"Inertia in thinking really is harmful," Malfoy mused as he chatted idly with Fleur Delacour across the small café table. A gentle hum of conversation filled the background, and the sweet scent of vanilla and chocolate lingered in the air. He spoke with an easy smile, but behind that calm exterior, his thoughts moved in quiet, sharp circles.
If he had met this girl at Hogwarts in his fourth year, it would have been effortless to recognize her—her beauty was almost legendary, and his familiarity with the plot of the original story would have made her identity obvious. But now, things were different. It was two years earlier than that timeline, and Fleur Delacour was not yet the dazzling champion of Beauxbatons, not yet the elegant witch who would turn heads at the Triwizard Tournament. She was still a girl—poised, yes, but softer around the edges, her confidence still in the process of forming.
It reminded him of how the smallest change in timing could twist recognition. If Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban during Harry's first year, who would have seen him as anything more than a ragged, half-mad stranger? Even someone who knew the truth might hesitate before connecting such a disheveled figure to the once-brilliant Marauder.
Yes, time changed people—faces, voices, even destinies.
And now, as Fleur sat across from him, idly stirring the melting remnants of her ice cream, Malfoy found himself watching her with the faintest hint of wonder.
The storm stirred by the butterfly's wings has finally begun to take effect, he thought. He could feel it—the small deviations accumulating, subtle shifts that were slowly bending the river of fate.
The butterfly effect was far more effective than what he once called the "paint effect."
He smiled faintly at the thought.
When a bucket of paint was poured into the river of time, it might seem to stain everything at first. But as the river divided into tributaries—splitting and splitting again—the color would dilute, fading until the water ran clear once more.
That was despair in its purest form: to fight against destiny only to find the current washing your efforts away.
From the very beginning, Malfoy had resolved not to pour paint into the river. He would become the butterfly instead—small, deliberate, but capable of conjuring storms.
He leaned back slightly, his tone casual. "So, what brings you to England? Traveling?" he asked, as though it were idle curiosity.
Fleur brushed a strand of silvery-blonde hair behind her ear and replied lightly, "Madam Maxime—our headmistress." She paused to recall the details. "It seems Professor Dumbledore invited her. Something that needed to be discussed in person, and she thought bringing me along might be… educational. She said I could gain some experience."
Her English carried a charming accent—soft but clear—and she added, with a small smile, "Besides, my English still needs practice."
Malfoy nodded slowly, pretending to mull it over. "The Triwizard Tournament, perhaps?" he ventured.
At that, Fleur's expression dimmed slightly. The cheerful spark in her eyes flickered.
"Maybe," she said softly.
It was enough to make him pause.
He remembered what he knew of her—her pride, her elegance, and that complicated mixture of confidence and vulnerability that came with being different.
Both Fleur and Madam Maxime were half-Veela, descendants of a lineage that fascinated and unsettled others in equal measure. By the standards of the modern wizarding world, it was hardly a scandal. France, in particular, prided itself on tolerance. But prejudice didn't vanish merely because society had decided to stop talking about it. It hid in glances, in whispers, in the small defensive habits people developed to protect themselves.
Even Madam Maxime, who towered over others with authority and grace, denied her heritage when questioned. Perhaps not out of shame, but from an old instinct to protect herself from mockery.
Fleur, still so young, carried the same contradiction. Sometimes she was proud of her Veela blood—the allure, the strength, the elegance it gave her. At other times, it made her feel apart, as if she had to work twice as hard to be seen for more than her beauty.
Who could truly understand such contradictions? Malfoy wondered.
Maybe that was what empathy meant—not understanding perfectly, but choosing to try anyway.
He shifted the conversation with practiced ease, sensing her discomfort. A few light-hearted jokes followed—odd stories and small quips from his previous life, bits of humor he remembered seeing on Weibo years ago.
At first, Fleur seemed uncertain, unsure if she had caught every nuance of his jokes. But gradually, she began to smile. A few times, she nearly laughed aloud, only to catch herself at the last second, pressing her lips together in ladylike restraint. The effort made her expression adorably stiff, and Malfoy, watching her try to suppress her laughter, finally broke into quiet chuckles himself.
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded, half-embarrassed, half-amused. Her accent sharpened her irritation, and the sound of it only made him grin wider.
"I just think it's too hard to live under a mask," he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
The moment they were spoken, he fell silent. A mirror flashed before his eyes—the image of himself, forever calculating, forever cautious. The boy who could never quite be himself, no matter which world he lived in.
Fleur blinked, her annoyance fading. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them thickened with the weight of things unspoken.
After a while, she said quietly, "Whether it's hard or not is your own choice. There's nothing to complain about. Taking off the mask doesn't always make you happier."
Her voice was calm, almost philosophical.
Malfoy met her gaze and nodded. "You're right," he said simply.
The silence that followed was no longer awkward. It was… reflective. They both returned to their melting desserts, spooning the last bits mechanically, as though finishing a ritual neither wanted to end.
Outside the window, the late-afternoon sky had deepened into a dusky violet. Streetlamps were flickering awake one by one when Fleur suddenly straightened. "Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "I think I must go now. Madam Maxime and I—she said to meet at a Muggle train station."
She fumbled for her small, elegant purse, preparing to pay. But before she could even open it, Malfoy was already on his feet, handing two gold Galleons to Florean Fortescue behind the counter.
"I said I'd treat you," he told her lightly, blocking any protest. "But if you've got money and really need to pay for something, I won't stop you."
He gave a small shrug, half-teasing, half-serious.
Fleur hesitated, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her features. In truth, she had intended to withdraw some funds from Gringotts earlier that day. Her family was well-off; she wasn't used to being short of money. But after the chaos at the bank, she'd never made it to the counter.
Now, as she peeked into her purse, she found only a few silver Sickles and Knuts. Hardly enough to cover her travel or even the café bill.
She sighed softly. "Thank you," she murmured, unable to think of anything more graceful to say.
Malfoy adjusted his coat and glanced toward the door. "Since you've got somewhere to be, I'll leave first," he said. "My father knows that old man we ran into earlier, and if Mother's heard about the Gringotts attack, she'll be worrying herself sick."
He gave a curt nod—almost too formal—and strode toward the exit without looking back.
The bell above the door jingled once, and then he was gone.
Fleur blinked, startled by how abruptly he'd left. She'd opened her mouth to call after him, but the sound never came out.
"Why can't I just say something?" she whispered to herself, frustrated by her own hesitation. She felt foolishly shy, and worse, helpless. The world outside was darkening, and she was nearly penniless. She still had to find the train station where Madam Maxime waited.
Her gaze dropped to her purse again—more out of habit than hope—and then she froze.
There, lying quietly atop the few silver coins, were several gold Galleons gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
And tucked beside them was a small folded note.
She unfolded it with trembling fingers.
I think you can wait until we meet next time to treat me in return. Your best choice of transportation now is the Knight Bus. Just step out of Diagon Alley, hold out the hand you'd usually use for your wand, and tell the conductor your destination. If you prefer Floo Powder, the money you already had should be enough—but I'm worried about your accent, so I don't recommend it.
Finally, I wish you a pleasant journey.
For a long moment, Fleur simply stared at the handwriting—elegant but a little hurried, as if written between one heartbeat and the next.
Warmth bloomed quietly in her chest.
How thoughtful. How unexpectedly considerate.
"He really is a gentleman," she murmured, smiling despite herself. She folded the note carefully and slipped it back into her purse, her earlier frustration dissolving into something gentler—something that felt dangerously close to admiration.
Of course, she would think differently later, once she discovered that her "gentleman" had introduced himself under a false name. But for now, she clutched her purse and stepped out into the twilight, her heart lighter than it had been all day.
Somewhere down the dim cobbled street, a Knight Bus would soon appear with a bang and a whirl of violet smoke.
And somewhere else, not far away, Draco Malfoy was already walking into the gathering night—his mind calm, calculating, and quietly amused.
He had chosen his role carefully, and the butterfly's wings had already begun to stir the wind.
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