Chapter Text
Disclaimer: They are not mine, and no money is made from this endeavor.
WHEN HEARTS ARE FREED
Prologue
It was late and he was tired, but both habit and an excess of caution made Draco Malfoy take one last tour around the inside of his art galleria. He’d begun the venture on a whim; the war had been over and he’d aced his NEWT’s, but the idea of following a career in potion making had not appealed. Law enforcement was simply out of the question; his motivations for turning to the side of light near the end had always been viewed with suspicion, and the idea of chasing around random idiots with a case of Death Eater envy or the occasional psychotic who fancied himself the next ‘Dark Lord’ sounded about as entertaining as a case of Dragon Pox.
It had been his oldest and dearest friend who had first suggested opening an art gallery.
“You love art,” Pansy had said one morning over beignets at their favorite patisserie. “And honestly darling, there isn’t anyone currently taking the time or the effort to preserve magical art, at least not the way that it should be done. Hogwarts has the largest collection, but none of those pieces are for sale. And there are many pure-blood families who would probably be willing to sell off a few things. You know, to recoup their wartime losses. You could probably pick up some wonderful things —” she’d smiled at him over her Grey Lady Tea, “—for the right price.”
He’d met her gaze with a raised brow, but the idea had been planted and the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. He loved art; he always had. Especially magical art, which was an entity in and of itself. He could admit freely that there were some wonderful Muggle works, by great masters; Michaelangelo, DaVinci, Gainsborough. But they paled in comparison to the works created by the great wizard artists, and Pansy was right; the magical world was being rebuilt, but no one had endeavored to help re-build the arts. So when he’d reached his majority, he’d taken the percentage of the Malfoy fortune that had been kept for him in trust, entered into a silent partnership with Pansy, whose family fortune was undiminished, and they’d opened “le Gallerie du Ecouter Magie”.
In five years, the small upscale gallery had gained a reputation for both exclusivity and excellence, and he was very proud of it. It had not been easy in the beginning; people had long memories, and had not been especially quick to forgive and forget. The first three years had been hard, and more than once he’d been ready to close the doors. But as he walked the impeccable inlaid marble floors, and checked each charmed and locked display case, his sense of ‘rightness’ increased; it had been difficult, but he was proud of what he’d built. The portraits on the walls nodded to him respectfully as he passed, and a diamond encrusted snake necklace slithered across its bed of dark green velvet to greet him with a sibilant hiss. A set of charmed jade chess pieces in another case bowed in their places on a mosaic tiled chess board, a gesture he returned. He was ‘Mister Malfoy’ here, and he liked it. Long in the shadow of his powerful but flawed father, this place was his.
He was taking one last look around the spacious room when something flashed, and he turned. Nothing was moving; he was alone, but he’d been so certain. And then, it happened again. A sparkle of red light, there in the case in the very center of the room, and he moved towards it, frowning.
Leaning over the immaculate glass case, Draco stared at the contents carefully. All appeared as it should; the white satin lining was untouched by stain, its rich folds gleaming. There were the portraits, all seven of them, lined up in their black frames; old-fashioned photos, tin-type in coloration, moving slowly now due to their age. He looked at the images of the stoic father, gentle mother, four laughing daughters, and one small, pale son who stared, wide-eyed into the camera. It was the image of the boy that always drew Draco: Fourteen-year-old Alexi Romanov, the Tsarevich, the little prince who would never live to sit upon his father’s throne, the sickly child who as at the heart of the famous legend surrounding his mother’s necklace.
Draco’s eyes went to the image of the boy’s mother, wearing a fabulous ball gown and the famous necklace, its huge, perfect stones gleaming. His eyes then traveled to the intricate necklace lying on the white satin, the twenty-four carat filigree, complete with the royal emblem fashioned from tiny loops of solid gold, the seven dozen one karat diamonds catching and reflecting the light. But his eyes fixed on the seven larger stones; six perfectly round and nine karat’s, and one massive teardrop that weighed a staggering 25 karats. It was the very image of the necklace in the photograph, but for one startling detail; the stones were no longer pristine and clear diamonds, but red. Deep, dark blood red.
Draco had heard the story as a boy, and knew of the legend and the curse, but it hadn’t mattered to him. He’d jumped at the chance to display it. The necklace itself was not for sale, but was there to bring attention to the items that were for sale, the rest of a once prominent Russian family’s large collection of jewelry, icons and art.
The publicity around the display of the famous necklace had been all that Draco had hoped, and the majority of the other pieces had already been bid on. The Romanov ‘Diamonds’ were slated to return to St. Petersburg in just a few days, and the entirety of the event had been free of difficulties, despite warnings to the contrary and the nervousness of his insurance providers. And Draco had spent a good deal of time, late at night, leaning over the case and studying the necklace. It appeared spectacular, but harmless. But tonight, as he lowered his head and stared at the stones, he could see that they looked different.
They were pulsating faintly, and he felt a chill run the length of his spine. The regular rhythm appeared almost like a beating heart, frozen within each stone, and Draco caught his breath. He’d never believed the legend; such a thing wasn’t possible. It was a necklace. At some point, someone had changed the diamonds out for rubies; it was as simple as that. And yet now, as he stared at it, he felt a trace of wonder. Could that be… No, it wasn’t possible. But even as he stared, a small cloud appeared in the largest stone, the tear-drop. It roiled inside the gem, twisting and turning until with a startled sound of surprise, Draco saw an eye peering up at him. One wide, dark, long-lashed eye, studying him with the same intensity with which he studied it, and he spread his hands on the glass, his face almost touching the surface as he stared at the deep red gem and the eye in its depth. It blinked slowly.
It was the last thing that Draco saw. When the blow hit him at the base of his skull and blood splattered the glass, his last thought as he lost consciousness was that it was exactly the same deep red as the rubies shining beneath his hands.