Fic: Seers, Souls, and Scandinavians (Part 1 of 7)
Title: Seers, Souls, and Scandinavians (Part 1 of 7)
Author: hells_half_acre
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Genre: Gen
Word Count: All parts: ~22,300
Warnings: Spoilers for all Harry Potter books, spoilers for Supernatural until 5x10.
Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of fiction for entertainment purposes only.
AN: A demented'verse timestamp.
Summary: It takes a village to raise a soul from perdition.
The alley was dark, narrow, and dirty. Thankfully, the rain dampened the stench of urine, though the smell still made his lip curl in revulsion. He walked confidently towards the door that hung crookedly off its hinges. His only protection against the rain was the heavy wool cloak with its black hood that he had pulled from his father’s closet that morning.
This, his father had taught him - how to move about the vilest of places without letting them touch you, without it damaging your pride. Back then, his father would have said, “see what the great arts have been reduced to? See how we suffer without the Dark Lord,” and he would have imagined the alley cleaner, he would have blamed the muggle-lovers for the smell that would cling to his shoes. Now, though ... now he knew better. This is where these “great arts” deserved to be. If the Dark Lord had been victorious - the heavens and Merlin forbid - the entire world would be a dark, wet, alley that reeked of piss and bile.
On the upside though, the population of such places were nothing if not discrete.
There was no use knocking - or maybe it was just the first test. He let the door swing shut with a bang and waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. His cloak shed water on the warped floor of the entryway. A small staircase led up towards the kitchens of a pub, while beside it a rickety staircase went down into an abyss of a cellar.
Draco hated cellars.
“You’ve come then,” a voice said from the bottom of the stairs.
“I have,” he answered, though that much was obvious.
“Come in,” the voice called back up, “leave your coat on.”
“With pleasure,” Draco responded, as he carefully made his way down the steps and was met with air that seemed even damper than outside.
The room itself seemed to be half storage room for the pub above and half poorly cleaned living quarters. It was lit by a few scattered oil lamps. Large tapestries hung as draft excluders, and yet the images on them were too old and faded to make out. Draco thought perhaps he saw a woman holding a severed head on one of them, but then, it could have also been a man enjoying a pot roast.
Draco kept his eyes on the old hunched figure, who was now pulling on a pair of thick dragonhide gloves. The old man had come recommended - well, not so much recommended, as sneered at Draco when Draco had attempted to go through proper channels to speak with someone in possession of the eye.
“He loathes me for my lack of altruism,” the old man spoke up. “He believes I should use my gifts as he does, to support the ministry and live comfortably on a government salary - benefits, pension. Golden handcuffs.”
“What and give all this up?” Draco muttered, pulling his coat tighter to himself. There was probably black mould growing behind the tapestries.
The old man laughed and picked up a metal trough full of smouldering coals from the corner, and then thumped it heavily down on a low solid wood coffee table. Draco watched as the heavy metal legs of the coal trough sunk smouldering into the table’s surface.
The old man waved a dragonhide gloved hand to encompass the waterlogged room, “Merely ambiance.”
“You’ve ruined your table,” Draco said.
“Do I tell you how to do your job, Mr. Malfoy?” the old man replied with a raised eyebrow.
“How do you know my name?” Draco asked.
“Weren’t expecting much, were you?” the old man said. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but the man silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Hogwash, yes, I know that’s what you say you believe - and yet, you are here.”
“I’ve exhausted all my resources,” Draco conceded. “I just thought...I don’t know what I thought.”
“You were frustrated, and then you heard the rumours, but no one would ever give a former Death Eater that kind of security clearance - and you won’t risk a breach of what little trust you have, not even if you are Potter’s dirty errand boy.”
“How dare you!” Draco spine stiffened. “I am not-”
“Not this time, no, but he has used you for such purposes before. I am not wrong,” the old man said. He gestured to a low stool on the other side of the coffee table that now held the trough of burning coal. “If you stop judging me, I will stop judging you, and we can conduct our business amicably.”
“Very well,” Draco said. He drew up his coat and sat. The old man turned and opened a trunk in the corner of the room.
“You’ve come to enquire about someone from the Americas, yes?” the old man asked, as he folded back some cloth in the trunk and pulled out a thinly chopped piece of wood.
“The United States of America,” Draco said. “From what I understand, he had never been outside of it.”
“Mmm,” the old man said, and pulled out a second lighter-coloured piece of wood as well.
The man closed the trunk and walked back over to the table. He placed the two pieces of wood on top of the trough of coals.
“Think of him,” the man said.
Draco had but barely thought the name, when both pieces of wood became engulfed in flame. They burnt high and bright, snapping and crackling in the heat - the wood splintered and sparks flew up, and out, the larger ones falling to the table below and singing the wood.
“Think of him and look into the flame,” the old man repeated.
So Draco thought - he thought of arriving in Boston and meeting a stranger wearing Harry’s face - a small boy in the background who stood threatening as though he were twice his size...and he was. He remembered his wonder and questions when entering the chamber of the Department of Mysteries, his concern when Harry needed Draco’s assistance. He remembered the brief look of panic that Sam had given him, when Draco had sarcastically asked if he ever felt as though he had been cursed. He thought of the warning in Sam’s voice when Draco had pulled his wand. He thought of Sam’s quick forgiveness when Draco had hit him with spell out of fear and reflex upon learning that they were Hunters. He thought of the files he had read about Sam’s life. He thought of Sam threatening Draco’s father and smiling at Draco’s son.
All this he thought while he stared into the fire, until all he could see was the fire. He wondered if the old man had turned off the oil lamps that had illuminated the dank room when Draco had sat down, but he did not look away from the fire to check. Instead he watched as the flames leaped and danced, and burnt through the dark and the light wood as though they were paper, and he thought about all the questions he wanted to be answered, and about the brothers that had somehow worked their way under his skin in such a short time.
“Ask your questions,” the old man spoke.
Draco wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but suddenly the pieces of wood were just other coals in the metal trough - still casting an orange glow onto the table top and the old man’s lined face.
“Sam Winchester-” Draco began in a whisper.
“Sam Winchester lives,” the old man said. Draco’s eyes snapped up from the fire and stared at the old man. The old man’s eyes slowly lifted from the burning coals and his gaze seemed to bore into Draco’s soul - his face sinister in the orange light. “Sam Winchester screams.”
Draco felt terror rush through him, he wanted to run, and yet felt frozen to the spot. He did not understand.
“The body seeks pleasure,” the old man said, his gaze once again upon the coals. “The mind rationalizes. And the soul...” a snap from the coals produced a sudden shower of sparks. “The soul suffers torment in time unending.”
“How-” Draco began, his voice cracking on the single word.
“Someone has made a mistake,” the old man said.
“Who? What-”
“He was not powerful enough - not alone,” the old man said. “What you seek, it cannot be done by mortals.”
“Then who?”
“Life and Death - both are known by many names. They need only blink their eye, and yet - and yet, they will not get involved without good reason. But such times are dire...perhaps, ah, but it is unclear. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams...in time unending and unfathomable. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester suffers,” the old man trailed off shaking his head and muttering, “Life and Death, Life and Death, many names but always the same.”
“But what does that mean?” Draco asked, staring into the coals and wishing he could see what the old man saw. “What are we supposed to do?”
“That, I cannot say,” the old man said.
“Can’t or won’t?” Draco asked.
“Cannot,” the old man smiled softly. “Now ask your other question - we have only explored one half.”
Draco glanced away from the fire, and stared at where his own pale hand grasped his rain soaked cloak. The purpose of the visit had been Sam - all of his research this past year had been about Sam. It didn’t seem right-
“Would he not ask himself?” the old man spoke softly.
“His brother,” Draco said, glancing back up towards the fire. “How- What- Is...”
“Hmm,” the old man put back on the dragonhide gloves and moved the metal trough off the table. Then with a wave of his wand, the oil lamps that lined the room relit. Draco thought for a moment that he was being dismissed without answer, but instead the old man began to study the scorch marks on the table.
“The brother lives - melancholy, though not alone,” the old man said. “He fulfills his promise, but that will soon end and there will be relief, guilt, and betrayal.”
“End how?” Draco asked.
“The body will come to him, and then it will come here - there will be joy, but short-lived and mistaken,” the old man said. “This is all I can see.”
“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “What do you mean by the body? Who is coming here?”
“It is as I’ve said. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams in torment. It is you who have sat with the books and met the brothers. It is you that have the tools to understand. I am nothing but an back-alley fortune teller. I know nothing of these men, nor how they came to be divided. I know nothing of the mistake, nor how it may be rectified. Now, payment; hours have passed, Mr. Malfoy, and your wife wonders where you are.”
*
George was reading over the accounting for the month, when he heard his name.
“George? ...or Ron?” a voice asked from the wireless in the corner - the wireless that George had connected to the Extendable Ear display in the shop. The names were followed by an audible sigh. “Could you...I have a message for Potter, if one of you could come to the till, it would be appreciated. If you’re even listening...Harry said that-”
“Who are you talking to, Daddy?” A small voice asked.
“No one,” the adult answered in a much softer tone than he had used when addressing the Extendable Ears. “Potter has finally driven me to madness...hm? What do you think about that? Your father’s gone mad. There’s no telling what I may do. Perhaps I’ll start eating adorable little boys! Oh look, here’s one!”
Suddenly the wireless crackled with a squeal of child’s laughter, which was soon joined by a low warm chuckle as the pair moved further away from the listening device.
George realized he was smiling at the wireless. That had been a downright incriminating amount of adorableness. He carefully marked his place in the ledger and made his way back to the shop as had been requested. It wasn’t that busy, which was why he had been taking the time to go over the finances.
Isabella looked over from the till, where she was ringing up the purchases for a boy who looked around ten. She shot George a curious look, and then glanced over towards the front of the shop in slight concern - and yes, George could see the top of a blond head just past the skiving snackbox display.
“Everything alright, Mr. Weasley?” Isabella asked, when George approached the till.
“Yes, fine Izzy, I just got tired of looking at numbers - thought I might come out here for a little break,” George replied. “Actually, it’s been a while since I’ve worked the till. Why don’t you pop in the back and see if we’ve got any new owl orders, and I’ll look after things out here for a bit, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Isabella said.
“Stop calling me sir, Izzy,” George smiled.
“Sorry, s-Mr. Weas-George,” Isabella said.
“Twenty-minutes,” George smiled, “If the owl orders don’t take you that long, you can have a tea and put your feet up in the back.” Isabella nodded and disappeared towards the back of the shop. George looked over and caught Malfoy’s eye, but only briefly, before he busied himself with restacking the quill display at the end of the counter.
Five minutes later, Malfoy approached the till with his son perched on his hip. He placed two novelty muggle wind-up toy cars on counter. Scorpius smiled brightly at George.
“Hello,” George addressed Scorpius. “I see you’ve found our selection of muggle toys.”
“Scorpius likes cars,” Malfoy drawled. He shifted Scorpius on his hip, so he could reach into the inside pocket on his heavy black cloak.
“Do you?” George asked Scorpius.
“Yes,” Scorpius said. “They go vroom! And these ones go by themselves! And my friend showed me a real car! Grandfather says they’re ...something mean...but Daddy says not to listen to Grandfather and that cars are brilliant, because they go even without magic! These go by magic, but that’s ok - because they’re toys, not real cars.”
Malfoy was slowly turning red throughout the entire little speech, and George wouldn’t have been able to hide his smile if he were held at wand-point.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Scorpius,” George said. “These toys don’t work by magic either. They’re also made by Muggles, and they work using something called ‘mechanics’ - not magic at all.”
Scorpius’ eyes got wider and he smiled brightly and looked at the two little toys on the counter as though they held the secrets of the universe.
“He is adorable,” George said, finally looking properly at Malfoy, and giving him a wink, “I can see why you’d want to eat him.”
Malfoy blushed deeper. He pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped two gallons and a small white envelope on the counter.
“Right, um, that should cover it then, thank you,” Malfoy said. George nodded, and slipped the envelope to a safe place under the counter, as he simultaneously made the old register ding and deposited the money. He put the two toy cars into a small bag and handed them to Scorpius, who immediately hugged the purchases to his chest.
“Thank you for your patronage, Malfoys,” George smiled, tipping an imaginary hat.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weasley!” Scorpius declared, then turned to his father and said, “Daddy?” while pushing him in the shoulder.
“Oh, um, yes, have a good evening, Mr. Weasley,” Malfoy said dutifully. Scorpius gave an approving nod, and Malfoy let out a relieved sigh before making his way towards the door. George smiled after them. Then once they were out the door, he turned to the photograph of him and Fred that hung on the wall beside the till.
“Draco Malfoy raising a muggle-lover, did you ever think you’d live to see the day?” George asked. He paused only briefly before rolling his eyes, “It’s not insensitive; it’s a figure of speech!”
Fred-the-Photograph stuck out his tongue.
Part 2
Author: hells_half_acre
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Genre: Gen
Word Count: All parts: ~22,300
Warnings: Spoilers for all Harry Potter books, spoilers for Supernatural until 5x10.
Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of fiction for entertainment purposes only.
AN: A demented'verse timestamp.
Summary: It takes a village to raise a soul from perdition.
The alley was dark, narrow, and dirty. Thankfully, the rain dampened the stench of urine, though the smell still made his lip curl in revulsion. He walked confidently towards the door that hung crookedly off its hinges. His only protection against the rain was the heavy wool cloak with its black hood that he had pulled from his father’s closet that morning.
This, his father had taught him - how to move about the vilest of places without letting them touch you, without it damaging your pride. Back then, his father would have said, “see what the great arts have been reduced to? See how we suffer without the Dark Lord,” and he would have imagined the alley cleaner, he would have blamed the muggle-lovers for the smell that would cling to his shoes. Now, though ... now he knew better. This is where these “great arts” deserved to be. If the Dark Lord had been victorious - the heavens and Merlin forbid - the entire world would be a dark, wet, alley that reeked of piss and bile.
On the upside though, the population of such places were nothing if not discrete.
There was no use knocking - or maybe it was just the first test. He let the door swing shut with a bang and waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. His cloak shed water on the warped floor of the entryway. A small staircase led up towards the kitchens of a pub, while beside it a rickety staircase went down into an abyss of a cellar.
Draco hated cellars.
“You’ve come then,” a voice said from the bottom of the stairs.
“I have,” he answered, though that much was obvious.
“Come in,” the voice called back up, “leave your coat on.”
“With pleasure,” Draco responded, as he carefully made his way down the steps and was met with air that seemed even damper than outside.
The room itself seemed to be half storage room for the pub above and half poorly cleaned living quarters. It was lit by a few scattered oil lamps. Large tapestries hung as draft excluders, and yet the images on them were too old and faded to make out. Draco thought perhaps he saw a woman holding a severed head on one of them, but then, it could have also been a man enjoying a pot roast.
Draco kept his eyes on the old hunched figure, who was now pulling on a pair of thick dragonhide gloves. The old man had come recommended - well, not so much recommended, as sneered at Draco when Draco had attempted to go through proper channels to speak with someone in possession of the eye.
“He loathes me for my lack of altruism,” the old man spoke up. “He believes I should use my gifts as he does, to support the ministry and live comfortably on a government salary - benefits, pension. Golden handcuffs.”
“What and give all this up?” Draco muttered, pulling his coat tighter to himself. There was probably black mould growing behind the tapestries.
The old man laughed and picked up a metal trough full of smouldering coals from the corner, and then thumped it heavily down on a low solid wood coffee table. Draco watched as the heavy metal legs of the coal trough sunk smouldering into the table’s surface.
The old man waved a dragonhide gloved hand to encompass the waterlogged room, “Merely ambiance.”
“You’ve ruined your table,” Draco said.
“Do I tell you how to do your job, Mr. Malfoy?” the old man replied with a raised eyebrow.
“How do you know my name?” Draco asked.
“Weren’t expecting much, were you?” the old man said. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but the man silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Hogwash, yes, I know that’s what you say you believe - and yet, you are here.”
“I’ve exhausted all my resources,” Draco conceded. “I just thought...I don’t know what I thought.”
“You were frustrated, and then you heard the rumours, but no one would ever give a former Death Eater that kind of security clearance - and you won’t risk a breach of what little trust you have, not even if you are Potter’s dirty errand boy.”
“How dare you!” Draco spine stiffened. “I am not-”
“Not this time, no, but he has used you for such purposes before. I am not wrong,” the old man said. He gestured to a low stool on the other side of the coffee table that now held the trough of burning coal. “If you stop judging me, I will stop judging you, and we can conduct our business amicably.”
“Very well,” Draco said. He drew up his coat and sat. The old man turned and opened a trunk in the corner of the room.
“You’ve come to enquire about someone from the Americas, yes?” the old man asked, as he folded back some cloth in the trunk and pulled out a thinly chopped piece of wood.
“The United States of America,” Draco said. “From what I understand, he had never been outside of it.”
“Mmm,” the old man said, and pulled out a second lighter-coloured piece of wood as well.
The man closed the trunk and walked back over to the table. He placed the two pieces of wood on top of the trough of coals.
“Think of him,” the man said.
Draco had but barely thought the name, when both pieces of wood became engulfed in flame. They burnt high and bright, snapping and crackling in the heat - the wood splintered and sparks flew up, and out, the larger ones falling to the table below and singing the wood.
“Think of him and look into the flame,” the old man repeated.
So Draco thought - he thought of arriving in Boston and meeting a stranger wearing Harry’s face - a small boy in the background who stood threatening as though he were twice his size...and he was. He remembered his wonder and questions when entering the chamber of the Department of Mysteries, his concern when Harry needed Draco’s assistance. He remembered the brief look of panic that Sam had given him, when Draco had sarcastically asked if he ever felt as though he had been cursed. He thought of the warning in Sam’s voice when Draco had pulled his wand. He thought of Sam’s quick forgiveness when Draco had hit him with spell out of fear and reflex upon learning that they were Hunters. He thought of the files he had read about Sam’s life. He thought of Sam threatening Draco’s father and smiling at Draco’s son.
All this he thought while he stared into the fire, until all he could see was the fire. He wondered if the old man had turned off the oil lamps that had illuminated the dank room when Draco had sat down, but he did not look away from the fire to check. Instead he watched as the flames leaped and danced, and burnt through the dark and the light wood as though they were paper, and he thought about all the questions he wanted to be answered, and about the brothers that had somehow worked their way under his skin in such a short time.
“Ask your questions,” the old man spoke.
Draco wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but suddenly the pieces of wood were just other coals in the metal trough - still casting an orange glow onto the table top and the old man’s lined face.
“Sam Winchester-” Draco began in a whisper.
“Sam Winchester lives,” the old man said. Draco’s eyes snapped up from the fire and stared at the old man. The old man’s eyes slowly lifted from the burning coals and his gaze seemed to bore into Draco’s soul - his face sinister in the orange light. “Sam Winchester screams.”
Draco felt terror rush through him, he wanted to run, and yet felt frozen to the spot. He did not understand.
“The body seeks pleasure,” the old man said, his gaze once again upon the coals. “The mind rationalizes. And the soul...” a snap from the coals produced a sudden shower of sparks. “The soul suffers torment in time unending.”
“How-” Draco began, his voice cracking on the single word.
“Someone has made a mistake,” the old man said.
“Who? What-”
“He was not powerful enough - not alone,” the old man said. “What you seek, it cannot be done by mortals.”
“Then who?”
“Life and Death - both are known by many names. They need only blink their eye, and yet - and yet, they will not get involved without good reason. But such times are dire...perhaps, ah, but it is unclear. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams...in time unending and unfathomable. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester suffers,” the old man trailed off shaking his head and muttering, “Life and Death, Life and Death, many names but always the same.”
“But what does that mean?” Draco asked, staring into the coals and wishing he could see what the old man saw. “What are we supposed to do?”
“That, I cannot say,” the old man said.
“Can’t or won’t?” Draco asked.
“Cannot,” the old man smiled softly. “Now ask your other question - we have only explored one half.”
Draco glanced away from the fire, and stared at where his own pale hand grasped his rain soaked cloak. The purpose of the visit had been Sam - all of his research this past year had been about Sam. It didn’t seem right-
“Would he not ask himself?” the old man spoke softly.
“His brother,” Draco said, glancing back up towards the fire. “How- What- Is...”
“Hmm,” the old man put back on the dragonhide gloves and moved the metal trough off the table. Then with a wave of his wand, the oil lamps that lined the room relit. Draco thought for a moment that he was being dismissed without answer, but instead the old man began to study the scorch marks on the table.
“The brother lives - melancholy, though not alone,” the old man said. “He fulfills his promise, but that will soon end and there will be relief, guilt, and betrayal.”
“End how?” Draco asked.
“The body will come to him, and then it will come here - there will be joy, but short-lived and mistaken,” the old man said. “This is all I can see.”
“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “What do you mean by the body? Who is coming here?”
“It is as I’ve said. Sam Winchester lives and Sam Winchester screams in torment. It is you who have sat with the books and met the brothers. It is you that have the tools to understand. I am nothing but an back-alley fortune teller. I know nothing of these men, nor how they came to be divided. I know nothing of the mistake, nor how it may be rectified. Now, payment; hours have passed, Mr. Malfoy, and your wife wonders where you are.”
*
George was reading over the accounting for the month, when he heard his name.
“George? ...or Ron?” a voice asked from the wireless in the corner - the wireless that George had connected to the Extendable Ear display in the shop. The names were followed by an audible sigh. “Could you...I have a message for Potter, if one of you could come to the till, it would be appreciated. If you’re even listening...Harry said that-”
“Who are you talking to, Daddy?” A small voice asked.
“No one,” the adult answered in a much softer tone than he had used when addressing the Extendable Ears. “Potter has finally driven me to madness...hm? What do you think about that? Your father’s gone mad. There’s no telling what I may do. Perhaps I’ll start eating adorable little boys! Oh look, here’s one!”
Suddenly the wireless crackled with a squeal of child’s laughter, which was soon joined by a low warm chuckle as the pair moved further away from the listening device.
George realized he was smiling at the wireless. That had been a downright incriminating amount of adorableness. He carefully marked his place in the ledger and made his way back to the shop as had been requested. It wasn’t that busy, which was why he had been taking the time to go over the finances.
Isabella looked over from the till, where she was ringing up the purchases for a boy who looked around ten. She shot George a curious look, and then glanced over towards the front of the shop in slight concern - and yes, George could see the top of a blond head just past the skiving snackbox display.
“Everything alright, Mr. Weasley?” Isabella asked, when George approached the till.
“Yes, fine Izzy, I just got tired of looking at numbers - thought I might come out here for a little break,” George replied. “Actually, it’s been a while since I’ve worked the till. Why don’t you pop in the back and see if we’ve got any new owl orders, and I’ll look after things out here for a bit, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Isabella said.
“Stop calling me sir, Izzy,” George smiled.
“Sorry, s-Mr. Weas-George,” Isabella said.
“Twenty-minutes,” George smiled, “If the owl orders don’t take you that long, you can have a tea and put your feet up in the back.” Isabella nodded and disappeared towards the back of the shop. George looked over and caught Malfoy’s eye, but only briefly, before he busied himself with restacking the quill display at the end of the counter.
Five minutes later, Malfoy approached the till with his son perched on his hip. He placed two novelty muggle wind-up toy cars on counter. Scorpius smiled brightly at George.
“Hello,” George addressed Scorpius. “I see you’ve found our selection of muggle toys.”
“Scorpius likes cars,” Malfoy drawled. He shifted Scorpius on his hip, so he could reach into the inside pocket on his heavy black cloak.
“Do you?” George asked Scorpius.
“Yes,” Scorpius said. “They go vroom! And these ones go by themselves! And my friend showed me a real car! Grandfather says they’re ...something mean...but Daddy says not to listen to Grandfather and that cars are brilliant, because they go even without magic! These go by magic, but that’s ok - because they’re toys, not real cars.”
Malfoy was slowly turning red throughout the entire little speech, and George wouldn’t have been able to hide his smile if he were held at wand-point.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Scorpius,” George said. “These toys don’t work by magic either. They’re also made by Muggles, and they work using something called ‘mechanics’ - not magic at all.”
Scorpius’ eyes got wider and he smiled brightly and looked at the two little toys on the counter as though they held the secrets of the universe.
“He is adorable,” George said, finally looking properly at Malfoy, and giving him a wink, “I can see why you’d want to eat him.”
Malfoy blushed deeper. He pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped two gallons and a small white envelope on the counter.
“Right, um, that should cover it then, thank you,” Malfoy said. George nodded, and slipped the envelope to a safe place under the counter, as he simultaneously made the old register ding and deposited the money. He put the two toy cars into a small bag and handed them to Scorpius, who immediately hugged the purchases to his chest.
“Thank you for your patronage, Malfoys,” George smiled, tipping an imaginary hat.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weasley!” Scorpius declared, then turned to his father and said, “Daddy?” while pushing him in the shoulder.
“Oh, um, yes, have a good evening, Mr. Weasley,” Malfoy said dutifully. Scorpius gave an approving nod, and Malfoy let out a relieved sigh before making his way towards the door. George smiled after them. Then once they were out the door, he turned to the photograph of him and Fred that hung on the wall beside the till.
“Draco Malfoy raising a muggle-lover, did you ever think you’d live to see the day?” George asked. He paused only briefly before rolling his eyes, “It’s not insensitive; it’s a figure of speech!”
Fred-the-Photograph stuck out his tongue.
Part 2