Afterward, the two of them stepped through the gleaming bronze doors and exited the towering white building. Their footsteps rang lightly against the long stretch of cobblestone road, the ground still warm from the unrelenting afternoon sun.
August was drawing to a close, yet there was not the faintest hint of autumn in the air. The pale gold sunlight flooded the street, shimmering on the glass windows and the metal signposts. Though the sun had mellowed slightly in the afternoon, it still pressed down with a gentle, lingering heat that made the air feel dense and heavy.
Not far ahead, diagonally across the street, stood Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. The gilded letters above the door gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, drawing the eyes of every passerby. A soft, striped awning stretched from the second floor to provide shade, and beneath it stood several rustic wooden tables and chairs. A few potted plants unique to the wizarding world—each emitting faint sparkles or shifting hues—lined the entrance, giving the shop a lively charm that made it stand out from the neighboring buildings.
"Mr. Fortescue, long time no see," Malfoy greeted the shopkeeper as soon as he entered.
The cheerful proprietor looked up in surprise, then smiled warmly. "Welcome! It's been quite a while since you and your father last visited," he said, his sharp eyes quickly landing on the young woman beside Malfoy. As a seasoned businessman, he instantly sensed an opportunity.
"This lovely lady must be visiting for the first time?" Florean said, stepping forward with a practiced friendliness. His tone grew subtly more charming as he continued, "Then you are in for a real treat today! We've just introduced some marvelous new flavors—magically chilled, naturally sweetened, and utterly irresistible."
The old rule of commerce held true: money from women and children was the easiest to earn.
Within moments, the shopkeeper had begun his barrage of flowery compliments. Even though the young woman was clearly used to being admired, a faint blush still colored her delicate cheeks. By the time he began listing the names of the latest flavors, she was too embarrassed to refuse and nodded politely, her silver-blonde hair glinting like sunlight on water.
Malfoy watched the scene with an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It reminded him of his previous life—those same practiced sales tactics, that same unfailing charm designed to melt the hearts of shy girls. For someone as graceful and self-assured as her, who probably had been adored since childhood, it was an almost unbeatable strategy.
Still, he didn't expose the trick. Instead, he played along, ordering sincerely to show his gratitude.
Soon, both of them had selected what Fortescue proudly called his most "luxurious" creation—a new combination inspired, as he said, by the best-selling sundaes of Muggle ice-cream parlors.
As they settled by the window, the faint hum of conversation and clinking spoons surrounded them. Sunlight filtered through the awning, dappling the table in soft gold.
"Today you said you were thanking me," the girl began, stirring her ice cream gently, "but in truth, I should be thanking you. I could never have handled those disgusting men alone." Her voice softened at the end, sincere and warm.
In reality, her "thank-you" had been only an excuse—a reason she invented to spend more time with him.
"It really wasn't that serious," Malfoy replied calmly. "Even if I hadn't shown up, they would've only fainted for a while. Those creatures wouldn't dare to use their kiss."
"Still," she shuddered visibly, as if recalling something revolting, "being touched by those things feels as good as being dead." Her expression twisted in revulsion.
Malfoy chuckled lightly. "That's true—they are rather disgusting."
She gave a small laugh at that, the tension in her shoulders easing. Then, studying him curiously, she asked, "Are Hogwarts students all that powerful now? You're not that Harry Potter, are you?"
The words had barely left her mouth when a table behind them rattled slightly, though neither of them noticed.
"No, no, impossible," she said quickly, shaking her head. "They say he has black hair and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead." Her gaze drifted to Malfoy's pale blond hair and aristocratic features, and she added teasingly, "Unless, of course, you've had plastic surgery and dyed your hair."
"I don't think so," Malfoy said with a smirk, scooping a spoonful of ice cream. The cold sweetness spread across his tongue—a flavor that was pleasant, though hardly worth its price. Still, sitting here with a beautiful woman made even ordinary ice cream feel luxurious. Yet beneath that lighthearted surface, a strange unease stirred in his chest. Something about her words, her aura, tugged at the edge of his memory.
He had overlooked something—something important.
"Ah, that's right!" the girl suddenly exclaimed, brushing back a strand of silver hair that had slipped across her shoulder. "I've been so distracted that I forgot to introduce myself." She smiled and extended her hand gracefully. "My name is Fleur Delacour, but you can call me Fleur. I'm from Beauxbatons in France. And you are…?"
Her voice was soft, melodious, carrying a faint accent that made even simple words sound enchanting.
"Fleur Delacour?" Malfoy repeated, startled. In an instant, the feeling of dissonance inside him clicked into place.
Of course—that was why she'd seemed so familiar.
The name was famous, even in wizarding circles far from France.
He caught himself just in time, suppressing the flicker of recognition that crossed his face.
"You can call me Rune," he said smoothly, offering a faint smile. It was the first name that came to mind—a convenient alias, harmless and forgettable.
"Rune?" Fleur repeated, her accent stretching the word into something almost musical. "That's a curious name. Does it mean something?"
"Well," Malfoy—now Rune—said with an easy shrug, "my parents hoped I'd grow up to be a good person."
Fleur laughed lightly. "Then I think their wish has come true," she said earnestly. She paused, tilting her head as if trying to recall a bit of history. "Perhaps it's the name of some British hero I haven't heard of—like Joan of Arc in France?"
Rune only smiled in response, unsure how to continue. The conversation slipped into a comfortable rhythm.
Outside, Diagon Alley buzzed with its usual life: the flapping of owls overhead, the faint pop of Apparition, the hum of conversation spilling from nearby shops. Inside, however, the two sat in a small pocket of quiet, their world reduced to the gentle clinking of spoons and the faint sweetness of ice cream.
Fleur glanced out the window and smiled. "Your Diagon Alley is really quite charming," she said. "It's not as elegant as our Rue Magique, but it has a certain… warmth."
"Warmth?" Rune echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"Yes," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "It feels alive—messy, crowded, a little noisy, but full of heart. In France, everything is polished and proper, but here… there's a kind of freedom."
He considered that for a moment and nodded. "Maybe that's why I like it too."
The sunlight softened as clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Their ice cream melted slowly in the heat, forming small, pastel pools in their cups.
After a while, Fleur leaned back slightly, her gaze lingering on him. "You're different from what I expected," she said. "Most wizards I've met are either arrogant or awkward. You seem… calm. Detached, even."
Rune smiled faintly. "I just don't like making unnecessary noise."
"That sounds very British," she teased, and they both laughed.
Their laughter drew a few glances from nearby tables, but neither cared. For a brief moment, the world outside seemed to fade—the crowds, the buildings, even the heavy sunlight. Only the two of them remained, sitting across from each other, the air between them filled with something unspoken and strangely fragile.
Then Fleur's eyes softened. "Rune," she said, tasting the name again. "I think I'll remember that."
He didn't reply, merely looked down at his half-melted ice cream, a wry smile flickering across his lips. The name wasn't real, of course—but in this fleeting afternoon, it felt like it could be.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, mocking voice whispered that he was playing with fire. But he ignored it. For once, he allowed himself to simply sit there, basking in the quiet, pretending—just for a moment—that he wasn't who he truly was.
Outside, the sound of laughter drifted through the open door. The day went on, bright and golden, as if frozen in a perfect summer afternoon.
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