For What Is Broken | Drarry

Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy was the same as he had always been. Still tall, pale, and pointy, for one thing. Still sneeringly superior, with that same arrogant set to his shoulders. Still the last person Harry wanted to see, even after three years.

Malfoy didn't even have to open his mouth for Harry to reach that conclusion. The fact that Harry was there in the first place told him all he needed to know.

"Malfoy." The bell on the door made a tinkling noise as it fell shut behind him, deadening the sounds of the street outside to an instantaneous, unnatural silence. "Why am I not surprised?"

The shop was not one Harry had ever noticed before on his trips to Diagon Alley, much less stepped foot inside of. The script on the sign outside was faded, requiring a bit of squinting to make out the words McRae's Magical Antiques & Repairs. The windows were almost opaque from the outside and not much clearer from within, though whether it was a deliberate attempt to keep the sunlight off the archaic merchandise or simply a matter of disrepair, it was impossible to tell. Inside, the small shop was crowded with untidy shelves of unrecognizable artifacts.

Or no—that wasn't quite right. Upon closer examination, Harry could tell that the shelves were in fact not untidy at all. But the assortment of goods was so many and varied, and most of them so unfamiliar to Harry, that he couldn't make heads or tails of how they were organised.

"Potter." The syllables of his surname had never sounded so grating to his own ears. "I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question, but judging by your expression, the answer is nothing pleasant."

Malfoy had gone very still upon hearing Harry's voice. Only now did he move, slowly and deliberately setting aside the metallic contraption he was holding. The components of some strange magical instrument were spread out across a length of dark fabric on the counter in front of him, his wand resting nearby. Harry took note of its location and its distance from Malfoy's fingers, though Malfoy made no move to pick it up.

"You work here?" Harry took his time crossing the store to where Malfoy stood, observing the shelves around them. Three years of Auror training had ingrained into him the habit of surveying his environment for any possible threats, physical, magical, or otherwise. Over Malfoy's right shoulder, a curtained doorway led to some back room. Harry knew Malfoy was not the shop's proprietor—that was the titular Malcolm McRae, the man Harry was looking for. But there was no noise from the back, and no other indication that he and Malfoy were anything but alone.

"Obviously," Malfoy said, that same posh drawl that Harry remembered so well. But from a closer distance, Harry found that there were some details he couldn't quite place. He looked healthier than Harry last remembered seeing him, his cheeks less sunken and his eyes less shadowed. And had Malfoy always held himself like that, careful and guarded? Had he always assessed Harry as he was doing now, with such open intensity? "Can I help you with something?"

"I was hoping to speak with the owner," Harry said, stopping a discreet distance from the counter. "Is he here?"

"Not at the moment." Malfoy's gaze flickered to the window, though how he could see anything through the murky glass was beyond Harry. "He stepped out a while ago."

"Will he be back soon?"

"Unclear." He enunciated the syllables, maddeningly unhelpful. "I don't make it a habit to track his every activity."

"Then what exactly do you do here?" Harry asked, not without some irritation.

"My job," Malfoy said, voice clipped.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You don't say."

"I assist customers. I buy the things that people come in to sell. I sell the things that people want to buy." Malfoy gestured with an elegant motion of his long fingers at the unidentified components spread across the counter. "And I repair things, sometimes, when people pay me to."