Chapter Text
It was a dreary day out, sky grey as pavement and sun naught but a faint glow. Moist air clung bitter-cold to every surface and Draco shivered beneath his coat. He was hurrying back to the bookstore post lunch when a loud pop! sounded, and he crashed straight into someone’s chest.
“Watch it!” he snapped, stepping back, but froze as he took in the person before him.
“Er, sorry,” Harry-bloody-Potter muttered, glancing around as if he were the confused one. His hair stuck up worse than ever, like he’d been running his hands through it all morning, his lightning-shaped scar barely peeking out from behind his fringe. Back at school, he’d worn jeans half the time, but now he flaunted auror robes, the Ministry of Magic’s seal emblazoned on the front. He looked distinctly non-muggle. Judging by the increasing whispers, the surrounding muggles thought so too.
Draco couldn’t believe the nerve. “Potter, you idiot!” He wasted no time dragging said idiot into an alley. “You can’t apparate onto a muggle street!”
“Malfoy?” Potter asked, eyebrows raising to his hairline, apparently slow on the uptake.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter, I’m the one you rudely apparated into—now, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Potter blinked slowly behind his glasses, making him look even more an idiot than usual. “Malfoy?” he repeated. “Why are you here?”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Draco shoved the offending man away. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” With that, he strode back onto the main street.
“Wait!” Potter called, running to catch up. “Malfoy!”
Draco pivoted to face him, and the clueless auror had to pull up short to avoid another collision. “What?” the blond demanded.
Potter looked rather taken aback. “Er,” he said, ducking his head, “where am I exactly?”
Draco stared. “Potter, are you absolutely mental? You apparated here.”
The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Vex-Draco-Malfoy shrugged, running a hand through that perpetually messy hair. Draco fought the urge to swat it away on behalf of all stylists.
“Well…” Potter hesitated. “I didn’t exactly apparate.” He then held up a small key, rusted and attached to a cord.
Draco waited, but his companion failed to elaborate. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” He crossed his arms—it really was quite cold and he longed for the cozy warmth of the bookstore.
A hint of a blush crept up Potter’s cheeks, though, from embarrassment or temperature, Draco couldn’t tell. “Er, right, I mean, this is a portkey. Only, I didn’t know until…”
“Until you ended up here.” Draco sighed, ruing the day he ever set eyes on the Baby-Who-Didn’t-Die. “Aren’t you an auror, Potter? Don’t you know how to detect these things?”
“Alright, alright, laugh it up.” Potter gave a self-deprecating chuckle.
Draco balked. If they were back at school, this exchange would’ve been enough to start a row. With a shock, Draco realised just how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. Only three years had passed since Draco’s trial, where Potter had spoken on his behalf, resulting in greatly reduced sentences for him and his mother. He’d only been condemned to twelve months house arrest—which dropped to eight for good behaviour—while his mother served two years—with surprisingly bad behaviour. Mother was used to having her way, it seemed, and house arrest didn’t agree with her. It was a miracle she didn’t get a harsher punishment for trying to leave the grounds as often as she did.
Mother insisted, upon his release, that Draco work for the Ministry, but he’d had no interest in trying his luck there. For one, no sane person in the magical community would hire an ex-Death Eater. And for another, he didn’t want a return to the way things were before, where the Malfoys were both feared and hated, and only a very few members of society thought them respectable. He’d much prefer to be invisible, to live out his days in peace and quiet.
It was pure luck he found The Dragon’s Lair about a month later. He’d been wandering muggle London, hoping for a sign or a saving grace. It was the name that made him pause. Dusk had just fallen and he’d promised dinner with Mother, but he couldn’t resist entering the shop.
The bookstore was dimly lit, dust everywhere, and a tiny old woman sat behind the front desk. “Oh hello dear,” she said in a squeaky voice as unused as the books around her. “I’m closing up in a minute, but feel free to peruse the shelves.”
Draco nodded, glancing around the small shop, and chose an aisle at random. There were so many books, old and worn, waiting for him—so many words, so much knowledge—and it filled him with an indescribable warmth. He could learn so much, about muggle customs, muggle ingenuity, muggle everything, and it could push out all the unwanted thoughts, the dark memories he spent so much time suppressing.
Draco found his way back to the front. The woman still sat there, inspecting a thick encyclopedia from the 1800s. The text was in French.
“Pardon me, madam.”
The old woman looked up with a smile.
“Do you mind me asking why this bookstore is called ‘The Dragon’s Lair’?”
“Ah,” said the old woman. “An excellent query. You’re familiar with the phrase, ‘Here be dragons’?” She gave him an expectant look.
Draco hesitated. “I’m afraid not,” he said at last. It was a common enough sign in the wizarding world, but in a muggle context, Draco couldn’t be sure.
“Well,” the woman went on, as if she’d expected as much. “In olden times, when the first maps were created, people hadn’t finished exploring every corner of the world. And so, in the unexplored places, they’d draw sea serpents and monsters with the caption ‘Here be dragons’ to indicate the unknown. You see?”
Draco hummed, thinking they’d probably labeled the maps correctly.
“All these books,” she continued, “contain such knowledge that most people never know. To many, these books are uncharted territory. Until you open one up, it could be anything.”
“Here be dragons,” Draco said with a small smile.
The woman grinned back. “Precisely.” She then stood, retrieving a ring of keys, and Draco felt rather cold at the prospect of leaving.
“Do you need help?” Draco blurted.
The old woman raised her eyebrows.
“I mean, do you need an assistant, to help in the shop?”
“I’m afraid,” she said, patting his hand, “I can’t afford to take anyone on, dear.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me,” he said, a little too desperate.
She surveyed him like she was trying to tell if he was up to no good. It reminded him of Professor McGonagall. Finally, the old woman offered her hand and Draco shook it.
“You may call me Dr. Finch.”
“You’re a doctor?” he asked, thrown for a loop.
Dr. Finch winked. “Not that kind of doctor.” She released his hand. “And you?”
“Draco Malfoy.”
Her eyebrows raised but she didn’t comment on the name.
“Not a doctor,” he added with a wink of his own.
“Hold on—if this is a muggle street,” Potter interrupted loudly, shocking Draco from his reverie, “what are you doing here?”
Draco frowned. “I work here,” he said coolly.
Potter raised his stupid eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yes,” the blond growled.
Potter finally seemed to realise how offensive he was being, for he quickly amended with: “Well, that’s…good. Great, I mean. Great for you.”
Rolling his eyes, Draco made to leave, but Potter grabbed his arm.
“Malfoy,” he said, sounding as embarrassed as he should be.
“What?” Draco snapped, brushing off the hand.
Potter blushed for sure this time. “I, er, don’t have my wand.”
Draco gaped.
“And this portkey is dead.”
Draco stared.
“Also…I’m a bit lost.”
“Potter,” Draco stressed, “you’re an auror. You’re supposed to be prepared for things like this.”
The “auror” shrugged.
Draco huffed. “Fine! I’ll get you a map. Do you have any money?”
Potter grimaced in an ‘oops, I did it again’ sort of way.
“Great,” Draco muttered, heading down the street. “You owe me.”
The moment those words left his mouth, Draco regretted them fiercely. No one owed him anything, not after the war. Especially not the savior of the wizarding world, who’d rescued him from fiendfyre and a life in Azkaban. This man, whom Draco had tormented all through school, owed him nothing. If anything, Draco should beg for forgiveness at his feet.
He bristled at the thought. A Malfoy never begged, even the pathetic last heir. Mother would faint.
“Thanks,” Potter said sheepishly, following close behind. When they reached the bookstore, he—predictably—snorted. “You have a—?”
“Lair, yes,” Draco cut him off. “Very funny, Potter.”
The failure of an auror paused. “I only meant… Is that a coincidence?”
Draco chose not to dignify that with a response.
Inside, Dr. Finch sat behind her desk, eyeglasses perched on her nose as she peered at an ancient Roman text. Finch, Draco had discovered, was a linguist, fluent in eight different languages, including several dead ones—hence, the Latin.
She glanced up as they came in. “Draco?” There was a hint of surprise in her tone. “You’ve brought a friend.”
Draco scoffed. "Not a friend. Potter, this is Dr. Finch, owner of this eccentric bookstore and smartest person I know. Finch, this is Harry Potter, a massive git who wears baggy dresses.”
Potter looked mildly mortified and glanced down at his robes.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Finch said, eyes sparkling.
“Yeah, same,” said the rudest wizard to ever live.
Finch was unfazed. “How can I help you, Mr. Potter?”
To prevent further discourtesy, Draco spoke for him. “Have we any maps, Doctor? Potter has somehow lost his way.”
From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter frown as if he’d been slandered.
“Oh, yes,” said Finch, reaching below the counter. “I got some just the other day, after those German tourists came in asking. Always good to have some on hand.”
“How much?” Potter felt the need to ask, despite having no means to pay.
Finch waved a hand as she pushed the map toward them. “On the house, of course. A friend of Draco’s is a friend of mine.”
“Not a friend,” Draco repeated and fished out a five-pound note from his wallet.
“It’s good of you to drop by,” she said to Potter, ignoring Draco’s sharp look. “He has so few friends.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Draco ground out, before grabbing the map with one hand, Potter with the other, and shoving them both out the door.
Outside, Draco glanced over, expecting to see Potter’s stupid smirk, but instead, he found the other man frowning with—Merlin, was that pity in his eyes? Draco’s blood began to boil. He ripped the map open and jabbed his finger at Norwood Road. “We’re here,” he snarled, then jabbed a spot to the right. “This is the closest entrance to the Ministry. Now, go.”
Before Potter could say a word, Draco thrust the map into his arms and stomped back inside.