[OPEN] Reinventing Thy Self Malfoy

It had been nearly a year since she had graduated. Conspicuously, it had nearly been two years since she had gotten married. A cursory glance at her medicine cabinet would have revealed the source of her in-laws’ misgivings about the lack of grandchildren. Nestled in amongst a plethora of different concoctions was something altogether more high street pharmacy: a contraceptive potion. That did not disappoint her, of course, as much as it did them. The last thing she needed to further entrench her misery and sense of failure was a child. Not that she would see much of it, of course. There was nothing particularly maternal about this, or indeed any, Malfoy. She sought to nurture her own accomplishments, instead.

Thus, she found herself in London – as one often does. She had disentangled herself from the cocoon that was her workshop in the basement of their Hogsmeade cottage and had decided to venture out. She had foregone Diagon Alley and had instead headed straight for Knockturn Alley, for a portion of the infamous district that was being revamped by the well-meaning council authorities. They were attempting to make the residential streets that little bit more appealing to incoming potential buyers. How did they do this, you ask? Well, they plonked a bookshop-cum-café opposite the tall terraces. Ingenious, really. Only, not. Ah-hah, Nott.

For all of her misgivings, she entered the shop. A copy of the Daily Prophet, bought from a corner shop on the way through, was under her arm, the employment section already helpfully unfolded. She had done that first, you see. She took a seat near the back, not really desirous of anything to drink. It didn’t take long for a waitress to appear, however, asking after what Isadora fancied before she had even unfurled her newspaper. Pursing her lips a little, she nursed the flame of dissatisfaction that had lit itself within her and implored herself to be civil. She ordered a coffee and a sandwich. That. That was civil. She even found a smile for the girl who, clearly, didn’t recognise her. Good. She didn’t particularly want to be.

That was it.

Isadora’s eyes flicked to the mirror mounted on the wall, helpfully positioned opposite her table. She regarded her sallow skin and limp blonde hair with distaste and immediately rectified the latter by pulling it up away from her face with the hairband that had been cutting off her circulation all morning. It didn’t do much, mind you, to improve matters but she felt a little happier. She observed her eyes steadily, and the long lashes that lapped up from the edges of her lids, wondering if she would do better as a green-eyed brunette, given the former’s monster already rumbled about so readily in her belly. Or perhaps a redhead, even. No. Her nose wrinkled. Too Weasley. Then of course there was her frame, so rail-like. Child-like, even. Nothing could help that. Potions were too imprecise to really ‘fix’ matters, so to speak.

She glanced down at the newspaper and reached for the marker pen in her bag. She circled a job in the Department of Communications. Then plucked one out from the Daily Prophet itself, albeit that too ultimately came under government control. She bit her lip and glanced up again, wondering if a different young woman wouldn’t have been too proud to waltz into the Ministry for an interview. Or, well, braver. Brave enough to walk into the Ministry for an interview. Merlin knew, for all of her pride and stubbornness, she was not brave enough. Bravery had never been a trait particular to Ravenclaw, after all.

The coffee had arrived and she thanked the girl before looking down morosely into its dark depths. Black hair perhaps. Grey eyes? No. The Black blood in her was so scant now, that was pointless. Black hair … blue eyes? Rookwoodian. No. Mousy brown hair and amber eyes? She closed hers, envisaging it. It could work. A different woman. Not a Malfoy. Not a Nott. Ah-ha. Someone else. Elsie. Elsie Penworthy. Obliviator? Sounded perfect. Now all she needed was someone for the magic.

But that someone wasn’t necessarily going to just walk into her life now, were they? Or were they? At that moment, the bell over the door tinkled as the green portal was shoved open, letting in a draught.

Bev Kelley walked with the confidence and swagger of a prince - a prince of a kingdom his father had seized unlawfully. Of course, if Bev had ever lived in the time of princes and kings, he would have surely been a little orphaned beggar. He practically was, at it was, and his friends, the little there were, knew even less about him. He was an enigma, a nameless face in the crowd, a rogue without an identity.

And yet he walked like the world was his to have.

Ducky was supposed to be meeting him at their usual spot, the spot where Roxanne Weasley used to exchange top quality drugs for whatever information Ducky had. They had stopped meeting with Roxanne ever since earlier in the year - something to do with that long-haired chick that Ducky seemed to be interested in. Since then, they'd been meeting with one of Cain's contacts, someone much more wrapped up in the seedy underbelly of the wizarding world. But Bev had waited for Ducky so they could meet their dealer at Satan's, and the time had come and gone. Bev let it roll off his back, clenching the frustration between the knuckles that held the cigarette to his lips, and he went for a walk.

On that walk, he had a moment of deja vu. Stopping outside a shopfront to flick ash from his fingertips, he looked into a window and spotted a blonde that had once before enchanted him, once before escaped him.

Maybe it was his irritation at Ducky. Maybe it was his frustration that Molly was gone at Hogwarts and not at his fingertips.

He threw the door open and approached her table, the cigarette dangling from his lips, a smirk gracing those harsh, somehow handsome features.

"Hey. I know you."

At the sound of a familiar voice, Isadora lifted her gaze and felt her heart wilt disappointedly into the lower regions of her torso at the sight of an achingly familiar Gryffindor and the last sight she wanted to see.

She couldn’t believe that, of all people to walk into her life at her first inklings of wanting someone to, he was the person who did.

She pressed her lips into a frustrated line, briefly addressing the table with her eyes as she dredged up the desire to talk to him. It wasn’t there, so she’d just have to improvise.

“Indeed,” her cool voice spread through the air as she lifted up her head once more.

Was that all she was going to say? Believe me, reader, I’m peering at Isadora, begging the question—

“What are you doing in Knockturn Alley?”

Oh, well, at least she had something else to say.

“…shouldn’t you be off playing Quidditch?”

Ouch.

Oh, she was not happy with him. A twinkle in his eye sparked as he reached up and cupped his mouth with his hand, catching the cigarette between his index finger and thumb, pulling it away. He tilted his chin, his eyes still tracing her face as he blew smoke up into the air.

"What am I doing in Knockturn Alley?" he parroted, tilting his head backwards as he regarded her. His elbows found the counter and his chin landed on his  tattooed forearms, cigarette expertly perched in his right hand as he grinned up at her. "I own Knockturn Alley, love."

She wasn't pleased, still. He rapped his left knuckles on the counter and pushed himself into an upright position, tilting his head, hands resting on the counter for support.

"Quidditch? Not for me. I prefer hobbies that need a brain," he smirked, tapping his head with the heel of his right hand, his cigarette beginning to turn to ash. He laughed and sucked in another long draw. "Come on, what're you doing right now? Let's go do something. Make some trouble."