Chapter Text
It’s not the building he saw advertised in the Daily Prophet ... that’s for sure.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, the agent nervously staring at him as he runs his hand through his air and tries to relax.
He knows he’s being rude, but he had cleared his entire afternoon to come all the way out here and what he was seeing was just...disappointing.
Okay, so he didn’t have a ton of plans, really. It was less clearing the schedule and more getting the energy to leave the house. But it didn’t matter.
This was a case of false advertising, and he felt a bit played.
He turns to look down at the older man, towering over him, and gives him a tight-lipped grimace.
“Maurice, this is the place in the advertisement? The picture had ivy growing, a clean walkway, and not so much...wear and tear.”
“Mr. Malfoy, I know it’s not the most...eye-catching. But it comes loaded with potential and with your tight restrictions...this is a miracle to find anyways. Shops never come up for sale here. The owner passed, and the family simply couldn’t handle the upkeep -”
“That I can see, Maurice.”
The man flushes and walks towards the green door. The paint is chipped and cracked, and Draco wrinkles his nose at it but enters, ducking to fit into the doorway.
It’s worse than he could’ve imagined.
The shelves caked with dust. The floorboards dull and scratched. The windows covered with newspaper, casting a ghastly shadow in the worst way.
He walks around as Maurice watches him. He takes in the poor paint job. He studies the uneven foundation.
This isn’t what he hoped for.
But as he strips away the newspaper from the windows, the sun shines through and something about it... isn’t entirely awful.
He can see it.
The shelves free of dust, books lining them. Books from all over the world, muggle and magic. The street was mainly inhabited by magic folk, but he could easily cast a disillusionment charm for any muggles that decided to enter the shop, hiding the magic books altogether.
His mother had done that plenty when he was younger, trying to keep the books with the darkest magic out of his sight.
A fresh coat of paint could easily knock a few years off the place. A nice white or cream to make the space look bigger, airy.
Some art where the walls are bare.
Some comfortable chairs for reading.
Plants hanging in the windows. Ivy growing over the door.
An open sign.
And him behind the counter. Shoulder relaxed. Welcoming guests to his bookshop, his dream.
He turns to a worried-stricken Maurice and tries to give him a relaxed smile. The man’s shoulders drop only slightly.
“Mr. Malfoy...I know it’s not perfect. But I truly think if you look past the surface...this place could be something special.”
Draco nearly laughs because there’s been plenty of times he hoped someone would do that when it came to him.
And suddenly, as he glances around the cluttered space, he feels like he’s looking at a kindred soul. Just in need of a second chance, much like he was.
“I’ll take it.”
He says it before he can give it a second thought. Before he notices the leaky pipe in the washroom. Before the crack in the wall catches his attention. Before he notices that it’s going to take a lot more than a fresh coat of paint and some expensive armchairs to get this place back to its former glory.
But truthfully, even if he had known all that...he still would have bought it. As Maurice said, shops in this area rarely went on the market, especially for this type of deal. And he has to be in this area.
He had read in the “Five Years Later” feature in the Prophet ; she had moved here to lead a quiet life.
“I’ll draw up the paperwork, Mr. Malfoy, and have it delivered to your home.”
Draco gives him a smile, sticking his hand out to shake.
“Mr. Malfoy is my father. Call me Draco.”
-----
The moment he signs the papers, he lets out an exhale. He’s not sure if it’s relief or anxiety, but he has officially signed over two-thirds of his dwindling inheritance for some shoddy shoebox with more issues than he can imagine.
The inheritance that he has left at least.
His father had nearly ripped it all away after the trials — but his mother had fought for him as well as a woman in her position could. He was left with a sizable fortune by the world’s standard, but by the Malfoy standard, it was like throwaway change.
And now he is sinking it into a broken bookshop.
Has he lost it?
Maybe.
He wonders if he should tell his mum to let her know that he might need a loan if this whole venture sinks.
But right then, he stops. He takes a deep breath. And he reminds himself that living independently is a great thing, and he has figured it out so far. This is just his next step towards separating himself from the soured Malfoy legacy.
This is right.
And who knows, maybe one day, she would stumble in and see the same potential in him that he had seen in the shop.
Maybe.
----
The first step is to clean it. Deep clean it.
Suddenly, he misses the elves that had worked so diligently, and he tries to recall the spell he needs to make this move quicker, but he stops himself.
He wants to do this the right way. He wants to put in the hard work and give himself something to be proud of.
So, with that thought, he pushes his glasses up on his nose and tries to decide where to start first.
He has plenty of choices, that’s for sure. But finally, his eyes fall on the most important part of the room.
The shelves.
They are coated in dust and slanted.
So, he grabs a dust rag and begins.
He finds quickly that dust irritates him. The first sneeze that overtakes him is one of many, and he spends most of the day cursing the empty space for its filth. But he continues, wiping away at the dust and grime that has built up.
Handiwork follows. He grabs a screwdriver and begins to even out shelf after shelf. Some screws are stripped; some are incredibly hard to get even.
But with gritted teeth and sweat on his brow, he continues.
By the time he finishes, he’s covered in filth and his hand is cramped and tired, but as he looks around at what he’s done, he smiles.
He feels accomplished. It’s been a while.
That night, he hardly sleeps. He tosses and turns and runs through his seemingly never ending to do list. It’s intimidating. A bit overwhelming. But he can’t shake the feeling of pride that has settled into his bones. Pride that he has started a new beginning.
Pride that he is doing it without his father’s approval.
Pride that he has defied his family’s expectations.
Pride that he no longer relies on magic, or money, or others to get things done.
Pride that he is undoing all the things that make him a Malfoy.
-----
He wishes someone would’ve told him how irritating it is to restore a building in this state. Sure, maybe he should’ve done a little more research. Maybe he should’ve looked into what it actually took...but he hadn’t.
So, he wishes someone would’ve told him.
He stares down at the floor. It’s scuffed, uneven. He hates it. And it’s the only thing he can focus on. And he knows he won’t be able to stop thinking about it until he fixes it.
So, he begins, summoning sanding paper, and he drops to his hands and knees to begin.
It’s hard labor. Not something he’s the most accustomed to - but something about it feels good. The sun begins to shine through the window, painting the store in a better light, and he smiles to himself as he begins to sweat.
Soon enough, he’s lost in the task, only pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow. By mid-afternoon, he’s soaked through his shirt, and he peels it off, wishing he would’ve earlier. He hadn’t been smart enough to bring a change of clothes.
His hands ache from the rough grittiness of the sandpaper, his knees no doubt forming bruises — but he continues,
And he works until the sun slips out of view, forcing him to light the candles sitting around.
But finally, he takes one last swipe and realizes that it’s complete, and he stops to take in his hard work.
The floors aren’t perfect by any means...maybe with a new stain and a little more love, he can get them to where they need to be. But he has to admit they look better.
And without the grime seemingly caked in every corner, he can begin to see the potential Maurice had alluded to.
So, he commits to it.
He commits to rehabbing the shop and himself, and bit by bit, he can feel them both coming back to life.
Though, Draco’s path is a bit...harder. Unlike the shop who he would leave behind after a day's work, his own redemption follows him everywhere he goes, keeping him up at night, ruling most of his thoughts.
He will admit he has made some poor decisions.
Okay...maybe poor is an understatement. But he’s aware that the decisions he made were his own.
He takes ownership of them daily.
But he’s really trying to do better...be better. And while he knows it’s not possible to erase his past entirely, he hopes that eventually, he can give people enough to appreciate that his childhood mistakes aren’t the first thing that comes to mind.
His roadmap to redemption had begun the second the war had ended.
The second the Aurors had arrived to take his father away.
The second he had said no as his mum begged him to speak in favor of his father at the trial. How could he ask for forgiveness if those who deserved closure didn’t receive it?
His hands shook as he entered the trial. He had avoided his father’s heavy gaze from above. He never thought he would see his father like this. His hero. Up above, shackled with heavy bags under his eyes.
Pleading eyes.
You see, Draco had always lived to prove to his father that he was worthy of the Malfoy name. But as he walked into the courtroom, that childish longing had been replaced with the need to prove to everyone else why he wasn’t anything like the Malfoy name they knew.
That’s why, when he sat in front of jurors, all throwing questions at him at once, he had patiently waited until silence had settled and then cleared his throat.
“My father raised me with hate in my heart for things I couldn’t quite understand. As I grew older, I take full responsibility for not seeing past the wicked teachings, but it was my father who signed me over to the Dark Lord. It was my father who allowed him into our home. It was my father and his desperate need to appease Voldemort that pushed the war forward. I have been asked to speak on my father’s behalf. To fight for leniency and understanding, but I won’t. I refuse to ask those so heavily impacted and hurt by the war to understand his actions. I’m not sure I would ever forgive myself if I did.”
For only a moment, he had let his eyes flicker to his father’s. They were gray, just like his but so full of anger.
“My father made each and every decision deliberately and in good health. I will not ask for forgiveness. I will not stand here and tell you he is a good man because I don’t think it’s up to me to define that. I stand behind whatever punishment seems fit for his actions.”
The room had gasped.
His father's mouth gaping open. His mother burst out in tears.
But he refused to water down a war that had stolen so much from people who never had much to give in the first place.
The Malfoy Loyalty Crumbles is what the paper had read.
What the journalist failed to realize is his loyalty was still there. It was just offered to the people who deserved it.
His father had been sentenced an entire lifetime in a cramped cell in Azkaban, hardly avoiding the dementors’ kisses.
And when the letter had arrived at his flat, he knew exactly what it was. The parchment was riddled with angry promises and words denouncing him. Taking the money, ruining his life. But when he finished reading it, Draco simply smiled.
Freedom.
Rebuilding.
It sounded nice.
-------
He bought a tiny cottage. One with a single bedroom. A kitchen that was too small for his frame. The door was yellow, and the shutters a faded shade of blue.
His mother had wrinkled her nose when she had apparated to him, landing right in a mud puddle.
“You bought this...place?”
He had given her a proud smile.
“I did.”
“Draco,” she said, her eyes softening. “A Malfoy shouldn’t live like this.”
“I think rewriting what a Malfoy deserves is far overdue, don’t you?”
She frowned at him and took him in the new place he called home.
“Is...is there not enough money? I would’ve helped you, Draco. No matter what he thought.”
He bent down to place a kiss on her cheek.
“I wanted this place, mum. I think it’s rather charming.”
She tried to smile at him, but it came off more like a grimace, and he laughed.
“At least let me show you around?”
She had. Wincing as she took in the sloping floors and outdated loo. But she hadn’t argued, and he was thankful. Because this place was his, and he refused not to be proud of it.
Yes, he had to bend down when walking into any room, given the low door frames. The hot water took some time to get warm without magic. The floorboard beneath his bed squeaked.
But he also had the perfect view of the cobblestone street as he sipped his tea. The windowsill was just wide enough to grow a tiny garden. And he slept well without the ghosts of the Manor haunting him, reminding him of cries and pleading.
So, no, it wasn’t perfect. But it was his. His personal touches everywhere you could look.
It felt like a home.
-------
He knew that rehabbing the store was going to be difficult...but somedays, it just became overwhelming. And he spent more time than he’d like to admit wondering if he was in over his head.
And today was one of those days.
Chatting with vendors, replacing the furnace, trying to decide a name.
It’s all a bit much for the amount of sleep he is running on, but he knows the more time he wastes, the more money it will cost him. So, he tries to focus on the task at hand.
But as the repairman walks him through what exactly is wrong with the furnace and how much it will cost him, his mind wanders to wild curls and honey brown eyes.
And he imagines how it would feel to see her walk into the store.
The bell over the door rings out. The sun casts the perfect shadows throughout the store. He’s tucked behind the counter reading. And she walks in, her nose red from the cold.
Her eyes wide with wonder, taking in the shop's beauty. She immediately reaches out for the nearest display, her finger running gently down the spine of his newest shipment.
And then she notices him.
She doesn’t narrow her eyes. She doesn’t back away. She doesn’t avoid his gaze.
She smiles.
And she tells him she loves what he’s done with the place.
“Are you comfortable with that price, sir?”
Draco snaps out of the daydream, looking at the repairman.
“Yes. That will work.”
That day he learns not to make financial decisions while daydreaming. The bill for the furnace much higher than he budgeted for. Later that night, Theo laughs as he explains that the man had definitely taken advantage of Draco, seeing he didn’t look like a blue-collar guy.
Draco rolls his eyes.
It isn’t like he can admit he had actually been daydreaming about Hermione Granger.
------
He did what he could to lay low.
Came to the shop early, left late.
He isn’t scared... it’s just. He’s still not sure everyone has moved past what his family caused. He just...wants the shop to have a fair chance.
Maybe then, one day, they’ll give him a chance too.
Currently, he’s cleaning up the counter when a letter slides through the door. He grits his teeth in nervousness, hoping it’s not someone telling him to get out of the neighborhood.
But it’s not.
It’s another letter from his sign maker, asking for the name of the shop sooner than later. And by sooner, she was hoping for today.
He really is stuck. He lacks creativity to the worst degree, and he doesn’t want it to be any casual name. He wants something that...reflects the store’s journey. His journey. Him.
He considers it all.
So long he has relied on his last name to be a defining feature of who he is. Pureblood. Wealthy. A slytherin. A death eater.
The thoughts makes his stomach roll.
No.
He needs to focus on the future. On the rebuilding.
He’s more than a Malfoy. More than a Death Eater. More than all of it.
New beginnings.
Clean slate.
Second chances.
And that’s when it clicks.
Second Chance Books.
Because that’s all, he really wants.
He scribbles it on a piece of parchment and calls for his owl who promptly carries it away. There’s something about that action that just makes it a bit more real, and he sits down on the stool, studying the counter.
He hasn’t spent much time here but he knows he needs to. There’s dust covering the lower shelves and he crouches to get a closer look.
A book hidden away catches his attention.
He pulls it out, dusts off the cover.
The History of Hogwarts.
He can’t help but laugh. The number of times he has read the book...the number of times he had noticed Hermione hunched over it in the library long after she should have headed back to the Gryffindor common room.
He couldn’t quite understand her back then — when they were young and just beginning.
But these days, he knows why.
She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to know everything she could about Hogwarts and magic not because she necessarily longed for it but because she needed to. She felt behind. She felt like an outcast.
He feels like that a lot these days too.
The need to prove himself. Outrun his past much like she had felt the need to outrun her muggle upbringing.
He returns his attention to the cover and wipes the dust off it, and can’t help but smile.
And then he walks it over to the nearest shelf and places it gently.
The first book.
Tattered pages.
Second chances.
And newfound hope.
------
As the shop improves, so does he.
He no longer sleeps until midday, instead rising with the sun to begin his day. He takes his tea sitting near the window. Sometimes, he watches fellow early risers enjoying their morning. Other times he secures his favorite book and tries to get lost in a world he doesn’t belong to.
He stopped smoking. His hand didn’t shake all the time. The nightmares sometimes even let them out of their ironclad grip.
And the shop really is coming together. The furnace replaced, the leaking pipe finally repaired after a long battle. He had tried to do it himself, a mistake he had learned quickly. And eventually, he gave in, calling a repairman but was sure not to lose himself entirely as the man ran through the breakdown of the costs.
He stayed within budget…that time.
The floorboards barely squeak. Books are rolling in.
And the sign, which now sat on the front counter, is completed. He just hasn’t been up to hanging it yet, wanting to keep the presence of a new owner a secret for just a bit longer.
But he knows he is running out of tasks and time. And realistically, he needs to start profiting, building back his investment.
Time moves quickly, much quicker than it has over the last two years, and he is grateful for that. He no longer dreads his days. He no longer longs for a life before. He moves forward with the rest of the world.
Today though, he grits his teeth as he waits for her arrival. She had demanded to see what disaster he had sunk his money into this time.
The thought leaves him uneasy, and he charges outside to take in his work. The walls are painted green. Ivy has begun to grow up the walls; a window box of overflowing flowers sits below the window. The door is black, a gold handle.
There’s not even a whiff of the building he had purchased, and he can’t help but smile.
He, Draco Malfoy, did this.
The thought gets his feet moving once again, and he goes back inside to retrieve the sign.
Second Chance Books
Est. 2000
It really is everything he imagined. And he is so tired of hiding.
With his wand in hand, he levitates it upwards, placing it on the hinges. And then it hits him.
This rehab project is basically complete. And while he may not be as far along in his personal rehab, he has made steps he never thought he would.
Like forgiving his father.
Writing letters littered with apologies to everyone he or his family had hurt. He hasn’t sent them yet, but he likes to think, with some time, he might.
He’s been able to look at himself in the mirror again. Look at his gray eyes and features so much like his father.
It felt a bit odd to admit, but he has something to be proud of. Something completely his own. The thought is overwhelming.
. The familiar crack of apparition fills the air, and he turns to take in his mother. She’s dressed in black. Hair pulled back. Expensive jewels around her neck and hanging from her ears. She smiles at him, and he relaxes just a bit.
“This is it?” She asks, stepping forward.
He nods, taking her hand and squeezing it.
“This is it.”
She presses her lips together and studies it. Her eyes flicker from the flowers to the gold handle and finally settle on the sign.
“Second Chance Books?”
“Yes. Because we all deserve second chances.”
He winces when he says it, knowing that he stole his father’s second chance with his show at the trial. He expects her to bring it up, but she just gently squeezes his hand.
“I suppose you are right, Draco.” She takes one final sweeping glance. “It’s beautiful. Did you do this all yourself?”
He nods like a child showing off their latest project.
“Very nice color choices.”
He laughs because that is the most Narcissa Malfoy thing she could ever say. And to his surprise, she laughs too.
“Well, are you going to show me inside or force me to stand out here in this warm weather?”
“Follow me.”
As they enter, even he notices her small look of surprise. She takes it all in. The dark stain on the floor, the large window, the shelves lined with books. She studies the art hanging on the wall, the large chairs in the corner. The candles lit, casting a warm glow.
“Draco, it’s beautiful,” she almost whispers.
He decides not to interrupt her and watches as she continues to take it in. All his hard work coming to life before her eyes.
“You - you fixed all of this?”
“I did,” he replies. “Without magic.”
She wipes away a stray tear and turns to face him.
“I know I haven’t been the easiest to deal with since the war, since the trail. I’ve struggled to understand why…well, why you’d want to separate yourself so badly from the Malfoy legacy,” he almost cuts her off, but she holds up her hand. “But now I can see it was never about separating yourself, but about recreating it. Reinventing. Rewriting.”
He’s stunned at her confession, at her ability to see the bigger picture he’s been trying to show here since day one.
“I have to say of all the things the Malfoy’s have to be proud of; this bookshop is most certainly one of them.”
That does it for him, and he hugs her, burying his face into her well-kept hair. Tears ran down his face.
Recreating.
Reinventing.
Rewriting.
Restoring the Malfoy name.
And not in the way his father wanted. But in the way that will reflect his mother's kindness to the house elves, her donations to those in need, her warmth.
That is the Malfoy name he wants everyone to know.
“Thank you,” is all he can mutter as he tries to pull himself together.
“She’ll love it, you know. If she ever stops by,” she gives him a tiny smirk, and he rolls his eyes.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But he did.
His mother has always known. Since he was younger, stomping into the Manor with his cheeks flushed and arms crossed.
"Hermione Granger got higher marks."
"Hermione Granger punched me in the nose."
"Hermione Granger has to answer every question."
"Hermione Granger is annoying, obnoxious, and desperate for approval."
"Hermione Granger attended the Yule Ball. She…looked nice."
Hermione Granger.
His mother listened. She laughed. She told him one day maybe he’d understand his fascination with the muggle-born girl. But he had rolled his eyes.
In fifth year, before things had gone south, he had come home exceptionally mad.
"Hermione Granger is - is entirely exhausting. She drives me completely and utterly mad."
His mother had smiled, taken his hand, and replied:
"Hermione Granger seems to take up a lot of your thoughts. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?"
He had never been so angry with his mother in his life. But that night, his anger gave away to something he had never felt. Because Hermione Granger was plenty of things he was willing to admit…and plenty of things he wasn’t ready to admit either.
What was the point of admitting it anyway? After all, it’s not like she would ever give him a chance.
She had Potter and Weasley. The golden trio. The golden girl.
And he was anything but golden.
Anything but.
Narcissa pats his arm, bringing him back, and he gives her a smile.
“She’s always had a way of ruling your thoughts.”
“That’s more than enough. But I’m glad you like the shop.”
She nods.
“Now, what does a mother have to do to get a cup of tea around here?”
It’s the longest amount of time they have spent together since the war, settled into the cushioned armchairs chatting about his dreams and plans for the place. She tells him about her attempt at gardening, how she had nearly killed every plant. He promises to come help her the second he gets the time.
She tells him she’s been opening the drapes more. She’s having the main room repainted. The drawing room redone.
He eyes her.
“You’re not the only one that wants to move past the war, Draco. We just all handle it differently.”
“To second chances,” he says, offering his teacup for a cheers. She gently taps hers against it.
“And to good books.”
——-
Opening day isn’t the worst and isn’t the best. He has a steady stream of customers, but not many purchase a book. It seems they were more interested in who he was than what he was selling. He can’t blame them. He has been out of the public eye for some time.
But still, he did make some sales.
Pansy stopped by and bought four new books.
Theo bought two.
Blaise bought eight — given he was probably the only one who would ever read them.
His mum stopped by and purchased more than he wanted to count. He was a bit embarrassed by it, but she said they had thrown out all the dark magic tomes and needed replacements.
Strangers walked out with new titles in their hands as well.
And the entire time, he had smiled. He laughed. He welcomed each and every person that walked through the door.
But as he flips the sign to closed, the wave of exhaustion hits him, and he collapses into one of the chairs, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
He can’t believe he actually did it. He opened the shop. He greeted customers. No one told him to bugger off. No one yelled or told him to get out of town.
They smiled. Asked how he was. Thanked him even for cleaning up the shop.
It had gone better than he imagined.
Except she hadn’t shown.
It’s not like he thought she would be eager to see him, rushing into the shop just to catch up on not-so-great old times. But he had secretly kept his fingers crossed the entire time that he would see her head bounce through the door, a smile on her face.
But she hadn’t come.
That’s okay, though. Because he has all the time in the world to wait. He has all the time and a bookshop.
He groans as he stands up, his body begging for sleep, but he knows what he needs to do. So he heads to the back and unboxes a new shipment of books to replace those sold.
He wants the shop to look its best…just in case she shows up tomorrow.
——-
Days turn into weeks and weeks into months, and the store thrives.
The ivy grows up the walls, the flowers continue to bloom thanks to a bit of magic, and he begins to get to know his usual stream of customers.
An older gentleman who seemed to have made the store part of his daily routine. He didn’t always buy something, but he usually brought Draco tea and a good conversation. And Draco quickly realized that was better than any sale he could make.
A mother and a daughter stopped by at least weekly. The young girl was reading so quickly her mum could barely keep up. Draco had quickly rearranged a section to feature children's books he thought she would like. And the little girl, who happened to be named Chloe, hugged his leg when she noticed.
“Thank you, Mr. Draco!”
He made sure to keep that section stocked.
And then there was the woman with the blonde hair and blue eyes. She stopped by often, usually browsing before buying the first book she had looked at. She liked to lean across the counter when she spoke and stayed longer than she needed to—her perfume lingering long after she was gone.
Today it was a book of poems. He watches as she saunters out of the store.
"No surprise that Draco Malfoy has admirers,” Pansy says when the door closes.
“Don’t act like you didn’t used to be one of them,”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, until I got to know you.”
He can’t even hide his laugh.
And he notices right then, that lately he’s been laughing more than he has in his entire life. The thought makes him emotional, and he bites down on his lip, trying to get a grip. He’s not sure when he became an emotional man, but lately, he has been allowing himself to feel things because they feel good. Nothing like the anger and sadness that he used to fight off.
He’s happy.
And for once, he’s not afraid it’s fleeting. He’s not afraid of allowing himself to be happy. He’s not afraid of losing it all.
The bell rings above the door, a family walking in with smiles on their faces, and he greets them.
“Welcome to Second Chance books!”
They thank him, but as they walk off into the shelves, he smiles to himself.
Second chances, he’s never been more grateful for them.
———-
It was a normal day. A busy day.
The business has really picked up. The word spread about the gorgeous book shop that lines the cobblestone street. He sees sales climbing. He finds himself ordering more books to keep up with demand.
He gets to know more faces. More stories.
He gets to know what they like, making sure to adjust his orders to have what they need.
The armchairs are usually occupied—the store filled with laughter.
It is a normal day, by all accounts.
Until the bell above the door rang out.
He is talking to a customer, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his dark mark. He has stopped trying to hide it. Most people know his history, and they always come back.
Rob is a regular anyways. A regular who always comes with stories Draco loves to hear. That’s why he barely notices the entry. That’s why he goes about his business, wrapping the book in brown paper, before handing it over to the customer.
But then he looks up, and something catches his eyes.
Flushed cheeks from the cold. A halo of long curls, entirely windblown. A maroon scarf wrapped around her neck. An oversized jumper hangs off her shoulders. And honey-brown eyes.
Eyes that he thought about a lot over the years.
Eyes he has been dreaming about walking through that door.
Yes, Hermione Granger is currently standing in his bookshop. She is focused on the front display, her finger lightly tracing down the spine of one of his newest editions - just like he’s been imagining.
She is standing in his bookshop. Touching his books.
She.
He can’t believe it, and he nearly drops the book while he’s handing it over to his current customer. He looks down at his clothes; they’re wrinkled from work. His skin clammy. His hair disheveled, and he panics.
Merlin, she can’t see him like this.
And then he catches sight of the smear of ink on his forearm, and he pales.
She can not see that. She can not immediately be reminded of his poor choices, not after all these years. Not after all the rebuilding he has done.
As he hurries to roll down his sleeve, though, her eyes flicker up to him and widen.
He freezes, his sleeve still cuffed, exposing half the faded dark mark.
She tilts her head, her eyes flickering to the thing he was desperately trying to hide, and then they find his face again.
It’s like time is frozen. They’re not alone in the store, but they might as well be, especially when her lips tug upward ever so slightly, a smirk that is much too pretty settling on her face. But she doesn’t approach him, and as the next customer walks up the counter, his focus is forced to break.
When he finally looks back to where she stood, she’s gone.
He can’t even hide his disappointment, his shoulders drooping.
Had he just missed his chance to impress Granger?
Had she left once she realized he was there?
The customer hands him the book, and his hands shake as he wraps it. His voice quiet as he tells them the total.
He forces a smile as he thanks them for shopping.
The next customer comes.
The same routine.
His eyes flicker around the room. She’s nowhere to be found.
He tries to focus on the task at hand, but he can’t.
He’s searching for her so desperately.
Finally, he reaches the last customer — the rush almost over. And as he looks up to greet them, he pales.
Hermione Granger stands there, a book in hand.
“I’d like to purchase this.”
She extends it to him.
The History of Hogwarts.
It’s the book he found tucked away under the counter. He had put it in the second-hand section, but it feels more like fourth hand if he is being honest. He looks back up at her.
“This - this isn’t the updated version.”
“I know. That’s why I want it. They’re impossible to find without all the…” her eyes flicker to the dark mark. “Well...”
He self consciously tucks his arm behind his back.
“Malfoy, are you even going to acknowledge that it’s me?”
He finally meets her eyes, and he notices that they’re not angry or hardened. More curious than anything and he tries to relax.
“Nice to see you, Granger.” He says as steadily as he can. “I see your reading taste hasn’t changed much.”
She blushes, and he decides the scarlette of Hermione Granger’s cheeks is his new favorite color.
“And I see yours has? I can’t believe you work here.”
He laughs.
“I own the place, Hermione.”
The use of her first name feels like he’s stepped over a line neither of them was prepared for. Disarming. A white flag. She studies him.
“You own a bookstore?” Hermione tilts her head, her lips tugging upwards. “I never took you for a bookshop owner.”
His smirk mirrors her own.
“You weren’t the only one with an affinity for books. Just the only one who never stopped talking about it.”
To his relief, she laughs loudly, and he considers that that sound is one he would never get sick of for the rest of his life.
“Fair play. I just thought you’d, well-”
“Take over the family business? The decisions I made after the war put me out of the running for that one. I took the inheritance I had left and bought this place.”
Hermione nods.
“I meant to write you. To say thank you, you know, for being honest in the trials.”
“It was the least I could do, Granger.”
The silence settles between them, and she gives him one last smile, and he allows himself to memorize the moment he has been waiting for three years. The book shop, of course, is a wonderful way to make a living. But in the back of his mind, he has always hoped a curly-headed witch with a taste for Shakespeare and a razor-sharp tongue would float through the door. See that he has changed. See that maybe he is worthy of second chances.
She clears her throat, and it brings him back to the current scene. The scene that is reality, not some distant fantasy he has conjured up in his head.
“So, what do I owe you?”
He stares at the book in her hand. The old book with it’s yellowed pages and ageing spine. And then he looks at her.
He considers how this is the moment he’s been waiting for.
And he refuses to let it go by without at least...trying.
“It’s on the house.”
“I- I can’t do that. This is your business.”
He smirks. Her stumble giving him a bit of confidence. Maybe she is as nervous as he is.
“Thankfully, you’re right. So, luckily I won’t be chastised for giving books away to a beautiful woman.”
There is that blush again. He notes it’s even better when it’s his words that have caused it. She eyes him again.
“Do you do this often, Malfoy? Offer free books and compliments?”
“If you come back again, I think it’s a habit I could pick up.”
Hermione smiles, shaking her head. She takes the book into her arms and looks up at him.
“Would you like me to come back again?”
He laughs because what a question.
“Only if you want to.”
She mulls over the answer before nodding.
“Thank you for the book. The shop is beautiful, by the way.”
And then she’s gone.
His heart sinks as he loses the final glimpse of her curls, and he can’t believe that he had just messed up their first encounter like that.
Completely and utterly fucked it.
He collapses into the stool and puts his head in his hands.
“Nice to see you, Granger,” he says in a mocking tone. “I couldn’t even use her first name? We’re not schoolchildren anymore.”
He sulks until he can’t anymore. Shoppers needing his attention.
They come and go. He goes through the motions. He thinks about her eyes, her lips tugging up into a smile. Her cheeks flushed because of his words.
And then he thinks about her leaving, her red scarf falling out of view.
He thinks about how he failed.
That night, he spends most of his time sitting in the window of his small home watching couples waltz through the cobblestone streets. So in love. And he realizes he’s lonely.
He’s so lonely.
He doesn’t sleep.
Her eyes haunt him.
But really, why did he ever think he was good enough for Hermione Granger in the first place?
------
The next day, he still feels empty, and that, he guesses, is why he doesn’t even look up as the first toll of the bell rings out in the shop, signaling his first customer.
He doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t greet them.
“Well, are you going to greet me? Or do I need to ring the bell again?”
His eyes snap up to her familiar features—a smile on his face.
Hermione Granger has come back for a second day in a row. She smirks.
“Morning Malfoy. Please tell me you have Shakespeare.”
He smiles because of course he has Shakespeare. He knows it’s her favorite. And it was the very first order he had put in.
“Let me show you what we have.”
He offers his arm.
She takes it.
And he can’t help but wonder if this is the beginning.