Chapter Text
Lilacs and rosemary. Pale hair and dark lashes. Soft hands and perfect nails. “You are my dragon and my treasure.”
The shining vault of gold and heirlooms. Weight in his small hands. “You are a dragon, and this is your hoard.”
The point of the cane against his back, somehow more painful than a blow. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, I gave you my name. Do not make me ashamed of it.”
His own hand, extended and rejected. “Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”
Cold hands and a cold voice. Pain searing his arm. “Malfoy, you have taken my Mark.”
A cage and a courtroom. “4-12-13 stands accused...”
He didn’t introduce himself by surname anymore.
But this was now, and the sign overhead read The Dragon’s Garden, and Draco breathed in clean air and opened the door.
The shop was small, the flat overhead smaller. Diagon Alley bustled outside at all hours. Drunkards from The Leaky Cauldron would come tottering down the street as the day wore into night, and various disreputable characters would make their way out of Knockturn Alley as the sunlight faded. Draco knew some of them by name.
But none of that mattered, because it was his. The sign said so, and the papers said so, and the pitiful contents of his personal vault at Gringotts said so. He’d never had anything that was properly his own; even his name was a hand-me-down with a legacy attached. Funny that he’d often mocked his classmates who got everything used when he couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing a secondhand face and a secondhand name.
He wandered in, hearing the tarnished bell on the door ring as it closed behind him; only a few days ago had been his grand opening, although it was a modest enough event that “grand” didn’t quite fit. As he made his way behind the counter, he picked up the apron that hung on a hook behind it. The strings were long even after he’d put it on and tied it; he had always been on the thin side, but he’d lost a bit of weight in recent years.
It was almost too pleasant in the little shop; the morning lull that would be over all too quickly meant that the sounds of boots clacking against pavement outside were absent, and sunlight filtered in through the broad windows. It landed on the upturned blossoms of flowers, any and all kinds that favored the sunlight. Currently he preferred daffodils; they signified new beginnings, which was apt, and they also happened to be a type of narcissus, reminding him of his mother. He’d often sent them to her while she was on house arrest at the Manor.
Draco had learned a bit of everything while taking refuge in his family’s library when his house had been overtaken, and somehow his interest in plants had stuck. Delicate and finicky as they seemed, they were surprisingly persistent, springing back to life with the right care and gentle touch.
Perhaps we have that in common.
It seemed that they also shared a love for the sunlight, he reflected as he strode up to the windows and let the hesitant warmth soak into his pale skin. He had never preferred sunlight before, but now the dark contained memories that threatened to leap out like Boggarts. Besides, thin and tired as he was, it brought something back to life inside of him. There was still color in the world, besides Slytherin green and the red of blood and his eyes. There were things that hadn’t been destroyed.
Diagon Alley was one of the most colorful places in the world, but now a shop caught his eye that stood out even among its whimsical neighbors. It was only the size of his, perhaps less, and with smaller windows; the brick exterior was painted with extravagant murals of gold chains, flowers much like the ones he sold, and creatures Draco had never even read about, let alone seen. The sign was written in a curling script—something about the moon. He squinted. His eyesight wasn’t terrible, but it had certainly suffered in recent years. Regardless, the place was unfamiliar; He didn’t remember having noticed it when he’d first come to look at this building, and it was a bit hard to ignore.
Well, perhaps if its owner had such an eye for color, they would stop by. Any minute now, someone would. He propped the door open and returned to his post behind the counter.
Well, the door was open. The signs said so. His apron bore the logo, The Dragon’s Garden, embroidered across his chest.
Now to wait.