And She Was Golden

and quidditch (with her watching)

On a dreary grey Tuesday morning, Draco trudges through the muddy slush up to a shoddy tavern hidden in the middle of Knockturn Alley. The early snow has long melted away, leaving all paths caked with sludge. Rot and decay permeate the air and his nose scrunches up involuntarily. The smell of rotting wood and garbage burns his nostrils and he's glad he decided to skip breakfast.

He stomps through the narrow alley, still quiet and drowsy, recovering from the activities of the night. He's sure this place is no stranger to debauchery and shady dealings. A facade of good intention lingers but Draco is no stranger to these streets.

He spots the old shop, all boarded up and not a name in sight. Draco picks up the pace. He was intimately acquainted with the location even before Blaise stepped in.

It would be so easy to fall back.

Too easy.

Draco stops outside a door that's delicately balancing on its hinges. The rickety steps leading up to the shop squeak under his feet. If he's honest, the whole building looks like it's a breeze away from toppling down.

He pulls out the crumpled note, double checking the place. Sure enough, the address that Potter scrawled down is one of the many funded by his family.

Well, it's too late to back out now.

He pushes his way inside and a gruff voice barks out, "Closed! Come back later won't you?" The voice belongs to a hunched old man with hair greasy enough to rival Snape's. The man stands behind the bar counter. Draco walks up to him.

"Didn't ye 'ear me? We're not serving no one at this hour!" The voice sounds annoyed as Draco's steps come closer rather than fade away. He looks up from his task, mouth already open and cheeks reddening, ready to make another scathing remark but he stops himself.

With a flick of his wand, the bar is clean and the man straightens up, "Mister Malfoy sir, wasn't 'specting you here today! If I'd known..." He trails off with a shaky apologetic smile.

Draco shoves his hands into his cloak and tilts his chin up, glancing around the room. He has been here before—when he was younger, accompanying his father on business. His face morphs into a mimicry of his father, of what is expected of a Malfoy. In these parts, there are only those with power, those with money and those without it. To get what he wants, he will have to play his part.

So with a sneer, he casts a scourgify on the bar stool and delicately sits down, making his disdain evident. "No need Quintus, I'll only be a few moments."

Quintus clears his throat and Draco notes the way his hands move to the sleeves of his grimy shirt, fidgeting with the cuffs. "So, how can I help ye?"

Draco purses his lips, "I hear there has been some.... ruckus in this establishment." The response is nearly instantaneous. Quintus' face flushes puce and he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

"Aye. I'm no good with lying. Tried to keep it hushed up, we did. The rumors be flyin' faster than a snitch these days! No need to worry Mister Malfoy, I had it taken care of."

Draco arches an eyebrow and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands. "What exactly happened Quin?"

He puffs up his cheeks, hesitant to respond, and Draco can practically see him vigorously trying to find a way out of this conversation. Quin licks his lips. "Errr... well the thing is—"

Gears are almost visibly turning in Quin's head. What did this man have to hide?

"The truth." Draco's voice is flat. He waits a breath. "It would be a shame if I had to pull out our investments." He moves back, crossing his ankles, the very picture of the arrogant aristocrat he was born to be. A role he loved to play when he was younger, a facade slipped on effortlessly.