A Little Prince

It was a dark evening in December, when the streets were littered with dirty clumps of snow and the street lamps shone dismally in the thick, swirling London fog, that a little boy sat in the back of a dark car, his enormous gray eyes fixed on the passing streets. His legs were tucked up underneath him, and he stared in wonder, as if he had never seen shop fronts before, which, incidentally, wasn´t far from the truth. On the seat next to him sat a rather fine-looking gentleman, his long, blond hair held back from his pale face with a black silk ribbon, his aristocratic features softened by a smile as he looked down on his only son, a black-gloved hand closing the distance between them to rest possessively and affectionately on the boy´s shoulder.

"Father," the boy said without turning, "is it true that we are looking for a pub?" His voice trembled with excitement, as was typical for a boy of nine, which was, in fact, his age, but his inflection was very grown up and very proper, indicative of his fine upbringing.

The man´s smile widened, and he slid his hand up to rest on the boy´s baby-fine hair. "Yes, Draco, that is correct," he affirmed. "It is a place called the Leaky Cauldron. No Muggle who passes it will see any more than a dark, run-down establishment, and even to us Wizards it looks rather unimpressive, but it is the entrance into London´s Wizarding High Street."

Draco made another little excited wriggle, but then caught himself, turning away from the window and finally looking up at his father, his face glowing with anticipation. "And that is where we are going?" he asked, folding his small, white hands in his lap and fixing his father with an expression filled with equal parts hope and apprehension.

"It is," the man said, maintaining his smile although he could feel something twisting in his chest. Draco all but squeaked, whipping his head around and looking out the window again, hungrily, and leaving his father to his thoughts.

Lucius Malfoy leaned back against the seat, still watching his son with an affectionate eye, although there was sadness in his expression as well. Draco had been his only companion for many years, ever since they left England for India nearly nine years ago, and the idea of leaving him at a boarding school with strangers while he went back to India to close out his business there seemed excruciatingly painful to him.

While Lucius had been brought up by a rather indifferent father and an often cold and unaffectionate mother, his experiences over the last few years had made quite a different man of him. Claudius Malfoy, his father, had desired power, money, prestige, and recognition; Lucius´ interests were closer to the heart. The Malfoys were a very rich family, to be sure, and Draco had always had everything he could ever want, but instead of following his father´s lead and spending days and weeks seeking success elsewhere, he stayed home, lavishing his attention on his son. Claudius had been a shrewd businessman and a very highly ranked member of the Wizarding elite. Lucius and Draco lived by themselves, away from society for the most part, and found everything they needed in each other. Where Claudius had been successful, Lucius was often clueless, but he had managed to achieve something his father had not: the joy of being a loving and loved father.

Lucius shook his head wryly, watching his small son try to refrain from bouncing in his seat as they continued their trek through the London fog toward the mysterious blackened pub. Had his father been alive right now, he undoubtedly would have looked at Lucius with disgust, called him a disgrace to the Malfoy name, and possibly given him a good, hard thrashing with the cane he always carried. But Claudius was dead, had died soon after Draco had been born, and Lucius rarely thought of him anymore. His father had been the cause of many of his own mistakes, and any thoughts of the elder man were never pleasant ones.

Lucius was a man who always believed in learning from one´s mistakes. As a child, he had worshipped his father, although he´d always strongly disliked the utter indifference his father directed toward him, and had wanted to follow in his father´s footsteps. So when his father had invited the Dark Lord to Malfoy Manor to meet young Lucius, he had wanted nothing more than to impress. And impress he had. The Dark Lord had taken quite a liking to the young Malfoy heir, and had invited him into their circle at the age of sixteen, younger than was standard for new recruits. Claudius had been pleased in his thoroughly aloof manner, and that had been good enough for Lucius, who had spent the next few years of his life jumping to meet the Dark Lord´s bidding.

He had been married at nineteen, to a blonde beauty named Narcissa Black. The Blacks were Pureblood as well, and well-ranked in Wizarding society as well as being staunch supporters of the Dark Lord and his cause. Narcissa had felt this loyalty especially strongly, and had trained and fought with the rest of them, elegant, graceful, and ruthless. Lucius had admired that. But when Narcissa had become pregnant, she had become extremely irritable, whiny, and demanding, and Lucius had often found himself reminded of his mother, who was prone to exhibit similar moods. Claudius had told Lucius not to worry, that she would have the baby, hand it off to a nurse, and would be back, good as new, in no time.

Which was, of course, exactly what had happened. Lucius had not been overly happy with the idea of his son being entirely raised by the staff, but the hours of intense training they had been forced to endure allowed him little time to see his son, although he made use of whatever time he did have. Draco had proved to be quite a spirited and precocious baby, with great coordination and grace for one so young. Lucius hoped to see him grow to be a great man someday, better than the rest of his family. Claudius saw him as potential, a Malfoy to follow in the tradition of all Malfoys, strong and powerful and ruthless. The Dark Lord saw him as a great fighter, a welcome addition to their army. Narcissa didn´t see him much at all. Motherhood had not appealed to her in the least. She had done her duty, and was done with it, and all but ignored him.

Less than two months after Draco had been born, the Dark Lord had called forth his Death Eaters for intensive training, preparing for the battle that would take down the Wizarding World in one fell swoop. Lucius remembered that experience well, as if it had been only yesterday.

The Dark Lord´s idea of training had involved throwing multiple curses at his Death Eaters and laughing maniacally as they´d tried and failed to repel them, and had been felled, writhing on the floor in agony. Lucius had somehow managed to get up after being downed by a particularly brutal Cruciatus, and had seen the Dark Lord watching him with blatant amusement. "You think you are strong, Malfoy," he had said, "but you are weak. Pathetic. Your love for your son makes you so. You cannot be a successful Death Eater unless you no longer have any happy thoughts, anything that can be used as ammunition against you, any weaknesses to be exploited."

Lucius had felt his lip curling in disgust, his chest tightening with rage and frustration and absolute hatred for this man who cared so little for human life and spirit. Lucius knew that the Death Eaters were not people to this creature, for he truly was a creature; they were merely killing machines, created to fight and kill and die for him, for his worthless cause. He´d realized then that he needed to get out, and quickly.

The last straw had been when Lucius had watched the Dark Lord train his wand on Narcissa, who was fighting bravely but weakening quickly due to the strain of her pregnancy, that had not been that long ago, and cast a quick and brutal Avada Kedavra. Nobody stood a chance against that; she´d dropped dead instantly, a look of shock on her face. Lucius had never loved his wife, but at that moment, he´d been overcome with a burning desire to rip the Dark Lord´s head from his body. But the Dark Lord had merely looked at him coldly. "The weak are no use to me," he had said, his voice absolutely flat and emotionless, and had turned away, gesturing sharply for the body´s removal.

That night, after the Dark Lord had finally seen fit to allow his Death Eaters to return home, Lucius had been sore, exhausted, and absolutely seething. More and more, leading up to that point, he´d been questioning why exactly the Dark Lord was the Dark Lord. His main platform was the authority of Purebloods and the total exclusion of Muggles from the Wizarding world. Lucius agreed with him on those counts, as he had studied the ruination that could easily occur if the line between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds was blurred, but he could not see how a half-blood in charge of the movement was in any way logical or even sane. In addition, he´d watched the Dark Lord lean further and further toward insanity, becoming exceedingly superstitious, completely obsessed with power and money and total domination, while having no respect or regard for the people who had carried him to power in the first place. Lucius didn´t see that as a good reason to continue fighting for the Dark Lord at all. And with the death of both his father and his wife, neither of whom he´d cared for but both of whom had played important roles in his life, Lucius saw absolutely no reason to remain a Death Eater. Unfortunately, while the Dark Lord might not have been in his right mind, he was powerful, and that was a definite disadvantage. The only way to avoid his wrath, which he was sure to incur if he defected, was to go far away until everything died down and the Dark Lord was forced to retreat to a safe haven to regroup. So that night, Lucius had collected whatever he could carry, had made a large transfer of funds to a bank in Switzerland, and he and Draco had traveled to a small village in the north of India.

Sometimes, Lucius had wondered if it would have been better for them to stay, for him to have joined the other side of the war. However, fighting in a war was very much dependent on having strong views one way or another, and, while he had his personal opinions, he did not feel strongly enough to justify being on either one of the sides. He actually thought the whole war was rather stupid. The Dark Lord had become fixated on revenge now, having launched a personal vendetta on Albus Dumbledore, the man who was leading up the other side of the war, and cared little for the actual reasons he´d started the war in the first place.

In fact, it seemed as though neither side of the war had really thought through their stances. He was reminded of Hitler, or of Napoleon, leaders who had risen to power with promises of great things for their followers, but who had betrayed everyone in the end, having had only their own agendas in mind. But at the same time, he couldn´t see himself fighting for the other side, because he didn´t see it as that much better; they were fighting for equality for everyone, and Lucius knew that could only lead to ruination. After all, the nightmare of Salem was only one example of the horrors that would follow if Muggle and Wizarding worlds were combined without sufficient precaution.

And so Lucius and Draco had lived in India for several years, unwilling and unable to return to England until the war either ended or at least managed to send the Dark Lord into hiding. Instead of simply biding their time, however, they´d made the most of it. Lucius had always been fascinated with Eastern magical practices, nature magic and the like, and he´d begun to study that. Draco had been brought up in all the fine traditions of European Wizarding society. He had learned French, Italian, and Latin, had studied literature and philosophy and rhetoric, had learned etiquette and dancing and how to be a proper host, but he had also been exposed to an entirely different world in Indian Wizarding society, and, as a result, was a very unusual child. It was normal for a well-bred wizard of Draco´s age to know how to cast simple spells, how to wield a wand and ride a broomstick, and how to be a proper little host. Draco, however, also the basics of several Eastern languages, how to communicate with animals, and had been instructed in many varieties of natural magic, including gem magic, plant magic, and candle magic. He had studied not only the workings of magic, but also the origin, the mechanics, and the practical application of magic. He had even learned the basics of extrapolating a spell from the primary writings of ancient magical theorists. Lucius had taught him whatever he could, and Draco had taken to it with the energy and eagerness only a child could possess.

But Lucius was not a trained teacher of magic, and it was time for Draco to learn Western magic from a real master. Lucius had attended Hogwarts, in Scotland, and it had been his great desire for Draco to one day attend that school as well. Unfortunately, Hogwarts had been decimated in one of the early battles, and, as a result, schooling was now done largely in small schools, spread throughout Europe. Those who had had their names down for Hogwarts had been redistributed throughout the major Wizarding hubs in the United Kingdom. Since Malfoy Manor was located in the south of England, Draco was to attend a small school that had been set up in Diagon Alley. Preparatory schools and public schools had been combined, and students generally started school now between the ages of five and ten. Draco was, therefore, on the elder side, but was well prepared to take his lessons. Lucius had no doubt that he would fare very well.

And yet, he was extremely loath to part from his son, the only person who had truly been able to make his life bearable these last several years. He was determined that, as soon as he´d closed up all his business, he would return to London and take a flat so he can always be near his son. He did not, however, want to deprive the boy of companions his own age, so it was with some resignation that he acceded that public school was the best thing for Draco at this juncture. That did not make this any easier for him, though, and he found that he couldn´t tear his eyes away from his son, nor could he seem to stop those affectionate, possessive touches.

Draco, however, didn´t seem to mind at all. As excited as he was about the possibility of attending a real school, with many boys his age, he was also terrified. This was a new thing for him, and he had to face it alone, without his father there. He loved his father very dearly, and was very sad to be parting from him, although Lucius had told him it would only be for a short while. He knew that his father had long wanted him to attend proper school in England, and he was determined to please his father. We cannot always like what we do, he had said to himself sternly, but it is what must be done, and so we must be brave and do it. Bravery is admitting that we are scared of something and then doing it anyway, and I must be brave, for Father´s sake.

Draco was a very queer little boy, refined and intelligent, to be sure, but with some odd tendencies that quite set him apart from other little boys his age. He was very quiet and introspective much of the time, and his face carried the look of a boy twice his age, but he was often also very much like a young child. He liked to pretend things, to imagine that things were not as they were, to develop his own realities and his own worlds. Lucius, exhausted and thoroughly disgusted with the way the world really was, encouraged his storytelling, and would often laugh delightedly at the fictions that his son´s clever mind would invent.

So it was in sad silence that the two of them sat close together in the back of the long car, Lucius with an arm around Draco as if he never wanted to let go, Draco looking out the window and attempting to distract himself from the fact that, soon, his father would be going away, leaving him in a strange place with strange people, and feeling only slight comfort in the fact that Lucius had promised to visit him whenever he got the chance, and to write to him often.

They rounded a corner, and the car rolled to a smooth stop by the curb. Draco grabbed for his father´s hand, gripping it tightly and looking up with nervous eyes. "Are we here, Father?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Is this the place?"

"Yes, Draco," Lucius returned, his voice sad. "We are here at last."

The driver killed the motor and came around the side of the car, opening Lucius´ door. Draco, however, was loath to release his father´s hand, and so slid out of the car after Lucius, his small hand curled so tightly in Lucius´ that his knuckles were almost completely white. While Lucius might normally have discouraged this show of complete dependency in public, there was something inside him that felt warm at Draco´s show of possessiveness, and that same something made him grip Draco´s hand back with the same intensity.

If passers by thought it was unusual that a finely dressed man was taking his small child to a seedy pub in the middle of London on a weeknight, they certainly didn´t say anything about it. In fact, most of them seemed to be completely ignoring them, keeping their heads down and their hands tucked into their armpits, nearly knocking the pair of them as if they didn´t see them at all. Draco was somewhat irritated and very perplexed by this behavior, and very much wished to make some remark in the brash and carefree way that only a child could, but Lucius squeezed his hand and led him forward into the pub, and the thought flew quickly from his mind.

He had never seen a place quite like The Leaky Cauldron before. Several men in a large variety of unusually colored robes were grouped around tall tables, hands wrapped around large glass mugs filled with amber-colored liquid. In the corner, a group of older ladies stood, all of them wearing ridiculous and extravagant hats, and comparing baskets full of odd-looking herbs that Draco certainly did not recognize. The fire was roaring in the hearth, and, as they passed it, it flared up in bright, acid green, followed by a bang.

Draco jumped.

"Wh-what was that, Father?" he asked fearfully, walking a bit closer to Lucius.

"It´s called Floo travel, Draco," Lucius said patiently, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "It´s all right. No need to be frightened."

"I´m n-not frightened," Draco protested bravely, stubbornly, but Lucius only laughed and led Draco past another table of loud men, this one covered in glasses of fiery red liquid that almost appeared to give off steam. Draco stared at them with huge, curious eyes, but they paid him no mind.

Finally, they were through the hullabaloo of the pub and out the back door into a small courtyard surrounded by brick. Draco stared.

"This is Wizarding London?" he asked doubtfully, looking up at his father.

Lucius chuckled. "No, Draco," he returned. Then, he pulled out his wand (Draco´s eyes widened yet again, as it was rather uncommon for Lucius to ever wield his wand outside of the safety of their home), and tapped one of the bricks smartly, three times.

In less than two seconds, Draco was pressed up against the wall of the pub, his hands flattened against the brick, his eyes enormous and his mouth open in astonishment. The wall had moved, had wriggled and quivered and come to life and opened, revealing a bustling, cheerful street packed full of men, women, and children, all dressed in robes, most carrying baskets or sacks of some sort, and all chattering at a steady, dull roar.

Lucius turned, smiling at his son, and holding out a hand. "Come, Draco," he said, his voice soft and affectionate. "It´s quite safe."

With only the briefest of hesitations, Draco unglued himself from the wall and tentatively took a few steps forward, offering his hand. Lucius took it and swept them both through the entranceway, which moved back into position behind them, once again much to Draco´s surprise.

Lucius looked down at his son´s wondering expression, and felt a pang of sadness rip through his heart. "Welcome," he murmured, "to Diagon Alley."