Chapter 72
After stepping through the gleaming bronze doors, the two walked out of Gringotts' towering white-marble façade and onto the long stretch of Diagon Alley.
The sun-soaked cobblestones radiated heat through their shoes. August was nearly over, yet there wasn't the faintest hint of autumn in the air. Pale gold light washed over the street.
The afternoon sun wasn't unbearable, just relentlessly warm.
Not far ahead stood Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour. The large golden letters above the shopfront glittered brilliantly in the sunlight, instantly drawing the eye.
A striped awning stretched from the upper floor, shading the outdoor seating. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space beneath it, and a few potted magical plants thrived beside the entrance.
"Mr. Fortescue, long time no see," Draco greeted as he stepped inside.
"Welcome! Merlin, it's been ages since you and your father came by," Florean Fortescue replied, smile warm and practiced. With the keen instinct of a veteran shopkeeper, he immediately noticed the beautiful girl beside Draco.
Merchant's intuition crackled to life—he smelled opportunity.
"This lovely young lady must be a first-time visitor, yes?" he said, swooping in with polished efficiency, launching into his honey-smooth introduction.
Women and children's money was always the easiest to make.
She was used to compliments, but the praise still made a faint pink rise across her delicate features.
When Fortescue began eagerly listing specials, cold drinks, seasonal concoctions, and "customer favourites," she looked too embarrassed to refuse.
Draco almost laughed. It reminded him of shopping in his previous life—this tactic worked on shy people every time.
And this girl, who looked as though she'd been pampered since birth, was even more defenseless against it.
He didn't comment, though. A proper thank-you meal required sincerity. So the two ordered something on the "luxurious" side—supposedly wizard-enhanced versions of the Muggle ice-cream parlour bestsellers.
"Today I said I wanted to thank you, but honestly, I should be the one thanking you," the girl said once they were seated.
She leaned forward slightly. "I never would've managed those awful things on my own."
Of course, the "gratitude" was also a convenient excuse to spend more time with him.
"It wasn't that dramatic," Draco said calmly. "If I hadn't been there, everyone would've just fainted longer. Those things wouldn't dare attempt the Kiss."
"I'd rather die than let them get anywhere near me," she shuddered, revulsion rippling through her from head to toe.
"That's fair. They are disgusting," Draco agreed with a nod.
"Are Hogwarts students all this strong now?" she asked, studying him curiously. "You're not that Harry Potter, are you?"
A table behind them trembled—barely noticeable.
"No, that can't be right," she said, quickly dismissing the thought. "I heard he has black hair and a lightning-shaped scar." She examined Draco's face playfully.
"Unless you dyed your hair and got plastic surgery."
"I don't think so," Draco replied dryly. He sampled a small spoonful of ice cream. It wasn't quite worth the price, he decided—but still acceptable.
And he had pleasant company. Yet that nagging feeling in the back of his mind only grew stronger. Something was off.
"Oh—right!" the girl exclaimed suddenly, as if remembering something important.
She brushed her long silver hair behind her shoulder and extended her hand with a bright, courteous smile.
"We've spent all this time together, and I still haven't introduced myself. My name is Fleur Delacour. You may call me Fleur. I'm from Beauxbatons—France. And you are?"
Fleur Delacour.
Draco instantly identified the source of his unease.
"You can call me… Arthur Leigh," he said, blurting out the first British-sounding name that came to mind.
"Arthur Leigh?" Fleur repeated, her lightly accented English turning the name over delicately. "What an unusual name. Does it mean something?"
"Yes," Draco said vaguely. "My parents hoped I'd grow up to be a good man."
"Then their wish must have come true," Fleur said sincerely.
She had no idea he'd lied. She simply assumed it was some British national hero she didn't know—much as Joan of Arc was to France.
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