Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 1: Golden Snitches

June 2001 — Paris, France

It's a dead end.

The old jeweler, obviously senile, natters on vaguely about oceans and sapphires as he reclines comfortably in an overstuffed chair pulled up by the counter. Draco seethes, focusing all of his willpower into not fidgeting while pretending to listen. The trail goes cold here, in this dusty jeweler's shop that ought to have closed thirty years ago. Three years he's been chasing rumors and tantalizing scraps of information, and all for nothing; three years wasted.

He won't give up this easily. He'll pick Potter's brain again about that last informant — he knew he should have handled that one himself, but how was he supposed to know that the man would turn out to be reliable this time? — and revisit their notes. Surely something will turn up. This can't be the end.

And it isn't.

A whiff of perfume tickles his nostrils and the jeweler's daughter is there, suddenly, standing too close, materializing out of the air beside him without seeming to have moved from her place behind the till.

"Buy something," she whispers, "so we can talk." She slips past him, sashaying her hips, and hovers at her father's side. Her eyes, as she tucks his blanket around his slippered feet and does up another button on his cardigan, are cold and sharp as knives.

Draco looks around, calculating. He owes Astoria; he's canceled yet another dinner for this trip. His father taught him when he was very young that apology jewels are the grease that keeps society's wheels spinning; he learned his lesson well.

The wooden display cases glow a warm honey-gold, dripping with jewels and intricately worked silver... But nothing in them will suit Astoria, and he frowns. Might Pansy like this jade necklace? He studies it, tipping his head to the side, imagining her slipping the carved beads through pale, aristocratic fingers, like a monk with a rosary.

They're not quite right, though — too much yellow. They'll turn Pansy's skin sallow, and she's rather vain about her complexion.

So. What else? He spins slowly in place, but nothing in the shop appeals and the jeweler is beginning to take an interest. His daughter's eyes flash a warning. She's clearly not the shy, dutiful daughter he'd first thought her.

Draco is about to risk speaking to her without intending to purchase anything — perhaps he can excuse it by asking to see one of the more delicate pieces in the glass case she's polishing? — when he sees them.

The glittering emeralds spark and flare as a ray of afternoon light strikes them, and he feels drawn inexorably toward them. He'd thought at first they were earrings, but as he reaches them he discovers that they are cufflinks, exquisite square emeralds set in delicately carved silver, studded with diamonds.

He can't take his eyes away from the light dancing across the surface.

"These," he says softly, and his voice comes out strained, a little rough. He clears his throat and tries again. "I'll take these, please."

"A lovely choice," the girl says, blinking up at him from far too close, large sapphire eyes shining as she takes the cufflinks out and begins to wrap them. "They suit you."

Draco doesn't correct her, but these aren't for him. No, these are destined for Potter. He feels a momentary flutter of anxiety. They don't buy jewels for one another, as a rule, nor has he ever seen Potter wearing jewelry but... it's Potter's wedding. Soon, he thinks, a bit surprised. He'd not realized. But Potter's appearance at such a public affair reflects on Draco as well, and so he'll just have to see to it that Potter is properly attired. And these cufflinks are the exact shade of Potter's eyes.