The shop was picking up business slowly, however, and that he did have the Dark Lord to thank for. The old Death Eaters who had previously avoided the shop for fear of association were drifting back, and even new, younger people came occasionally.
Today was turning into a rather quiet day though, and he was just thinking about closing up for lunch, when a young man walked in. He was very pale, with sleek, white-blonde hair, and must have been about sixteen or seventeen. He looked angry, as though he had just had an argument, and he looked over his shoulder furtively before closing the door.
“Good afternoon, sir, how may I be of assistance?” Borgin rasped, ingratiatingly, adding his customary bow, as if to say that nothing could make him happier than to serve.
“I believe you know my father, Lucius Malfoy.”
Of course, this must be the son. Borgin had never warmed to Lucius Malfoy, who had always treated him like he was an over-sized house elf, and he assumed the son would be no different. But wasn’t Lucius in Azkaban at the moment? He supressed the urge to smile gleefully at the thought of that odious man being left to the Dementors, and addressed the son.
“Ah, Mr Malfoy, of course, what an honour it is to see you again.”
The boy nodded curtly, as his eyes roved around the shop, before settling, curiously, upon the Vanishing Cabinet. “Am I right in thinking this is a Vanishing Cabinet?” he asked.
“You seem very informed, sir.”
“Then it is a Vanishing Cabinet?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I have been given a task to do, and I have been informed that this Vanishing Cabinet is part of a pair. Is this true?”
“Why yes, sir, there is another, but I’m afraid I don’t have it.”
“I know where it is,” said the boy, testily. “But I have reason to believe that it is broken. Do you know how to fix it?"
Borgin was confused, and slightly worried, and he carefully measured out his words as he replied. “Possibly. I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?”
“I can’t,” snapped the boy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”
Borgin’s doubts were multiplying fast. What was the boy doing that was so secret it couldn’t be moved? And how on earth was he supposed to know how to fix a Vanishing Cabinet without seeing it? Hiding his worry and impatience, he turned to the boy. “Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.”
Anger flashed in Malfoy’s face, reminding Borgin so much of his father. “No?” he sneered, and began rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.”
Borgin looked down at the exposed forearm and briefly stifled a cry of horror. Injected into the skin was the writhing image of a skull, a thick snake protruding sickeningly from its gaping jaw. What had this boy done? Was this “task" commissioned by the Dark Lord? This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in!
“Tell anyone,” said Malfoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend, he’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.”
Borgin’s stomach clenched in fear, and he stammered out that he wouldn’t let it get to that.
“I’ll decide that. Well, I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.” He pointed at the Vanishing Cabinet in the corner.
“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?”
“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.”
“Of course not … sir.” Borgin added, begrudgingly, and bowed Malfoy generously out of his shop.
What on earth was he going to do? What exactly was he expected to do? And what was the boy doing that was so secret and, undoubtedly, on behalf of the Dark Lord? One thing was certain: he was going to have to be even more careful than usual not to draw attention to himself. He shuddered at the thought of visits from Greyback, and turned to greet his new customer.
Platform 9 ¾ was unusually subdued on 1st September. It was still packed with people, but they were no longer lingering on the platform. Parents had tight, anxious faces and ushered their children “ if somewhat unwillingly “ onto the safety of the train. It was like Diagon Alley all over again, thought Draco, no one wanted to hang about outside. As if ceilings and walls could keep the Dark Lord out! He scoffed at the stupidity of these people. A small boy hurried past him, knocking into his arm, and Draco winced at the impact. His new Dark Mark was still hurting as much as the night he’d got it, and he knew he should be more pleased to be officially confirmed as a Death Eater; but now there was no way to forget even for a second where his loyalties lay.
Towards the end of the platform he saw some of his fellow Slytherin sixth years. Crabbe and Goyle looked as gormless as ever, and Zabini was attempting to talk to Pansy, who was instead looking around her, tossing her hair and pouting profusely: a look that didn’t suit her strange, pug-like face. Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw Draco, and she pounced on him in a whirl of hair and robes. She was talking rapidly, but he wasn’t listening. Something about an awful summer and asking why he had not written.
The five of them found a compartment in the middle of the train, and closed the door to block out the shouts and squeals emanating from the thick swarm of younger students. Draco was quiet for a large part of the way, letting Pansy talk at him, and watching the others discuss their mediocre little lives. He felt strangely detached from them all now. His mission from the Dark Lord had made him realise that things like good marks in school, Quidditch matches, and trivial dilemmas did not matter. He smirked at the simplicity of his friends, and laid his head on Pansy’s lap, attempting to sleep.
It didn’t last long, and he awoke from a light doze to see Zabini being invited to join some professor named Horace Slughorn for lunch. He recognised the name, and thought it might have been the name of the old Potions master at Hogwarts. That was strange: what about Professor Snape? He hadn’t left, had he?
“Did anyone actually find out what happened to Snape? I heard there was a rumour about him,” Draco drawled. Crabbe and Goyle looked confused, but Pansy, of course, knew.
“I heard there have been some changes at Hogwarts. Dumbledore found it impossible to find another DADA teacher, so asked Snape. I suppose Slughorn’s replacing him as Potions master.”
Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t been looking forward to seeing Snape again. He would know exactly how angry the Dark Lord was with his father, and how weak the fool had been. Draco would just have to avoid him as much as possible.
An hour or so later, he was awoken again by the sound of Zabini’s return. He was trying to slam the compartment door closed, but it seemed to have got stuck. Suddenly, it was unclear quite how it happened, the door was closed, and Zabini and Goyle were grappling to get off each other. A flash of colour caught Draco’s eye, and he thought he saw something dart up to the luggage rack, but was quickly distracted by Zabini and Goyle’s commotion.
“So, Zabini,” he asked, when everything had settled down. “What did Slughorn want?”
“Just trying to make up to well-connected people. Not that he managed to find many.”
The spurt of anger that was now so common to Draco erupted again. Well-connected people? He came from a long line of powerful pure-blood wizards. How was that not well-connected? “Who else had he invited?” he demanded.
Zabini ticked off a list of names on his fingers, but at the mention of the idiot, Longbottom, and the Weasley girl, he sat up bolt upright. “He invited Longbottom?” He really was angry now: the shun felt like a slap in the face, and he didn’t listen as the others discussed the merits of the Weasley girl. “Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father always used to be a favourite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on the train, or”"
“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” cut in Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.”
Draco could have punched Zabini for that blatant dig at his father, but he decided that he would act as though he didn’t care. “Well, who cares what he’s interested in?” he said, nonchalantly. “What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher. I mean, I might not be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?”
He felt Pansy stiffen under his head. “What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?”
Draco smirked, pleased with the effect his words had had, and decided to hint at his new position as Death Eater. “Well, you never know, I might have “ er “ moved on to bigger and better things.”
There was a stunned silence. “Do you mean “ Him?” whispered Pansy.
“Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it … when the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t ... it’ll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.”
“And you think you’ll be able to do something? Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?” scoffed Zabini.
“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for.”
There was a stunned silence, and Draco looked in satisfaction at the expressions of awe on their faces, as he knew they would all be wondering just how important he had become. Through the thick fog that crept sluggishly past the window, he saw lights glimmering faintly in the distance. “I can see Hogwarts. We’d better get our robes on.”
In the scramble to open trunks and bags, Draco was sure he heard a hard thump and a particularly audible gasp, coming directly from above his head. It sounded like Goyle’s trunk had hit someone, but when he looked up, he saw nothing there. He remembered seeing that flash of colour earlier, and he was suddenly overcome with a strong sense of unease. Had someone been listening in? He yanked his robes out of his trunk, as his heart sank to the very depths of his stomach. There was only one person foolish enough to try to eavesdrop like this: Potter. Well, he was just going to have to learn a little lesson, wasn’t he?
The Hogwarts Express slowed gently to a halt, and Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini barged out of the compartment. Pansy stayed behind, holding her hand out to him, as though he was some stupid child who couldn’t make it off the train on his own. “You go on,” he muttered. “I just want to check something.”
When she left, he closed the door and pulled down the blinds, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He took his wand out of his trunk, and whipped around. “Petrificus Totalus!” The frozen body of Harry Potter fell from the luggage rack and onto the floor, just as he knew it would. He stepped over to the body, and smiled lazily.
“I thought so. I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back … That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose.” The thought had only just occurred to him. Potter stared at him insolently, and Draco had a great desire to cause him an immense amount of pain.
“You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here…”
He brought his foot down hard on Potter’s face, and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. “That’s from my father,” he whispered, his contempt for his enemy seeping into every syllable. “Now, let’s see.”
He pulled what seemed to be some sort of Invisibility Cloak out from under Potter’s body. He wondered whether he should keep it, but decided he could use other ways to disguise himself if he needed, and instead threw it over Potter, making sure that nothing could be seen. “I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in London. See you round, Potter… or not.”
He deliberately stepped on the invisible body as he left the compartment, and he closed the door with relish, imagining Potter’s panic as the train pulled out of Hogsmeade station, and wondering whether he would even be found at all. Did anyone ever check the carriages thoroughly? Draco found it hard to supress his chuckle at the idea, and turned towards the last of the horseless carriages, looking at Hogwarts with surprisingly buoyant feelings. He’d finally got the better of Potter. It seemed like this year was set to be a huge improvement on the last.