House of Malfoy

1997. London. Six Slytherins share a vision and the common desire to the conquer the world...of haute couture.

'House of Malfoy', the sign proclaimed as Crabbe and Goyle hoisted it awkwardly above the door.
Draco Malfoy stepped into the street and crossed his arms.
'Bloody pitiful.'
Goyle tilted precariously on his stepladder and Crabbe stared at Draco with a face that married the emotional qualities of an apoplectic lungfish to the sophistication and subtlety of an overweight and sweating circus clown.
The sign crashed down, sending up dust and rattling the windows of the nearby Knockturn Alley shops.
'Absolutely bloody pitiful.'
'Sorry, Draco.'
'Shut it, Crabbe. Pansy, get me a drink. You lot! Do you need instructions in Parseltongue? Stop lolling about and get a broom. I want this cleaned up!'

Knockturn Alley was full of the dregs of Slytherin House past and present these days. Loitering about, drawn as if by a beacon to this dingy shop front--still not even open!
People said it wouldn't have been so were Dumbledore still alive. But that's just it...he wasn't.

And more often than not, when this staggering fact--the demise of one of the Wizarding World's best-loved prodigies--was recalled in hushed tones, it was linked to another, almost equally shocking observation:
Draco Malfoy was alive and apparently thriving somewhere in London, earning him the waggish moniker 'The Boy Who Got Off.'
Dumbledore wasn't a month in the tomb when the heir of Malfoy presented himself, bruised and crying, at a Ministry of Magic field office in Birmingham.
Yes, he had been involved in the death of Albus Dumbledore.
Yes, he had allowed Death Eaters onto the grounds of Hogwarts.
And certainly, he had fled the scene in the company of one Severus Snape, alias Severus Prince, alias the Half-Blood Prince.
But no! 'Resoundingly no!' claimed his legal representative; he was not responsible for any actions he may have committed at that time having been the victim of an Imperius curse cast by that very same Severus Snape! The boy's innocent, mi'lud!

The Aurors, with all their tests, tricks and pet Legilimens, could not get Draco to alter his story--so strong was the truth...or anti-detection potion he was taking...or the lessons in Occlumency given him by the Dark Lord himself. Guilty or innocent, it all depended on who you asked.
Of course there was an uproar but these things are never as cut and dry as the newspapers would have us believe.
Whatever influence the Malfoy family still had, coupled with bribes, threats and the political expediency of embracing a photogenic teenage boy and his sensational tale of life as a Death Eating slave, saw the Ministry cave. A regular cause celebre was our Draco.
When the protests died down and the newshounds moved on, one thing was indisputable. Draco Malfoy was officially released, rehabilitated and re-fucking-deemed.

And the notoriety, scandal and sour looks? These things had the punters lining up for a soundbite and quick quote the moment Draco announced he'd be trying his murderous hand in the unlikely field of high fashion--headquarters, Knockturn Alley, putting him palely and squarely at the front of a movement that would come to be known as the 'Knockturn Revival'.

'Draco,' Pansy whispered, 'Nott's back.' She grimaced and handed him a glass of chilled carbonated water.
'Where?'
'In the office.'
Draco sighed and wound his way through the construction site that was to be his shop, heading to a back staircase and up to the small room that had been optimistically christened 'the office.'
Nott sat on the window ledge staring down into the street below. He didn't rise when Draco entered, merely glancing in his direction.
'Draco,' he observed.
'Theodore. How was your trip?'
Nott took an orange handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose.
'Our investors, Draco....our investors are very keen to see a result here, you know. What they have given you and all of us, is an unparalleled opportunity. A chance that we must not squander.
'We must succeed. Failure is not an option. This was impressed upon me...most forcefully.'
Nott turned fully towards Draco, who was disturbed to see that one of his business partner's eyes was red with blood.
Nott gave a small smile and carefully put on a pair of oversized white sunglasses.

'Well, Theodore, our investors will be pleased to know that interest in the House of Malfoy is very high!' Draco noticed with regret that his own voice had become correspondingly high. He took a second to calm himself.
'Pansy can barely get a minute's peace what with all the owls. "When is the opening?" "Where is the new line?" Everyone who's anyone is trying to get an invite to the unveiling. It's really quite funny, actually...'
Nott refrained from laughing.
Draco began again in a more measured tone.
'I'm sure the Dar--our investors will be more than satisfied with the House of Malfoy. Have you looked in the street, Nott? Seen the fools stretching their necks just to get a glimpse of what we're planning? Brand visibility! We are a household name and we haven't even opened.' Draco leaned close and whispered, 'He wanted a youth movement and I will give him one.'

Nott stood and gathered his briefcase.
'I hope you're right, Draco. For both our sakes.'
As soon as the footfalls on the stair had died away Draco collapsed into his chair and put his face in his hands.
Outside, a crash heralded an encore performance of the dropping of the House of Malfoy sign.

'We are fucked.'

But this was only the beginning of the littlest Malfoy's troubles as we will see in the next chapter. Oh, and you'll get to meet me, as well. My name? I'm Blaise Zabini.