Johnny Rotten

"...My my, hey hey Rock and Roll is here to stay..."

Humming softly, the owner of Tomorrow's Treasures glanced around, taking stock of her kingdom and all it contained. A little girl bolted up the aisle, long blond hair and purple dress robes streaming. She seemed heedless of the adults and the expensive fabrics and silks arrayed in attractive bolts around the seamstress and her customer. Madame Vebielle felt the beginnings of a scowl tug her otherwise friendly features. She was original in her creations and, in her opinion, justifiably proud. Few seamstresses were as well known as she was, and even fewer had managed to aquire Mr. Malfoy as a regular customer. Feeling her brow furrow in consternation at the rambunctious child, she stood up.

Removing the pins from her mouth, she stepped back to look at her handiwork. Soft folds of watery grey silk were draped across the aristocratic, unsmiling man. Arms akimbo, his expression had never changed throughout the whole fitting. Really, she mused silently, it was truly amazing the effort he put into holding himself aloof.

Madame Vebielle gestured for him to step down from the stool. Inclining his head in thanks in her direction, he moved swiftly toward the doors of the shop and was gone. Suddenly, a piercing shriek filled the air. Turning swiftly, she spied a pair of purple robes and dangling legs hanging from the shop window. Really, she thought viciously, that had gone on long enough. And when such an important customer was here too, never mind the rumors! Lips pressed firmly together, she marched across the shop to find the girl's parents.

Letting the shop door close behind him with a soft click, Draco Malfoy surveyed the scene before him. Snow had fallen the night before, coating the ground, making it look like a fairytale village. Icicles hung from awnings, glinting in the waning sunlight like cheap zirconias. Window-shopping parents held grubby, bundled-up toddlers, while the older children bolted through the snow.

A pair of old, grizzled warlocks playing chess in a cafe across the street were visible through a window. "Best Baked Goods Anywhere!" the sign above the door proclaimed. People running to and fro looking for accomplishments, recognition and even, dare he think it, affection. He could almost see the snatches of music, the laughter, the mediocrity tumble through the air, swirl over the trampled snow and brush his booted feet.

"...It's better to burn out Than to fade away My my hey hey..."

Draco's eyes flicked over the milling crowd before he realized he wouldn't find what he was looking for. He never did. Disgusted with himself, he stepped off the front stoop and into the powder. Weaving through the throng toward The Leaky Cauldron, he did his avid best to quit thinking. He almost succeeded.

"Crack!"

Gasping, Draco put his hands on his knees to steady himself. He'd never liked Apparating, made him queasy. His father had insisted he get his license when he came of age, and Draco had obliged the summer he'd turned seventeen. His father had been so proud, he remembered. Shivering, he kicked the manor's front door, willing the house-elves to hurry. It was bloody cold out, and the last thing he wanted was to take another foray into St. Mungo's. Cursing fluently at the wards on his manor as Tippy opened the door, he flung himself into the hall. Shaking the snow off his cloak, he tossed it on the floor. She would take care of it, he knew.

House-elves were wonderful like that, he reflected. Obedient to a fault. Unlike people, who had taken to whispering behind his back and watching him out of the corners of their eyes... Did they think he wouldn't notice? That perhaps he was like his father? Draco felt his features contort, and he shuddered. They would never understand. Lucius had died for his ideals, and it hadn't mattered in the end. Minister Scrimgeour had given Lucius the Dementor's Kiss. Never mind that there wasn't enough evidence, in Draco's opinion.

Settling himself down heavily in a chair that he reflected, cost more money than Weasley's house, he sighed. It'd been three years since the Dark Lord was defeated, and Draco didn't care anymore. About anything, really. "It's gone and past," the healers had said. "Don't let the memories haunt you, sometimes it's better to forget..."

"...Out of the blue and into the black They give you this, but you pay for that..."

Whistling to himself, he stared at the fire. Crackling logs shot off sparks, red, white, blue and green, waltzing across the iron backing. Yawning, he toed off his shoes and curled his legs under. The marble floor seemed so dreadfully cold...The Dark Lord hadn't cared that Father was sentenced to a fate worse than death, that his second in command had given his life for 'The Cause.' The Dark Lord had slithered onward, heedless, and for that Draco had vowed retribution. He smiled bitterly, an acrid taste in his mouth. And Granger had said he had no Slytherin cunning. An Order of Merlin Award, Second Class, made out to *him* proved her wrong. She hadn't wanted to accept his help; none of them did. Didn't trust him, he supposed. But then, they'd had no reason to. Potter, though... Potter, he knew, had noticed the look in Draco's eyes. And he's know that Potter recognized that vengeance for a loved one's death outweighed any and all animosity.

"...And once you're gone, you can never come back When you're out of the blue and into the black..."

As Tippy brought his evening scotch (Circa 1700 A.D., nothing but the best) he relaxed in his chair, letting his mind wander. So many memories... Playing with the edges of his hair absently, he felt a small smile flicker across his face. His father would have been proud, Draco was sure of it. Touching his face, Draco let slim fingers (pianists' hands, his mother had always claimed) run down his cheeks. He blinked desperately; the tears that formed had gotten caught in his eyelashes and begun running down his cheeks. Startled, his arm jerked, knocking the shot glass from the end table where the house elf had placed it. With a squeak of dismay, Tippy appeared with a pop. "Mr. Malfoy, Sir, Tippy has gotten your medicine Sir, past your bedtime, you needs to rest to stay well, Sir."

Glancing up from his breakfast, Draco barely managed to duck as a mottled, raggedy barn owl dove for his head. The bird dived, sharp yellow claws outreached and screeching its displeasure. Draco yanked the linen tablecloth up and, diving under, began to scream back.

"...The king is gone but he's not forgotten This is the story of Johnny Rotten..."

"Shhhh, It's alright, Sir, everything¯is is alright, Sir, shhh...." Small hands were patting his head, and gently removing the cutlery he fearfully clutched. Tugging the fork out of his grasp, Tippy lead him slowly to the feathered messenger.

Disclaimer: Lyrics from the song "My My, Hey Hey" by Neil Young.