A Chance Encounter

Stepping out of the carriage as it rattled to a halt on the slick cobblestones, Draco Malfoy regarded Borgins and Burke's. His feet plashed through the puddles of lackluster water that had developed from this early June storm as he looked up, shading his eyes from the slanting rain. The boutique was as he had remembered it. Ominous and squat, it crouched on Knockturn Alley like an old woman forever clad in the tattered black crêpe of mourning, huddled over a mossy grave.

Resolving his fate, Draco strode towards the door. Borgins loomed up with each careful step he took, somehow intimidating despite its laughably hideous architecture. Shoving a lock of his damnably recognizable hair beneath the black Muggle cap borrowed this morning from Harry, Draco reached the door. His right hand closed over the brass knob, and he heard the faint sigh of old wood as he pushed the door open and strode in.

The interior of the shop was even darker than the overcast day would allow, although Draco could not remember a time when it had ever truly been light. The harsh sound of his boots on the floor echoed like the staccato rapping of an automatic weapon. (Draco barely flinched at the similarity.) He took several steps down the familiar aisle, narrow and with branching passages, that led to the open tables at the back. With small, unnecessary glances that he would have much rather suppressed, he found himself, even after all this time, surreptitiously checking each side corridor for the tall elegance of his father.

Ever since his heir had been able to totter about the Manor on uncertain legs, Lucius Malfoy had brought the boy to Borgins and Burkes. The fact that his father, usually so disdainful of ever allowing him to enter into society, had deigned him worthy to be seen here had always puzzled Draco. Perhaps Lucius was wanted to use the assembled horrors to ensure that he'd even be able to control his scion's nightmares.

In any case, this shop knew Draco intimately; these porous walls had witnessed his small frame blossom over the course of several summers into its current version -- a headstrong twenty year-old with Lucius'; height but his mother's gallic grace. A motion caught his eye, but when he turned to look it was only Edgar, Mr. Borgin's raven, perched over the doorway and regarding him with a measure of interest in his cold black eyes. Draco's lips curled into a thin smile. The bird probably paid more attention to him than most of the old house elves ever had.

Draco breathed deeply through his nostrils, let the shop wash over him in brocade waves. Borgins smelled of smoke and spices, of power and fear. His blood tingled on its careening path through his veins as the heady scents reached him; the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. A small thrill, laced with other sensations, brushed seductively against the edges of his consciousness like the insubstantial fingers of long-denied ghosts. Harry had been right to be afraid of this trip.

How this place had always fascinated him! Familiar wonders greeted Draco wherever he looked, their awful delights a strange panacea that both soothed and excited him. The Hand of Glory, as resplendent in its horror as it had always been, still lay on a velvet cushion. Draco had promised himself one year that he'd grow up to buy the Hand, use it to spite his father. When he passed it, he wondered if the fingers hadn't flexed slightly in a ghastly wave. To the right of it was that dusty old box, lid open to reveal sheets of dried skin, marked only, "For the unrepentant." The label chilled him more than he would ever care to explain.

The executioner's noose- bane of over nineteen Muggles- had been sold the summer before his fourth year, but it now it had returned and was sitting in a case against the box, curled up like a sleeping serpent. He briefly speculated how many more lives it had taken in its holiday outside of the glass prison, but decided that the body count was probably not as high as his own.

The northwest corner of the hall, which had once housed the barrel of pigs intestines, lay empty, but that was to be expected. No one had any use for sacrificial artifacts created on the night of the First Fall anymore. At thirteen, Draco had spent an entire visit staring at those slick lengths of flesh (still gleaming with decade-old blood), wishing that it was Potter diced up and tossed in the barrel. After he'd left the shop, glancing over his shoulder all the while, he'd told his father about his wish. Lucius had merely laughed his usual sibilant laugh.

Draco checked around him for other patrons, saw only a few drab souls, picking out wares and flicking nervous glances about. He had listened to enough of Hermione's gushing babble at dinner last week (the woman remained an insufferable know-it-all, but he tried to be tolerant for Harry's sake) to learn that the Ministry's raids were becoming increasingly more frequent. This time, they seemed to be intent on destroying both the weed and root of darkness.

He supposed the thought of another run-in with magical law enforcement should make him uneasy, too. His record, though it had been wiped clean by a few spectacularly stupid acts of bravery, would not be helped by being spotted here. Minister of Magic Weasley, however, would be loath to have The Great Saint Potter’s sexual quirk plastered all over the dailies again. Bad for posterity and all that.

As he made his way to the back of the shop, Draco noted that several of the low-lying tables there stood empty. The Inspection Teams had done their work well. Borgin must have been seething when they barged in, brandishing warrants and warding spell containment jars; profits had suffered enough last time. He’d survive, though. Borgins and Burke’s was an institution that had surmounted considerable setbacks before. Draco had the utmost faith in the regenerative capacities of such a questionable establishment.

Draco came to the menacing shelves along the back wall, which were fairly bursting with phials, jars and pouches. Messrs Borgin and Burke had been apothecaries before business had expanded into other realms, and their shop still held almost everything any morally ambiguous potions brewer could ever hope to possess. Draco stopped, unfurled a lengthy scroll from where he had stashed it in the sleeve of his robe.

He really did need to shop more frequently; these huge restocking expeditions were hassles of the primary degree. But venturing out from the warm sanctity of home was a prospect holding little appeal to either he or Harry. They needed little more than what they possessed: friends (Harry’s mostly, but Draco did make an effort); enough income to keep them in comfortable, languid luxury forever; and a warm bed they made sure was never empty. Their world hadn’t shrunk, really, so much as it had compacted itself. Glancing down at his list, Draco decided that powdered bicorn horn simply couldn’t compare to his lover.

Thoughts of Harry while he was here unsettled him. Plenty of items resided in the dank recesses of this shop that, if given half the chance, would be quick to hurt them both. His thoughts were no safer here than they had ever been anywhere else; this was never a sanctuary. It was merely the link he had drawn between this place and his childhood that made it seem so, only the faintest, most deceptive traces of memory that lent this viper’s den the aura of a warm nursery.

And, although Draco knew it was silly of him, he almost felt guilty about Harry. If he searched for his father here, it was only because he had not the courage to look round for himself; some shadow of his childhood being had never left. If Draco turned his head at just the right moment, did he really doubt that he’d glimpse his own blond ringlets? His breath still fogged up the glass cases; his small fingerprints still marked little whorled trails on the shelves. He shook his head once more, although this time it was to dislodge the haunting call of his own laughter. Draco’s past most definitely did not approve of his present.

Finding adequate reasons to put it all out of his mind, he set about swiftly gathering the requisite ingredients. Left to their own devices, his hands seamlessly performed perfunctory tasks he’d perfected years ago. Glance down at the list to see what was needed, locate the correct container, see that nothing lurked behind the bottles, test to make sure the item hadn’t been compromised—he’d been purchasing blacklisted ingredients over eighteen months before he had first stepped into Severus’ dusty dungeon at Hogwarts.

“Malfoy?”

Draco paused, shivered as one of the jeweled scarab beetles he had been collecting tried to scale his right hand. Idly picking it off from where it clung with tenacious pincers to his index finger, he turned.

Sirius Black stood in the aisle, wicker basket tucked under his arm and a surly scowl spread over his features.

Draco sighed. Just perfect. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Black,” he said, tugging at the brim of his cap in some grotesque mockery of a respectful salute.

“You fucking idiot! Do you want to be investigated again?” Black’s mouth twisted further. “You’re a Malfoy, for Christ sakes; do you even know what could happen if you were spotted?”

That was the problem with Gryffindors—never any variation. No matter who he dealt with, the investigation and Malfoy jabs always surfaced quickly. Of course, the commission had exonerated and even commended him, and he hadn’t been a very good Malfoy in years, but that didn’t make a difference. Draco had actually expected more from the perennially devious Black, from whose mind had spilled forth some of the most brilliant campaign plans of the war.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes while delivering a pat reply. “I should think that this particular establishment would pose similar difficulties for yourself. Or are ex-convicts usually allowed on Knockturn Alley without breaking parole?”

Although Draco had been just adhering to formula, Black growled, and made as if to lunge at him over one of the tables. He stopped short, however, regaining his composure. “You really are a pretentious fuck, Malfoy.”

“By all accounts, yes.”

“Why the hell are you here?”

“Why are you?” When Draco had turned seven, Lucius had backhanded him at his birthday party for responding to a question with one of his own. Though the crimson sting of it had (almost) faded from his cheek, challenging Black like that, here, still sent a wave of nauseating excitement through him.

In a refreshing deviation from the unwritten script to which they had thus far hewn, Black chose to answer his impudent question in a tone that, had it issued from someone else, might have been cordial. “I’m picking up some extra herbs for this month’s Wolfsbane.” Eyeing Draco steadily, Black let some of the edge back into his voice. “You?”

Severus once told him that he used to call him Black the Prat, and the nickname had always stuck in Draco’s mind. The suspicion lurking behind that question filled him
with such indignant rancor that he almost began to shake with rage. Who the fuck did this man think he was, interrogating him? “Picking up herbs with which to poison Harry at dinner tonight,” he snapped.

Looking at it objectively, Draco supposed that the sentence had been inevitable. He had tried not to provoke Black; he really had. God, what he and Harry would be if these moments with others could be avoided! Draco mightn’t be a saint, but he had changed, in a thousand ways that were visible to even the most casual of observers. And if Sirius Starkers-POW-Black was too thick to see that, then he was resolved not to care.

But perhaps he should have cared, for Black was suddenly on him. Somehow, he had weaved around the tables with a vicious alacrity that betrayed his years to appear before Draco, all rampant rage. “Don’t you dare fuck with me, Malfoy!” he growled, face inches from Draco’s own.

“Just hitting my cues,” Draco replied coolly, a scalding glare belying the anger his calm tone masked.

When Sirius Black bore down on a person, swooping in like a vengeful god of destruction and launching into a tirade about hell, one had better listen. Because while for some people, “come hell or high water” was a simple idiomatic expression, this man almost certainly actually meant it. Draco hadn’t allowed very much to frighten him since he was twelve, and he was still unnerved by him.

It was Black’s eyes, he decided. Harry had once showed him his father’s old yearbook, and Draco had been shocked at the difference in his eyes- dancing and expressive in all the photos. Now, as he looked at Black, all he could see in his irises was night. Harry had said that anyone’s would be changed after what Black had endured, and that Lupin said the old Sirius was slowly returning. Draco supposed he’d not been around Black’s lighter moods often enough—or ever, really—to judge.

In any case, Draco could almost see the murky floodwaters rising and smell the brimstone of the infernal fires in Black’s threats. It was no wonder he and Severus were sworn enemies- it would be difficult deciding who was more menacing.

Black never actually touched Draco; his hands were balled into tight fists at his side. Perhaps he’d made a promise to Lupin not to. That made some sense; the werewolf seemed to be, by far, the more stable partner (a telling statement of Black’s temperament). His moods had shifted constantly throughout this entire exchange, swirling and morphing like smoke. Draco wondered how strongly Black held to some sort of sanity.

Draco realized that the man was relying on his instinctive physiological reaction to being cornered like this to reinforce his words. As his heart rate sped up and his head began to ache, he allowed himself a small measure of grudging admiration. Here was a man better acquainted with the subtleties of power and domination than most associated with the Light. Draco shifted his weight, suddenly seized with a significant uneasiness. He’d take sanctimonious righteousness over Black’s wild eyes and looming presence any time.

If it had come to a fight, Draco wouldn’t have put up very effective resistance- he was overmatched physically and while the darkness of Borgins called for it, any use of his “Slytherin-ness” usually upset Harry. Draco, having by now tuned out most of what Black was saying, wondered if the apothecary didn’t have something to do with this rancor. True, he and Black had never gotten on well, but the rage in him was much higher than he normally ever allowed himself. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the building fed on negative energy; many magical buildings (and several rooms in the old Manor) did.

Draco would, of course, be blamed for any confrontation that resulted. Even after the Fall, he was still ambiguous to many, far more so than even Sirius Black. Gryffindors- and his life was awash in them- never forgot anything, though they liked to consider themselves above petty grudges.

Black had stopped talking, was sizing him up with those manic eyes. Obviously, he expected a response. Draco was in no mood to give him anything that would suffice, so he locked his lips into a tight line, betraying nothing.

“Do you hear me, you little shit?”

“And I’m the pretentious one?” Draco narrowed his eyes. “Just who the fuck do
you think you are, threatening me like this?”

“I’m the closest thing Harry has to a father!” Black’s voice was harsh, the urge to shout roughening his voice.

“Am I supposed to automatically obey you for that? Lick your boots because the actions of a homicidal megalomaniac landed you in a position of parental authority that you didn’t even exercise for almost fifteen years?” Draco let a Malfoy sneer surface on his features. “Harry’s a big boy, Black. He can handle this all by himself- he has been for nearly three years.

“And if you’ve ever found any evidence that I’m the sort of person who’d respect patriarchal claims,” he snorted, “you’re even more pathetically Gryffindor than I thought.”

“All I want is to make sure Harry’s not going to be hurt,” Black said, more hesitant now. Anger still clung to his taut muscles, but Draco had shifted much of it to confusion.

“Then our interests are mutual.”

Black looked him up and down. “This doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t like you, Malfoy.”

“And I don’t like you, either, if that helps.”

“But I should trust you with my godson now?”

“I don’t know that you should go that far. After all,” he flashed a smile, “I am both a little shit and a pretentious fuck.”

Black’s eyes locked onto his, staring at Draco with such calculated force that he almost squirmed under the scrutiny “I think you’re just trying to scare me.”

“Yeah, well,” Draco shrugged, “just don’t expect me to call you ‘Pops’.”

“Do it, and no one will ever find the body- Son.” His face broke unexpectedly into a grin.

They stood in silence for a moment, not quite knowing what to say. Draco had always hated moments like this. He felt for the crimson amulet that hung around his neck, pressed its comforting contours against his fingers. Harry must be worrying by now; no doubt he’d want an explanation of what had delayed him.

“So,” Draco began, though he despised ineloquence.

“Are you going to tell Harry about all this?” Was he? A good question, indeed. He wondered if he’d even be able to, if he could somehow express this truce in the warm light of their kitchen. How would this fit into their post-coital routine of soup and chatting? Harry wouldn’t even understand; this dank world of poison and power would never make any sense to him. In a way, Draco and Black had something in common else- both knew more than their share about the not-so-seemly.

“Are you going to tell Lupin?”

“Of course not.” The older man’s eyes danced as they had in the yearbook. The change was striking; it easily peeled back two decades of strain and sorrow. “He’d think we’d gone soft. And we wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Draco murmured. “Should we shake on it, then?” Black’s smile widened. “Oh, fuck off- what the hell do I know about this sort of thing?”

Sirius laughed; Draco tried not to blush as he was buffeted by a barrage of mirth. “That’s alright, Malfoy; we don’t have to shake hands. I’d say that a manly pat on the shoulder will suffice here.”

Draco wasn’t so sure about that part; what were a pair of queers doing trying to act manly in the midst of glorified grocery shopping? Still, Black seemed- he cringed at the pun- serious enough about it, and he was the Gryffindor here.

Maintaining considerable doubts about the entire endeavor, Draco reached out a tentative hand.

Black pulled him into a tight bear hug. “Ugh!” Draco was pressed between the spicy warmth of the man’s chest and a prickly basket full of pungent herbs. “Geroff me, you son of a bitch!”

He felt Black’s ribcage expand as he laughed again. “You silly little sod; I can’t believe you actually fell for that!”

Unaffected by the knowledge that his tone had just crossed over the line between controlled rage and causing a commotion, Draco cried, “I insist that you remove your flea-bitten-”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Black whispered. “Remember the hell and high water. One hint that you’re hurting Harry, and I will break your patrician skull into halves like an overpriced melon and sell whatever dribbles out of it to every shady operative from here to Salem.”

With that, he let Draco go, and the younger man spun ungracefully back against a display of bottled hemlock extract. Attempting to brush off the invisible layers of Black grime, Draco imagined killing the old fucker. Right in the middle of the shop, where the witnesses would all be on his side. He could plead insanity, say that the fumes from the hemlock had clouded his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Borgin watching from behind the counter, Edgar perched on his left shoulder. Although the old man knew better than to intercede between his patrons (especially the Malfoy scion and the inimitable Sirius Black), Draco still felt himself blush at Borgin’s rigid stance. He had caused a scene, broken yet another rule of the family code.

“I’ll be going now, Malfoy,” Black said, his voice breezy. “Remus is probably waiting at home. You will send Harry our regards?”

“Get. Away. From. Me.”

“Tell him we’re so glad the two of you enjoyed Italy, and we’d love for you to come over and tell us all about it.” Black, clearly reading Draco’s seething rage, began to take careful steps down the long aisle and towards the door. “Did you happen to take slides of the trip?”

“Now.”

“Ciao!” Black called gaily, stepping out the front door at last. Light raced into the shop, causing Draco and the other customers to recoil. The sun was out, and much higher than it had been when Draco arrived, he thought, as he grabbed the last of his purchases. Almost time for Harry to burn lunch and for them to spoon in the afternoon sun on the sofa.

Time to head home.