These are done in a hurry so translation may not be good
-----
Unfortunately, Malfoy's ideal image of a gentleman seemed to have run into some trouble.
"What's wrong?" Draco asked lazily, looking at the black-haired boy blocking his path. "Saviour—are you planning to cause a scene in Diagon Alley to avenge your good friend?"
The lightning-shaped scar on the boy's forehead made his identity unmistakable.
Half the summer holiday had passed. Both of them had grown taller, but otherwise, not much had changed.
On the wide street, Harry Potter stood squarely in Draco's way, staring at him with guarded eyes, clearly afraid that he might strike first. After a moment, Harry spoke calmly.
"You've already received the punishment you deserved. You paid the price."
After a brief pause, he added somewhat weakly, "And it seems I can't beat you."
"But," Harry continued, gripping his holly wand tightly, his gaze sharpening, "if you're planning anything else, I'll do everything I can to stop you."
"For example?" Draco sighed, genuinely feeling wronged this time. He had been shot while lying flat.
"Why did you use a fake name at Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour just now?" Harry demanded.
"Oh?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "So even the famous Harry Potter enjoys eavesdropping on other people's conversations—especially when it involves women?"
He deliberately avoided meeting Harry's eyes, instead pulling out his wand and turning it over in his fingers as if absorbed in thought. The casual, dismissive gesture made Harry feel an unspoken contempt.
"I just—" Harry began to explain. He had been working on an essay about medieval witches in the shop, and Fortescue occasionally offered guidance. The man's knowledge, Harry had been told, rivalled even Professor Binns'. Plus, there was a free cold drink every half hour.
But Draco cut him off.
"Explain?" Draco scoffed lightly. "When have you ever seen a playboy invite trouble for himself?"
He finally looked at Harry, his gaze cold. "I think our Saviour should be more concerned about saving his own life. I heard Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban because of you."
The words were clearly meant to intimidate.
Strictly speaking, Draco wasn't wrong—but no one would interpret the situation quite like that.
After all, Sirius had risked his life just to watch a Quidditch match for his godson. When Harry's broom was damaged, Sirius even sent him a replacement anonymously.
"And besides," Draco continued, glancing pointedly at the wand in Harry's hand, "after inflating your aunt, do you really think you can keep casting magic outside school without consequences?"
His tone was deliberately provocative.
"I imagine even the Ministry wouldn't tolerate that repeatedly—for your own 'safety,' of course."
Harry hesitated.
Even Draco Malfoy—standing right in front of him—had once had his wand confiscated for underage magic. That thought alone made Harry falter.
Previously, he had still had his wand. That was why he had dared to run away from home. It was his last line of defence. He couldn't imagine what would happen if he were expelled and truly disarmed.
Cornelius Fudge had told him at the Leaky Cauldron that the only reason he wasn't being punished was because Sirius Black had escaped. Faced with two disasters, the Ministry had chosen the lesser one.
Now, with shaky evidence and serious consequences hanging over him, Harry felt even more uncertain.
What was so terrible about using a fake name?
Hadn't he himself pretended to be Neville when boarding the Knight Bus?
Harry suddenly realised how impulsive he'd been.
Even if Malfoy really was plotting something, hadn't he just alerted him by confronting him like this?
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly at last.
He lowered his wand and stepped aside. But as he passed Draco on the way toward the Leaky Cauldron, he muttered under his breath,
"Even if you hide your name, a playboy like you will get into trouble sooner or later."
With that, Harry left.
Draco didn't care.
He wasn't some heartless liar playing with a girl's feelings. Using a fake name had simply been a way to avoid complications—and perhaps erase a bad first impression.
Neither of them realised that Harry's final words would one day become uncomfortably prophetic.
After watching the self-righteous protagonist disappear, Draco remembered he still had unfinished business.
He hurried back to Gringotts.
By now, its massive doors were tightly shut. The building felt cold and deserted, stripped of the earlier bustle. Only a handful of Ministry officials remained on duty.
"Uncle Fudge left a folder in the office," Draco said politely to a tall, thin wizard in a trench coat, his stubble clearly visible. "He asked me to retrieve it for him."
The on-duty officials exchanged awkward glances.
That awkwardness vanished quickly after a few packs of so-called special Muggle cigarettes were produced.
In and out—only a few minutes passed.
When Draco emerged, the officials were already smoking.
No lighter?
A simple spark would do.
"Thank you, Uncle," Draco said courteously as he left.
"Nothing at all," the thin wizard replied, exhaling smoke rings slowly. "Take care, young master Draco."
Draco nodded and headed for the nearest Floo powder point without looking back.
Street-level bribery. Negligent Ministry officials. A patient Dark Lord and fanatical followers, he thought.
Who wins?
The answer was obvious.
Entering a small shop that provided Floo powder services, Draco tossed a pinch into the fireplace. Green flames roared to life. After clearly stating his destination, he took a breath and stepped forward.
The world twisted violently.
Even with his eyes shut, the nausea was unavoidable.
Good thing I didn't eat too much earlier, he thought grimly.
He emerged in what appeared to be a Muggle city centre—a hidden junction between the wizarding world and ordinary society.
On the surface, it was a small hardware shop.
A burly, bearded middle-aged man stood behind the counter, adjusting a wrench. No one would suspect he was a wizard at first glance. The shop was packed with screws, bolts, and spare parts. The sharp smell of paint and plastic filled the air, making Draco cover his nose instinctively.
The man's muscular arms were bare, one marked with a tattoo of an unknown animal. He looked like a member of a Muggle criminal gang—until one noticed the wand strapped discreetly at his back.
Draco approached.
The man looked up. "Young man, there's nothing here that would interest a wizard."
"I thought so," Draco replied, tapping the glass counter lightly. "I was just wondering—do you know which fruit shop is closest?"
The man smiled warmly, the expression oddly at odds with his appearance.
"I think I can help you with that."
---