everything in order here. Your certificate of completed schooling is here, along with your N.E.W.T. credentials and approval stamps. "
Draco felt his tense frame relax. Thank god! he thought. Out loud he said to the man in a weary, heartfelt tone, "Thank you very, very much." He got a nervous smile in return.
"I'm sorry we kept you waiting so long, but apparently there was some need to verify your instruction with your tutors," the man explained.
Draco raised an eyebrow. That had been what the fuss was about? Had they thought that the "instruction" had come by nefarious means? He sighed. His efforts would never be enough for these people, he thought. He would have to get a job well away from the Ministry and its suspicious runarounds. They'd never trust him. He doubted anyone besides his house staff and senile mother would, at this point.
Draco took the papers the man offered, scanned them over, and stood. With another curt "thank you" he was out the door. He took the lift down to the main lobby and strode out, past the welcome desk, past the people milling about, and finally past that damned fountain.
Once he was out on the street, he paused to breathe. It was so suffocating in there! After a moment of trying to relax, Draco had to groan. He'd have to return, fake telephone call and all, in order to apparate back to the Manor. He started to lean against the wall beside him but stopped when he realized it was covered with postings of some sort. He frowned. It was a strange place to advertise things, he thought. This building was spelled to push attention away. So why would Muggles post things here?
A closer inspection plainly discarded the Muggle part of his assumption. "Mostly human nanny needed to help with muggle-born twins" was scrawled on a piece of paper, with a Floo destination beneath, and an added "must be good humored and willing to clean up messes" at the bottom. Below that, on a strangely professional looking ad, was written, "Help needed with a fledgling bakery. Comfortable work atmosphere and friendly people. Apparation certification necessary, experience with accounting and general bookkeeping a plus. Telephone"--and there was a sequence of seven numbers-- "or write H. Prescott at"--and there was an address--"to enquire." The heading listed a business address, so 'enquiries' could probably be made there, too.
Draco was curious, mostly drawn in by the neatness of the last advertisement than anything else. He'd been keeping tabs on the Daily Prophet, and there'd been no mention of such. Why on earth would any self- respecting wizard or witch advertise only on the outside of the blasted Ministry? The condition of the parchment indicated that it had been there for a while, and unless Mr. Prescott wasn't as neat as his ad conveyed and so hadn't removed the thing, no one had responded. Or no one had gotten the job, in any event. Draco took the parchment down off of the makeshift bulletin board and reentered the Ministry to apparate to Diagon Alley.
A short stop at Flourish and Blotts, and Draco finally apparated home, laden with two surprisingly thick volumes on bookkeeping and accounting: Numbers for the magical business and Keeping magically clean books.
This was going to be interesting, he supposed. As far as he'd been concerned, numbers were only any good in Arithmancy. He doubted that particular N.E.W.T. would help him at all with this task.
He inquired after his mother once inside the door, was assured by a house elf that all was well, and ensconced himself in his study to get a grasp of the contents of his purchases.
Three hours later, he was thoroughly amused. Why on earth did so little take so much to say... and page after page of example! As though this were more than child's play. His Arithmancy did come into play, actually, as accounting was simply another, if nonmagical, way of manipulating numbers. Even more, the two subjects were interrelated! Accounting was simply working with the information involved in "keeping the books." They could have combined the two heavy books into one volume half the size of either. He snorted in disgust.
He put the books aside, stretching. Tomorrow he would visit this place and see if it was worth refining his knowledge of the two subjects. He'd have to go by Muggle way, at least partly, as there'd been no Floo destination, and he wished to see the place before talking to the people who ran the place, just to avoid any potential awkwardness.
Draco stopped by his mother's rooms on the way to his own to say goodnight. He knocked lightly on the carved wood of the door and opened it when he heard the light "come in!" from behind it. He stopped on the threshold and stared.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the middle of the rug of her modest – by the Manor's standards – sitting room, in all her splendor. She wore one of her best gowns of white satin and lace, adorned with pearls and ivory. Silver trim decked the skirts, sleeves, and neck. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a cascade, its perfection belied by carefully achieved carelessness. Her finest silver and white gold decorated both wrists and her neck, and several pieces glinted from her hair. Her fine features were emphasized by careful additions of color here and there, and her smile was beauty personified.
Draco felt his breath catch and sudden tears threaten. She was like before... She was everything the Malfoy name held in its glory days. A sense of loss, sorrow, and nostalgia swamped him, and he couldn't move.
"Draco, dear! I'm so glad you stopped in to say good night!" His mother beamed at him. He blinked. "Your father's running late, as usual – men! – but we'll soon be off. I know, I know. But don't worry, you'll soon be old enough to come with us. Don't be too impatient; these affairs are ever so dull!" Her slim hands went to her hips, and she laughed daintily. Draco mustered a small smile in return, trying not to let his tears spill.
"Oh!" his mother exclaimed, "And don't let me forget to tell your father to reward the servants for their excellent work as of late! They've been absolute dears, always there when I need them," she crooned, gesturing to the house elf, clad in a ratty lace pillow sack, who stood nervously in a corner.
As his gaze moved its way, the elf hastily tried to explain itself. "Missus wanted to, sir! And sir said that if it didn't hurt anyone it was fine and – " Draco cut her off with a sharp motion. Turning back to his mother, he said, "I'll remember it," and was rewarded with another brilliant smile.
"Good. Then you be off to bed then; it's getting late." Draco didn't have the heart to tell her that it was only around seven-thirty. "I'll tell you all about it when I get the chance, all right? And I'll tell your father you send your love,"-- Draco choked on his tears-- "so just come here and give me a hug for the both of us."
Draco crossed the room to his elegantly spirited mother and wrapped his arms gently around her, closing his eyes against the contrast of his dark grey robes against her pure white gown. She returned his embrace tightly, and he gave in to the urge to hug her as he never had in his tightly controlled childhood. He cried onto her shoulder without apology, and she rocked him, soothing him, making him cry harder with the emotions her loving actions provoked. His tears were for what was lost, and what would never be. They were for his mother, still beautiful in spirit and body, despite the hell she'd lived through. They were even for Lucius Malfoy, who had once been a man Draco was proud to call Father, with all the love and respect inherent in the title. Finally his tears and breathing slowed, and he was able to let go. His mother patted his cheek with a slim, graceful hand.
Pulling away slowly, he smiled through his pain. Narcissa gave his face one last reassuring stroke. "There's my good little dragon. All fire under the Malfoy ice," she mused fondly. In that moment, Draco would have sworn that she was perfectly sane, that there was even the weight of it all in a barely visible shadow behind her vivid blue eyes...
"Off to bed!" And it was gone, back to the innocently unstable woman playing dress-up.
Draco buried the pang of longing for what he thought he'd seen (he so wanted another adult around... someone to share the weight of the world with...) and turned to leave. He grasped the door and looked back at his mother once more. Narcissa smiled again, and again he saw a shadow there, intensified by the tearstains on the shoulder of her gown. "Goodnight, mother," Draco said.
As the door shut, a murmur whispered around its edges. "Farewell, Draco."
He stood outside the door for countless moments, hearing nothing. With heavy footsteps and an even heavier heart he made his way to his room, undressing slowly before the mirror on his wall. Off went his robes, and a lithe, lean frame was revealed. Off went his undershirt, and the ropy muscles of his torso were bared. Off went his pants, and legs toned by restless pacing and a naturally powerful stride showed. Finished, Draco looked at his reflection.
He supposed he should be proud of his alabaster skin and excellent figure, of his soft, expertly cut hair that shifted silkily about his shoulders. His eyes, a silvery, icy blue were nothing short of attention catching, surely. Perhaps he should be vain. He shook his head, clearing his wandering thoughts, and climbed into bed.
Instead of closing his eyes and regulating his breathing until sleep came, he found himself waiting.
As if, maybe, he knew.
A tentative rap at the door heralded the arrival of a house elf.
"Come in," he murmured, and it did.
"Missus is..." came the waif's voice through the soft darkness. He'd never heard a house elf clear its throat like that, he mused. "Missus drank poison. Missus is gone."
Draco's throat constricted.
The shadows in her beautiful eyes, the tear stains on her shoulder...
Maybe he'd known.
Draco rose to take care of things. It would be a sleepless night, but what did it matter, in the long run? He was alone now. He had no one to survive for but himself (wasn't that the Slytherin mindset, though?), a prospect he found thinner and thinner as this life wore on.
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AN:
Thank you Sailor Grape for an awesome editing job! You make life so much easier! And thanks to Marie, Crimson_Tears, Elly Malfoy, and Sak for their reviews. Without them I'd have felt pretty crappy about my first chapter.
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: Harry's made his choice, and Draco goes to a job interview.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling; I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash
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Chapter two: Regrouping
It was a small flat, Harry noted, but it would do. He turned back to the man who would be his landlord, one Mr. Quentin, and smiled down at him.
"I like it," he told the small, dour faced Asian man.
"Good. Here's the paperwork." Harry was given the mentioned papers, abruptly. "Have them signed and given to me..." Mr. Quentin paused. "When did you say you're moving in?" He seemed annoyed.
Harry suppressed amusement. He could tell this was going to be a beautiful relationship. "I didn't, but I'd like to move in as soon as possible."
Mr. Quentin made a 'humph' noise in his chest. "Two days, then. Paperwork in tomorrow, first month's rent due a week from then. Normally," he glared up at Harry, "rent is due the day the move-in is complete, but since you're rushing yourself I doubt you'd manage it."
Harry nodded his understanding. With a return nod, sharply done, the landlord turned and walked out the door, leaving Harry to get acquainted with his new home.
The door faced a landing with a staircase leading down to the small side street on which the apartment complex sat. Another door with an unknown neighbor behind it was across the landing. The apartment, though small, was open and fresh, with a big window in the modest bedroom, light colors, and most of the scant space belonging to the kitchen. The facilities were clean, probably due to the tyrannical dynamo of a landlord, and Harry could see his meager furnishings fitting nicely into place.
A now-familiar voice wafted in through the open door. "And don't think I'm encouraging rushing into things! It'll only be this once, mind you!"
He allowed himself a small smile, a rare occurrence while he was alone. He could breathe easier now that he was starting to rebuild.
Two days later, the apartment had a comfy queen-sized bed, an equally comfy couch, a coffee table, and a few necessary kitchen appliances. Harry planned on a telly and some bookshelves at some point (his books currently resided in a box), and was contemplating the virtues of a dresser. All in all, things were fitting together. He'd even annoyed Mr. Quentin by giving him the month's rent early. With home on its way to being settled, there was the simple matter of something to fill the days with. He was leaning towards employment instead of a hobby. Harry sat on his couch perusing through the local newspaper for a job of some sort.
His efforts weren't promising. The only things he had circled were openings for a clerk (with his handwriting?), an assistant grocer (but the market was so far from the apartment!), a magazine editor (would they take someone with no experience?) and an athletic trainer (would Quidditch training help with Muggle sports?), and none looked very likely.
Another ad he'd circled was an empty building for lease. It had caught his eye because it was – as far as he could make out – only a few blocks from the apartment. He didn't really have any idea what to do with it, should he choose to rent it. Obviously start a business of some sort, but what?
Beside the Muggle newspaper he was looking through sat a copy of the Daily Prophet. It was a last-ditch effort. A job in the wizarding world was barely above living off his inheritance on his list of preferences. Harry stretched, relieving tension from his hunched position.
He considered his options once more, rubbing his neck. Well, about that lease... Perhaps he should check it out. If he looked at the shops around it, he might get an idea of what to do with it. At least he could rule out the types of businesses that were near.
In fact, the option was more appealing the more he thought about it. Harry stood, grabbed his coat from the hall closet beside the door (he mentally added a coat rack to his list of things to buy), and headed out the door. He didn't want anyone getting the spot before he could at least look at it.
A scant hour later, Harry was on the payphone with the lease agent, negotiating the payment. The empty spot was in a building complex set off a little ways from a main street, making it convenient for foot traffic without detracting from its accessibility. It was neighbored by a couple of specialty bookshops, a coffee shop, an ice cream and yogurt place, and a small, independent magazine. Harry was pretty sure they were all simple home-run businesses, just as his would be. He still didn't know what the hell he was doing, but at least he had some people to help him with any kinks.
The place he was leasing had facilities for food preparation, though, and the agent said a café used to be there. The previous owner had to close because of family troubles depleting his money, apparently. It hadn't been due to lack of success, so maybe he could make it another café of some sort? Hmmm... Broomstick Café had a nice ring to it. Harry shook his head at himself. His thoughts kept running away with him.
The agent said he'd be sending the necessary information and paperwork to Harry's address – unfortunately to the Privet Drive one, due to his inability to remember his new place – and they'd get things squared away. The man hadn't sounded surprised at Harry's eager nervousness at all, much to Harry's relief. The sales pitch about the place being "perfectly suited to Mr. Potter's needs" had been unnecessary, but pleasing nonetheless. Not that a Muggle could know what his needs would be, he mused. Hanging up the phone, he headed back to the coffee shop near his – his – lease.
Once inside Aroma Therapy (the name brought a smile to his mouth), he ordered a coffee from the young girl behind the counter and took the only empty table of the three that were inside. He sat down and flipped absently through the sports section of the newspaper that was already lying on the table.
He ignored Quidditch stats and pictures of players scoring and such, too preoccupied with trying to make plans for his café to take much notice of what –
What?!
Quidditch?!
...
Harry stared at the paper before him, unaware that his mouth hung open. It was the same edition of the Daily Prophet that still sat, unopened, on his coffee table. What was it doing in a Muggle coffee shop?
A voice from his past resurfaced...
Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems.
This was a serious breech of security, surely!
A cough made his jaw snap shut. He blinked up at a worried looking woman, holding a cup of coffee. She was a motherly looking woman with a light complexion and dark curly hair, and she didn't look particularly pleased with him. She warily set the coffee cup down and returned to the counter without a word, giving him a lingering once-over of suspicion.
Harry closed the paper and shakily picked up his coffee for a sip. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed...
And found the five or so people present looking at him with similar expressions of wariness. When he looked around, they hastily returned to books and drinks.
What had he gotten himself into now?
A man came from a curtained doorway to stand behind the counter. His pleasant, open face was tempered by a frown as he looked around. The woman who'd given Harry his drink leaned in to speak to him, and the frown deepened. Harry sighed, stood up, picked up the newspaper and started for the door. Whatever was going on, he'd just leave. Hopefully no one had seen the newspaper. He'd call the lease agent and see just what that man had been thinking when he described the neighbor businesses as "a friendly and homely lot."
Halfway to the door, a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He felt himself stiffen in mild alarm. He swallowed and turned around, finding himself facing the man from behind the counter. Behind the man, the girl who'd taken his order and the older woman watched nervously.
"You'll need to leave that newspaper here, sir," the man told Harry somberly. "It's just a gag newspaper, see? A new technology." He sounded nervous, too, and he stumbled over the word 'technology' as though it were in a foreign tongue.
Of all the things Harry was expecting the man to say, this certainly wasn't close. He took a better look at the man; He was middle-aged, balding, and wore a smudged apron over a pair of red flannel pants and a white t-shirt. Looking at the other customers again, Harry saw a woman in her twenties wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but fidgeting with a pen that looked suspiciously like a quill. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair had his shirt buttoned wrong, and a small copper coin glinted near his coffee cup. Harry faintly thought that the woman across from him said something like, "Don't know how a Muggle could have wandered in..."
It all slid gently into place, and he breathed easier. He handed the Prophet to the man who still held his hand out for it, giving him a faint, relieved smile.
"The realty agent didn't say anything about the shops around here being, er, of the wizarding world," Harry explained hesitantly.
The man's frown fell away, and he let out a breath. He, too, looked relieved. "So you're not a Muggle, then?"
Harry grinned. "No! And I'm glad I finally realized that you lot weren't! I saw the newspaper, in what I thought was just a Muggle coffee shop in London, and nearly freaked..." Harry trailed off with an embarrassed shrug. He could feel his face heating up but was relieved to hear scattered laughter and renewed conversation around them.
The man turned around and said, "It's ok, Willa! He's a wizard! No worries!" This provoked another round of laughter because the woman gave him an annoyed look at his obvious statement.
Turning back around, he introduced himself. "I'm Ady Fridolf, and that's my wife Willa and daughter Gina behind the counter. This place is ours."
His wife was there, then, shaking his hand and welcoming him. The other customers introduced themselves as well, but Harry was too caught up in his embarrassment to note many names. The woman with the quill was Emma, and the two with the knut were the Knoxes.
They were laughing about the misunderstanding, with scattered comments like "You dress Muggle so well!" and "Like you'd never seen a picture move before!" floating around, when the question came. It ended the lightness with an immediacy that stung.
"Oh! My, what manners we lot have!" Mrs. Fridolf exclaimed. "What's your name, dear? I'm afraid we didn't give you much of a chance to introduce yourself before we got to joking around!" She sent the room a lightly admonishing look.
Harry felt his grin fade and the lingering remnants of his blush flee as the color drained from his face. Oh. He berated himself mentally for not seeing this coming.
Silence soon descended once more, and he took a breath, looking downward. He couldn't lie, not when they were so nice... but what would happen when he told them...?
Consequences be damned. He looked up at newly worried faces and forced the words from his mouth. "I'm Harry Potter... er... pleased to meet you all."
Silence.
"Oh. OH," was all that Mrs. Fridolf could say, putting her hand to her mouth. Everyone else just stared.
Mr. Fridolf licked his lips, made a small noise in his throat, and gestured in the general direction of Harry's forehead. Harry felt his impassive expression give way to sorrow, and his throat tightened. He'd gotten past all of this, given it up as over, as done with. And this was why he'd disliked the thought of going back into magical society! He didn't want to be placed on some pedestal. Please, he thought, not now, not when things were getting good...
No one said anything, still, and Harry gave up. He felt his jaw clench, and he turned to leave. It was Gina Fridolf that caught his arm before he could reach the door. He refused to look back at the people behind him, but she was already speaking.
"Guys! He's a person, too! You know you're all sick of hearing mothers tell their children to 'act like Harry', and such, like he's superhuman! He's a good soul, obviously, and strong, but think of what he's been through. Treat him the same as anyone else you'd just met? Without judgment?"
It was the questioning plea in the last two sentences that finally made Harry turn back around. Gina let go of him, and he took a deep breath.
"That is all I can ask for," he added, "and all I would like."
"Of course it is, you poor, poor dear!" Mrs. Fridolf near bawled, enveloping him in a bear hug. She wasn't a large woman, but her strength was imposing.
A new bout of chatter broke out: "Didn't recognize you without your glasses!" (Harry had his eyesight magically corrected before the Final Battle for obvious reasons), "You look so different from all of your pictures!" and "Why, your scar's almost invisible!"
Harry was amused at that last one. "It's fading," he conceded with a small smile. It felt good, now, instead of an emptying factor.
When at last the noise died down – Harry was amazed that so few people could generate so much talk! – he mentally collected himself. Speaking to the room at large, he said "Thank you for not asking the questions I don't want to answer." Most of them looked away. "And I'd really, really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that you met me here." Their gazes returned to his face; a few lips were bit, a couple of feet shuffled.
Gina nodded from beside him. "It would be awkward, and we'd probably have the entire world squished into this place just to get a look at you, not to mention the press wanting a word." She gave him a small smile of encouragement, and Harry smiled back.
Gingerly, the people around him agreed that this would remain confidential. The Fridolfs offered to talk to the people that ran the other – equally magical – shops around the 'square', as the people called the group of shops (Harry supposed they made a square-ish shape).
It was with a slightly lightened heart that Harry returned to his apartment. He was looking forward to getting into this new venture of his and building some relationships that didn't center around his destiny. It was a new life, in every sense of the phrase, and he was going to do it as right as he could manage.
That night he climbed into his new bed, between crisp sheets and a warm comforter, and settled down into a delightfully pleasant slumber.
*************
The Ministry was a decidedly unpleasant place, Draco noted. He was sitting in yet another uncomfortable chair, waiting yet again, for the occupant of the comfy one behind the desk to return. Surely it wasn't this much trouble to get a damned certificate saying that he'd completed his schooling.
They were just upset that he'd done it in a matter of months, probably. But he'd passed their damned tests, hadn't he? He muttered ingratiously. The stuffy bastards.
Finally the stiff young man wearing dull brown robes returned, bearing a promising folder. All the other returning administrators had been empty handed, though full of directions of who he should be seeing at the moment. As if they all didn't work on the same damned floor of the Ministry! Draco smoothed his features with an effort. Now that it looked as though he was getting somewhere, but he'd hate to botch the job by having a bad attitude – though he had one hell of a right to it at this point.
The young man cleared his throat as he sat behind his desk, opening the folder and picking sheets from the contents. "Mr. M-Malfoy," he stuttered, pausing to clear his throat again, "I believe you'll find everything in order here. Your certificate of completed schooling is here, along with your N.E.W.T. credentials and approval stamps. "
Draco felt his tense frame relax. Thank god! he thought. Out loud he said to the man in a weary, heartfelt tone, "Thank you very, very much." He got a nervous smile in return.
"I'm sorry we kept you waiting so long, but apparently there was some need to verify your instruction with your tutors," the man explained.
Draco raised an eyebrow. That had been what the fuss was about? Had they thought that the "instruction" had come by nefarious means? He sighed. His efforts would never be enough for these people, he thought. He would have to get a job well away from the Ministry and its suspicious runarounds. They'd never trust him. He doubted anyone besides his house staff and senile mother would, at this point.
Draco took the papers the man offered, scanned them over, and stood. With another curt "thank you" he was out the door. He took the lift down to the main lobby and strode out, past the welcome desk, past the people milling about, and finally past that damned fountain.
Once he was out on the street, he paused to breathe. It was so suffocating in there! After a moment of trying to relax, Draco had to groan. He'd have to return, fake telephone call and all, in order to apparate back to the Manor. He started to lean against the wall beside him but stopped when he realized it was covered with postings of some sort. He frowned. It was a strange place to advertise things, he thought. This building was spelled to push attention away. So why would Muggles post things here?
A closer inspection plainly discarded the Muggle part of his assumption. "Mostly human nanny needed to help with muggle-born twins" was scrawled on a piece of paper, with a Floo destination beneath, and an added "must be good humored and willing to clean up messes" at the bottom. Below that, on a strangely professional looking ad, was written, "Help needed with a fledgling bakery. Comfortable work atmosphere and friendly people. Apparation certification necessary, experience with accounting and general bookkeeping a plus. Telephone"--and there was a sequence of seven numbers-- "or write H. Prescott at"--and there was an address--"to enquire." The heading listed a business address, so 'enquiries' could probably be made there, too.
Draco was curious, mostly drawn in by the neatness of the last advertisement than anything else. He'd been keeping tabs on the Daily Prophet, and there'd been no mention of such. Why on earth would any self- respecting wizard or witch advertise only on the outside of the blasted Ministry? The condition of the parchment indicated that it had been there for a while, and unless Mr. Prescott wasn't as neat as his ad conveyed and so hadn't removed the thing, no one had responded. Or no one had gotten the job, in any event. Draco took the parchment down off of the makeshift bulletin board and reentered the Ministry to apparate to Diagon Alley.
A short stop at Flourish and Blotts, and Draco finally apparated home, laden with two surprisingly thick volumes on bookkeeping and accounting: Numbers for the magical business and Keeping magically clean books.
This was going to be interesting, he supposed. As far as he'd been concerned, numbers were only any good in Arithmancy. He doubted that particular N.E.W.T. would help him at all with this task.
He inquired after his mother once inside the door, was assured by a house elf that all was well, and ensconced himself in his study to get a grasp of the contents of his purchases.
Three hours later, he was thoroughly amused. Why on earth did so little take so much to say... and page after page of example! As though this were more than child's play. His Arithmancy did come into play, actually, as accounting was simply another, if nonmagical, way of manipulating numbers. Even more, the two subjects were interrelated! Accounting was simply working with the information involved in "keeping the books." They could have combined the two heavy books into one volume half the size of either. He snorted in disgust.
He put the books aside, stretching. Tomorrow he would visit this place and see if it was worth refining his knowledge of the two subjects. He'd have to go by Muggle way, at least partly, as there'd been no Floo destination, and he wished to see the place before talking to the people who ran the place, just to avoid any potential awkwardness.
Draco stopped by his mother's rooms on the way to his own to say goodnight. He knocked lightly on the carved wood of the door and opened it when he heard the light "come in!" from behind it. He stopped on the threshold and stared.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the middle of the rug of her modest – by the Manor's standards – sitting room, in all her splendor. She wore one of her best gowns of white satin and lace, adorned with pearls and ivory. Silver trim decked the skirts, sleeves, and neck. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a cascade, its perfection belied by carefully achieved carelessness. Her finest silver and white gold decorated both wrists and her neck, and several pieces glinted from her hair. Her fine features were emphasized by careful additions of color here and there, and her smile was beauty personified.
Draco felt his breath catch and sudden tears threaten. She was like before... She was everything the Malfoy name held in its glory days. A sense of loss, sorrow, and nostalgia swamped him, and he couldn't move.
"Draco, dear! I'm so glad you stopped in to say good night!" His mother beamed at him. He blinked. "Your father's running late, as usual – men! – but we'll soon be off. I know, I know. But don't worry, you'll soon be old enough to come with us. Don't be too impatient; these affairs are ever so dull!" Her slim hands went to her hips, and she laughed daintily. Draco mustered a small smile in return, trying not to let his tears spill.
"Oh!" his mother exclaimed, "And don't let me forget to tell your father to reward the servants for their excellent work as of late! They've been absolute dears, always there when I need them," she crooned, gesturing to the house elf, clad in a ratty lace pillow sack, who stood nervously in a corner.
As his gaze moved its way, the elf hastily tried to explain itself. "Missus wanted to, sir! And sir said that if it didn't hurt anyone it was fine and – " Draco cut her off with a sharp motion. Turning back to his mother, he said, "I'll remember it," and was rewarded with another brilliant smile.
"Good. Then you be off to bed then; it's getting late." Draco didn't have the heart to tell her that it was only around seven-thirty. "I'll tell you all about it when I get the chance, all right? And I'll tell your father you send your love,"-- Draco choked on his tears-- "so just come here and give me a hug for the both of us."
Draco crossed the room to his elegantly spirited mother and wrapped his arms gently around her, closing his eyes against the contrast of his dark grey robes against her pure white gown. She returned his embrace tightly, and he gave in to the urge to hug her as he never had in his tightly controlled childhood. He cried onto her shoulder without apology, and she rocked him, soothing him, making him cry harder with the emotions her loving actions provoked. His tears were for what was lost, and what would never be. They were for his mother, still beautiful in spirit and body, despite the hell she'd lived through. They were even for Lucius Malfoy, who had once been a man Draco was proud to call Father, with all the love and respect inherent in the title. Finally his tears and breathing slowed, and he was able to let go. His mother patted his cheek with a slim, graceful hand.
Pulling away slowly, he smiled through his pain. Narcissa gave his face one last reassuring stroke. "There's my good little dragon. All fire under the Malfoy ice," she mused fondly. In that moment, Draco would have sworn that she was perfectly sane, that there was even the weight of it all in a barely visible shadow behind her vivid blue eyes...
"Off to bed!" And it was gone, back to the innocently unstable woman playing dress-up.
Draco buried the pang of longing for what he thought he'd seen (he so wanted another adult around... someone to share the weight of the world with...) and turned to leave. He grasped the door and looked back at his mother once more. Narcissa smiled again, and again he saw a shadow there, intensified by the tearstains on the shoulder of her gown. "Goodnight, mother," Draco said.
As the door shut, a murmur whispered around its edges. "Farewell, Draco."
He stood outside the door for countless moments, hearing nothing. With heavy footsteps and an even heavier heart he made his way to his room, undressing slowly before the mirror on his wall. Off went his robes, and a lithe, lean frame was revealed. Off went his undershirt, and the ropy muscles of his torso were bared. Off went his pants, and legs toned by restless pacing and a naturally powerful stride showed. Finished, Draco looked at his reflection.
He supposed he should be proud of his alabaster skin and excellent figure, of his soft, expertly cut hair that shifted silkily about his shoulders. His eyes, a silvery, icy blue were nothing short of attention catching, surely. Perhaps he should be vain. He shook his head, clearing his wandering thoughts, and climbed into bed.
Instead of closing his eyes and regulating his breathing until sleep came, he found himself waiting.
As if, maybe, he knew.
A tentative rap at the door heralded the arrival of a house elf.
"Come in," he murmured, and it did.
"Missus is..." came the waif's voice through the soft darkness. He'd never heard a house elf clear its throat like that, he mused. "Missus drank poison. Missus is gone."
Draco's throat constricted.
The shadows in her beautiful eyes, the tear stains on her shoulder...
Maybe he'd known.
Draco rose to take care of things. It would be a sleepless night, but what did it matter, in the long run? He was alone now. He had no one to survive for but himself (wasn't that the Slytherin mindset, though?), a prospect he found thinner and thinner as this life wore on.
_________________________________________
AN:
Thank you Sailor Grape for an awesome editing job! You make life so much easier! And thanks to Marie, Crimson_Tears, Elly Malfoy, and Sak for their reviews. Without them I'd have felt pretty crappy about my first chapter.