A/N:Well, hello there. How are you all doing?
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Diagon Alley — a long, winding cobblestone lane lined with some of the most enticing wizarding shops in the world.
What a noisy, bustling, vibrant place it was.
In the past, Draco had mostly disdained environments like this. Even now, crowds still made him frown. In Malfoy thinking, noise meant disorder — neither elegant nor worthy of respect.
But having lived through the Dark Lord's suffocating reign in his memories, he had learned to appreciate this long-lost sense of ordinary life.
Groups of black-robed witches and wizards moved noisily down the street, silly and happy, occasionally streaming in and out of shops. Young witches and wizards — barely out of Hogwarts — didn't need to crane their necks to read the signs. Through spotless windows they could see a dazzling array of magical goods: flying broomsticks, robes, telescopes, silverware, potions, potion ingredients, spellbooks, quills, parchment, phials, owls, Sneakoscopes, celestial globes...
Draco walked quietly through it all, a strange sense of unreality settling over him. This was not the Diagon Alley of his nightmares.
He remembered its desolation with painful clarity — the image as sharp and lifelike as if it had been only yesterday:
Ministry of Magic notices had been plastered across the colourful shop windows, covering them almost entirely. Each notice bore photographs of wanted Death Eaters — figures photographed mid-cackle, their twisted faces sending chills through every wizard who passed. His aunt Bellatrix had been among them.
The streets, once clean and orderly, had been left filthy by repeated Death Eater raids. Shops had been smashed open and looted, left dilapidated and abandoned. Even Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour — a place he had loved as a child — had been shuttered. The work of the Death Eaters, like everything else.
For some reason, the Dark Lord in that past life had not even spared a peaceful ice cream shop owner.
Fortescue had been kind to every young witch and wizard who came through his door, regardless of blood status — Muggle-born children, pure-blood children, even the children of Death Eaters. He had never distinguished between them.
When Lucius was in Azkaban, and Draco's life had hit rock bottom, Fortescue had still smiled and handed him a cone instead of spitting at him the way some shopkeepers had.
And then, before his death, Fortescue had been found in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor — driven half to madness by repeated exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.
Draco had once secretly brought him food, moved by some feeling he could not quite name. And in his broken, fragmented state, Fortescue had muttered something that had lodged itself in Draco's memory ever since: "The Elder Wand... Ravenclaw's Diadem..."
That was worth thinking about carefully, Draco thought.
The Dark Lord was searching for the Elder Wand. What was it, precisely?
The Dark Lord never wasted time on useless people. He did not hesitate to use the Killing Curse — he would not torture someone without cause, unless that person held information of extreme importance to him.
Most wizards knew nothing about Florean Fortescue beyond his ice cream. But those who knew their pure-blood history might recall that the ice cream parlour owner was a descendant of Dexter Fortescue, a former Headmaster of Hogwarts.
It was not impossible that he carried some exclusive piece of old knowledge.
The Dark Lord was clearly very interested in what Fortescue had known — and whatever it was, it was no mere legend. It existed.
This mattered. Draco filed it carefully away.
He also recalled how the Dark Lord had grown increasingly desperate about wands in the later stages. After his own wand was rendered useless in the duel with Potter, the Dark Lord had seized the wand that his father Lucius cherished above almost anything else. That wand had survived only a single use before being destroyed in another confrontation with Potter.
The Dark Lord had called it "a great honour and sacrifice for the Malfoy family." Draco had considered this a contemptible lie and the sacrifice utterly pointless.
Lucius had never commented on it to his son. But Draco had seen the brief hesitation when his father extended the wand. That fractional pause had said everything.
And when news came that the wand had been destroyed, Lucius's face had shown nothing — yet Draco had noticed his father's hand tighten around the hollowed snake-head of his cane, and had felt a quiet ache on his behalf.
The Dark Lord had not cared. He had already moved on to finding something better.
Eventually, the Elder Wand — Dumbledore's wand — had appeared in the Dark Lord's hands. Draco remembered, with unpleasant clarity, the look of smug satisfaction on the Dark Lord's face when he first held it.
It would be worth finding a way to speak to Fortescue, then — while the man was still sane, still behind his parlour counter with his cheerful smile. Draco, walking briskly alongside his mother, let his gaze pass briefly across the familiar shopfront, and a calculating glint entered his eyes.
The Malfoys made their way along the winding cobblestones, standing out easily among the more simply-dressed wizards around them. This family radiated elegance and breeding, their gait unhurried yet purposeful, conveying a particular quality of confidence that bordered on — if one were being honest — self-importance. The bright summer sun caught their platinum-blond hair brilliantly, and it was rather difficult not to notice them.
"Attracting attention" in the Malfoy sense meant something specific: you held your posture, kept your eyes forward, and allowed others to admire you — rather than goggling about like a lost tourist.
For instance, right now: Draco could hear two boys by a shop window whispering excitedly — "That's the new Nimbus Two Thousand — the fastest one yet—" — and he kept his eyes firmly ahead, rather than pressing his nose against the glass like an awestruck first-year.
He had been reprimanded in front of that very shop window in his past life, his father calling him unambitious for his undisguised enthusiasm. That would not happen again.
Besides, Potter would have a Nimbus Two Thousand this year. He had no particular desire to fly the same broom as the Saviour.
He would wait. The Nimbus Two Thousand and One would be released next year, and the Two Thousand would become ordinary overnight. Until then, the family's Comet Two Sixty would do perfectly well. First-years weren't permitted broomsticks at school in any case.
As for Potter's broom — that had been a special exception, a privilege bestowed by Dumbledore on the Boy Who Lived. Draco had no illusions about claiming the same treatment.
By the time he had finished thinking this through, he had already stepped into Gringotts with his parents.
It was a towering, snow-white building that rose above all the surrounding shops. Two sets of doors stood between the entrance and the cavernous marble hall inside: first, a pair of burnished bronze doors, then a second set of silver, engraved with text that warned, in no uncertain terms, of the fates awaiting thieves. Beyond both doors, dark-faced goblins with long fingers and pointed features bowed in greeting and led the Malfoy family briskly toward their vault.
In Gringotts, a vault's location and its method of opening told you everything you needed to know about its owner's standing. High-security vaults lay far underground, their doors sealed with advanced enchantments no ordinary key could touch.
As one of the oldest wizarding families in England, the Malfoys kept their wealth at the deepest level — miles beneath London. The cart had barely begun to move before it plunged into its descent, hurtling through a labyrinthine network of tunnels, weaving between colossal stalactites and stalagmites in the biting underground air.
The cart slowed as it passed a vast fire-breathing dragon shackled to an enormous iron stake — and Draco caught a glimpse of the beast.
He had loved dragons since childhood. He had once considered this particular sight one of the few reasons he could tolerate the dizzying, stomach-lurching ride.
But looking at it properly now, he could not find the creature majestic at all.
Its face was mapped with deep, terrible scars. Its scales had none of the gleaming silver-grey they ought to have had — they were instead a pallid, unhealthy white. Its eyes, which should have burned red, were a murky, faded pink. Its hind legs were shackled with chains so heavy they bit into the skin, and its great spiked wings were folded flat against its sides.
The sound of the approaching cart stirred it. The dragon turned its scarred head toward them and let out a roar that sent vibrations through the surrounding stone — then flinched back at the sound of the goblins' Clankers, those small metal instruments that rang out with a sharp, clear tone the dragon had been conditioned to fear.
A truly majestic dragon would be afraid of nothing. This one had clearly had its spirit broken by years of violent taming. Draco looked at it for a moment longer, then exhaled quietly.
The cart came to a stop at the deepest point. A goblin tapped the vault's ancient, ornate door, and it slowly vanished.
Inside, coins, gold and silverware, precious gems, rare pelts, and carefully stored potion ingredients were stacked high on all sides. Of the wealth the Malfoy family had accumulated across ten centuries, the Galleons were probably the least remarkable item. The truly irreplaceable things were those that no amount of money could simply replace.
Lucius produced a dragonhide pouch and swept a substantial quantity of Galleons into it with a casual pass of his snake-headed cane — managing to look entirely unimpressed by a vault that would have left most wizards speechless.
"Draco, take these and spend them wisely." He handed the pouch across and fixed his son with a measured look. "A proper Malfoy must know how to invest. You'll learn soon enough that most of the friends one makes in this world can be bought." He turned and led them out, tapping the cane against the stone floor as he walked.
"Yes, Father," Draco replied, exactly as he had in his past life.
The philosophy was not entirely without merit — it had served the Malfoy family well in maintaining influence within the Ministry of Magic for many years. But Draco also knew precisely where it broke down: the moment Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban, every one of those purchased friendships had evaporated. They had not merely withdrawn — several had actively conspired against him.
Money bought associations, not loyalty.
The Malfoy family's guiding principle held that there were no permanent friends, no permanent enemies — only permanent interests. And interests, of course, were not limited to gold.
Draco tucked the pouch away thoughtfully. He had no intention of abandoning the tactic — used correctly, other people's resources and goodwill could accomplish a great deal. But he would not repeat the mistake of treating purchased loyalty as something dependable. And as for those rare few whose hearts could not be bought — they were more unpredictable still, and worth understanding.
"My darling little dragon." Narcissa appeared beside him, smoothing a hand over his platinum hair with a warm smile. "I've arranged a transfer to your private vault as well." She leaned close and added, in a tone of cheerful conspiracy, "Don't tell your father."
In addition to the family vault, which only the head of the family could access, every Malfoy maintained a private vault of their own. Draco's had existed since his birth and already held a considerable sum. His grandfather Abraxas had contributed an education fund each year; his maternal grandfather Cygnus Black — never able to resist indulging Narcissa — had sent a sum annually on the boy's behalf as well. And Narcissa herself, one of the wealthiest and most formidable witches in the wizarding world, had always made certain her son would never want for anything.
Draco looked up at her.
Her smile reached her eyes entirely. His mother had never been the person who understood him best — but she had always been the one who loved him most deeply, and without condition. She had stood beside him through the worst of it: the darkest, most frightening stretches, present when no one else was.
Looking back now, he saw what he had not seen then — that his seemingly gentle mother had become the backbone of the family at the precise moment it had come closest to collapse. Without her, he could not imagine what would have become of him and his father.
She had even given him her wand, once Potter had taken his.
A wand was a wizard's life. In giving him hers, she had exposed herself entirely — defenceless against every threat in that Manor, with no means to fight back. She had faced those brutal, dangerous Death Eaters without a wand, just as his father had.
They had been utterly vulnerable. Lambs at the mercy of wolves.
This time, he would protect her. He held the thought quietly. He never wanted to see her face drawn with exhaustion and fear again.
In his past life, through naivety and vanity and a great deal of wasted pride, he had squandered much of his family's resources. And by the time he had finally wanted to act, that wealth had largely been co-opted — used by the Dark Lord to buy others' cooperation, while the Malfoy family itself was treated as an expendable asset. They had been kept alive only as long as they remained useful, squeezed dry, and regarded with contempt even as they performed every service asked of them.
Lackeys. Coinpurses. It was a profound disgrace.
It would not happen again. He gripped the dragonhide pouch tightly, as if he were gripping something far more important.
He looked up at his mother and gave her a smile that he tried to keep innocent. "Thank you, Mother."
He would be ready, he told himself. Ready before any of it begins.
The cart carried them back up through the tunnels at a somewhat more leisurely pace before stopping briefly outside the Lestrange family vault.
Lucius was visibly displeased. He had worked hard to distance the Malfoy name from any association with prisoners serving time in Azkaban, and Narcissa's visits here undermined that careful management. It was a stain he had no desire to keep polishing back into view.
But Narcissa could not simply abandon her own blood. Her father had been insistent — someone had to keep watch over the affairs of those locked away, at the very least to ensure that Bellatrix and her hapless husband did not simply perish there.
Narcissa, as always, found a way to manage her husband. While Draco turned toward the goblin and asked, "Is that tethered dragon a Ukrainian Ironbelly?", she pressed a light kiss to Lucius's cheek.
"I'll only be a moment, Lucius," she said, with a smile that brooked no argument.
It worked. His expression softened almost immediately. He shook his head and stood aside, watching as Narcissa followed a goblin into the vault.
She emerged shortly after, carrying a small wrapped package.
Draco caught a glimpse through the narrowing doorway before it sealed shut. The Lestrange vault was not the equal of the Malfoy family's in sheer elegance of taste, but it was no less densely stocked: gold coins, golden goblets, silver armour, the preserved pelts and hides of various Dark creatures, potion vials, and skulls mounted with jewelled crowns filled the space from floor to ceiling.
The Lestranges, he reflected, had never lacked for money. His aunt Bellatrix held the key to all of it, and could clearly live as well as any noblewoman in Britain.
What a waste, he thought, pressing his lips together. Her taste in everything else left considerably more to be desired. She dressed like a madwoman and had committed herself entirely to following one.
Draco shared his father's sentiments on the matter: he wanted his mother to have as little to do with Bellatrix as possible. The woman was dangerous.
She was undeniably gifted — unlike Narcissa, Bellatrix had an extraordinary mastery of Dark Magic, and was one of the most formidable Occlumens Draco had ever encountered. She had even taught him, at Narcissa's request, which he supposed he ought to be grateful for.
But she was also utterly without scruple. For a casual word of praise from the Dark Lord, she would sacrifice anything and anyone. She had killed her own cousin — Sirius Black, her blood — without a moment's hesitation, and had laughed about it afterwards.
Having opposing loyalties did not excuse having no limits at all.
There was, among all wizards, a basic consensus: magical blood was Merlin's gift, something of irreplaceable value. In noble families that prided themselves on lineage, expulsion from the family was the harshest punishment imaginable. Even between members of opposing camps — even between those who held deeply conflicting beliefs — blood relatives simply did not kill each other. That line simply was not crossed.
Bellatrix crossed it without a second thought. She killed those who shared her blood and found it amusing.
Cold-blooded, utterly ruthless.
She had also tortured Hermione Granger.
Merlin. Even as a bystander, Draco had very nearly suffocated watching it. That memory sat alongside Dumbledore's death at the very top of his list of things he most desperately wished he could forget.
He could not wait to get his hands on a wand.
The first thing he intended to do, once he had one, was perform Occlumency on himself — sealing those particular memories away somewhere they could not reach him without warning, so he could at least breathe properly again.