Draco hated London. Perhaps that was too kind. He loathed London. Being here reminded him, mostly, of the various things he disliked about southern magical society. That included the Ministry. Though his mother’s ancestral home was in Belgravia and thus far from Diagon Alley, where Draco was now trapped, if he indulged that paranoid streak he could just feel those Black eyes prick his skin. Druella had died many years ago, but that didn’t mean much. That was the problem with magic: what was done was rarely ever finished.
Draco stalked along, his dragonhide boots clipping on the cobblestones. A miserable sky hung overhead, casting Diagon Alley in a heavy grey light broken by the honeyed lamplight of passing shops. His cloak fell against his legs with every step; it was too heavy for this weather, even in bloody London, but Draco didn’t intend to be here long. It was that blasted potioneer’s fault for deliberately misinterpreting Draco’s very nicely written and, importantly, routine, request for ingredients that meant he’d dragged himself down from Hogwarts. Draco wordlessly cast a temporal charm. Twenty minutes until the Ravenclaw fourth years. Merlin help him.
Grinding his teeth, Draco turned sharply into Knockturn Alley. At the precise moment he rounded the corner he pulled himself up short, just missing the person coming the other way.
“Pardon me,” he snipped. “I’ve an appointment, if you don’t mind.”
Knockturn Alley is eternally changing and equally forever the same. The battered, smoky windows with displays that only hinted at what they sold, the chipped stonework and the deep patina of what could only be called grime so deeply ingrained in everything that Theo sometimes wondered if a single scourgify spell would bring the whole place down, were all unchanged in Theo’s lifetime. What did change were the constant flux of street vendors, the battered stalls on quick-fold stands, the exact details of the sly looking faces trying to pass off muggle chicken eggs as basilisk spawn.
Theo’s hands reach low at his sides as his eyes wander along the street vendors, paying no attention to the ( neatly dressed in what seems to be a toga made up of portions of a velvet curtain ) House Elf next to him as her hands reach up to relieve him of the small package, adding it to the knotted napkin she was using as a basket. A small jewellery stand catches his attention, and Cady’s basket acquired a few beryls with spellwork a few notches above the rest of the offerings.
❝ That will be all for today, Cady. I will be home shortly. ❞ His dismissal is absent, almost curt, but there’s no bite to it and the small House Elf bobs a curtsy and vanishes with a sharp crack, taking the basket with her. Theo rather wishes he could simply follow her directly, but he does need to stop by the Nott’s Gringotts vault before he returns home. He bites back a sigh — Diagon Alley proper was always a trial. Seven years on and there was still always one busy-nosed witch or wizard who decided to harangue him. For all the faults Knockturn Alley had, at least its patrons were entirely uninterested in badgering each other about past misdeeds.
And watched where they were going. He grits his teeth, a sharp reply already on the tip of his tongue before he recognises the overly pale hair and build. ❝ You also had manners once. Is that anyway to greet a friend? ❞
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