#ginnyxastoria

[whimsicaldragonette]

Romancing the Sorcerer’s Stone Part 1 (of 24)

Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter fall into a strangely comfortable partnership as treasure hunters. Draco turns up rumors of Dark artifacts and cursed treasure through his mostly-legal antiques business; Harry tracks down said treasure. As time goes on, they spend more and more time dashing about the world in search of treasure together.Draco's wife Astoria and Harry's fiancee Ginny wistfully watch them dash in and out of their lives, always focused on one another. The Weasleys look on in fond exasperation.

Rating: T

Notes: This story is told in three interwoven parts. Golden Snitches is Harry / Draco POV. Silver Stars is Ginny/Astoria POV. Weasleys is mostly Ron POV, with a few others here and there. The chapter title indicates which part/POV the chapter is in.

It is complete at 24 chapters: I will be posting a chapter (or two, if they're short) each Monday and Thursday.

Thanks to @ryanthedemiboy for alpha reading and @altergravity for beta reading

Part 1~ Part 2~  Part 3~ Part 4~ Part 5~ Part 6~ Part 7~ Part 8~ Part 9~ Part 10~ Part 11~ Part 12~ Part 13~ Part 14~ Part 15~ Part 16~ Part 17~ Part 18~ Part 19~ Part 20~ Part 21~ Part 22~ Part 23~ Part 24~

-Part 1: Golden Snitches-

June 2001 — Paris, France

It’s a dead end.

The old jeweler, obviously senile, natters on vaguely about oceans and sapphires as he reclines comfortably in an overstuffed chair pulled up by the counter. Draco seethes, focusing all of his willpower into not fidgeting while pretending to listen. The trail goes cold here, in this dusty jeweler’s shop that ought to have closed thirty years ago. Three years he’s been chasing rumors and tantalizing scraps of information, and all for nothing; three years wasted.

He won’t give up this easily. He’ll pick Potter’s brain again about that last informant — he knew he should have handled that one himself, but how was he supposed to know that the man would turn out to be reliable this time? — and revisit their notes. Surely something will turn up. This can’t be the end.

And it isn’t.

A whiff of perfume tickles his nostrils and the jeweler’s daughter is there, suddenly, standing too close, materializing out of the air beside him without seeming to have moved from her place behind the till.

“Buy something,” she whispers, “so we can talk.” She slips past him, sashaying her hips, and hovers at her father’s side. Her eyes, as she tucks his blanket around his slippered feet and does up another button on his cardigan, are cold and sharp as knives.

Draco looks around, calculating. He owes Astoria; he’s canceled yet another dinner for this trip. His father taught him when he was very young that apology jewels are the grease that keeps society’s wheels spinning; he learned his lesson well.

The wooden display cases glow a warm honey-gold, dripping with jewels and intricately worked silver… But nothing in them will suit Astoria, and he frowns. Might Pansy like this jade necklace? He studies it, tipping his head to the side, imagining her slipping the carved beads through pale, aristocratic fingers, like a monk with a rosary.

They’re not quite right, though — too much yellow. They’ll turn Pansy’s skin sallow, and she’s rather vain about her complexion.

So. What else? He spins slowly in place, but nothing in the shop appeals and the jeweler is beginning to take an interest. His daughter’s eyes flash a warning. She’s clearly not the shy, dutiful daughter he’d first thought her.

Draco is about to risk speaking to her without intending to purchase anything — perhaps he can excuse it by asking to see one of the more delicate pieces in the glass case she’s polishing? — when he sees them.

The glittering emeralds spark and flare as a ray of afternoon light strikes them, and he feels drawn inexorably toward them. He’d thought at first they were earrings, but as he reaches them he discovers that they are cufflinks, exquisite square emeralds set in delicately carved silver, studded with diamonds.

He can’t take his eyes away from the light dancing across the surface.

“These,” he says softly, and his voice comes out strained, a little rough. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’ll take these, please.”

“A lovely choice,” the girl says, blinking up at him from far too close, large sapphire eyes shining as she takes the cufflinks out and begins to wrap them. “They suit you.”

Draco doesn’t correct her, but these aren’t for him. No, these are destined for Potter. He feels a momentary flutter of anxiety. They don’t buy jewels for one another, as a rule, nor has he ever seen Potter wearing jewelry but… it’s Potter’s wedding. Soon, he thinks, a bit surprised. He’d not realized. But Potter’s appearance at such a public affair reflects on Draco as well, and so he’ll just have to see to it that Potter is properly attired. And these cufflinks are the exact shade of Potter’s eyes.

He’s not sure why he knows the exact shade of Potter’s eyes, nor why he can never seem to pass up anything that color. He tells his family and friends that green is his favorite color, which it is; Slytherin green, of course. He does his best to ignore the knowing and faintly pitying looks they send him as he hands out his gifts: a luxurious green cashmere scarf for Mother, an emerald cravat pin for Father, a bolt of green silk for Astoria. They all act like they know something he doesn’t — something he doesn’t acknowledge, anyway — and he willfully ignores all of it. He just likes green, dammit.

He shakes his head, dislodging faint misgivings that perhaps he ought occasionally choose something other than emerald green. It’s a perfectly lovely color, that’s all.

The girl smirks at him as he blinks, startled to find himself in the dusty jeweler’s shop, still.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asks, one brow raised in amusement.

“Er, yes. Yes, that’s all.” He follows her to the counter, leans closer to inspect the proffered box.

She lowers her voice, glances around at her father, then beckons him even closer.

“You’re here about the blood diamond,” she whispers, and Draco’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” he whispers back, hardly daring to hope.

She fiddles with the paper as she re-wraps the cufflinks, sapphire eyes winking up at him from under the silky fall of her dark hair. “It will cost you.”

He flashes a roll of muggle bills, angling his body so they’re not visible to the jeweler or the shop windows. “Will this do?”

“It’s not here,” she says quickly, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it’s not here. “I mean,” she says, “I don’t know everything. My father would have, but he’s not himself these days. But he had a friend — if he told anyone, it would be him.”

“Where can I find him?” Draco’s hopes, so recently forced down, leap irrepressibly to the surface.

“He owns a jewelers in Barcelona,” the girl whispers, glancing again at her father. “Or he did. I don’t know if he’s still there, mind, but I can give you his name. I’m afraid I don’t know the name of the shop.” Her breath is hot against his cheek, faintly garlic-scented.

She produces a pencil from somewhere behind the counter, scribbles on a slip of paper. The bell over the door chimes.

“That’ll be 400 Euros,” she says, a little louder, glancing at the newcomers.

Draco fishes another roll of muggle bills from his pocket and counts out the proper change. He makes sure the girl sees the extra bills he slips under the stack as he passes it over.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling winningly at him.

Draco smiles back distractedly as he tucks the box and paper into the inside pocket of his jacket and strolls out into the sunshine, whistling a merry tune.

He can see her sapphire eyes trained on him, through the window, and her plump lips are pursed into a seductive pout — but she’s really not his type, he thinks, mind already ranging far ahead. Her eyes are too blue.

Barcelona. He can work with that. But first, he’ll have to stop in at the office and see if Sarah can wheedle an express international Portkey out of her contact at the Ministry.

He meanders down the street, peering into shop windows, then ducks into the mouth of a narrow alley and disapparates.

It isn’t until later, lounging in his hotel room with a glass of wine and the day’s notes, that he realizes Astoria’s eyes are the same shade of blue.

June 2001 — Barcelona, Spain

 Draco strolls along the bustling street, sipping his too-sweet iced-coffee and enjoying the way the breeze ruffles his hair. It’s early in the day, but already warm enough that the collar of his white linen shirt sticks to his neck and he can feel sweat beading at his hairline. He stares wide-eyed at the fantastic architecture, the arches and turrets and tile mosaics, drinking it all in. There’s nothing like this back home in dreary old England; this feels almost tropical.

Draco doesn’t try to hide his pleasure and astonishment; he’d dropped the stiff Malfoy mask after the war. There’d seemed no point in trying to keep it intact. Even his parents had loosened up, after the Ministry had taken the Manor. Good riddance, as far as he’s concerned. He’d gotten out most of the furnishings, and that, along with their accounts on the continent, had given him his antiques business and a comfortable and cheery townhouse on the outskirts of Wizarding London. He and Astoria share it with his parents, and the arrangement suits them all. Draco isn’t often there, lately, and Astoria and his mother keep one another company.

He passes a mural whose turquoise and white swirls remind him of peacock feathers, and he hopes, not for the first time, that at least one of his father’s birds had bitten the smarmy Ministry representative when she’d come to take possession of the Manor. He doesn’t regret for a second his inability to get the infuriating birds out. His father alone misses the bloody things.

He sighes, thinking of the soaring marble columns and intricate tile floors of his childhood home. He’d loved the Manor as a child, all that fine gilt and crystal, but the Dark Lord has irrevocably tainted it in his mind. He considers himself well shot of it, and of the manners and expectations that went with it.

He pauses at the top of a rise, gazing out over the colorful open-air market below, the white walls and red tile roofs, the gently swaying palm trees, the sunlight sparkling off white sand and crystal-blue water. He draws in a deep breath of the humid, salty air and absently thinks he’ll have to bring Potter here one day; it seems like the sort of place he’d like.

Then he remembers that he’s promised Pansy something from this trip, to make up for missing their last three planned evenings, and grimaces. Salazar. There’s nothing for it — he’ll have to pick up something for her while he’s here. He turns, intending to go back to the boutiques near his hotel when a flash of green makes him pause.

The market spills over into the street here, a riot of color and noise. One of the vendors at the edge of the throng has racks of richly patterned silk scarves on display; they flutter enticingly in the light breeze. They’re too gaudy, most of them, but — there. That one; it’s perfect.

The emerald-green silk faintly glows in the warm light, rippling print suggestive of shady forest canopies, moss and ferns. It will look lovely against Pansy’s sleek dark bob and the vibrant red-orange lipstick she favors these days.

He buys it, not even bothering to haggle with the surprised merchant, then walks on, slipping the neat bundle into his pocket. He can’t afford to dally too long here, or Blaise will surely beat him to the diamond.

—

He strides away from the third jeweler’s shop in disgust. How many jewelers can there be in this sodding town? A familiar itch between his shoulder blades niggles at him. He’s being watched.

He pauses at the next shop, pretending to study the wares on offer as he watches the reflection of the street behind him in the glass. Nothing.

Frowning, he moves on, choosing a more indirect approach to his next target.

Perhaps it’s nothing.

The itch is still there, needling him, and his neck prickles with anxiety as his magic swirls uneasily around him. He makes a random turn, then another. The crowd thins abruptly, and he curses himself roundly. He presents more of a target here than back in the main shopping district.

How would Zabini have found him here, though? Surely it can’t be a coincidence.

The answer hits him like a punch to the gut. The jeweler’s daughter.

He remembers the customer who entered as he was leaving, the shadowy figure he glimpsed skulking about in the shadows beside the shop. Zabini is after the blood diamond, too.

He probably dashed in to romance the jeweler’s daughter the moment Draco walked out, the bastard. She’ll have given him the name, too — he’s always known exactly what to say to women. He wonders if she remembered the name of the shop for him — if Draco could have wheedled it out of her with sweet words and promises.

Blaise. Blaise fucking Zabini.

He fancies himself an adventurer and treasure hunter too, though Draco considers him more of a pirate. He’s always trying to swoop in and steal their treasure — his and Potter’s.

A hint of movement catches his eye — the swirl of robes? Surely not; this is the muggle section of town. Even Zabini’s not that careless. A cape, then?

His heartbeat speeds up. He has to get out of here, but — ah.

Draco darts into a narrow alley and out the other side, merging smoothly into the flow of human traffic. He ducks and weaves through the press of bodies, before being suddenly brought up short.

He can’t decide if he wants to kiss the street performers or hex them, and compromises by doing neither, pushing through a gaggle of muggle tourists and then separating from the crowd again on the opposite side of the square.

He turns down the mouth of the first likely alley, left, then left again, and then comes up short in front of — a jeweler’s shop.

It’s not the next one on his list, but…

He stops, mind going blank as he takes in the slightly seedy storefront, the drunkenly leaning sign. Sod the list. He knows this is it.

With a quick glance around, he slips inside.

—

Across the street, a shadow detaches itself from the side of a stone building and glides closer.

—

He calls on all his Malfoy charm and increasingly thinly-veiled threats, finally resorting to a ridiculous sum of muggle money to make his point. He’s lucky he thought to carry so much.

The oily jeweler hefts the pile of coins thoughtfully in a meaty hand, squinting at them, then nods. Draco tries not to look at the dirt caked under his fingernails and into the seams of his hands, the grease-stained shirt that barely covers his portly belly. When the jeweler smiles at him, displaying a mouth full of yellowed teeth, his stomach roils queasily. Draco grits his teeth and grimaces back at him, trying to force his lips up into the semblance of a smile.

The man vanishes the money somewhere behind the counter and then turns back, oozing charm and solicitousness.

Some minutes later, Draco hurries out of the shop, cryptic note clutched in his hand. His mind is already jumping ahead, making and discarding plans as he walks swiftly to the nearest wizarding post office.

He needs to get this information to Potter — and his contacts in Cairo — as soon as possible.

—

Unnoticed, the shadow melts away from the door of the adjacent shop and follows.

—

Potter—

We have a job. Contact Sarah — she’ll have a Portkey for you, and the name of the hotel we’ll be staying at. Don’t bother packing; I’ve asked her to fetch your travel bag from my office. I’ve news of our mutual friend as well. Give my regards to Ginevra.

M—

 He bites his lip, arm poised to lift the owl into the air. He’s already dashed off the note and tied it tightly to the bird’s leg, but… It’s Potter’s wedding, after all. Can he really interrupt? He wonders fleetingly if Potter’s wearing the cufflinks he sent; if Ginevra will like them.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether Potter is wearing the cufflinks or not. He’ll drop everything the instant he receives Draco’s owl; he always does. It’s just one of those universal constants, like Draco’s weakness for green.

He hesitates again. It seems rude, interrupting Potter’s wedding. A few hours won’t matter, surely? He wonders absently when being rude to Potter ceased to delight him. They aren’t friends now, exactly, but…

His wandering eyes snag on a dark figure staring at him from the shadowy alley across the street; He thinks he catches the glint of gold beneath the hood where an earring would be.

He flings up his arm, launching the owl into the cloudless sky. He’s mildly sorry to drag Potter from his wedding, but… The wedding can wait. The blood diamond cannot.

Part 1~ Part 2~  Part 3~ Part 4~ Part 5~ Part 6~ Part 7~ Part 8~ Part 9~ Part 10~ Part 11~ Part 12~ Part 13~ Part 14~ Part 15~ Part 16~ Part 17~ Part 18~ Part 19~ Part 20~ Part 21~ Part 22~ Part 23~ Part 24~

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[headcanonsbyme]

#1 Harry Potter

When Harry and Draco looked for a place to snog, they stumbled across Ginny and Astoria snogging in an empty classroom.

When they had to marry, they decided they just married across eachother. The Malfoy family could get a heir, Harry wouldn't get harrased by the paparazzi, Astoria wouldn't let her family down and Ginny wouldn't have to come out to the Weasleys.