Diagon Alley — a long, winding cobblestone street lined with some of the world's most enticing wizarding shops.
How noisy, bustling, and vibrant it was.
In his past life, Draco had mostly scoffed at noisy, chaotic places like this. Even now, he still frowned instinctively at crowds.
In a Malfoy's eyes, noise meant disorder — neither elegant nor respectable.
And yet, having lived through the Dark Lord's oppressive rule, he had learned to appreciate this long-lost prosperity. To cherish it, even.
Groups of black-robed witches and wizards — their faces split with silly, happy smiles — walked noisily down the lane, while a steady stream of people poured in and out of the various shops.
The young wizards, barely beyond Hogwarts age, didn't need to crane their necks to read the signs. Through spotless windows, they could see a dazzling array of magical goods: flying brooms, robes, telescopes, silverware, potions, potion ingredients, spellbooks, quills, parchment, vials, familiars, Lunascopes...
Draco observed the bustling scene in silence, a sudden sense of unreality washing over him. This was not the Diagon Alley of his nightmares.
He remembered the desolate and gloomy place it had become — the image seared into his mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
Ministry of Magic notices had been plastered across the cheerful shop windows, displaying photographs of wanted Death Eaters — each laughing maniacally, their distorted faces sending a chill down the spine of every witch or wizard who looked at them. His mad aunt Bellatrix had been among them.
The streets, once neat and orderly, had grown filthy from the Death Eaters' sabotage and destruction. Shops had been ransacked repeatedly by mobs and left dilapidated. Even Florin Fosco's Ice Cream Parlour — which he had loved dearly as a child — had been forced to close. Also the work of the Death Eaters.
For some reason, the Dark Lord in his previous life hadn't spared even a peaceful ice cream shop owner.
Fosco had been kind to every young witch and wizard who enjoyed his ice cream, without regard for blood status — Muggle-born children, pure-blood children, even the children of Death Eaters alike. When Lucius was imprisoned in Azkaban, and Draco's life had reached its lowest point, Fosco had still handed him an ice cream with a smile, rather than spitting on him the way other shopkeepers had done.
Before his death, Fosco had been seen in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. By that time, the sustained torment of the Cruciatus Curse had driven him to the edge of madness.
Draco had once secretly brought him food, when no one was looking. He remembered vaguely hearing Fosco mutter something in broken, fragmented words: "The Elder Wand... Ravenclaw's Diadem..."
That statement had been worth pondering. He turned it over now.
The Dark Lord is searching for the Elder Wand? And what is Ravenclaw's Diadem?
The Dark Lord never wasted time on useless people. He did not hesitate to cast the Killing Curse on a whim. He would never torture someone without reason — not unless that person possessed information of extreme importance to him.
Most wizards knew nothing of Florin Fosco beyond his ice cream. Only a handful of pure-blood families might recall that the cheerful parlour owner was a descendant of Dexter Fosco, a former Headmaster of Hogwarts.
It was not impossible, then, that he knew certain exclusive secrets.
Clearly, the Dark Lord had taken a strong interest in what Fosco possessed — and these were not merely things from some story. They existed.
This was significant. He recalled how the Dark Lord had changed wands repeatedly in later years. After his own wand proved useless against Potter, he had taken Lucius's cherished wand — only for it to be destroyed during their next encounter.
The Dark Lord had called the loss of Lucius's wand "a supreme glory, a great sacrifice." Draco had considered it a complete bluff. The sacrifice was utterly meaningless.
Although his father had never commented on the matter, Draco had seen the slight pause in Lucius's expression when he handed it over. He had hesitated.
When news came that the wand had been destroyed, Lucius remained expressionless — but Draco noticed his hands tighten around his hollowed snake-head staff. He felt the heartache radiating off his father, even as he concealed it.
The Dark Lord hadn't cared. He had been in a hurry to find something new.
Shortly afterward, Dumbledore's wand had appeared in the Dark Lord's hands. Draco vividly recalled the smug satisfaction on the Dark Lord's face when he received it.
It seemed worthwhile to strike up a conversation with the smiling Fosco before long — to try to draw some information from him. Draco, holding his mother's hand as they hurried past the ice cream parlour, felt a gleam of calculation flicker in his pale eyes.
The Malfoys made their way along the winding cobblestone path, standing out distinctly from the crowd of plainly dressed witches and wizards around them.
This family radiated elegance and nobility — their gait unlike that of ordinary people, conveying confidence, self-possession, and a dignified arrogance. Coupled with the bright sunshine and their striking platinum-blonde hair, it was nearly impossible not to notice them.
"Attracting attention" meant that you maintained a perfect posture and kept your eyes straight ahead — rather than gawking about like a tourist.
For example: right now, when Draco could hear a group of boys by a shop window saying enviously, "That's the new Nimbus Two Thousand — the fastest broom ever made —", he had to keep his gaze perfectly forward rather than letting his eyes go wide and his mouth fall open like some country bumpkin.
In his past life, he had been reprimanded by his father in front of that very window for being "too easily impressed," and there would not be a second time.
Besides, Potter already had a Nimbus Two Thousand this year, and Draco had no desire to be seen carrying the same broom as the Saviour.
Be patient. When the Nimbus Two Thousand and One came out next year, the Two Thousand would be nothing. He pressed his lips together and resolved to make do with the family's Comet Two Sixty for now. In any case, Hogwarts didn't permit first-years to bring brooms.
As for Potter's broom? That had been special treatment reserved for a favoured Gryffindor Seeker — a personal privilege Dumbledore had granted to the Boy Who Lived. Draco did not consider himself entitled to such indulgence.
Occupied by these thoughts, he had already stepped into Gringotts with his parents.
It was a towering, snow-white building that stood above all the surrounding shops. You passed through two sets of doors to reach the marble hall inside: first a gleaming bronze door, then a second silver one engraved with a warning in verse. Beyond them, sharp-eyed goblins with dark faces and long fingers bowed in greeting and respectfully led the Malfoys to their vault.
At Gringotts, a goblin's assessment of a vault's owner was determined by its location and the method of entry. The most secure vaults lay deepest underground, their doors reinforced with powerful enchantments — not the sort of thing that could be opened with an ordinary key.
As one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain, the Malfoys stored their wealth at the deepest level — miles beneath London. They had barely boarded the cart before it began its plunging descent, winding through a labyrinthine network of tunnels, through frigid air and past enormous stalactites and stalagmites, hurtling as though toward the very heart of the earth.
The cart slowed as it passed a massive fire-breathing dragon tethered to a great iron stake. This gave Draco a brief glimpse of the drowsy creature — one of the main reasons he had ever been willing to ride this dizzying, rattling cart in his previous life.
Draco had loved dragons since childhood. But looking at this one now, he simply could not find it majestic.
It looked anything but. Its face was scored with terrible scars, and its scales were not a gleaming silver-grey but a sickly pale white. Its eyes were not deep red but a murky, clouded pink. Both hind legs were shackled with heavy chains, and its spiked wings were folded tight against its sides.
The sound of the cart seemed to provoke it. It turned its scarred head toward them and let out a roar that made the stone walls tremble — but it flinched at the sharp, clear clanking of the goblins' noise-making instruments. The sound kept it at bay.
A truly majestic dragon would be fearless. This one had clearly been broken under the goblins' brutal taming. Draco gazed at it for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh.
The cart finally came to rest at the lowest point of the vaults. A goblin gave a soft knock on an ornate and ancient door, and it dissolved silently away.
Inside the vault, Galleons, silverware and goldware, gemstones of every variety, rare pelts, and valuable potion ingredients were piled high. Of the wealth the Malfoy family had accumulated over ten centuries, those golden coins were perhaps the least precious. The truly irreplaceable treasures were the things money could not necessarily buy.
Lucius languidly dusted off non-existent dirt from his robes and swept his snake-head staff in a casual arc, sending a generous pile of Galleons flying neatly into several palm-sized dragonhide storage pouches.
"Draco, take these — and spend them wisely." Lucius handed the pouches to him, then strolled toward the vault door and added, with the air of a man imparting profound wisdom, "A proper Malfoy learns to invest, and to spend where it matters. You'll find soon enough that most friendships in this world can be cultivated with money."
"Yes, Father," Draco replied, exactly as he had in his previous life.
This philosophy, to a point, was effective. It had allowed the Malfoy family to maintain a considerable network of contacts within the Ministry of Magic for well over a decade.
The irony was that once Lucius was imprisoned in Azkaban, every one of those "friends" had avoided him like the plague — and some had actively kicked him while he was down. Relationships maintained solely by money, it turned out, were not reliable.
The Malfoy family motto held that there were no permanent friends, no permanent enemies — only permanent interests. And interests, of course, were not limited to material things.
Draco pressed his lips together slightly, thinking. He had no intention of abandoning money as a tool for building influence; used well, the resources of others could accomplish a great deal with minimal personal effort.
But he must not forget: even in times of comfort and lavish prosperity, vigilance was essential. Relationships bought with Galleons were fragile — they could always be bought away at a higher price. And as for those loyalties that couldn't be bought at all, those were even less predictable.
"My dear little dragon, I've transferred some funds to your private vault." Narcissa smiled and ruffled Draco's platinum-blonde hair, interrupting his thoughts. She leaned close and said conspiratorially, "Don't let your father find out."
Beyond the family's main vault, accessible only to the head of the family, every Malfoy had their own private holdings. Draco's had existed since his birth, and already contained a considerable sum.
His grandfather Abraxas had contributed to an education fund each year. His maternal grandfather, Cygnus Black — who had always favoured Narcissa above her sisters — had also transferred Galleons to his grandson annually.
And then there was Narcissa herself. As one of the wealthiest and most prominent noblewomen in the wizarding world, she had always been determined to ensure her son wanted for nothing, adding to his vault with a generosity that could only be called excessive.
Draco looked up at his mother. Her smiling eyes shone with unmistakable love. She might not be the person who understood him best — but she would always be the one who loved him most. She had stood by him through countless anxious, gloomy days.
Looking back now, Draco realised that his seemingly fragile mother had become the true pillar of the family when everything else had threatened to crumble. Without her, he could not imagine how destitute he and his father would have become.
Even after Potter had taken his wand, his mother had quietly lent him her own.
A wand was a wizard's life. By placing hers in his hand, she had, in effect, sacrificed her own safety to protect her son. She had exposed herself to every deadly danger, without any means of fighting back.
Like his father, she had faced the menacing, dangerous, and brutal Death Eaters who occupied their home — unarmed. Draco could not begin to imagine how frightened she must have been.
They had been nothing but lambs before slaughter.
This time, let me protect you, Mother. He never wanted to see that tired, melancholy expression on her face again, nor her panicked, hunted look.
In his past life, due to his own naivety, ignorance, and vanity, he had made poor use of the resources available to him. When he had finally wanted to act, that wealth had — to some extent — simply become another tool for the Dark Lord to exploit. By then, the Malfoy family had already fallen into ruin, and the three of them had been regarded as disposable pawns who could still draw breath. They had trembled and complied and been squeezed of every last drop of value — the Malfoy family, tragically, had become the Dark Lord's lackeys and money bags.
It was a disgrace.
It would not happen again. He gripped the dragonhide pouch tightly, as though gripping his own destiny.
Draco looked up and gave Narcissa — who was still radiant, still lovely — an innocent smile. "Thank you, Mum."
I'll be prepared this time, he told himself. I'll be ready for all of it.
They rode back together through the labyrinthine tunnels, the cart rattling and swaying. It slowed briefly before the Lestrange family's vault.
Lucius was not pleased about this.
He had no wish for his wife to have anything to do with prisoners rotting in Azkaban. To outsiders, it was a stain on the Malfoy name to be associated with convicted criminals. He had worked hard to restore the family's reputation, and Narcissa's involvement in the Lestrange affairs amounted to advertising their connection.
But Narcissa could not abandon her own blood. Her elderly father had asked it of her personally — she had to ensure that at least Bellatrix and her useless husband did not perish in Azkaban.
And Narcissa, as she always did, found a way to persuade her husband.
While her son leaned toward the goblin and asked, "Is that the Ukrainian Ironbelly they've got chained up there?", she planted a gentle kiss on Lucius's cheek.
"I'll only be a moment, Lucius," she murmured with a smile.
It worked immediately. Lucius's expression softened, and he gave a helpless shake of his head, watching as Narcissa followed a goblin — by the name of Pull Ring — through the vault entrance.
She emerged not long after, carrying a small, neatly wrapped package with perfect composure.
Draco had idly glanced through the crack as the door began to swing shut. The Lestrange vault, while not so extravagant as the Malfoys', was certainly not wanting: from floor to ceiling it was crammed with gold coins, golden goblets, silver armour, the preserved pelts of strange beasts — some quilled, some winged — potions sealed in decorative vases, and skull-adorned crowns.
The Lestranges, whatever their many failings, had never lacked for wealth. Bellatrix, holding the key to all of that, could have lived a life of extraordinary luxury.
Draco grimaced inwardly. Unfortunately, her taste wasn't very good. Not only did she dress herself like a madwoman, she had also chosen to follow one.
She was a madwoman. A cruel one. Draco shared his father's sentiment entirely: he did not want his mother to have any more to do with Bellatrix than was absolutely necessary. It was dangerous.
Bellatrix was, undeniably, gifted. Unlike her mother, she was a formidable practitioner of the Dark Arts and a highly skilled Occlumens — skilled enough that Narcissa had asked her to teach Draco.
But she was also a ruthless fanatic who would turn on anyone for a casual word of praise from the Dark Lord. She had killed her own cousin, Sirius Black, without a second thought — without the slightest regard for the blood they shared.
Differing loyalties did not have to mean abandoning all decency.
Most wizards shared a basic understanding: the wizarding bloodline was Merlin's gift, and it was not to be discarded lightly. For prominent families who prized their lineage, being cast out of the family was the gravest punishment imaginable. Even in families torn by conflicting beliefs, witches and wizards of the same blood did not murder one another.
Bellatrix could cross that line without hesitation.
She killed those who shared her blood without blinking. She even laughed about it.
Cold-blooded and ruthless beyond measure.
She had also tortured Granger.
Merlin. That had been one of the most terrifying things he had ever witnessed. Even watching helplessly from a distance, he had very nearly suffocated.
That would undoubtedly rank near the top of his personal list of most haunting memories, alongside the horrific scene of Dumbledore's death.
He could not wait to get his wand.
The very first thing he planned to do after was to seal those memories away behind a proper Occlumency barrier — to lock the most suffocating and terrible of them somewhere he would never have to encounter them without warning again.