After parting from Harry, I needed to build an alibi by picking out get-well gifts at a sundries shop in Diagon Alley. Come to think of it, Father and I hadn't agreed on a meeting point. Wondering how we'd regroup, I headed first for Flourish and Blotts, where we'd planned to go anyway. Luck spared me the trouble: on the way, Father spotted me.
As expected, I earned a scolding about taking unnecessary risks… but unless danger is truly dire, Father is tolerant of my rule-bending. I rarely act without reason, and he's a Slytherin to the bone as well. Rules are tools to be used to one's advantage.
Unfortunately, our destination changed on the spot to the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop. I put up a feeble resistance and lost. All I could do was watch helplessly, as Father bought Nimbus 2001s—somehow not just one, but enough for a full team.
Because I didn't bother to hide my dismay, he grew quite concerned. Was something wrong with Slytherin's Quidditch team? he asked, solicitous. My problem is Quidditch itself, but there's no point lecturing a wizard about game balance and safety protocols. I found an answer, and we turned toward our original errand.
Flourish and Blotts was packed. Not the usual pre–term crush, either: most of the crowd were witches of every age. The reason announced itself before I bothered to look—one gaudy banner hanging over the atrium read: "Gilderoy Lockhart—Book Signing!"
I knew the name. A wizard still in his twenties, yet already an idol of sorts—countless "adventures," neatly packaged into readable books. Or so the story goes.
For all his exploits, he never appears in research, and I hardly read novels or essays. I skimmed a few pages because this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts reading list is mysteriously stuffed with Lockhart titles, but they read like breezy adventure yarns. Useful for children to practice spells? Deeply suspect. I already had doubts about our incoming Defense professor's qualifications… and now the man himself is here, the same day and place as Harry Potter. An accident waiting to happen—by design.
Camera flashes popped from the back, women squealed, and Lockhart's speech boomed in snatches over the din. No chance of browsing quietly. I raised my voice a little to be heard by Father at my side.
"Shall we visit the other shops first, Father? With this many people, even finding our textbooks will be difficult."
But he lifted one corner of his mouth, thoughtful—or to put it unkindly, sly.
"No… wait a moment, Draco."
He despises populist spectacles like this. What was he plotting? Gathering gossip fodder for the next salon? Even so, the whole affair felt tasteless.
I followed his lead and leafed idly through a nearby display, killing time until the tide receded—only to be hooked by Lockhart's voice as it rang out from the back:
"—Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the greatest joy and pride that I announce this September I shall be accepting the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"
So it's him after all.
The Defense post at Hogwarts is infamous: last a year, if you last at all. Quirinus Quirrell, my predecessor's predecessor, was abandoned by You-Know-Who and met a grisly end. A terrifying fate. It would be gauche to run the same "Death Eater's pawn" trick twice, but I doubt Lockhart's year ends well either.
That end likely ties into whatever happens this term. Either way, if I want the shape of the year's story, I need to keep a careful eye on him.
As the signing wound down, people began to stream out. Among them I spotted a thoroughly wrung-out Harry, handing his armful of books limply to a red-haired girl beside him (Weasley family, obviously). He noticed me and gave a far feebler wave than he had in Knockturn Alley.
I'd rather keep the protagonist well away from my ex–Death Eater father, but there was nothing for it. For the moment, Father encourages me to be on friendly terms with Harry, and surely nothing would explode immediately. With that in mind, I stepped between Harry and Father's line of sight.
"You look wrung dry. What happened?"
"Lockhart grabbed me and forced a photo," Harry groaned. "Dragged me out in front of everyone… absolute nightmare."
"Wants pictures with you, does he? Sounds like a case of rampant vanity."
"Definitely. And he's our new Defense teacher? Nothing good will come of it."
"Then treat it like a chance to bank a favor and a face. People with broad name recognition can be useful."
"Is that how it works? …At least the photo isn't with my face full of soot."
As we chatted, the red-haired girl beside him—concern written all over her—kept glancing at me. Has the name "Malfoy" already reached her ears? I hesitated over whether to greet her when Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger fought their way through the crowd. Both looked a bit battered; Hermione's face, especially, was flushed with excitement. I offered a polite hello. Ron seemed to debate protocol, landing on a hybrid nod that was half bow, half head-tilt. Hermione angled straight toward me.
"Hi! I heard you helped Harry earlier—and you used magic?"
"Legal magic," I shot back.
Last year's flying lesson flashed across my mind. I'd braced for a scolding and rushed my defense, but that wasn't her aim. She shrugged and pressed on.
"So not about that. About the spell that made him—"
Before she could take the reins of the conversation, a man's voice called from deeper in the shop.
"Ron! What are you doing? This place is a madhouse. Outside, now."
Just our luck: the flaming red hair was unmistakable—Arthur Weasley. He converged on us from the rear just as Father approached from behind me. The two men saw each other. One face tightened; the other curved in a contemptuous smile. Father began in a voice icy with barely contained rancor from all those surprise inspections.
"Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley."
I knew that tone in a heartbeat: a prelude to baiting his opponent. He meant to spar, here, in public. Please don't. Not in front of the children.
True to form, Father plucked the red-haired girl's secondhand books from her hands and began belittling Weasley's finances, civil servant that he is. Weasley's mild expression hardened as if turned by a key.
I prayed for a swift end… when Father's gaze slid past me. A couple stood there—judging from their clothes and features, Muggles. The Grangers. For a pure-blood supremacist, a perfect target. This would get ugly. I desperately wanted to step outside.
"Weasley, to be keeping company like this… I thought your family had already sunk as low as it could go—"
Father's foolishness was interrupted by a greater one: Weasley, unable to stomach the slur, launched himself at him. Father slammed back into a bookcase, shrieks rising around us. Bad. Very bad. Too late or not, I had to try to contain it.
"Stop—please, Mr. Weasley, calm down!"
I rushed them, grabbed for Weasley's shoulder—and was swatted away like a fly. I slammed into a shelf. Twelve-year-old bodies are pitifully weak. A rain of spell compendiums thumped my head. I caught myself thinking, wildly, that I should have used magic even without confidence.
"Hey, you all right?"
To his credit, Ron Weasley hauled me to my feet—shock apparently knocking the usual attitude out of him. I wobbled, thanked him, and looked back just in time to see a giant of a man—how did he even get inside?—prying our fathers apart.
Weasley's lip was split; Father's cheek was already blooming with a bruise. They looked like they'd gone round in a ring. The headache of imagining Mother's reaction began on the spot.
It was the first time in my twelve-odd years I'd seen grown wizards grapple. This cannot be the standard in the wizarding world, can it? Father usually keeps a genteel surface, but with Weasley his mask simply falls away. Yes, the other man threw the first punch, but the optics—abysmal.
Father tossed the still-clutched book back to the red-haired girl with a final barb, then swept me out of the shop.
---
The uproar at the shop slowly ebbed once Mr. Malfoy and Draco were gone. Hagrid, straightening Uncle Arthur's robes, grunted, "Arthur, leave 'im be. Rot to the marrow, that one. The whole family is the same."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "Oh, come on, Hagrid! Draco helped Harry earlier. It's time we started looking at him from more than one angle, isn't it? Norbert wasn't put down, after all."
Hagrid hadn't bothered to hide his anger and disgust toward Draco after the dragon incident. Even after the Forbidden Forest detention—after he heard Draco had protected me—his attitude barely changed. Losing Norbert had cut that deep.
But while I was at the Burrow, a letter arrived from Ron's brother Charlie, and the truth came out. In the end, Dumbledore hadn't had Norbert killed; he sent him on to Charlie.
Charlie's friends who came to Hogwarts got a severe scolding, not harsh punishment, and now Norbert—well, Norberta, as it turns out—was thriving.
Hagrid had just heard all that when he ran into us, and he suddenly didn't know what to make of Draco. In the end, Norbert made it to Romania as planned, and after many twists and turns, we came away with more than a mere detention.
Judged by the ending alone, it turned out pretty well. But first impressions are stubborn. Hagrid still seemed to see Lucius Malfoy and Draco as one and the same.
As I sighed, Ron edged closer and muttered in my ear, "Well… maybe it's time Hagrid faced reality, yeah? Keeping a dragon in his hut was barmy."
I stared at Ron. He'd hated Draco the most of the three of us—understandable, given their first meeting on the train. Somewhere along the way, he'd shifted. Maybe Hagrid's stubbornness had made Ron the calm one.
If Ron and Draco could get along, the new term might be much easier than last year. I was still worried about the house-elf, Dobby, who'd shown up at the Dursleys' over the summer…
But now, more than ever, I couldn't wait to get back to Hogwarts.
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