Chapter Three: Diagon Alley and Gringotts
Diagon Alley stretched before them, a long, winding street of cobblestones lined with the most enticing wizarding shops in the world.
Noise, bustle, and life filled the air.
Once, Draco Malfoy would have sneered at such chaos. Crowds meant disorder, and disorder was neither elegant nor dignified. Even now, he frowned at the press of bodies. Yet after living through the suffocating years of Voldemort's reign, he found himself cherishing this noisy prosperity.
Clusters of wizards in black robes laughed too loudly, their faces bright with foolish joy. Children pressed against spotless shop windows, eyes wide at broomsticks, robes, telescopes, silverware, potion ingredients, spellbooks, quills, parchment, pets, even miniature lunar globes.
Draco watched silently, struck by the unreality of it. In his memories, Diagon Alley had been a place of fear.
He remembered the posters plastered across shopfronts, the faces of wanted Death Eaters grinning madly, his aunt Bellatrix among them. He remembered the streets filthy, the shops vandalized, even Florean Fortescue's ice‑cream parlor shuttered by violence.
Why had Voldemort targeted even an ice‑cream seller? Fortescue had been kind to every child, pure‑blood or Muggle‑born, even to Draco himself when his family fell into disgrace. While others spat at him, Fortescue had offered him ice cream with a smile.
Later, Draco had seen him broken in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, tortured into madness. Out of pity, Draco had smuggled him food. He remembered the man's delirious mutterings: "The Elder Wand… Ravenclaw's diadem…"
The words haunted him still. Voldemort had not tortured Fortescue without reason. He must have believed the man knew something vital.
Draco's thoughts sharpened. Voldemort had sought new wands after his own broke in battle with Potter. He had even seized Lucius's wand, only to destroy it in a single duel. He had called it a noble sacrifice, but Draco knew it was meaningless. He had seen his father's hesitation, his clenched hand on the hollow serpent‑headed cane.
Voldemort had not cared. He had only cared when Dumbledore's wand came into his possession, his face alight with triumph.
Perhaps Fortescue's words had been truth. Perhaps there were secrets yet to uncover. Draco's eyes gleamed as he passed the ice‑cream shop, hand in his mother's.
The Malfoys walked with elegance, their platinum hair catching the sunlight, their bearing setting them apart from the crowd. To be noticed was to demand composure. Draco kept his gaze forward, ignoring the boys whispering in awe at the new Nimbus 2000.
He remembered being scolded once for gawking at that very broom. Not this time. And besides, Potter would soon have one. Draco would not share his glory. Next year, the Nimbus 2001 would eclipse it. For now, he would endure his family's Comet 260.
They entered Gringotts. The white marble building towered above the shops, its bronze doors gleaming, its silver inner gates etched with warnings. Goblins bowed them inside, leading them toward the Malfoy vault.
The cart rattled into the depths, plunging through icy air, twisting past stalactites and stalagmites. Draco's stomach lurched, but his eyes sought the chained dragon. Once, he had loved dragons. Now he saw only scars, dull scales, clouded eyes, shackled wings. Its roar shook the stone, yet it cowered at the goblins' jangling instruments.
A dragon should fear nothing. This one had been broken. Draco sighed.
At last, the cart stopped before the deepest vault. A goblin tapped the door, and it melted away.
Inside lay mountains of gold, silver, jewels, rare furs, potion ingredients—treasures gathered over ten centuries. Lucius swept his cane, and coins flew neatly into dragon‑hide purses.
"Draco," he said, handing them over, "spend wisely. A true Malfoy invests. You will learn that most friends can be bought."
"Yes, Father," Draco replied, as he had before.
The philosophy had worked once, buying influence in the Ministry. But when Lucius fell, those friends had fled. Money bought loyalty only until a higher price was offered.
Draco's lips curved faintly. He would still use wealth, but with caution. Gold could move mountains, but it could not bind hearts.
Narcissa touched his hair, smiling. "I've added to your private vault, darling. Don't tell your father."
Draco looked up at her. Her eyes shone with love. She had always been his shield, his strength in ruin. He remembered her giving him her own wand when his was lost—a sacrifice of her life for his. She had faced Death Eaters unarmed, trembling but unyielding.
This time, he vowed, he would protect her.
He clenched the purse tightly. Last time, their wealth had been drained by Voldemort, their family reduced to pawns and purse‑bearers. Never again.
"Thank you, Mother," he said softly, smiling with innocent grace.
The cart rattled onward, pausing at the Lestrange vault. Lucius frowned. He disliked Narcissa's ties to her imprisoned sister. But Narcissa would not abandon blood. She kissed his cheek, soothing his anger, and slipped inside with a goblin.
Draco glimpsed the vault's contents: gold piled high, jeweled goblets, silver armor, strange pelts, crowned skulls. Wealth enough to live in luxury, squandered by Bellatrix in madness.
She was brilliant, yes—skilled in the Dark Arts, master of Occlumency. She had even taught Draco. But she was also merciless, capable of killing her own cousin Sirius without hesitation, laughing as she did.
Blood should have been sacred. Even families at odds did not slaughter their own. Bellatrix had crossed that line without remorse.
Draco shivered at the memory of her cruelty, of Hermione Granger's torture. That nightmare ranked beside Dumbledore's death as the darkest of his life.
He longed for his wand. The first spell he would cast would be Occlumency, sealing away these suffocating memories.