The Road Not Yet Taken

Narcissa’s death did not go unnoticed, although for all it was worth, no one really seemed to care. She was the wife of a death eater, the mother of a demon.

Draco did not wait at home to be found over his mother’s body. His trunk was packed, his broomstick ready; ready to fly off into oblivion. He did not know where he would go, nor did he care. Draco had no one left.

‘Just like Potty,’ he thought. ‘Who’d have known?’

He dragged his trunk down the staircase and out of the large double doors to the lawns. It was early, soft hints of color were beginning to mar the icy blackness of the morning sky. He wanted to be gone before the sun rose.

“Reducio,” he muttered, pointing his want towards his over-stuffed trunk. It shrunk to the size of a suitcase. Draco lifted the tiny trunk and attached it to the rear of his broomstick. Mounting it gracefully, he kicked off from the soft ground and soared high into the sky. From the ground, he was indistinguishable from a tiny flickering star.

***
The sky above him was clear. Below, the muggle world was buzzing. Early risers like tiny pin pricks moving about their business. It was just another day.

For Draco it was a new beginning.

He did not know where his broom was taking him. His mind wandered helplessly as he raced toward a destination unbeknownst. He had been flying for what felt like decades before he looked down to find a vaguely familiar sight beneath him. Draco had been speeding toward London, the only place he knew for sure he could escape. His money was here, there was food, and more importantly, there were wizards. Not that he wanted to speak to a soul, but it would be easier to blend into the crowds of Diagon Alley than in the streets of Muggle London.

He could not have been more wrong.

Silence fell over the throng of the Leaky Cauldron inhabitance as he pushed through its old wooden door. Every eye was upon Draco. His white gold hair was strangely illuminated in the dingy tavern, his undeniable mark as a Malfoy. But he chose to ignore. A confrontation with an over zealous Dumbledore enthusiast was the last thing he needed.

Those eyes burned holes through him as he made his way to the bar in the far corner of the room. The old toothless owner gaped openly at his unexpected customer.

“A butterbeer,” he spat over the counter. Prompt service was expected to a Malfoy, not intrusive stares.

The man shook himself, his voice high as if it were his first time using it, “Yes. Yes sir.”

Draco found a vacant table in the shadows of the musty tavern. He pulled his hood up over his obviously too-recognizable hair, bending low over his drink. He took a long sip from the bottle. The liquid was cold, condensation building over the slick glass as he lifted it again to his lips. He savored its bittersweet flavor. Here he was, finding comfort in a, not as harmful but still all too familiar, bottle.

The bell on the tavern door jingled as three new customers entered. Draco saw the burst of fiery red hair first. The weasel. He did not have to look twice to guess who his two companions were. The Golden Trio was attached like a permanent sticking charm. Disgusting.

He watched their progress over to the bar. The silence of the tavern had subsided after Draco receded to his table and now loud greetings could be heard over the all too incessant chatter. They called out to their messy haired hero, smiling fondly at his two customary companions. Potter was back in the limelight. The events of their fifth year had shifted the opinion of the easy manipulated wizarding public. The Freak who Lied had been reinstated on his throne as The Boy Who Lived. These people had obviously forgotten that this boy had been the bane of the ministry’s existence merely two years before.

Potter, Weasel and their bushy haired friend greeted the bartender kindly.

“Three butterbeers, Tom.” Asked Harry, in a ridiculously polite tone.

“Please, save you’re money Mr. Potter,” Tom the bartender grinned toothlessly. “It is my pleasure.”

With their thanks, the Golden Trio collected their free drinks and headed strait into the lonely corner that Draco was now hiding in. They sat themselves comfortably two tables away, spreading out their purchases on the round surface and uncorking their butterbeers.

Draco watched as the three friends chattered on about their summers. Apparently the three had spent their weeks at the Weasel’s bin in the country. They reminisced at length before moving on to a subject that Draco was much keener to overhear.

“Well I think he did it.” Weasel said matter of factly.

“Of course he did!” Potter responded “I wouldn’t put anything past that prat.”

“I would have thought it was against the pureblood rules to kill one of your own. Stupid really, I hope they toss him into Azkaban with his greasy father.” The red headed git laughed “One less Malfoy to slime up the world!”

The two friends guffawed over their half empty butterbeers. Draco had suddenly lost interest in his own. His gut seemed to have filled with lead. He could feel his hand shaking as he clutched his bottle with white knuckles. He glared across at the Trio. They would pay for this little slip. No one, absolutely no one, talked about his father like that. He didn’t care that his father had been incarcerated as one of the most feared death eaters in existence. He didn’t give a damn about the Dark Lord or the fact that he was more than expected to take his father’s place as the only Malfoy remaining. All he cared was that the two gormless twits in front of him were insulting the only family he had left in the world.

As if she could feel his eyes upon their table, the bushy haired girl seated between her two chortling mates lifted her eyes to meet his fiery gaze. She was completely silent. These were not the words that Draco would have thought to describe Hermione Granger. The know-it-all mudblood was usually overflowing with annoying information and unwanted advice. But now she was silent. She did not look at him with the usual snobby glare she reserved just for a Malfoy. No, her eyes were soft. Almost…pitying. He felt his face slacken. Her eyes were all Draco could see. He had never noticed the way they sparkled.

No.

A Malfoy did not need sympathy from a mudblood.

He tightened the muscles of his cheeks into his familiar sneer and stood up. Harry and Ron stopped laughing abruptly as the legs of Draco’s chair scraped loudly on the stone floor behind them.

He moved quickly from his table and around until he was standing directly over the Trio’s table. Draco cherished the look of panic that flashed in the Weasels eyes as he towered above him.

“So you think I did it, huh Weasel.” Draco murmured. His voice was silky, dangerously calm. “What if I did, I don’t think it would be in you’re best interest to find out. Leave the murder mysteries to the big boys Weasel King.”

“Sod off Malfoy” Harry said, loud enough for the entire tavern to hear.

“Manners, Potter,” Draco sneered “No need to get you’re knickers in a twist. But I’d watch yourself if I were you.” He turned to leave. “See you at school.”

With a swish of his cloak he was out the back door of the Leaky Cauldron. His mind was racing. He knew no one would accuse him of his mother’s death. There were too many death eaters on the loose who would have gladly finished her off as punishment for Lucius’ mistake. That wasn’t his problem. He didn’t even care as much anymore about the Trio laughing it up about his father.

The whole Trio wasn’t laughing though, he reminded himself. Granger hadn’t laughed. Those eyes. Why had she looked at him like that?

Three up and two across. Draco tapped his wand along the brick wall in the alley behind the Tavern. The archway to Diagon Alley opened and he walked alone into the crowded street.