A belated birthday micro in honour of my pal @tackytigerfic, and also their dog, who would hate the market but love the bread roll. Written for @drarrymicrofic prompt 'ring'.
Harry spotted the ring at the market on Portobello Road. He didn’t go there for the antiques – his house had enough old crap to last him a lifetime – he went for the fresh air, and the jellied eels, and because Iggy loved the attention. He recognised the ring as soon as he saw it, even tucked amongst a hundred others, even with the M barely visible beneath a layer of grime. He'd been busy fighting with Iggy, who was tugging at her lead trying to reach a squashed bread roll, and so, wrist aching, he’d fished the crumpled-up tenner out of his back pocket and made the exchange before you could say it’s probably cursed, you idiot.
Draco Malfoy washed dishes at the Leaky. Harry had heard that from Dean a few months ago and had instantly wished he hadn’t. As for Harry, he could go anywhere he wanted these days. Tom didn’t even blink as he sauntered round the back of the bar.
“It’s not a trick,” Harry said, as Malfoy’s eyes widened, then flicked, panicked, towards the door. “Really.”
The ring had mostly gone black, though the edges were a sickly greenish-yellow, and the raised M felt tacky beneath Harry’s fingers. He hadn’t actually bothered to check, but it seemed benign enough. Benign, and lacking purpose, and really rather ugly.
Malfoy had been listening to a music charm. He set down the pint glass, wiped his palms off on his apron, and grabbed his wand, the tinny tune dying mid-note.
“If they find it, they’ll confiscate it,” he told Harry, without moving closer. His sleeves were rolled up, the Mark plain for all to see. His lip curled when he caught Harry looking.
“So hide it,” Harry said, with a shrug. “I won’t tell. It’s up to you, Malfoy. It’s yours, if you want.”
Malfoy swallowed. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. He’d had his hair cut short, almost a Muggle style, and it set his sharp edges even sharper. “How much?” he asked, gaze covetous.
“Sorry?”
“How much?” Malfoy repeated. “I’ll take it, Potter,” he said, sounding quietly furious, “only I don’t get paid until a week on Thursday. If you keep it until then, I’ll–”
A sudden swell of laughter outside stopped him mid-sentence, and he tore his eyes from the ring, took a couple of cautious steps back towards the sink. The tiles were wet beneath his feet.
Harry had been on the front row for Malfoy’s trial. had watched for two hours as Malfoy had prevaricated, stammered his way through excuses, and tapped his toes nervously against the floor. He was wearing the same shoes, Harry realised. They were scuffed, and damp, and on the right side the leather peeled back from the sole ever so slightly as he moved.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, patiently. “I’m not selling you back your own bloody ring. I can look after it for you, though, if you like. If you’re worried about someone finding it.”
Wary, Malfoy’s eyes searched Harry’s face. He nodded once, barely perceptible. It was disconcerting, just how quiet he was. Harry pocketed the ring and turned away, assuming this whole bizarre non-conversation over.
“Hey, Potter.”
The pint glass was back in Malfoy’s hand when Harry turned around, and a damp dishcloth in the other.
“Yeah?”
“Where can I find you?”
Harry paused. There had been a few unfortunate incidents of late, and he’d just had the wards re-done. It was a bit sad, though: all that effort put in to saving the world, and how did he spend his evenings? Dozing in front of Midsomer Murders with Iggy’s head in his lap. This Malfoy seemed especially toothless, too. Same as his ring, Harry thought. Probably benign, definitely lacking purpose.
Not ugly, though.
Harry leant in. “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he said, his words slipping easily beneath the background genial hubbub. “Find me there, Malfoy. Whenever you like.”
