Chapter Text
ICE HEIST: SUSPECTS APPREHENDED
A daring bid to rob Gringotts bank was spectacularly foiled after suspects inadvertently crossed paths with none other than our own hero and Britain’s most eligible bachelor, Harry James Potter. The incident occurred yesterday afternoon around lunchtime, when several would-be robbers attempted to ransack the premises by wandpoint. The five accused attacked the goblin guards before demanding an unspecified sum of money from one of the bankers. Unfortunately for the hapless criminals, Harry Potter happened to be in attendance at the bank on personal business. Potter, a man who lets his actions speak for him, immediately leapt into action, casting an ingenious ice charm on all of the suspects, literally freezing them in their tracks, before any blood was shed. The Aurors arrived soon afterwards to chisel the suspects free from the ice and take them into custody.
When asked afterwards how he felt about the shocking and traumatic incident, Potter’s eyes glistened with the ghosts of his past and he said, “Why don’t you bugger off and pester someone else? I want to eat my lunch in peace.”
Harry Potter remains a man who speaks little but to the point, a person of action rather than words. But beneath his rough exterior and boorish manner lies a tender soul, wounded by countless battle scars and a lifetime of loneliness. Who could possibly fill the chasm that is the heart of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? A man who has given so much to the world but has yet to find love of any real significance—
“Draco, darling,” said Pansy suddenly, “if you’re planning on spending the whole evening reading the newspaper instead of talking to me, I’ll just be heading home.”
Draco looked up from the newspaper to find Pansy staring at him, a pencil-thin eyebrow raised. He folded the newspaper in half and discarded it onto the empty chair next to him.
“Honestly, the way that the Prophet bangs on about how wonderful he is, you’d think they were his bloody PR team,” he grumbled.
“Who?”
Draco drew her an incensed look. “Potter, of course! Who else?”
“Oh, yes. Quite,” Pansy replied unenthusiastically, running a long painted fingernail down the drinks menu. “What are you having? I think I’ll try a Martini Francaise…”
Draco sighed and snatched the other drinks menu off of the table. “I don’t like anything on here.”
Pansy frowned. “What are you on about? They’ve got half a dozen brands of whiskey on here for you to choose from.”
“Yes, but they don’t have Ogden's,” he whined. “That’s the only one that I like.”
Pansy groaned and slammed her menu onto the table. “Well, I’m not the one that insisted on coming to a Muggle-run establishment for drinks.”
“I only suggested this place because nowhere else will serve us,” he shot back. “And if any wizard-run bar did serve us, there’s a high likelihood that they would have tampered with our drinks.”
“Yes, well whose fault is that?” Pansy drawled as she waved over a waitress.
Draco opened his mouth to argue that she could hardly blame the entirety of the Second Wizarding War on him, but quickly closed it when a petite Muggle with mousy brown hair approached their table.
“Are you guys ready to order drinks?” she asked brightly.
“Yes, I’ll have a Martini Francaise,” Pansy replied, accenting the words in her best imitation of French. “And my friend here will have a Cock Sucking Cowboy.”
“Pansy!”
“It’s only a drink, darling,” she assured him before adding in a mock whisper to the waitress, “Although, he could do with a real one, too. You don’t happen to have any hidden behind the bar, do you?”
Draco rolled his eyes as Pansy and the waitress laughed at his expense. Despite her incessant teasing, she remained Draco’s closest (if only) friend since leaving Hogwarts. She was just as acid-tongued and sharp witted as she had been during their school days, which was just what Draco needed to keep him grounded. They spent the next couple of hours sampling different cocktails from the menu, steadily getting drunker as they did so. By the time the bar was closing at eleven, Draco was in a much better mood than when he’d arrived.
“I’m not ready to go home,” Pansy cried as they stumbled onto the quiet street. “Let’s go to The Copacabana Club, we haven’t been there in ages!”
“I can’t,” said Draco, checking his pocket watch. “I’ve got places to be.”
Pansy paused and gave him a curious look. “Places to be? At this time of night?” A licentious grin spread across her face. “You’re meeting up with someone, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” he replied evasively.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Nobody you know.”
“It’s not a Muggle, is it?” she gasped. Before Draco even had the chance to reply, she continued her barrage of questions. “Are they good-looking? Is he rich? Does he have a brother?”
“I’m walking away now,” Draco took a step away from Pansy but she grabbed his arm and pulled him into a tight hug.
“Alright, no clubbing tonight,” she sighed. “But I want all the sordid little details of your dallience when we next meet up for drinks.”
“How are you getting home?” he asked. “You’re not Apparating, are you?”
“Noooo, I’m too drunk for that,” she laughed, pulling her wand from her purse. “I’ll just take the Knight Bus.”
She raised her wand high into the air and a moment later, there was a loud bang and a triple-decker bus screeched to a halt at her feet. The sliding door creaked open and the conductor stepped off to help Pansy on board.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” she said before turning her attention to the conductor. “Virginia Water, please.”
“Just owl me,” said Draco.
“I’ll call you,” she insisted.
Draco glowered at her. “You know that I don’t like using those Muggle contraptions.”
“That’s because you’re stuffy and boring,” she teased. “You need to get with the times, darling.”
“Owls work just fine.”
“Are we plannin’ on leavin’ some time this evenin’?” the conductor groused. “‘Cause I’ve got a dozen other passengers with places to be.”
Pansy rolled her eyes at the man. “Alright! I’m coming, keep your wig on.”
She waved wildly at Draco as the sliding door slammed shut in her face and the bus tore off down the street at top speed, vanishing around the corner just as suddenly as it had appeared. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling conflicted. He knew Pansy was right about the phones, they were a lot more time efficient than owls and a lot less messy than calling someone via the Floo network. But he couldn’t help but to have a certain level of mistrust around them because they were Muggle-made. He only kept the phone on his person to humour Pansy—he had no intention of ever using the damn thing.
Draco looked up at the night sky to find the moon obscured by clouds. The air smelled damp, promising a downpour tonight. He needed to get a move on if he wanted to avoid the rain.
“‘Scuse me!” Draco turned to find the waitress from the bar running towards him. She slowed as she neared him and thrust out her hand. “You forgot your newspaper.”
“Oh,” Draco took the proffered paper and nodded to the waitress. “Right. Thanks.”
“No problem,” the waitress hesitated a moment before nodding at it. “Funny newspaper you’ve got there. Could’ve sworn I saw the bloke in the picture move.”
“Really?” he drawled. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
“Yeah, must’ve been…” The waitress looked uncertain. “Never heard of the Daily Prophet before, neither. Looks like one of those prank mags like 3rd Stone or National Enquirer.”
“Yes, well…thank you for returning it.”
Draco slipped the newspaper into the coat pocket, turned on his heel and strode away from the waitress before she could ask any more awkward questions. The last thing that he needed was to have the Ministry on his case for breaching the Statute of Secrecy Act over a bloody newspaper. The White Wyvern Pub was only a short distance away but he sped up his pace, checking his pocket watch again; he was going to be late.
Pansy was right when she had surmised that Draco was meeting someone, but it certainly wasn’t a date. Draco couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of bedding the person that he was going to meet. He’d sooner sleep with Pansy.
He pushed the gloomy pub’s entrance door open and didn’t give the patrons a second glance as he made a beeline for the rear exit, which took him out onto the dimly lit Knockturn Alley. Given the late hour, he wasn’t surprised to find the street deserted. Of course, these sort of meetings had to be conducted in the dead of night to avoid prying eyes.
He turned right towards Ragnuk’s Betting Shop and climbed up the fire escape stairs attached to the side of the building, his feet ting ting ting- ing against the metal with each step. Mundungus Fletcher always opted for them to meet and do business on the roof of the betting shop. Draco supposed it was because it was quiet, but more importantly, he’d need only to pop back downstairs to spend his illicit earnings.
As Draco carefully stepped onto the roof, he brushed down the front of his suit trousers and looked around to get his bearings. Mundungus usually met him at the top of the stairs, flashing his checkered teeth in a crooked grin before showing Draco what goods he had procured for him that month. Draco squinted his eyes in the dim light to check the time again; he was only a couple of minutes later than planned, surely the scoundrel hadn’t bailed already? Not without his money.
There was a low rumble of thunder overhead and it made the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stand on end. Something about this didn’t feel right. Pocketing his watch, Draco drew his wand from its holder and muttered “Lumos”. Raising his wand high into the air, the pale light from the tip bounced off of the surrounding chimney stacks and air vents that spewed clouds of white smoke into the cold night.
“Fletcher,” he hissed, but only silence answered.
Draco cursed quietly under his breath. Knowing his luck, Mundungus had been nabbed by Aurors and everything on his person had been confiscated. Draco was in two minds about leaving, but he was keen to make this trade. Not many opportunities like this were likely to arise again, so pushing aside every instinct that was telling him to turn tail and run, Draco walked carefully and quietly around the fire door to check the other side of the expansive roof, trying his best to ignore how far down the ground below was. Heights didn’t bother him when he was on a broomstick; traversing a slippery roof with gripless dress shoes was a different matter entirely.
As Draco rounded the corner of a large air vent, he paused when he heard Mundungus’s voice; he was speaking to someone. He popped his head around the corner and found the two-bit criminal standing at the roof’s ledge, talking to a tall, cloaked figure in a low, heated whisper. He couldn’t identify who it was that Mundungus was talking to on account of it being so dark and the stranger having their back turned to Draco. Not that he wanted to know what layabouts Mundungus Fletcher consorted with, of course—they were well beneath someone at Draco's station. Still, Draco couldn’t help but feel a stab of annoyance that Mundungus was trying to double up on his shady deals when he was supposed to be conducting one specifically with him . Not only was it poor business ethics, it was just plain rude.
Draco clicked his tongue disapprovingly and slunk back into the shadows. Honestly, what was the point of arranging to meet at a specific time and place in secret if Mundungus wasn’t going to bother following his own rules? Just as Draco was contemplating whether or not to interrupt the meeting out of sheer spite, the stranger suddenly snapped, “You’ll stop if you know what’s good for you!”
Draco froze. Alternatively, he could’ve just stayed hidden and waited for Mundungus to conclude his business dealings with the stranger. It wasn’t as if he was in a hurry to be anywhere else this evening…
“Gerroff me!” Mundungus cried. “Gerroff, I said!”
Draco peeked around the corner again and saw Mundungus and the stranger scuffling over something in Mundungus’s hand. On second thought, perhaps it was wiser for Draco just to leave and rearrange his meeting for another time—
“ARGH!”
Draco gasped and covered his mouth in horror as Mundungus toppled over the edge of the roof and disappeared from view. The stranger stepped forward and looked over the edge of the building to the ground far below before straightening up and taking a few steps backward.
Shit, Draco thought unhelpfully. Shit shit shit!
Draco held his breath and took a couple of cautious steps backwards, hoping he could sneak away before the stranger realised that he was even there. He just wanted to go home and just pretend that this never happened—
Brrrrring brrrrring!
Draco yelped with fright as the phone in his pocket began ringing and vibrating violently. The hooded stranger turned his head sharply towards the spot where Draco was hiding and reached inside of his cloak, presumably for his wand.
Brrrrring brrrrring!
Draco scrambled to switch off the phone but in his panic, he couldn’t locate his pocket. Instead, he did what he did best whenever he happened to find himself in this sort of precarious situation, which seemed to happen with surprising frequency in recent years—he ran.
Draco ducked and screamed in fright as red sparks flew past his left ear and he darted back behind the air vent. Making a run for it, he almost lost his footing on the wet concrete as he made a dash for a nearby chimney stack for cover. Just as he was about to Apparate, the chimney stack exploded overhead, showering pieces of broken brick and pumice all over him. Draco screamed again and threw himself forward onto his stomach, shielding the top of his head with his bare hands. Another barrage of curses quickly followed suit and the heavy footsteps of the stranger quickly drew closer. Draco scrambled on his hands and knees towards the staircase, the phone in his pocket still ringing and vibrating incessantly all the while.
Brrrrring brrrrring! Brrrrring brrrrring!
Just as he was about to reach the staircase, another spell flew over his head and the metal stairs erupted into purple flames. With no means of escape, Draco rolled onto his back. Cold fear gripped him then as the hooded stranger slowed their approach, their wand aimed directly at his heart.
“Malfoy,” said the stranger in a familiar voice as they drew closer. “I should have known you’d be involved with the likes of Mundungus Fletcher.”
“F-Fletcher?” he stammered, clambering backwards until he reached the edge of the building. “I barely know the man.”
“Liar,” the stranger hissed, gripping his wand more firmly.
Draco clamped his eyes shut and expected to see a flash of green, but nothing happened. He pried open one eye to see the stranger still hovering over him, but he seemed hesitant to act. Whether it was madness or sheer desperation that took over Draco at that point, he was never quite sure, but he took the only way out that he could find and flipped himself backwards over the edge of the building.
The stranger shouted after him and green sparks followed Draco as he tumbled through darkness and thought of home. Just as he was about to hit the hard concrete of the street below, Draco’s body twisted violently as though caught in a whirlwind. He hurtled through the blackness which pressed into him from all directions before landing unceremoniously on all fours in the safety of his bedroom.
Draco stayed hunched over on his bedroom floor for a long time before he slowly crawled over to the ottoman at the bottom of his four-poster bed. He felt as though he were watching himself from outside of his own body as he pulled himself up into a seated position. Just then, his mobile phone rang again. Draco fumbled as he tried to fish it out of his pocket and saw, to no surprise, that it was Pansy trying to call him. He hit the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Where the hell have you been?” she complained. “I must’ve called you a dozen times. Honestly, Draco, if you’re not going to use the phone, what’s the point in having the bloody thing?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was busy.”
“Clearly,” she drawled. “Well, I was just calling to let you know that I made it home safe. Although, I have just cracked open another bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and we both know how dangerous I can be once I’ve got a couple of glasses of bubbly in me.”
As Pansy chuckled to herself, Draco suddenly became aware of a sharp pain on his cheek. He brushed the tips of his fingers against his face and saw that his fingertips were stained red with blood. The sight made him feel nauseous and he felt the world lurch sideways.
“Draco, are you alright?”
“What?” said Draco distractedly.
“You sound a bit peekish, are you feeling unwell?” she asked.
“M’fine,” he lied, shakily getting onto his feet and hobbling over to the vanity table. “Just had one too many cocktails, you know how it is.”
Draco made his excuses to cut the conversation short and hung up on Pansy. Sinking into the stool in front of the vanity mirror, he tossed the phone onto the table and snatched up a bundle of tissues, pressing it against his cheek to stem the bleeding. Gods, he looked dreadful. His brand new dress shirt was covered in blood and dirt; it was utterly ruined.
Just as Draco was contemplating whether or not his house-elves would be able to repair the damage to his clothes, the gravity of what had just happened hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks that had come crashing down on his head only a few minutes prior. He gripped the edges of the table, gasping for air, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He had just witnessed someone murder Mundungus Fletcher. And not only had the killer seen him, they knew who Draco was. Oh gods, what if they knew where he lived? What if they were on their way to the Manor right now to finish him off?
Wait, did he know for certain that Mundungus was dead? He didn’t see a body. Maybe he Apparated to safety before hitting the ground, like Draco had?
No. The hooded stranger had all but confirmed that Mundungus was dead after they had tried to take out Draco, too.
Draco stared at his pale, beaten reflection in the mirror, paralyzed by fear and indecision. What should he do? This wasn’t the type of problem that could be solved by throwing money at it. His instinct was to write to his parents, but he had no means of contacting them. The only other person in the world that he trusted was Pansy, but short of stuffing him into the cupboard under the stairs and hiding him, there was little else that she could do to help.
He fleetingly considered contacting the Ministry about this, but he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it had entered his head. He could just imagine the reception he’d get if he went there and asked for help; he’d be laughed out of the building.
He was at a complete loss. Who would be foolish enough to help the likes of Draco Malfoy, anyway? Draco carefully removed the sodden tissue from his cheek and inspected the gash on his cheek that would probably leave a scar.
“Scar…” he murmured to himself.
An idea struck him like a lightning bolt then and he pulled the newspaper from the inside of his coat pocket, flattening it out on the table in front of him. He glowered at the candid photograph the Daily Prophet had taken of Harry Potter. He was sitting by the fountain in the Ministry’s Atrium, just about to take a bite out of his sandwich, when the camera flashed, causing Harry to drop his lunch in the water. He mouthed something that looked suspiciously like an expletive before storming out of the side of the photograph.
This was a bad idea. He knew that it was. But it was the only idea that Draco could come up with. He only hoped that his father never found out about this—he’d never let him live it down.