Chapter Text

There were a multitude of living creatures occupying Malfoy Manor, only one of which was a Malfoy. There were three humans, two house-elves, one cat, and several spiders (whose days were numbered). Of these, Pansy Parkinson was perhaps the loudest. Draco certainly thought so.

“And then Peggy Bucket said ‘Oh let’s write about Muggles, instead’. Can you believe!” She waved her arms wildly. Considering that the woman enjoyed her job thoroughly, her current dishevelled state was likely out of the norm. However, she only ever came storming to Malfoy Manor when she wished to complain about something from the workplace, so Draco could only think that she didn’t look as put out as she was trying to seem.

There was a coffee stain on her shirt, a thin trail of it tracing its path to her skirt, and she had a splotch of ink on her wrist the size of a humble pea. Practically presentable, given what Draco had seen in the past. Pansy was determined to vent her frustrations despite this, unfortunately, so Draco could only let her continue. She would wear herself out eventually. He returned his attention to tidying his worktable.

“How terrible,” Blaise drawled, and he must be in a good mood if he hadn’t immediately jumped to defend Muggles. Draco ought to be relieved, but he was focused on trying to steer Pansy away from his cauldron. It was in its final stages and he had worked on it for far too long to let her ruin it now.

“And, sure, it’s better than keeping the Casualties of War section—nobody wants to see that anymore, it’s just insensitive, at this point—but then, Bunyip had to start blabbing, didn’t he! And now I’ve got to find a writer by tonight. With an article ready! They’re going to publish it tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea how stressful it is?!” She wailed.

“I couldn’t possibly imagine,” Draco huffed, grabbing her wrist just before it could knock the cauldron off the table. Blaise took over from there, dropping a shooter glass of Draught of Peace in her hand. Pansy downed it in one go.

Draco ignored them as he stirred the potion anticlockwise three times, then reduced the flame till it turned pale green. When he looked back up, Pansy graced him with a disturbingly placid smile. Dear god, he doubted he would ever get over how disturbing the Draught of Peace was.

“You’ll do it, won’t you, Draco?” Pansy hummed.

“Do what?” He blinked.

“Write for my column, of course!”

“Why would I do that?” Draco said, fixing a glare on Blaise when he snorted. What was so funny now?

“Because you’re good at writing, you go to the Muggle world almost every day, and most importantly,” Blaise raised his third finger, “you’re bored enough to do it.”

“I am not bored!” He said hotly. The nerve of him! Draco was far from bored! He was busy maintaining Malfoy Manor in the absence of his parents. There was so much to do every day, all the time. Draco daren’t even think of it. He’d finally gotten some respite and wanted to make the most of it, and here these ungrateful burdens were imposing on his hospitality and eating up what little free time he had.

Draco looked at the pair sourly, but they were too self-absorbed to notice. Well, it wasn’t worth his time, anyway. He redirected his attention to the cauldron once more. The potion had cooled enough for him to take it off the flame. With a quick flick of his wand, he snuffed it out, watching as the potion started to turn eggshell-white.

“You’re trying to invent a potion that turns people into ducks,” Pansy pointed out, trying to peer over his shoulder. Draco elbowed her viciously, feeling a spark of triumph at the pained noise she made before skittering backwards. He ignored the woman’s spiteful grumbling. If she wanted to keep her bones intact, she ought to respect his personal space.

“Loons, not ducks,” Draco corrected since it was an important distinction. He was planning to send it to his cousin as a joke. She’d probably find it funny and drink it herself. Although, Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to see Longbottom’s reaction to his girlfriend turning into a bird. If he were anything like his grandmother, the experience would not be pleasant.

Maybe Luna would be willing to help name his potion. She wrote for the Quibbler, so she was obviously good at coming up with ridiculous bullshit and making people pay to read it.

“Why would anyone even want that?” Blaise threw his head back.

Draco ground his teeth together and forced himself to remember that he shouldn’t kill the son of Loredana Zabini, for it would unleash the woman on the unsuspecting and entirely too gullible population of middle-aged males. For all he knew, she’d manage to seduce the Minister of Magic and cause yet another war. Draco had had quite enough of wars and would rather not see another one in his lifetime.

“Numerous reasons,” He replied curtly, a tight rein on his violent urges. “I’m not going to recount all of them for you. I’d rather focus on the ludicrous question Pansy just asked me.”

“Ah, so you are interested,” The woman said gleefully, nudging Blaise in the side with a sharp elbow. “See, I told you!”

“I never said that,” he snapped, “I was just amazed that you ever thought I’d be interested in writing an account of my experience in the Muggle world. Who would even want to read that? I doubt it would help educate anyone.” More importantly, he was an ex-Death Eater, for Salazar’s sake. The minute they’d see his name in the paper, they’d throw it in the fire and start writing him howlers.

“Loads of people, as a matter of fact. Far more than those still reading Potter’s fanmail. That’s another perk, by the way: you get to replace Potter’s spot on the paper.”

Draco halted, then smirked. “Well, why didn’t you lead with that?”

“So you’ll do it?” Pansy’s eyes gleamed. And, really, did she think that Draco couldn’t see them clapping hands behind their backs? They weren’t subtle.

“No.”

He didn’t have a death wish. The wizarding world had only just started to forget about him. The last piece of hatemail he’d gotten was two weeks ago, and even that had been a rudimentary ‘Die scum’. It didn’t even have any punctuation. What a reassuring lack of passion it was! Draco had it pinned on the wall as a pleasant reminder that peaceful times were just around the corner.

He had already begun observing the changes. People no longer aimed their wands at him the minute they saw him. Nobody threw anything at him. Madam Parament even let him enter her library. He wasn’t going to throw it all away because some Penny Baggage was convinced that it would be absolutely brilliant if the Daily Prophet dedicated an entire section to Muggles. What a foolish thought, really; as if the wizarding world wasn’t already struggling with the divide between its various members, this Pebble Bonnet wanted to add Muggles into the mix. The Prophet would be better off dedicating a section to half-breeds and magical creatures.

He said as much to Pansy, but proving her commitment to her role as a journalist, the woman ignored him. “Oh, come on, Draco! Do you want me to beg? I’m not above begging,” Pansy looked ready to kneel before him, but Draco knew she’d smother him in his sleep for it the second she got the chance.

Hiding his panic, Draco sneered, “Do refrain from such hysterics, Parkinson. Can’t have you sprawling on my laboratory floor; I’ve just had it scrubbed.” He emptied the cauldron into a vial and made for the stairs. “But if you’re so eager to familiarise yourself with it, I’ll have Ripky hand you a mop.”

That earned him a Stickfast hex, nearly tripping him over. Draco yelped, clinging to the handrails desperately as his feet remained stuck on the stairs. The bloody traitors cackled at him mercilessly from behind. Oh, to make voodoo dolls of one’s friends and throw them in bubbling lava.

“That’s it, get out, you fiends,” Draco hissed. “And see if I help you now, Parkinson!”

Pansy rushed to apologise, though it meant very little when he could hear her smile splitting her face in half the entire while. No, that ship had sailed. Draco had far better things to devote his time to. He picked himself up gracefully and left the nitwits in search of his pair of dragonskin gloves.

The Malfoy gardens have been a source of pride for generations upon generations. Armand Malfoy was the first wizard to successfully plant French mandrakes on British soil, and their progeny still lived on in the Manor greenhouses. Brutus Malfoy had imported the magical strain of Egyptian lotuses and sanguine-bellied pipefish to their pond. Lucius Malfoy had introduced Voldemort and his Death Eaters to their property. Draco Malfoy had to find his own way to honour this legacy. Preferably in a way that wouldn’t land him in prison.

Draco scowled up at the albino peacock peeking over his shoulder. His hands were preoccupied with mixing dragon dung into the soil for his Alihotsy saplings, so shooing the bird off was not an option. “What are you looking at, you pompous goose?”

The peacock squawked in protest and smacked him in the back with its long feathers as it trounced off to bother other birds by the fountains. With a sharp huff of frustration, he used his sleeve to wipe sweat off his forehead (oh, if Mother could see him now) when Norvus cracked into existence before him.

“Master Draco, there are Aurors at the gates.” He informed with a bow so deep the grass must tickle his nose. “Should Norvus let them in?”

“Well, Norvus, that depends,” Draco grunted as he got wrist-deep in the compost, “What do they want this time?”

Norvus blinked once, then disappeared.

After the war, Aurors had developed a nasty habit of barging into the Malfoy grounds. Their first raid had been a mere week before his mother’s trial. They’d stormed in with a warrant and rampaged the entire Manor in search of anything that could be held against them. Thankfully, his mother had the foresight to move all Dark possessions into their Gringotts vault. Everyone knew that Aurors had a better chance of winning a fight against an army of manticores than getting into Gringotts.

His mother had told him to be grateful that this was the extent of their hostility. The Carrows were all in Azkaban, except for Flora and Hestia, who were forced to move in with distant relatives in America. At least Draco still had the Manor, though whether it could still be considered home was up for debate. Personally, Draco didn’t feel all that grateful about the hand he’d been dealt. Two pests, in particular, were so persistent that Draco often found himself daydreaming for some undisturbed peace in an Azkaban cell.

A remotely familiar (which was still too familiar than Draco would prefer) voice shouted, “For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, stop pretending you can’t see us and get your arse out here!” See? Pests.

Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes. He’d rather swim in dragon dung than take orders from a Weasley.

He rose to his feet, enjoying the soft, tingling grass under the soles of his feet as he ambled to the next planting spot, with his eager-to-please bucket of compost bobbing in the air.

The grass was particularly vibrant this year, which Draco took pride in. The state of the gardens had been downright deplorable after Voldemort and his Death Eaters had trampled all over it. Not to mention all the Auror inspections that seemed to require crushing the gardenias and roses with great fervour and digging up random patches of the ground with powerful gouging spells.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

The yew hedge had been burned beyond repair, and hiring gardeners with enough skill to regrow it had been something Draco had neither time nor resources to arrange for, especially since most of the wizarding world abhorred him. Draco would think twice before bringing anyone to the Manor. Hardly a few weeks after the War ended, some wizards and witches had stormed to Wiltshire and set fire to the Manor. It was only thanks to the family magic that so many of their belongings had survived the incident. Draco’s broom still hadn’t returned from repair.

It had driven him mad, staring at the crumbling, dead hedge day in and day out. When he had felt particularly morose, he chose to interpret it as a sign from his ancestors that the Malfoy name would never be what it once was.

Then Pansy had gifted him a book on gardening for Christmas; one thing led to another, and soon Draco had restored the Malfoy Gardens all by himself (with some assistance of his house elves). So maybe, as divine messages go, it wasn’t that awful, after all.

“MALFOY!”

The damn Weasel had the audacity to cast a Sonorous right outside his house! He should count himself fortunate that Draco was far more tolerant than his father, or the Ministry would have a pile of ex-Auror ash on their hands. The only reason he hadn’t pulled his wand on the pleb was that his hands were covered in manure.

Leaving the Alihotsy half-buried in the soil, he rose himself to his full height, ready to put that insolent man in his place when the second Auror spoke up.

“Please, Malfoy, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” It was Potter, of course. Potter with his saviour complex and Weasel and a third Auror whose name Draco did not know (blessedly).

Draco sighed. “Norvus,” He waited for the elf to appear. “Kindly show the three Aurors to the drawing-room. Provide them with some tea and refreshments. And make sure to apologise for running out of sugar.”

“Yes, Master Draco.” The elf’s eyes twinkled with comprehension, and he disappeared with a loud pop.

Ignoring the three men standing outside the iron gates, Draco Apparated inside. He was quick to fix his appearance, thoroughly scrubbing his hands and feet before slipping on more appropriate clothes. The Malfoy name might not be in its prime, but that was no excuse for dressing like a slob.

The drawing room had been one of the first places Draco had worked on after the war. Lovely Aunt Bella had taken great pleasure in shattering both the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but their successors were far more elegant and often obliged Draco by refracting light in accordance with his moods. Pansy was supremely jealous of this feature, which really was the icing on the cake.

Potter, Weasley, and Nameless-Lackey were seated at the sofa, clutching matching sets of cups and saucers, tea untouched. Well, almost untouched. Draco allowed himself a small smirk at the grimace on Weasley’s face.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted with his face carefully arranged into blankness once more. Not that these fools deserved to be addressed as such. Alas, Draco had been raised well enough to know to act like he respected authority, even if it was a façade. “How may I help you?”

“You have been accused of attempting to create an Inferius,” Potter explained. Going by the tinge of discomfiture in his voice, he knew better than to expect anything to come from this investigation. Nameless-Lackey, however, seemed eager to get his grubby hands all over the Manor.

“Do you have a warrant?” Draco asked, casting a quick Tempus charm. 4:46 pm. He must have spent too much time in the greenhouse.

“Ah, no,” Potter rubbed the back of his neck. His tea threatened to spill over Nameless-Lackey’s lap, nearly giving the man a conniption. “We were hoping you’d cooperate.”

Weasley snorted and muttered something under his breath. Potter stomped on his foot with the subtlety of a true Gryffindor, which is to say, none at all.

“Norvus, Ripky,” Draco called. There were two loud cracks as his house elves appeared before him. Draco took a second to inspect the misaligned collar of Ripky’s dress; the elf noticed and fixed it hastily, her ears sinking in embarrassment. Draco’s lips twitched in amusement, but he quickly schooled his expression. It won’t do to let the Aurors in on private matters.

Draco gestured to his uninvited and unwelcome guests. “Kindly show these three gentlemen everything they need. Do not tolerate snooping, stealing, or meddling in any shape or form. If such unwanted acts are committed, I expect you to deal with it swiftly and with extreme prejudice.” Nameless-Lackey paled significantly. “How long will you take, Potter?”

Potter, having developed an unfortunate immunity to the Malfoy brand of thinly veiled threats, shrugged. “Uh, an hour or two?”

“You heard him,” he addressed the house-elves. They nodded, “Yes, Master Draco.” “Good, then; I expect the house to be vacated by the time I return.”

“And just where d’you think you’re going?” Weasley bodily blocked his way, momentarily stupefying Draco with his bright red hair and equally red face.

“If I’m going to have three dunderheaded Aurors upending my house, I’d need a little pick-me-up.” Draco drawled, hoping to slice the man in half with the sharpness of his glare alone. Ah, no, that would land him in Azkaban. Pity.

“You’re going out for a drink.” Said Potter as if it was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard in his life, which was a lot coming from the man who talked to snakes and had supposedly been saved from the Killing Curse with the power of love.

“Of a sort,” he acquiesced, walking around Weasley since the man was too stunned to move for some reason. “Fear not, dear Saviour. Death Eaters don’t really pay a visit to the place I’m headed.”

“I’ve got my eyes on you, Malfoy,” Weasley warned with less feeling than usual, perhaps thrown off by the knowledge that Draco did actually do normal people things. The man gaped at him as he walked past, but didn’t make a move to stop him. He probably wanted to spare himself the embarrassment of having Draco witness their latest wild goose chase.

“Ta,” Draco waved daintily. Behind him, Nameless-Lackey shrieked in alarm as the carpet twisted to trip him. Draco smirked at the loud thud that followed.

Visiting the Muggle world was a more recent addition to Draco’s routine, one that he enjoyed more than anyone would expect, especially himself.

The political climate post-war had been largely hostile towards anything even remotely connected to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The Malfoys had avoided a life sentence in Azkaban by the skin of their teeth, with most of the credit going to Potter and his posse for swooping in last minute to testify for them.

It had done little to sway the public opinion, however. Most accredited Potter’s actions to his hero complex, and rightly so, in Draco’s opinion. The Malfoys had done the bare minimum when it came to fighting for the ‘light’ side of the war, though defecting by the end of it had helped their case a little. As the popular (though not necessarily accurate) belief goes: once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Draco was innocent, yet not.

Sneers, insults, a stray Stinging Hex or so were par for the course. It was hardly any different from what he and his fellow Slytherins had been subjected to at Hogwarts. But one got tired of getting turned away everywhere they went, be it an apothecary, a restaurant, or even an office in the Ministry. There were only so many times a Malfoy could tolerate such humiliation before they started having daydreams of a dangerous variety.

And since that was no longer a viable course of action, Draco had to take drastic measures.

He had never been to the Muggle world before the war. It was hardly the done thing in pureblood families. They would rather drink poison than mingle with them. Looking back, perhaps he should have eased into it instead of going straight to Central London, but all’s well that ends well and all that.

It was difficult to hate Muggles after everything he had been through. Not because he liked them, necessarily. It’s true that he knew better now, but part of him just didn’t have the energy to spare, really. He used to think he was jaded before, and it has only gotten worse with time. War tends to do that, he’s realized.

Blaise loved Muggles. No one had been more surprised by this development than Draco.

After his parents had run off to France to escape the criticisms of the people who had once called themselves their allies, Draco had been left in charge of the household. Thus, the duty of restoring the Malfoy name, the Manor, washing their hands clean of any Voldemort business, and keeping them all afloat had fallen upon his shoulders.

By the time Draco had gotten enough time to look around, Blaise had fully immersed himself in the Muggle fashion industry. He was the first British wizard to open a successful apparel business in both worlds. His mother often modelled for him, not because Blaise had asked but because she enjoyed it. Apparently, Muggles were just as susceptible to her charms as wizards. Draco didn’t like Loredana Zabini as a mother, but she was certainly a fascinating woman whose deviousness was worthy of his begrudging admiration.

Now, Draco may not enjoy spending time in the Muggle world, but he was not blind to certain benefits it provided.

Anonymity, for one. There was nobody here that would call him a nasty Death Eater and other such unimaginative names. A Muggle wouldn’t take one look at his face and sneer and ban him from his shop till the end of time. They wouldn’t cast a Leg-locker curse on him just as he climbed down the stairs. It was a rare instance where the Muggle world was safer than the wizarding one.

Additionally, this lack of renown ensured that Muggles would not poison his coffee order, which had far greater importance now that Draco had developed such a strong liking for it. He blamed Theo. The man had bought a coffee brewer some two or three months ago and insisted that everyone try it because he used the machine more often than he ever drank any of its coffee. The novelty of the item had worn off eventually, but Draco’s penchant persisted.

“Hello, Draco. Which is it today: galão or corretto?” Barista Willis asked him with a slightly tired smile.

“Corretto, I’m afraid,” he said as he approached the counter. She clucked in sympathy and turned to prepare his drink.

Battyl’s Bistro was not a place Draco had ever pictured himself frequenting. It was small, with barely enough room for three circular tables and some chairs. Its name was incongruous, for it was not a bistro but a café, an error that Draco still wasn’t certain he had forgiven. The kindest way to describe the interiors would be ‘humble’ and ‘quaint’, with its old and well-worn wooden furniture and bare-bones decor.

And yet something about it soothed him. Perhaps it was the way the aroma of coffee seemed to have seeped into very the walls and furniture or the way it always seemed lively yet tranquil, like the hills beyond the Manor in summer. Maybe it was simply that he did not have to watch his back all the time.

Whatever the cause, Battyl’s Bistro had slowly become Draco’s little Muggle haven.

“There you go,” said Barista Willis, placing his order on the table. Draco thanked her mostly out of habit, gingerly dragging the small tray towards himself before taking a cautious sip. It was delicious as always, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

He unfolded the Muggle newspaper he had purchased by the bus stop and took out his fountain pen.

“Sorry, um, is this seat taken?”

Draco looked up. The question had come from a young man he called The New Regular in his head.

He was holding a thick tome against his chest, looking at Draco with a nervous smile. “It’s just that, well,” he gestured to the other two tables. One was occupied by a middle-aged couple, the other by a slovenly man who wasn’t sitting so much as spilling over his chair like a cracked egg.

Draco looked back at The New Regular, who must have seen something in his expression, for his smile grew wider and hopeful. Well, given the circumstances, he supposed it was understandable. He capped his pen carefully and looked up at the man again.

The thing was, Draco had been frequenting Battyl’s Bistro far longer than The New Regular, and therefore, he felt he was entitled to the right to make the rules of this bistro acquaintanceship. And the first and foremost rule he wished to implement was: mind your own business, Muggles. So he looked at the man and schemed.

He had to create a proper first impression to ensure that he wouldn’t be bothered in the future. It wouldn’t do for strangers to think he was approachable or, dare he say it, friendly. Everyone knows what happens to a man that can’t say no. Draco refused to befriend anyone in this place, even if they were the bloody Minister of Magic. This was his haven, a place where nobody knew who he was. A private spot where he could breathe freely, for a change. Draco would not waste those precious breaths having a conversation, thank you very much.

The trick was to be disdainful and maybe a little hostile from the get-go. This could be achieved by employing the use of facial expressions such as a sneer or a wrinkled nose.

Draco raised a single eyebrow.

“Thanks!” The man grinned openly. He pulled up the chair to Draco’s left and unceremoniously sat down.

Draco frowned. Perhaps a raised eyebrow had different connotations in the Muggle world. Blast it all; maybe the universe was just cruel enough to lump him with the thickest Muggle in London. Well, that title goes to the Man from the Train. Why he thought Draco wanted to know about his love life, he’d never understand. He had droned on and on about the woes of courting what’s-her-face and competing with someone or the other, and it had taken every ounce of Draco’s being not to break the Statute of Secrecy and blow the man to smithereens then and there.

The New Regular could take second place, though.

He eyed the man in question. He was about Draco’s age, with thick dark hair that fell over his forehead until it was pushed to the side with a pale hand. He dressed like a Muggle, with a loose navy shirt and jeans and a soft red scarf looped around his neck. He was a bit thin and very pale but nothing extraordinary. Just a man that happened to stumble into the Battyl’s Bistro a few weeks ago and kept coming back.

Already, he seemed to be absorbed in whatever he was reading. The New Regular was always reading unless he was writing or, on one memorable occasion, drawing. He didn’t speak much other than when he placed his order.

Starting a childish fight with The New Regular would be a lose-lose situation; either Draco would win and drive off the Bistro’s steady customer, or The New Regular would win, and Draco would lose his Muggle haven.

Besides, the man seemed to be happy minding his own business. Draco supposed he could tolerate his presence, just this once. He turned back to his paper.

Muggles were inferior to wizards in most ways—not that it was their fault; they couldn’t be blamed for not having magic—but one thing Draco believed they did better than wizards was making newspapers.

They were blessedly static. No moving pictures, scrolling text, or inked fireworks dancing across the page. Sure, Muggles had developed tricks of their own to draw attention to some articles more than others, but at least Draco didn’t get his eyes crossed while reading it.

And instead of having an entire page dedicated to post-war expressions of gratitude (this section was mostly filled with simpering thank-you’s from Potter’s fans), Muggles had puzzles. Draco was especially fond of the crosswords. They had helped him learn a lot about Muggle culture and vocabulary. Before, it had never occurred to him that Muggles would have a different speech pattern than wizards. Crosswords had helped him learn how to blend in.

It had the additional benefit of providing him opportunities to show off to his friends. Blaise took too much pride in his Muggle-loving. He needed to be knocked down a peg or two.

The part of him that was always eager to prove himself preened every time he solved the longest word in the puzzle. Today’s happened to be:

11. A new version of something from the past. (13)

Transfiguration? No, too long. Transmutation? Yes, that fit. No, wait, it didn't. Draco scowled at the paper. He wrote it down in the margins, just in case. He checked the previous clue, wondering if he had got that one wrong. If he had, at least he could make transmutation fit…ah, damn. No luck there.

“Reincarnation.”

Draco looked at The New Regular, whose eyes were wide and panicked. And very blue. Draco hadn’t gotten close enough to notice before. “I beg your pardon?”

The New Regular ducked his head as if hoping to disappear within the pages of his book. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- I shouldn’t have looked. Just, uh, the word. That you’re looking for. It’s reincarnation.” The tips of his ears turned pink as he added, “At least, that’s what I think it is. But you were doing pretty well so far, so maybe it is-” he stole a look at the newspaper again “-transmutation. Sorry. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Reincarnation did, in fact, fit in the crossword without a hitch. Draco begrudgingly filled it in with his Muggle pen. The New Regular was rather poor at hiding his satisfaction. Still, there was no malice in it, which was better than what Draco usually saw.

“Thank you,” he said because Malfoys might not be nice, but they were raised to be polite. And Draco really ought to stop calling him The New Regular if the man was going to help him solve Muggle puzzles. “My name is Draco Malfoy.”

The New Regular smiled. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Caolán Melrose.”

They did not speak after that, mutually understanding the lack of interest in holding an entire conversation, but the ice had been broken, and Caolán Melrose had inserted himself in Draco’s rather short list of People That Won’t Hex Him. Some (most) of his friends weren’t on that list.

He half expected the man to be grateful to him to be granted such an honour, but that must be the sleep-deprivation talking. He quietly finished the last of his corretto.

Once the crossword was filled, he moved on to the sudoku, which he had to redo after discovering an embarrassing error in a spot. Caolán remained oblivious, thankfully, as Draco scratched out the numbers to correct them. Draco may not care about the Muggle’s opinion, but he had an image to maintain.

The New Regular (for Salazar’s sake, he knew his name now, why couldn’t his addled brain just-) flipped pages at a steady rate, with a coloured pen in his hand that he used to mark sections of the text.

The pen was more interesting than whatever the man was reading, though. It had a broad, flat tip, thick enough to cover a line in one stroke, and had the brightest ink Draco had ever seen. Really, it was almost offensive in its vibrancy. Draco surmised that the man was using it to compensate for the lack of colour in the tome itself.

It was a slow day, relatively speaking. By the time Draco had finished reading a rather eye-opening article about which pets suited which personality type, both the other tables in the bistro had been vacated. Not that Caolán noticed.

Draco was half-tempted to kick the man away, but it was difficult to be cruel to him. He had done nothing wrong, which was more than could be said about Draco.

He came like clockwork twice a week, Thursday and Saturday, carrying one book or another in his brown leather messenger bag. He seemed to have no particular preference when it came to drinks, picking anything on the menu that struck his fancy that day. Some days, the drink would remain untouched if he didn’t like it, but he never ordered another.

Never talked to anyone, never brought anyone with him. Just him and whatever he was reading that day. In that sense, his visits to the Bistro were rather similar to Draco’s. Draco understood the need to be left alone.

Caolán absent-mindedly twirled his strange pen between his fingers as he pored over a detailed diagram in the book. It was beautiful, in a precise, factual sort of way. It reminded Draco of Herbology textbooks but with the intricacy of Arithmancy. The diagram appeared to be of a person with their throat bared, though he couldn’t understand more than that.

“What are you reading?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Caolán’s pen went flying out of his grip. Draco nearly Accioed it out of reflex. “Sorry?” the man frowned, glancing up at him as he retrieved the pen.

“Your book,” Draco said calmly, “It looks interesting.”

“Oh,” He blinked in surprise, though Draco couldn’t understand why. “Thanks? It’s an anatomy book. I’m not actually required to read it, though. My mentor’s just a hard arse.”

Draco was troubled by the disturbing image the words provided. Hopefully, the phrase was not meant to be literal. Say what you will about Muggles, but they were certainly creative with their vernacular. “May I have a look?”

Caolán seemed happy to show him the tome, explaining the diagram in great detail when Draco asked. In a matter of minutes, he had learnt more about human anatomy than he had in his seven (or thereabout) years at Hogwarts. And the man clearly enjoyed the subject. His eyes lit up as he traced a finger along the arteries in the drawing. His voice was steady, unlike the bashful stammering from before. The Muggle was in his element.

Draco wondered why wizards weren’t taught about anatomy in school. Surely, it bore more significance than, say, divination. He’d much rather learn about his own body than gape at tea leaves and hope to glean something from it.

“You are studying to be a medic?” Draco asked, hoping he had used the right word for Muggle Mediwizards.

“Yeah, a medical doctor. Not sure what I’ll specialise in yet.” Caolán shrugged with ease. “Maybe ER? Well, I don’t have to worry much about it now. I’ve barely started.”

Merlin, how long do Muggles spend in schools? Most wizards his age already had jobs. Draco cradled his empty coffee cup for comfort as Caolán explained what his future would likely entail if he chose to specialise in whatever the hell ER was. He should have kept his mouth shut. There was a reason he hadn’t wanted to start a conversation, and this was just proving his point.

“I’m boring you, aren’t I? I’m sorry. You’d just asked which book I was reading, and here I am babbling about my bloody career path. Everyone says I talk too much. Not in a bad way! I mean, some people do, but- I’ll just stop talking now.” The tips of his ears turned pink, and he meekly pulled his book towards himself.

This was it. This was his chance to set things right. He’d say something appropriately snide and fix this situation once and for all. Nothing too harsh, nothing that would start a fight, just enough to shove Caolán back to the status of The New Regular and ensure that they never spoke to each other again. Just to show him that Draco’s world and his should not and would not ever mix. Malfoys were good at that.

“It’s alright.” Draco’s mind and body seemed to be having different ideas lately. Maybe he should catch up on some sleep. “I like learning new things.” There had been no reason for him to say that. Someone must have cast a Babbling curse on him. Or perhaps Barista Willis was part of an underground Muggle-wizard smuggling ring and slipped some illegally acquired Veritaserum in his corretto.

Caolán smiled. Draco wanted to run. And since there was a reason the Hat hadn’t even considered sorting him in Gryffindor, Draco looked at his watch and said, “I should get going. It was nice to meet you, Caolán. Goodbye.”

“Bye, Draco.” And did Caolán sound amused? Draco was preoccupied with fleeing, so he didn’t spare much thought to it. He must have imagined it; his faculties weren’t at their best right now, so it would make sense. It must be the accent.

Cassie welcomed him with a disgruntled yowl and a swat to the shin. “Pleasant as always, my dear,” Draco remarked dryly as he knelt to scratch behind her ears. She purred begrudgingly, pressing her face into his palm for a moment before swanning off to god knows where.

There was a note on the centre table. It was from Potter, stating that they had found nothing to justify continuing their investigation and that though he had tried not to disturb his belongings too much, he apologised for any damage caused (on behalf of that Nameless-Lackey, no doubt).

It was decent of him, not that Draco believed in lauding practitioners of basic decency, Saviour of the Wizarding World or not. Potter’s chicken scratch handwriting made it difficult to read, anyway. For all Draco knew, Potter might have written elaborate death threats, and he’d be none the wiser.

The elves promptly laid out dinner for him, which Draco ate in the lounge with relish. Not eating at the dining table was a small act of rebellion that made the food taste richer, somehow. He wondered how his parents were faring in their house in France. It had been a while since his mother had Owled him.

Once dinner was done, he surveyed the Manor for anything amiss. While he trusted his elves to have kept them in check, there was still no saying what the Aurors could have done while he was gone. And his fears were confirmed when the curtains of a bedroom shifted to point at a broken vase of Andros the Invincible.

Draco sighed, wearily thanking the house for collecting all its shards in one pile. Repairing it would be slightly less of a chore. The Manor was pleased by the praise and moved the staircase to ease his descent. He headed for the library, running through the list of titles they owned, but he was dismayed to realise that very few books were dedicated to fixing such old items. Hopefully, he’d find something helpful, else he’d have to visit Madam Parament.

When Pansy stuck her head out of his fireplace, Draco remained unfazed. “Evening, Parkinson.”

“Well?” She raised an imperial brow. “Have you got anything for me?”

“I already told you I wasn’t going to do it. Go look for help somewhere else.” He turned to continue on his way.

“Oh, curse you, Draco!” Pansy yelled after him, though it sounded as if she’d expected this, at least a little. Otherwise, she would have stormed her way into the Manor by now and Imperiused him to write it.

The library was flourishing, as always; books floating themselves over to the maintenance table and back into their places once the spells had finished their work. Draco made a note to recast them soon. Father would kill him if the books were damaged under his supervision.

He approached the catalogue resting on the wall. “I am looking for books on restoration spells, repairing charms, that sort of thing. A buffoon broke the vase of Andros the Invincible.”

The catalogue fluttered with understanding and led him to a shelf, turning its pages and pointing to show him the titles he could peruse. Draco thanked it with a gentle stroke of his finger.

He muttered to himself as he pulled a thick tome off a shelf, tracing a hand over the veins in his neck as Caolán had shown him. Wizards really ought to teach more scientific topics in school. Knowledge was important, be it magical or not. Perhaps he’d write about it himself. Draco Malfoy, Death-Eater turned author, didn’t sound so bad. Perhaps he’d write about Muggles, too. His new Muggle acquaintance would certainly ease things along.

Yes, he’d start tonight and see how it goes. He’d likely do well, writing came to him naturally, most of the professors at Hogwarts had loved his essays. He wouldn’t tell Pansy yet, though. It was fun winding her up like this.

Let her grovel for a bit longer

Chapter Text

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Draco paused with his knife hanging in the air. He slowly turned to the fireplace where he was greeted by the incredulous face of Theodore Nott. Draco relaxed minutely, and the knife went back to spreading jam on his scones. “Good morning, Theo.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He rolled his eyes. “Figures. You’ve always been so- Is that a banoffee tart?”

It was, indeed, a banoffee tart, fresh from the bakery and acquired by Draco’s dear elf Ripky who was in charge of the day’s menu. Clearly made to look as inviting as it could; it was practically begging Draco to drop the damn scones and eat only tart for breakfast instead. Draco resisted temptation and pulled his gaze away from the dessert with some difficulty. Theo was having less luck than him on that front, and Draco wasn’t sure if it should be counted as a victory.

Theo wasn’t even blinking. Hm.

“It is a day of indulgence.” Draco declared with a wave of his wand. A slice of tart flew itself to the fireplace, dancing back and forth tantalisingly. Theo made a noise at the teasing and before Draco could brace for it, he Flooed himself into the Manor.

“And, pray tell, Draco, what is the reason for such indulgence?” He asked, taking a large bite of the tart. He got cream on the tip of his nose and the corner of his lips, and his cheeks were stuffed like a squirrel’s. He looked ricidulous, but Draco silently agreed that there was no better way to eat a banoffee tart.

The two of them had discovered their love for the banoffee right before their first year at Hogwarts. They’d had to sneak off while their parents weren’t looking, or they would have been berated for spending money at so mediocre a shop as Florean Fortescue’s.

Theo had been worried that they’d never have a chance to eat it again, but then one of Draco’s house-elves had volunteered to make some for him. It had turned out even better than Florean’s.

Draco had liked that house-elf, though his father hadn’t. In retrospect, he hadn’t been kind to him at all. Potter had freed him, though. Father had been furious and, at the time, so had he but now he felt glad that the creature had been given an out. Being forced to serve an implacable, cruel master was something Draco was familiar with, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even Potter.

The last time Draco had seen him, he was rescuing Potter and his posse. Aunt Bella had thrown a knife at Potter just as he Disapparated, but since the man was clearly not dead, it was safe to assume that her efforts had been in vain. Draco wondered what the strange creature was doing now; if he had found anyone willing to employ a free elf. Potter would hire him, bleeding heart that he was.

“Don’t tell me you knew,” Theodore said with horror. “You knew and you’re celebrating with banoffee tart? Merlin, Draco, you’re getting even more reckless in your old age.”

“We’re barely twenty, Theo,” Draco frowned, taking a sip of his tea. “And I truly don’t know whatever it is you’re worried about.”

Theo took a moment to consider it, which was one of the things Draco liked about him. His dramatic tendencies were tempered by his logical side. The same could not be said for Pansy. “Ah, yes. I forgot you don’t read the Prophet anymore.”

Why would he? Pansy hardly qualified as a saving grace with her incorrigible habit of adding unnecessary dramatic flair. It was only one misstep away from falsifying and sprinkling lies to garner more readers, a method that Skeeter continued to use, not just in the gossip column but also in the headlines, if she ever got her hands on any. The sports section was covered by Weaslette so the less he looked at it, the better.

The Daily Prophet had been reduced to publishing Potter’s fanmail instead of proper news. Draco doubted he would ever forget the first time he came upon that particular section. He hadn’t realised what he was reading until the simpering series of compliments finally tapered into a ‘If our dear Saviour is looking for a loving, doting wife who would support him through coping with his terrible past, I would humbly like to share that I-' Needless to say, Draco had ripped that page out of his newspaper and thrown it into the fire, but not before ripping it further into smaller pieces. He had terminated his subscription to the paper soon after.

It’s not as if he was missing out on much. Ever since the war, the only matters the Prophet deemed news-worthy was prejudiced garbage bad-mouthing purebloods whose boots they used to lick. Draco had no desire to read about the “latent corruption” in the Ministry, and how all ex-Death-Eaters should have been sentenced to Azkaban without granting them the “privilege” of a trial. Some days, just looking at the Prophet had made him want to renounce the wizarding world. Thankfully, he had Muggle papers now.

“Look,” Theo summoned the newspaper and slammed it in front of him.

"Cursed Tomb Discovered. Korbins refuse to comment. What Secrets Does This Family Hide? Theo, why am I reading this?” He muttered as he watched Rita Skeeter’s name burst into a puff of inked smoke every few seconds. A quick skim told him that the Korbins were being painted as Dark wizards who were hiding all their Death-Eater business in this tomb. Draco was not surprised.

“Not that,” Theo snapped, batting his hands away irritably. “Look, here. The new Muggle section.”

He hadn’t expected the Prophet to dedicate an entire page for it, but there it was. The title was written in gothic, with the ink spreading outwards in thin, looping tendrils. Not bad, comparatively speaking. Pansy must have picked it; she was the only person working for the Prophet who had a good sense of taste. Before Draco could get a proper look, however, Theo jabbed a finger at Pansy’s column.

Or, rather, it should have been Pansy’s column, containing short stories of wizards in the Muggle world, except it read Muggles 101: A Quick Guide for Wizards and Witches. Beneath it, were three words that ensured Pansy’s slow and painful death at the hands of Draco Malfoy:

By Hermione Granger.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time his blood had boiled like this. He wanted to rip the paper into shreds and throw it into the Styx and maybe burn down the entire Prophet building while he was at it. “She replaced me with Granger!” He yelled in outrage, “Just wait till I get my hands on that filthy little traitor!”

“Oh,” Theo blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“What?”

“Well, I thought that since you turned Pansy down, she didn’t have a piece ready for the paper and had to hand it over to Ginevra, who brought in Granger.” He elaborated, which would explain his horror earlier. If he was right, and Pansy had to give up her column to Granger because of him, Draco was good as dead.

But Draco refused to believe that Pansy simply gave up her column to Weaslette, of all people, much less if she knew that Granger would be involved, too. No, this must be a contrivance of hers to manipulate him into writing for her. There was a reason she had been Sorted in Slytherin. If Draco had not been on the receiving end of her scheming, he would be impressed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Theo shrugged as he helped poured himself a cup of tea. “Either way, she’s got you now. You’re writing for her, whether you like it or not. Best if you resolve this before Pans brings in the cavalry.”

Draco wasn’t calm enough to parse what his friend was trying to imply. Nothing could be worse than being humiliated like this. He couldn’t shake off the sharp sting of betrayal. How could she do this to him? Like it hadn’t been bad enough getting bested by that girl in Hogwarts, time after time.

If anyone ever found out about this, it would spell the end of him. His parents would realise what a worthless son he was and disown him, and he’d be living on the streets, eating leftovers from the garbage, and sleeping in disgusting places, nothing to his name but disgrace. Perhaps his parents would adopt Granger instead. Maybe Draco would have to return to the dark side to survive, adding further disgrace to his name until a hundred years later, when he’d be six feet under, his gravestone would be marked saying: Here lies Draco Malfoy. A disappointment that should have died sooner. Replaced by Hermione Always-Better Granger.

Theo asked him to stop making the tea boil. Draco looked down to find that, indeed, their cups of lukewarm tea were now bubbling over. He gritted his teeth and controlled his magic.

He could not tolerate this.

The staff of the Daily Prophet were graced by his presence during their lunch break, and the number of sensible people in the building simultaneously reached the impressive amount of one.

Draco stepped out of the Floo, looking down at the people shamelessly gawping at him. The nerve of those vultures! As if he was going to summon the Dark Lord or something in the middle of a cluttered newspaper office. Did they still not realise that his friend worked here? The future of journalism was doomed.

“Parkinson,” he said with a paper-thin veneer of amiability.

Pansy had the audacity to smirk. “Draco, darling, what brings you here?”

“I’ve come to lodge a complaint against a column I’m told you are responsible for,” He jutted his chin with the appropriate amount of entitlement, slapping Theo’s copy on her desk even though he was certain there were at least five other copies in the room, alone.

“Oh, my,” she said with exaggerated concern. “What could possibly be the cause of this?”

“The article submitted by one,” Draco pretended to check the paper, “Hermione Granger. I would elaborate on its every fault, but I’m afraid I can’t spend the next ten years doing so. Matters to tend to and all that, I’m sure you understand.”

“Oi, don’t talk about Hermione like that!” Weaslette yelled (which was unnecessary, since she was only a few feet away), invading his space much like her brother. The trait must run in the family, then. “Her piece was good! I bet people learnt more about Muggles from that one article than they did in their entire lives! A bigot like you has no right to judge her! I’d like to see you write an article about Muggles.”

“Funnily enough,” He drawled, not deigning to look at the woman, “that is what I came here to propose. Clearly, there is a dearth of competent writers around here. Someone might as well step up.”

Pansy clapped with glee. “Oh, would you really? That would be wonderful, Draco!”

He was sure that, had someone else been involved, Pansy would have hemmed and hawed until he’d be forced to come as close to begging as Malfoys do. Fortunately for him, Pansy could never even pretend to like anything to do with Granger. And despite all that Gryffindor nobility and honour, those feelings were likely mutual. Granger had probably only cooperated with Pansy for the sake of ‘educating the masses’. Oh what a big favour she has done them, her contribution to the world shall be remembered for posterity. Honestly, why that woman thought she had any right to tell wizards how to live, Draco didn’t know. They’d been open-minded enough to let Muggleborns into the wizarding world despite the risk it created of their secrets getting out to the Muggle world, but these ungrateful idiots just want to convert the wizarding world into a replica of Muggles!

…Alright, maybe they shouldn’t abuse house elves; Draco has learnt that lesson well enough, but even so! It’s common decency to make an attempt to immerse yourself in the community that has welcomed you instead of turning on them and pointing fingers to places you shouldn’t be pointing. Granger’s activist tendencies would land her in trouble sooner or later, and then she’d have to learn the hard way that there are times when your mouth is better off tightly shut and your thoughts left in the confines of your tiny, two-dimensional mind.

“What? No, you can’t just swoop in and pretend to be our noble saviour!” Weaslette shouted, pointing her finger at him. “Now, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I won’t let this happen! Besides, Hermione’s already got a piece ready for tomorrow. We don’t need you.”

“Oh, but we do,” Pansy countered. “Granger might be smart, but she’s boring, Ginny. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Weaslette faltered at that, mouth opening and closing as she failed to come up with a defence. “Fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give him a platform to spread his pureblood propaganda! The last thing we need is to enable Muggle-haters.”

“On the contrary, I think he’s the perfect man for the job. He has become quite the Muggle-lover, lately. I reckon he visits their world more often than your Granger does.” Pansy inspected her nails. It wasn’t an act, as far as Draco could tell; she was genuinely inspecting them as if picturing what she’d get done on her next trip to the salon.

“You- he- What?” Weaslette sputtered in shock. Rather dramatic of her, if you asked him. “You’re joking.”

“Darling, I’m being as serious as a Cruciatus.” Pansy met her gaze dead-on. “Besides, he’ll provide a more interesting perspective. Pureblood supremacist turned Muggle-lover. The audience would gobble it all up like hot cross buns.” Draco was almost certain that his friend had just coined a phrase. One he might actually use, if only in the privacy of his thoughts.

Weaslette looked at him shrewdly, weighing their arguments like she was in a Quidditch shop comparing broomsticks. “What’s the catch?”

She was smarter than she used to be, at least.

“I’d like to remain anonymous,” Draco said. He knew that neither of them would oppose it, though it may be for a different reason. “And I will write what I want to, not what you tell me to. At most, you may make suggestions. Rest assured, there will be nothing inflammatory. I just want to be clear that I retain my independence.”

“That’s it?” She narrowed her eyes at him doubtfully.

“I’m told I will be paid for this undertaking.”

“Yes, of course,” Pansy answered.

“Then, yes, that is all.”

Weaslette took it in stride, unfolding her arms as she said, “Alright, that can be arranged. I'll be reading everything before it goes on paper, so don't be getting any ideas, you hear me? Your piece will be published the day after tomorrow, though. I’m not gonna let Hermione’s hard work go to waste. Will you be fine publishing under a pen name?”

“Yes.”

“Got any in mind? Or I could just choose one for you if you’re too busy,” She tacked on, not even trying to hide her eagerness.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” Pansy said with a hint of warning. It was good to know that she would still stand up for him when it came down to it. He had started to doubt their friendship.

Weaslette shrugged. Judging by the ease of his victory, the woman was probably planning to use Granger’s work in some other way. Perhaps the wizarding world should look forward to some (hopefully) well-intentioned, well-planned, and fully offensive articles urging them to upturn society and governing hierarchy in the near future.

He absently wondered if Granger would cover new topics or if she’d stick to her naïve elf-freedom campaign. If not, he could always send anonymous suggestions. Since nobody in the Ministry had time for him anymore (unless it was to try and arrest him or raid his house again), he was willing to use the voice of another, even if it was Granger. It was time to put old school rivalries aside, anyway.

Maybe he could convince her to write about discrimination against half-breeds. She would like that, he thought. Potter and his lot had always loved Hagrid and Lupin. And he’d heard from Pansy that Fleur Delacour had married one of the Weasleys. Granger would jump on the chance to defend people like them, Gryffindor that she was.

Draco left the same way he came, except this time he had to side-step a disgusting slop of what was hopefully food. Salazar, he’d have to take another bath once he reached the Manor.

On Monday morning, Granger’s second article was published in the paper and Draco received two letters during breakfast: one from Granger (expressing her delight on finding that he was interested in writing about Muggles) and one from Weaslette (vowing to do terrible things to him if he ever crossed a line; it was very crude and Draco had Ripky burn it post-haste).

When he visited Battyl’s Bistro that day, Draco ordered galão. His second draft was finished by the time he had left. As it turned out, Draco had far exceeded the word limit and had to split the story into three parts.

On Tuesday morning, a Cadmus Whittle’s first submission was printed. It started with a bit of background, vague enough to make Cadmus seem like any other ordinary wizard, and then delved into his reasons for deciding to go visit the Muggle world before finally starting a discussion on Muggle transportation. The Tube was found intriguing, which led to a detailed article on it getting published a day later, covered by Pansy Parkinson.

On Wednesday, the discussion was resumed, and curious readers learned about Muggle aeroplanes and spacecraft. It incited all sorts of emotions from the audience, including wonder and outrage, and the Prophet received various letters with regard to Cadmus Whittle’s articles. The Diagon Alley office was flooded with fanmail, and several employees were diverted to sorting through them instead of spending time covering Howell Everglade’s humiliating defeat at the hands of an up-and-coming wizard that sprung up out of nowhere and was steadily climbing the ranks or something like that.

On Thursday, Cadmus wrote about his struggles with blending in and how he overcame it. He ended his story by giving his readers tips on how to successfully act like a Muggle and subsequently coined the terms under- and over-Muggling . What followed led to the Prophet creating a separate mailbox that would forward the letters inside it straight to Draco.

His elves were happy to volunteer to sort through the letters. Draco ought to give them more tasks lest they were driven mad from boredom. Norvus might be too old for physical jobs, but he was a stubborn creature, and a magical one. Ripky was much younger and very capable of doing both. There was only so much Draco could make them do in the Manor. He made a mental note to ask his parents how they had managed to handle three house elves for so many years. They got through their chores faster than he had thought possible.

By the time he reached Battyl’s Bistro, Caolán was already seated at a table with a strong cup of tea at his side.

He appeared more flustered than usual, with his hair nearly as bad as Potter’s and a hint of stubble on his face. His free hand hovered as if he was trying to resist the urge to chew his fingernails, an effort that Draco appreciated.

When Barista Willis greeted Draco with her standard question of “Which is it today, Draco: galão or corretto?” he looked up and met his gaze.

Draco nodded at him in greeting. Caolán blinked in surprise, then waved at him with a small smile.

“Here you go, then.”

Draco accepted the proffered cup, barely registering the strangely quick service. Was Caolán trying to outdo him? Do Muggles compete over their affability, the way wizards compete over their affluence?

Draco was a competitive person. All Malfoys were.

His great-something grandmother spent thirty-three years outdoing Robert Fludd because of some passing remarks he had made in one of his parties. He’d grown listening to bedtime stories of a (very) distant relative that outlived his archnemesis by six whole minutes, which he used to place a curse on the archnemesis’ family, out of pure spite. Draco would be damned if he lost to a Muggle now.

He steeled himself and took a seat at Caolán’s table. “Hello.”

Distracted blue eyes flitted. “Oh, uh, hi Draco. How are you?”

Damn it. “I’m alright. And you? Studying for uni?”

“Ah, no,” Caolán looked down at his book sheepishly. “Just looking into something I’ve been curious about lately.”

Draco steadfastly ignored the urge to smile by taking a sip of coffee. “And what’s that?”

The man pursed his lips, looking up at him for a moment. “Magic.” His eyes flitted away, which was fortunate, or else he would’ve caught Draco nearly choking on his coffee. “Well, mostly stuff about dragons. And a…cockatrice, I think it’s called. I was just looking for drawing inspiration, you know?”

“Had any luck?” he asked, hoping Caolán wouldn’t notice the sudden hoarseness in his voice. People often used cockatrice and basilisk interchangeably, he knew, even though they were different creatures. And Draco would rather not take a trip down that memory lane.

“It’s…” He trailed off, waving his hand clumsily. “I don’t know. It’s interesting, but it’s not what I’m looking for.”

“D’you mind if I take a look, then?” Draco asked. He shifted his chair closer to Caolán’s when he assented. Caolán pushed the book along the table so it lay between them.

Draco’s eyes first landed on the dragon illustration. It wasn’t that bad, other than the shape of the head. The text described dragons as fire-breathing gold hoarders, which wasn’t that far off, either. “Seems alright to me. What’s the matter?”

“Dragons don’t hoard gold,” he said. It was strange. Nearly everyone, Muggle or wizard, believed it.

“What makes you say that?”

Caolán furrowed his brows, tracing a finger over the dragon’s face. “Just a feeling.”

Right. This was an artist looking for just the right sort of inspiration. Fortunately for him, Draco knew quite a bit about dragons (and basilisks, but he wasn't going to mention that). This knowledge, of course, had everything to do with wizarding education and not his pre-teen obsession with his namesake.

And if Draco was going to win this Muggle amiability competition, he would willingly condescend to help the man. With a fortifying sip, he said, “I’ve read a bit about dragons, so maybe I could help. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

“I dunno, it’s all a bit blurred in my head.” Caolán ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “He’s huge, had golden scales. Breathed fire, of course, but it’s not…normal fire? And he could talk.”

Draco tried not to laugh. Muggles. Their imagination had somehow managed to surpass the bounds of the magical world itself. What would they come up with next, carnivorous unicorns? “Anything else?”

Caolán’s lip quirked. “I don’t know much yet, but something gives me the impression that he was a right bastard.”

That started a laugh out of him. Caolán knew this fictitious dragon’s personality before he even knew what it would look like. What a fascinating mind. He couldn’t think of any golden-scaled dragons, though. Perhaps a Peruvian Vipertooth? It was one of the smallest dragon breeds, but a Muggle would still find them big. They had nothing to compare with.

“How big is it?”

“Very,” his eyes widened as he said it, “Just his head was bigger than my body. He’d barely have to open his mouth to eat me whole.”

“What the hell have you been reading?” Draco looked at him incredulously. Dragons were big, yes, but this! This was just ridiculous. Unless bred really well, dragons rarely ever grew that large, and if they did, they certainly didn’t speak. Someone ought to keep Muggle fairytales in check before it got out of hand.

“Aren’t you listening? I haven’t been reading! Everything I found so far is stories about man-eating, gold-hoarding, damsel-imprisoning monsters!” Caolán’s eyes flashed with frustration. Just as quickly, though, he stopped. “Oh god. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Frankly, had this happened to him in the wizarding world, Draco would never have tolerated such insolence. But here, with the man losing his patience and snapping at him the way his friends would every time his rivalry with Potter got out of hand, Draco felt strangely comfortable. He had a feeling that Caolán would fit right in with them. “It’s alright. No harm done.”

Caolán fumbled through a few more apologies but Draco didn’t have the strength nor will to keep reassuring him, so he rested his chin on one hand and waited for the man to stop. Once he petered off, Draco said, “They do seem to imprison a lot of damsels, don’t they?”

Caolán looked at him for a long second before bursting into giggles. Draco’s lips twitched in amusement. Surely, he was winning the Muggle amiability competition by now. He bet Pansy had never won any. He couldn’t wait to mention his victory in the Prophet.

Speaking of which. “Well, I should be going, but I look forward to seeing this dragon of yours.”

“You’ll see him as soon as I figure it out,” Caolán beamed. “Bye, Draco. Have a good evening!”

“You too,” He said as he stood to leave. He returned his cup to Barista Willis, who looked rather impish, at the moment. He felt bad for whatever poor soul’s drink she was making.

After that, it was a simple matter of reaching the Apparition spot nearby and within minutes, he was back in the Manor, where he was greeted by the sight of Cassie rampantly shredding his fan mail. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”

Wide, lime-green eyes blinked back at him. “Mrrp?”

“No, no, by all means, carry on. It’d be rude if I joined you, anyway.” Draco sighed. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He had never received fan mail before. Surely, if Lockhart had been willing to destroy lives for it, it must be worth something. Though perhaps it was for the best if he didn’t open them. Vanity was a sin, was it not? The Ministry would probably alter its laws to make it an Azkaban-worthy crime, just for him.

Cassie twitched her whiskers in agreement and went back to getting a white envelope out of her claws.

When the wizarding world read out about The Man from the Train, the public was torn between defending him (Blaise said it might be because they relate to the man’s struggles with romance) and praising Cadmus for not hitting him with a Silencing Charm.

Draco felt vindicated, yes, but he was also annoyed since he had spent quite some time explaining the various jobs Muggles had. He was planning to delve into it further in the upcoming articles, so it was important that the readers maintain their interest and not get sidetracked by the obnoxious Muggle that still continued to haunt him. He was regretting writing about him now, but he had needed to complain at the time and it hadn’t felt unwise. Now, Draco’s resentment towards the stranger grew.

His annoyance was abated when he learned that the Ministry had received letters demanding a modification to the Stature of Secrecy in order to make an exception for aggravating Muggles. Draco thought that this was motivated by Cadmus’ story, but Pansy insisted that at least some of the credit should go to Weaslette’s article on slavery in the Muggle world and what the wizarding world should learn from it.

Granger had obviously been trying to shed light on its similarities with wizard-elf relations, but the woman didn’t really know what she was talking about, so neither did her readers. However, there was an increase in the number of people who were harassing the Ministry, and Draco was glad.

He had sent a letter to his parents, briefly catching them up on everything and asking them about themselves. The usual. What little mail that had survived Cassie’s genocide he had taken up to his room. He’d read it after lunch; maybe he’d even answer some of the questions asked.

He had read up on dragons and hadn’t found anything even close to what Caolán had described. On the other hand, though, he now knew quite a bit about wyverns. Interesting creatures, those. Hagrid would probably adopt them, too, the madman. He remembered the dragon chick from first year. What a nightmare that had been. It was a miracle that oaf's hut hadn’t been burned down.

“Master Draco, there are Aurors at the gates,” Norvus said as he cracked into existence before him and bowed.

Draco groaned loudly. “What is it now?”

Norvus blinked and disappeared. Draco rolled his eyes. The old elf was nearing retirement age if he recalled correctly. Though Norvus would rather die than admit it, the Manor would probably need another elf soon. Magic or not, there were some things Draco could no longer ask Norvus to do. He wondered if there would be any house-elf willing to work for a Malfoy.

“They say they are not here for inspection. They wish to talk to Master Draco,” said Norvus.

“That’s well and good, but I still can’t say no,” Draco muttered. “Let them in. And do make sure to apologise for mixing up the salt and sugar. As for which food item you messed up, surprise me.”

Huge eyes glinted. “Yes, Master Draco.”

Draco took his time getting ready. Even the Manor was happy to lead him through a winding path downstairs. He smiled and patted the polished handrail in gratitude. The twin chandeliers turned the light a deep grey the minute he entered the room.

Potter and Weasley were in the drawing room, sans their Auror robes. They clearly hadn’t learnt from their previous experience, for there were two biscuits missing from the tea tray set out before them. Weasley looked a bit ill. Good. They looked up in tandem when he arrived, faces twisted as if this was the last place they wanted to be. The nerve of them!

“And why have I been encumbered with your presence on this lovely Friday morning?”

Weasley narrowed his eyes. “We’re not here on Auror business if that’s what you’re asking, Malfoy.”

“We just wanted to talk to Odmert,” said Potter. “He works for you, doesn't he?”

“I know who he is,” Draco narrowed his eyes. Odmert was one of the goblins Draco had hired to manage their finances. They were exceedingly good at their job and probably the only reason Draco had managed to restore the Malfoy fortune in a matter of months. Sure, they charged a hefty fee for their services, but they made it all quadruple by the end, so it was money well spent, Draco thought.

“What do you want with him?”

“It’s confidential.” Weasley said.

“Then feel free to show yourselves out the door.” The chairs jerked under the pair in agreement.

Weasley cursed loudly and flung out his arms for balance. “Bloody hell, Malfoy!”

“It’s about Griphook,” Potter blurted. Draco raised an eyebrow. “Look, we really can’t tell you more than that, but it’s important, alright?”

Draco remembered Griphook. The goblin they had imprisoned in the Manor’s cellars. He had escaped with Potter and his posse, only to return with the Sword of Gryffindor when he was summoned. Voldemort had killed him and the sword had vanished. Draco didn’t even know what the Death Eaters had done with the goblin’s body afterwards. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He waved his arm and said, “Door.”

“It’ll only take a minute, Malfoy,” Weasley insisted, standing up to avoid getting knocked over by Draco’s loyal chairs. “I swear we’re not doing anything bad. We’ve got a good reason, seriously.”

“Well, you might be the Golden Trio but not everyone can get away with breaking the law, even if it’s for a good cause,” He snapped. “I’m not going to be dragged into whatever it is you lot are planning. Not this time. Get out.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Weasley rose to his feet. “We don’t have time for your rubbish. Tell us where the goblin is. If you want to so badly, you can throw a fit in a cell.”

“Are you threatening me? In my house?” Draco snarled. His fingers brushed against the wand strapped to his wrist. The air grew thick with tension as the Manor prepared itself for an attack.

“No! No, we’re not. Ron! ” Potter stepped in front hastily. “Look just- It’s about Gryffindor’s Sword, alright!”

Draco paused. “What?”

Potter sighed wearily and sank back into his chair. “I wasn’t lying when I said we can’t tell you. Honestly, Ron and I aren’t even supposed to know this.”

He might as well have spelt TROUBLE using enchanted fireworks and sung it with a Sonorous. Draco appreciated the warning, though. “Okay, now I definitely don’t want to be part of any of this. I wouldn’t touch this situation of yours with a lance. But at least you were honest, so could you kindly leave my house and never mention this to me again. I’d rather not give the Ministry an excuse to send me off to Azkaban.”

“There are people that could be in danger, Malfoy! For once in your life, stop being a selfish little git and help us!” Weasley yelled, and really, he had a terrible habit of invading Draco’s space.

“Get out before I report you two for harassment.”

“Harrassment? Oh, please! No one would believe you, anyway!” Weasley scoffed. Potter hissed something at him, but Draco couldn’t hear it. He was certain he was dying. Was Weasley laughing? It didn’t sound like him, but who else could it be?

The chandeliers lit the room red. Potter was flung out of his chair violently while the carpet wrapped itself around Weasley’s leg. The heavy double doors swung open and the Manor ejected the pair out of the house. There were two loud cracks outside, followed by shouts and yells and the telltale slam of the Manor gates.

Draco exhaled shakily and covered his face with his hands. It took a few long minutes till he managed to choke out, “Thank you.”

The chandeliers tinkled and the door leading to the gardens swivelled hopefully. “Good idea,” Draco said. He pulled himself to his feet. Cassie was waiting for him outside, her tail swishing about lazily as she looked up at him. “Lead the way, dear.” She meowed and trotted ahead. Draco didn’t return to the house until hours after.

On Saturday, he received his parents’ reply, which he left by his bedside to read at length later. The elves had added a bowl of garlic-roasted potatoes to the usual breakfast spread. They were warm and soft and had just the right amount of seasoning. When Draco tried to thank them, Norvus had simply looked at him sternly until he gave up.

He spent the morning tending to the pond and feeding the fish. The eels happily swam around his legs, the occasional mischievous one flicking water at him. “Hello to you too.”

Draco sat on a rock so he could run his hands over them. A few sanguine-bellied pipefish floated past, too shy to try and swim among the eels. He carefully extended his hand towards them. One of them wrapped its tail around his finger. “Yes, hello. Good morning.”

He fed them with a bit of wandless magic he had been practising. He still hadn’t got it quite right, but he was getting better at it. Once the fish got bored of his presence, he moved to the greenhouse.

He had just begun tending to the Molies when he felt the Manor’s magic splintering as somebody disabled its wards. Draco gasped in pain, nearly dizzy with the force of it. Norvus cracked into existence and, without wasting a moment, Apparated him to the Manor.

“What-?” Draco looked around, disoriented. Aurors. “What the hell is going on?”

“We got a warrant,” sneered Weasley. “Now tell us where that goblin is, or I’ll have to arrest you.”

“Don't lie to me! There’s no way you got a warrant within hours,” It sounded hollow even to him. If anyone could get it, it’d be them.

“Look, we didn’t implicate you of anything, Malfoy,” Potter had the gall to look sincere. “We just told them that Odmert might be hiding something dangerous, and since he works for you, he might have tried to hide it here. We said you probably didn’t know anything about it since goblins are so possessive of their things, and Odmert was taking advantage of your protection. Nobody thinks you’re guilty of anything, Malfoy, I promise.”

“Unless you decide not to cooperate with us,” Weasley added. “Then we’ll have to take you in for obstruction of justice, and we don’t want that.”

“We really don’t,” Potter said.

“I don’t care! This is my house!” Draco raised his voice, feeling his control slip. “You can’t just waltz in here, easy as you please, just because I’m the only person on this goddamn planet that dared to say no to you!”

“This isn’t about that Draco!” Potter insisted, as if Draco would believe that. “We think there might be something dangerous out there, and we’ll need that sword to deal with it. We didn’t want to do this! We came to talk to you first, didn’t we?”

“You didn’t give me a single good reason to help you. You just walked into my house, demanded to see my goblin but refused to tell me why, and when I—like any reasonable person, mind you—didn’t agree, you threatened me!”

Weasley looked regretful. “Look, Malfoy, if this wasn’t so important, we’d’ve done all this differently, but this is important, alright? Just trust us, if you knew what was going on…Well, I don’t know how you’d react but I’d like to think you’d want to help us.”

“If you really want to know,” Potter looked nervous. “If that’s what it’d take to get you to trust us-”

“You don’t have to worry about trust when I owe you a life debt, Potter,” Draco snapped, feeling smoke choke his lungs. “But I won’t repay it by helping you break the law. You’ll get away with it but they’ll send me to Azkaban, you know they will. You can’t strong-arm me into this, I won’t help you.”

“Then stay out of our way,” Weasley said. “Just let us do our job.”

“You won’t find anything here,” Draco snarled. The Manor’s curtains fluttered in anger.

“But we might,” countered Potter, “and we’ve got no other leads on this, Malfoy, so we’re going to have to take that chance. I’m sorry.”

Draco choked on a bitter laugh. “Right. Norvus! Ripky! Keep an eye on these two. If they take anything other than that bloody sword, flay them alive.” When neither of them reacted to the open threat, Draco’s anger doubled.

“We won’t break anything,” Weasley met his gaze, so serious he may as well be making an Unbreakable Vow. “Barchan was an idiot, and we sorted him out. It won’t happen again. It can’t be nice having people rummage through your home like this. We’re just here for the sword, alright? If we don’t find it, we won’t get you involved in this again.”

Draco felt empty. The chandeliers stopped glinting, and the Manor grew cold. “Go ahead, then.” He said.

Potter looked concerned. “Malfoy?”

“I’m going out.” He couldn’t stay any longer in a house that didn’t feel like his. He wondered if it ever had been his, after the war. As if sensing his thoughts, the Manor grew dimmer. He couldn’t have that, or the Manor would never let him leave. To placate it, he said, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Going out for a drink again?” Weasley asked doubtfully.

“Yes.” He needed it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Draco was certain he must look particularly pathetic because even fate took pity on him for once. After his minor loss of composure, he Apparated himself to the Muggle world and stormed towards Battyl’s Bistro with wet squelching of drenched socks against the soles of his—rather expensive—leather shoes. He was even forced to roll up his trousers . It was endlessly frustrating, sending his blood pressure one tick higher with each squelch.

And it certainly wasn’t that Draco was foolish enough to get himself wet when visiting his pond. He had taken off his shoes and socks before dipping his feet in water, like any well-raised wizard, but those pests had to barge into his house and make him hastily return to the Manor and make a mess of himself in the process. Yet another mark against Potter and Weasley.

He pushed the door open and was immediately greeted with the smell of coffee. And, since it was Saturday, Caolán was seated at a table with a book and some stationery scattered around him. His cup was still wafting some steam, so he must have come to the café not too long ago. He didn’t look up when Draco walked past, which made Draco’s temper worsen. How dare he ignore him!

“Hullo, Draco! Which is it… today?” Barista Willis’ voice trailed off as she took in his state with mild concern. Normally, he only ever took one of two drinks, since those were the best Battyl’s Bistro had to offer. He didn’t think it would cut it, today, so Draco broke tradition and ordered Irish coffee. Barista Willis stared at him, unmoving. She looked troubled as she turned to prepare his drink. She also looked vaguely annoyed.

Well, frankly, he didn’t care because he was far, far more annoyed than Barista Willis could possibly be. His shoes and trousers were wet , for Merlin’s sake! Just his luck to not wear the waterproofed ones the day he’d need them. Draco spun on his heel and squelched over to Caolán’s table. He sat wordlessly on the chair beside Caolán, praying he’d be spared the humiliation of being turned down by the Muggle. He didn’t know how Muggle social customs worked, but hopefully, winning the amiability competition meant that they were acquaintances, if not friends.

Caolán glanced up from his sketchbook. “Rolled off the wrong side of the bed, did you?” He asked wryly, taking in his appearance.

“Shut up,” Draco snapped. Somewhere, a glass shattered. Ugh. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

“Sorry,” Caolán said, immediately raising his arms. He looked at Draco with wide eyes, brows raised, and tried again. “Are you alright?”

“…No.” For Salazar’s sake, he had to do something about Caolán’s ability to loosen his lips. Draco clenched his teeth and glared at the stained wood. “I’m not going to talk about it,” He asserted.

“Alright,” Caolán nodded and went back to drawing whatever it was he was working on. The quiet company leached the tension from Draco’s shoulders.

“Here you go, Draco,” Barista Willis placed the tiny tray in front of him. There was a piece of chocolate next to the cup. Draco thanked her.

He couldn’t bring himself to do much now, but he vowed to talk to his friends later. Perhaps he’d mention this to Mother in his next letter, too. He couldn’t handle being pushed around like this. Not alone. He couldn’t let Potter and Weasley throw their weight around his house anymore, else he’d end up doing something drastic that would undoubtedly land him into an even deeper circle of hell.

Was this what he’d done to the people he had bullied all these years? The thought made him grimace, despite the delicious coffee. How terribly foolish he’d been, wasting his time on such nonsense. No wonder Granger had punched him; being bullied was such a hassle. He was glad he grew out of it, at least. There were better things to spend time on.

His gaze drifted over to Caolán in search of a distraction. The man was intently focused on whatever he was making. Draco watched as his hand dragged the thick, soft-tipped pen over the paper in a smooth stroke. The ink bled into the page, slightly. Barely enough to notice.

On the page was a gargoyle, with bat-like wings and huge fangs. There were several drawings of its head, as if Caolán had to make it multiple times to get it right, though Draco thought all of them looked flawless. Caolán was working on the outline of a man, his thick marker tracing out the cloak.

“You’re very good,” Draco observed.

Caolán blushed, “Just loads of practice. I still haven’t figured out how to make the dragon.” He flipped back a few pages to show a discarded sketch. Small versions of the dragon’s parts were drawn with good enough detail, but the main drawing in the centre of the page looked like an ill-fitted puzzle. It still looked better than most drawings Draco had seen, and he told him so.

“Thanks,” Caolán smiled shyly. He seemed unused to receiving compliments. Randomly, Draco decided to ask to see his other artworks. The man shuffled his chair closer as he flipped to the first page, explaining every detail passionately. Draco rested his chin on his hands and listened. The Muggle was talented. With the exception of the dragon, all his pieces seemed to lift off the page as if he had breathed life into them.

He was clearly fascinated by magic. There was a shield with live snakes on it, vaguely reminiscent of Greek myths. An afanc, commanded by a woman with dark hair and bright eyes. Caolán called the witch a priestess, but when Draco asked what that meant, the man seemed unsure of himself.

There was a gryphon, lovingly made, every feather drawn carefully. A scarred man standing in a ring of fire. A grotesque fairy with a wooden staff. A herd of unicorns, protected by an old man. All accompanied by fascinating but incomplete stories.

Draco didn’t blame Caolán for not knowing everything. He was an artist, his main goal was getting his characters right on paper, not coming up with their biography.

That being said, the man already knew the names of all of his creations. Nimueh, Edwin, Aulfric, Anhora. Draco knew Nimueh. One of the most powerful witches in wizarding history, except perhaps Morgan le Fay. He hadn’t known that the stories had spilt into Muggle culture as well. For all that the governments said about the Statue of Secrecy, there was already so much the Muggles knew.

“And I’m currently working on him,” Caolán said when he flipped back to the gargoyle page.

“Have you picked a name for him yet?” Draco asked, wondering if it would be funny to name it Voldemort. Caolán might not be able to appreciate the joke, poor Muggle. Maybe they can just call it Tom, then.

But Caolán replied, “Yeah, I have.” And then did not elaborate. His gaze flicked to the neglected stationery. Taking the hint, Draco unfolded his Muggle newspaper and left the other man to it.

He read articles, filled up the crossword—the longest word of the day being Diffidence —and he even managed to finish sudoku without errors this time. The Irish coffee was no longer needed, but Draco drank it anyway because to do otherwise would be a waste of money and good coffee. The icky amalgamation of… emotions began to fade away, leaving Draco vaguely embarrassed. There might be a small, minuscule really, possibility that he had overreacted earlier.

Potter was many things, but malicious was not one of them. He must’ve been truly desperate if he was driven to such drastic measures. But Draco would rather not get involved at all, and he would never forgive Potter for taking that choice out of his hands. For once, none of this was Draco’s fault, and neither was it his parents’. So why on earth could Potter not stay out of his life?

Draco realised he’d been staring vacantly at the two-panel comic for at least ten minutes now. It wasn’t even a funny comic; heat rushed to his face, and he valiantly fought it off. “Caolán,” He said, folding the newspaper with a sharp snap.

The man looked up at the sound, brows raised. “What?”

That expression of his had Draco glaring at the stained wood with great intensity. “Are we… friends?” He gritted his teeth with instant regret. Damned Barista Willis, spiking his drinks with Babbling potion. Where the hell was she even sourcing it from? Was there an underground smuggling ring he wasn’t aware of?

Caolán looked at him in surprise. “I’d say so. I haven’t really made a habit of drinking coffee with random strangers, sorry.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at the snark, receiving an amused twitch of the lips in response. Caolán’s exaggerated expression made him crack anyway, damn him. Draco hid his smirk behind his cup. “Neither have I,” Draco replied. “And I don’t make a habit of befriending people, either. You should be honoured.”

“Sure,” the man agreed without sounding agreeable at all. Truly, Draco was impressed.

“Is this related to whatever had you so upset when you came in?”

“I wasn’t upset. I was angry,” Draco snapped. He slammed his cup on the table, which did very little to scare the Muggle, unfortunately. Perhaps he should point his wand at the man instead; but then again, he’d end up looking a fool in front of these people who had no idea that there was more to magic than a deck of cards. Draco liked to think he was prudent enough to know when to concede. So, he said, “Alright, maybe I was a little upset.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“You don’t mind?” Draco asked warily.

“As long as you don’t get offended if I keep drawing,” Caolán shrugged. “I’ll be paying attention, though. Promise.” His mussed black hair nearly obscured his eyes when he tilted his head at Draco.

Draco wasn’t much for promises these days, but a Muggle might be stupid enough to actually keep it. If it didn’t go well, he could always Obliviate him. Taking the chance, he affected a nonchalant shrug. “By all means, don’t let me stop you.” At that, Caolán let out an odd, amused sound and prompted him to begin his tale.

“I have these two old classmates that… work for the police, sort of. They’re looking for something that a- a person who works for my family might have, or at least know something about. But they wouldn’t tell me why they were looking for it, so, obviously, I turned them away.”

Caolán hummed. Draco took it as an agreement and continued.

“They came back today with a warrant and are currently searching through my house. And the worst part is, I want to know why they’re so desperate to find this thing, but I also don’t want to know because I think they’re breaking the law.”

“What?”

“Oh, they do it all the time. For the greater good, of course,” Draco scoffed. “But I know if I get myself involved in whatever it is, they’re up to; I’ll be the one thrown into the dragon’s den. It’s so- They just don’t seem to understand. They think they can barge into my house and get away with it— and they will. If I did something like this, greater good or not, they’d have me locked up. And then they act as if I’m the enemy for not wanting to help them. It’s like they don’t even know that we’re not… we’re not equals.”

Caolán’s hand halted, pencil hovering over the paper for a few long seconds before slender fingers spun it backwards. Draco clenched his jaw and refused to meet the implicit request to look up. He was just fine staring at the sketch instead of whatever sappy expression the man was undoubtedly sporting. Draco heard him sigh, so he naturally braced himself for some unsolicited advice about how he should be more considerate and try to put himself in Potter’s shoes and, oh, who could say, maybe something about being less self-centred.

“They sound like quite the prat-set.”

“Prat-set?” Draco blurted, gaze darting up to the man in sheer befuddlement.

“Oh, don’t be thick. A set of prats. A prat-set. You know.”

“Don’t think I do, actually,” He said faintly.

“Well, now you do. Are you sure they aren’t dirty cops? Doubt there’s much room to do the ‘greater good’ when operating outside the law.”

“They might be bloody idiots, but you can always bet that they’re the good guys. They’ve been doing it for nearly ten years now. Won’t be surprised if they get off on it at this point.” The trio’s dedication towards heroics was bordering on obsession.

“Well, I don’t care, they’re cabbageheads. If you ask someone for something and they say no, you leave them alone! And if they’re really just worried about the greater good or whatever, I’m sure they’re smart enough to find another way to save people instead of storming into people’s houses!” Caolán scratched away with his pencil, a sulky furrow between his brows. The mess of bitterness that had been boiling in Draco’s chest began to simmer down.

Exactly, Draco wanted to crow. They’ve got Granger. Surely she could come up with something.

“But,” Caolán added thoughtfully, “if there isn’t another way, maybe you should just let them do their thing. It’s good that you left your house, so you can plead ignorance if they get in trouble later on.”

Draco frowned but he had to admit, the Muggle had a point.

“Still, they probably deserve to be told off a little,” Caolán tapped his chin. “I could help?”

The thought of having the Saviour of the Wizarding World getting cussed out by a Muggle had Draco bursting into hysterical laughter. Barista Willis jerked up in alarm, nearly dropping a steaming hot cup. When she saw their table, she huffed a breath and turned back to work with an unreadable expression on her face.

“Oi, I’m being serious here,” Caolán said even as he grinned, “It’s been a while since I told someone off, I could use the practice.”

“God, I’d pay you in gold to see that,” Draco dabbed tears off the corner of his eyes. “But I don’t know if that’ll be a good deterrent to them. They’re as persistent as cockroaches. Wiggle into places they’re not wanted, just like them, too.”

“Woah, there, hold back on the compliments, Draco, or people will think you’re a fan.” Caolán cautioned with exaggerated concern. Draco smirked. Blaise would love Caolán. “If that won’t work, you could always file a complaint.” The Muggle added.

“No.” Draco cut the idea down before it could grow. Weasley had been right, after all: no one would believe him. Helplessness was a terrible feeling and a painfully familiar one. There always seemed to be some kind of target on his back. For being a spoilt, impressionable future heir when he was younger, then for being- being his father’s son, and now this. He couldn’t leave the Manor without having to watch his back constantly. It just didn’t stop. Sometimes it was as if Voldemort had never died.

Caolán was undeterred, though. “You have to tell someone ! Wait, wait, I’ve got an idea. They were your classmates, right? So you must know things about them. Maybe write to their parents. Or their mentor or something.”

“You want me to write to their mums?” Draco asked incredulously. “I’m not a child.”

“If not their mums, anyone that can keep them in check will do. When in doubt, go all out,” He concluded with a grin that belonged on a magical creature’s face more than a human’s.

Draco scoffed, “Is that a common phrase here?”

“Dunno. I’m sure I heard it somewhere, though.” A shrug.

“Well, I’d rather not write to their parents, but that does give me an idea. Thank you, for your help and for listening.” He meant it. Just a few words from his new Muggle friend had made him feel better. Mostly, it was the idea of scolding Potter and Weasley. Maybe the coffee helped a bit, too.

“Anytime,” the man smiled. And something should be said about Muggles’ social perceptivity because the man seemed to sense his sudden discomfort and quickly changed the topic. Though, it was hard to tell if the action was entirely subconscious or not. “Hey, your handwriting’s really nice. D’you think you could maybe write something for me?”

Draco frowned. While he appreciated the segue, it was an odd one. “Alright. What is it?”

“Here,” Caolán pushed his sketchbook towards him. “Under the man.”

Draco uncapped his fountain pen. He looked at the drawing of the man with the black-feathered cloak and tried to decide which handwriting would suit it best. He had attended penmanship classes when he was younger. The heir of a household was expected to have many traits and perfect handwriting was just a small one of them. “What do you want it to say?”

“Cornelius Sigan.”

His Muggle friend had an impressive imagination. The name fit the appearance, though, so he refrained from commenting on it. Draco carefully wrote the name underneath the drawing.

Caolán gasped, “You know calligraphy?”

Draco furrowed his brows. Was this not a normal Muggle skill? Had he unknowingly revealed something he shouldn’t have? “Yes.” He said slowly.

“Okay, you’re going to write the names of the rest of them too. We’ll start with Nimueh. N-I-M-” Had Draco not cast a hasty drying spell, the ink would’ve spread onto the next page. Caolán was too excited to notice. “-U-E-H. I know there are multiple spellings out there, but this one seems right, to me. I’ll spell out all the names, don’t worry. I mean, unless you don’t want to do it! You have that choice, I didn’t mean to-”

“Oh, fine, I’ll do it, just calm down!” Draco huffed at his eagerness. It was amusing and endearing and all sorts of things that made the Malfoy in him hiss. “The first one was for free but now I’m going to start charging for my services, you know.”

Caolán grinned, “I could buy you coffee. Gallow, was it?”

“ Galão ,” Draco corrected, appalled. He’d have to educate this simple fool over the course of their acquaintance.

The man rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said. Now start writing, we don’t have all day! If you do this quickly, you might still have time to go back and yell at those classmates of yours.”

Now that was some proper motivation. Draco had to admit that he couldn’t wait to get back home. Hopefully, Cassie would be in the mood for some clawing. “You’re full of good ideas today, aren’t you?”

Caolán preened and said something about always having great ideas if only people would listen . When Draco was finished writing, Caolán offered to gift him any one of his drawings. “I can always make more,” he insisted.

In the past, Draco would have been insulted by such a cheap gift of thanks, especially one coming from a Muggle. Now, though, he felt nearly pleased. “Give me whichever you want, then. I like them all.”

Caolán gave him the page with Cornelius Sigan and the gargoyle. “It’s the only one I didn’t pay for,” he smiled, blue eyes glinting. Draco returned the gesture and thanked him, carefully folding the paper to put it in his pocket. He’d use a spell later to smoothen it out again. As he reached the Apparition point, he made a mental note to bring a gift for Caolán next week. Malfoys always return their debts. And this debt was one Draco was happy to repay.

Potter, though… Well, he’ll deal with Potter in a minute, won’t he?

🝧

The Manor lit up when he arrived, announcing his presence to everyone inside. Cassie greeted him from on top of a staircase. “Are they still here, then?” He asked her. She meowed and trotted off inside. Draco followed. Sure enough, Potter and Weasley were in one of the spare bedrooms. Coincidentally (or perhaps not), it was the same bedroom where Draco had found the broken vase.

“Found anything, then?” Draco drawled, folding his arms across his chest.

“Master Draco,” Norvus and Ripky greeted in tandem, bowing deeply.

Potter jumped in fright, nearly toppling into Weasley; pretending as if he hadn’t just been gawping at the portrait of Druella Black. “Malfoy!”

“I’ve given you plenty of time, I should think,” Draco stalked towards the pair. “Now it’s time for you to leave.”

“Your bloody house didn’t let us do anything!” Weasley said. “All the lights went out, and it kept turning us around! D’you have any idea how many times it’s led us back to this room?!”

“Well, doesn’t sound like it falls under my list of problems. The Manor’s actions are its own.” He huffed. He was proud of his house. Defending the family even when no Malfoy was around to help it. Such loyalty was seldom found. A simple thank you would not suffice this time. Draco would have to do something special.

“Yeah, how does that work, by the way?” Potter asked. “The Burrow’s magical, but it doesn’t work like that. Even Grimmauld Place doesn’t.”

Draco froze at the mention. Grimmauld Place belonged to the Blacks. Andromeda had been blasted off the family tree. Bellatrix, Regulus and Sirius were dead. His mother was the last legitimate heir, and by extension, so was he. She had told him that the place had too many ghosts to be anyone’s home, so they hadn’t staked their claim on it. But it was still theirs . So how in the name of Salazar Slytherin did Potter get his hands on it?

“What the hell have you been doing in Grimmauld Place, Potter?”

“I inherited it,” Potter’s eyes flashed. “From my godfather.”

“Your-” Draco paused. “You mean Sirius Black? That man was your godfather?”

“Got something to say, Malfoy?” Weasley rose to his full height.

Draco rolled his eyes. Well, of course, their houses didn’t respond to their magic. It was obvious to anyone who applied their mind every now and again. Bloody thick…what was it Caolán had called them? Cabbageheads! But Draco was not going to give them a lesson in old magic. Not now, probably never. Let them figure it out themselves. “Did you find the sword?”

“No,” Weasley groused. “Are you ready to let us talk to Odmert, then?”

“After you went against my wishes, got a warrant to break into my house, and rifled through my things as if you’d find the sword despite never having seen it the last, oh, let’s say, fifty times you and your lot ransacked my house?” Draco watched as shame spread across their features. He smiled vindictively. “No.”

“For god’s sake, Malfoy, stop being petty. This is important,” Potter scowled. “We don’t have time for stupid grudges.”

“You should have thought about that before you started all this. Fuck off.” Draco snarled. Potter opened his mouth to retort but he beat him to it. “No, out! Both of you, get out, right now! I’ve had enough of you two for a lifetime!”

“Master Draco?” Norvus asked, both elves awaiting his command. Draco pursed his lips and nodded. 

“Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley are not welcome here,” Ripky said. His elves snapped their fingers, forcefully evicting the pair from the Manor with their powerful magic. 

Draco’s sigh of relief filled the silence. “Where did you send them?”

Glassy eyes blinked back at him innocently. “It is best if Master Draco does not know.”

He huffed a laugh. “Well, then. Thank you.”

“Master Draco is welcome,” Ripky smiled. Even Norvus begrudgingly accepted his thanks. 

“Make preparations for restoring the Manor’s wards, would you? We’ll start tomorrow, I think. I have some things to do.” 

“Yes, Master Draco.” The pair disappeared with loud cracks.

Draco made his way to the study room, though perhaps he ought to call it something else, for he seldom studied there anymore. Slipping out his wand, he Accioed a piece of parchment and pulled out a bottle of ink and a long black quill from the desk drawer.

His first letter was addressed to Theo. Just like him, Theo, too, suffered invasive law enforcers every other day or so. It was about time they started to present a more united front. They were both heirs of their pureblood families. If they didn’t stand up for each other, who would? 

It would be nice to have a reliable partner when Draco eventually snapped and started a duel against Potter and Weasley.

Theo,

Potter and Weasel are up to something, and they’re trying to drag me into it. They broke into my house today, the bastards. I don’t know how you tolerate all those Aurors in your house every week. It’s all I could do to not mur  They’re starting to test my patience. Should we start a union? I’m sure at least half the pureblood families would be on our side. This is getting ridiculous.

If you decide to show up at the Manor tomorrow, do be a dear and bring some pie. And coffee. That fancy imported one. (Yes, don’t think I don’t know about it.)

Forever suffering,

Draco.

He called for Aquila and tied the letter to her leg. “Take this to Theo, please.” She nipped his finger and took off. The Nott Mansion was not that far away; she’d return soon enough.

His next letter was for Granger. She was the most sensible person in the famous trio, and Draco had never been above a little tattling. Besides, she had been very eager to share her love for Muggles earlier. She’d grown up with Muggles. He wanted to ask her about them. Maybe she’d have some ideas on what he could gift Caolán.

Dear Granger,

I hope this letter finds you well, and I apologise for not replying to your letter earlier. 

I’d like to start by thanking you for your well-wishes. Most people would have been sceptical of my intentions, to say the least. Your open-mindedness was encouraging. I know that in our previous correspondence, I told you of my interest in correcting a lifetime of ignorance, and I am glad to know that you believed me.

I am writing to you now because you are possibly the most qualified person I know who can answer my questions.

You see, I have recently befriended a Muggle. He is quite an interesting man. He studies Muggle medicine, loves reading, and, as I’ve discovered, makes impressive sketches of magical creatures. Today, he gifted me one of his drawings, and I’d like to return the favour. Malfoys are good at giving gifts, but I’m not certain the customs I have learnt would apply to a Muggle. Showing my wealth will likely not do me any favours, in this situation. I’d like to give him something just as simple and meaningful as his drawing was to me. I hope you will be able to help me with this.

While I’m doing this, I might as well tell you what happened at the Manor today, in case Potter and Weasley have kept you in the dark.

They came to my house yesterday, demanding to see a goblin that works for me. When I turned them away—for good reason, too. Those bastards refused to tell me anything, why would I  They showed up with a warrant today. How they managed it, I don’t know. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had my house searched this month, Granger? This year? A fucking lot. It’s not nice.

And if they’re doing something illegal, as I think they are, it’d be me that will end up in trouble, not them. Nobody would harm the bloody Chosen One, but an ex-Death Eater? You know better than anyone how prejudiced people jump at the first opportunity to condemn people like us. Perhaps it is unfair of me to bring this up. Our situations are nothing alike. I, myself, am guilty of discriminating against you in the past. But I am a desperate man, Granger, and only you can control those two. Except perhaps Molly Weasley, but I don’t want to invoke a life debt just for some peace and quiet.

Do rein them in, won’t you? I’d rather not go to Azkaban for their idiocy.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy.

PS. I’d prefer it if you could get back to me regarding the gift before Thursday. It’s when I will be meeting him next.

Oh, and say hello to Ginevra from me. Though I suspect you won’t have to. She’s reading this over your shoulder, isn’t she? Hello, Ginevra. I hope you’re being nice to Pansy.

He didn’t know where Granger lived, so he addressed it to the Burrow instead. 

By the time Aquila returned, he had put the letter in an envelope and sealed it with a simple spell. “Thank you. Can you take this one to the Burrow? It’s for Granger.”

Aquila squawked in protest, the dramatic bird that she was. “I know, I know. Promise you can take the rest of the day off. You can even go out hunting.” He appealed with a tilt of his head. She huffed, shifting haughtily, and Draco knew she had given in.

🝧

The next morning, Theo sauntered in with a banoffee pie (he completely denied the existence of his fancy coffee, the miser) and proudly presented the Daily Prophet ’s front page, which had a passionate article on harassment and Aurors taking advantage of the political climate for their selfish means. It was co-written by Pansy Parkinson and Ginevra Weasley. 

Theo looked proud and a bit horrified, which, in Draco’s opinion, was the ideal combination. “You bloody madman. You got them teaming up.”

“So I did,” Draco laughed. “I wasn’t expecting that, to be honest.” 

He wouldn’t have been surprised if Ginevra and Granger had sent him a Howler in their friends’ defence. It was nice to see that at least some of them were willing to own up to their mistakes. Blaise would probably accuse Draco of hypocrisy, but Blaise was not here.

Theo snorted. “I’m surprised Pansy hasn’t stormed into the Manor already.”

So was he. He was dreading the reason for her delay. As if sensing his thoughts, the fireplace burst into green flames. Two righteously outraged figures walked through.

“Draco!” Pansy yelled. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us about this?”

“Tell you about what, exactly? The same thing all of us are going through?” Draco said. And maybe it was a bit of a lie. Pansy and Blaise’s jobs offered a sort of protection that Draco and Theo did not have. But they had all known about the inspections since the beginning.

“About Potter!” Blaise snapped as he settled into a chair with a dramatic swish of his robes. If he travelled all the way from America because of this, it wouldn’t bode well for Draco.

I was handling it,” Draco defended. 

“It’s not too late, Draco. We can still file a complaint against him.”

Theo jumped to correct Pansy. “Him and Weasley.”

“Both of them?!” Pansy screeched. “Oh, don’t tell me Longbottom’s been bullying you too. I might actually commit murder.” She didn’t specify whose, and knowing her, it might very well be Draco’s.

“Longbottom’s not in the picture,” Draco assured her. “And while I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t want you lot involved in this. I can take care of myself.”

“I’d rather not stand by while my best friend gets shoved around by Potter!”

“Look, I got Weaslette involved, didn’t I? You know she won’t let them do it again.” Draco pointed out. 

Pansy opened her mouth, probably to yell at him some more, but then a small scops owl took the opportunity to swoop into the room. It landed in front of Draco and proudly held out its foot.

“Is that what I think that is?” Pansy blinked. The owl swivelled its head to hoot at her happily. “Hullo, Pig.”

“Pig?” Theo scrunched his nose. “Who names their owl Pig ?”

Draco ignored his friends as he took the proffered letter from the owl. “Don’t tell me this is yours, Pansy,” he said as he slipped a Knut into the pouch.

“Don’t be stupid,” She scowled. “Ginny named it, though it’s technically Weasel’s owl.”

Blaise looked at her shrewdly. “ Ginny , is it?” Pansy replied with a crude gesture.

“Children, not at the table,” Draco chided, feeling a bit put off. “If you were going to barge in here, you should’ve at least brought something. Theo got pie.”

The pair looked at him flatly; Blaise pulled out a bunch of sandwiches from his pockets while Pansy dropped a fistful of Dew Dew Psychodrops that scattered over the table. His friends knew him too well. The owl named Pig grabbed a scone in its claws and flew away. 

“Now,” Pansy leaned back in her chair, “what does the letter say?”

“Give me a second,” Draco snapped at her impatience. The sender had used a clever Shrinking charm on the letter. With a quick Engorgio, he enlarged it back to its original size and read aloud, careful to exclude the post-script.

Dear Draco,

I’m glad that you reached out to me with this. I had thought that I’d managed to dissuade them, but clearly I was wrong. I apologise for their behaviour.

They do have a good reason, though, and you deserve an explanation. A proper one. If you’re willing, meet us at Grimmauld Place at 1 pm today. I promise you won’t get in trouble for it. It’s alright if you choose not to come, though.

Regards,

Hermione Granger.

PS. I’d be happy to help you pick a gift for your friend. Maybe we can talk about it later? Or I’ll write to you. Whichever you choose.

“You know,” Pansy said after a while, “I don’t think I really believed Ginny when she said that you wrote to Granger, until now.”

“What is she talking about? An explanation for what, their raids?” Blaise scoffed. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Draco said they were up to something,” Theo looked at him as he spoke. “And that they’re trying to drag him into it.”

Blaise raised his arms, looking up as if to reprimand the ceiling. “God, that’s just what we need.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” Pansy offered. “You should let us come, you know. It’d be stupid to go meet them all alone. Did you know Potter Imperiused two people in Gringotts to break into Bellatrix’s vault? And he’s an Auror now. God knows what he’d do if you don’t cooperate with him again.”

A spike of fear pierced his lungs. He hadn’t known that. Aunt Bella had told him that Potter had tried to use the Cruciatus on her. He hadn’t believed her then, but knowing this now, he was not so sure. Potter and his lot were known to be ruthless if they thought what they were doing was right. They might not like it, but they weren’t afraid of breaking the law, not even Granger.

On the other hand, though, “They might not tell me anything if I bring you along.”

“They might ,” Theo countered.

“They barely trust me as it is. If I bring you lot with me, they’ll get skittish. I won’t take that chance.”

“Well, then just don’t go!”

“They broke into my house! They’re after my goblin! I have the right to know. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they went behind my back and tried something else if I don’t show up.”

“He’s got a point. They’ve already managed to get a warrant within a day. Who knows what they’ll do next. Potter’s got an Invisibility Cloak, doesn’t he?” Theo said. “If Draco doesn’t go, he’s giving up what little control he has over the situation.”

“What are they after that’s so important, anyway?” Blaise folded his arms.

“The Sword of Gryffindor, apparently.”

“Bloody hell!”

Pansy sighed, putting her face in her hands. “Alright, say you go meet them today. How are you going to protect yourself? You’re a good dueller Draco, but you’re no match against the three of them.”

“Thanks,” Draco said dryly.

“I’ve got an Amulet of Protection,” Blaise offered. “That and a few protective enchantments should help.”

“And we’ll have a safeword, so we know you’re not Imperiused. Or a specific question.”

“Let’s keep both. We’ll plan on a safeword now and come up with a surprise question when Draco comes back.” Pansy said. “The safeword has to be something Draco wouldn’t normally say.”

“How about…Charity?” 

To an outsider, it would seem like an attempt at humour, but the Manor grew quiet at the mention. Despite the agony he felt upon hearing it, Draco had to acknowledge the genius of it. A normal-sounding word with a deeper, darker meaning that only they would know.

Overcoming the lump in his throat he said, “We could frame that as a question, too. When I come back, ask me what I never wish to see again. I’ll answer accordingly.”

Theo clasped his shoulder. “Sorry, Draco. We can change it if you want.”

“It’s fine.”

“Right,” Pansy shifted in discomfort. “Fine, then you’re going. The sooner we’re ready, the better. Blaise will get the amulet. Theo and I will do the enchantments. Draco, if you don’t come back in an hour, we’ll storm Grimmauld place, to hell with the consequences, you hear me? If they touch a hair on your head-”

“Thank you, Pans.”

“Promise you’ll tell us everything,” Blaise looked at him. “Every detail, Draco. You can't leave us in the dark again like this, or we won’t be able to help you.”

“Yes,” Draco rolled his eyes. “I promise.”

“Alright then,” Theo took a fortifying breath. “Into battle.”

🝧

Chapter Text

An Introduction

by Cadmus Whittle

Tuesday, Oct 6

Some readers may be wondering why I, of all people, was chosen to contribute to the latest section of the Daily Prophet (its name is, as of this moment, undecided though it is likely to find itself dubbed something akin to Musings About Muggles, given my past impressions of the Daily Prophet). To these readers, I answer: I was asked, and I agreed. That is, a friend of mine was of the opinion that my experiences and subsequent learnings in the Muggle world would help the common wizardfolk gain more understanding about our less fortunate (at least where magic is concerned), more pervasive counterparts.

In fact, my personal experiences in the Muggle world are the sole reason I can claim to have any authority whatsoever to speak about the Muggles. To give credit where it is due, Ms Granger, who wrote the discourse on Muggles in yesterday’s issue, has a far greater understanding of Muggle matters given that she was born and brought up among them. However, I flatter myself by claiming that I might provide a perspective that readers would, perhaps, relate to better. As a wizard raised in the wizarding world, much like the vast majority of our population, venturing to the Muggle world seemed a laughable idea, like mixing tea and coffee. Possible, but not an enticing idea at all.

However, the War had rendered me in a state that I do not wish to elaborate on. I wished for escape and respite. So desperate was I that one day an unspeakable thought came to mind and I acted upon it faster than my inhibitions could. And thus, I found myself in Central London, Muggle World.

As anyone who has been to a populated city tells me, Central London is bustling with life. To myself, a young man of undisclosed age who has spent his considerably short life between a house in the countryside and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Central London was a nightmare.

It was so thoroughly occupied by Muggles that the people didn’t hesitate to rub shoulders and pass each other by means of bodily shoving and weaving. It was all I could do not to cast an Anti-intruder jinx around my person. I couldn’t catch enough breath to feel violated, however, which I consider fortunate because there was so much more that would proceed to cause me great offence.

The most lasting impression, I must say, was made by the various means of Muggle transportation, each more gaudy than the last. They screech, shriek, honk, and bluster with plumes of odious smoke coming out of their back. It took a while for me to understand that none of these were living creatures but were actually perverse creations made by Muggles to reduce the effort spent moving from one place to another.

To those who are befuddled, allow me to explain.

You see, Muggles, as we know them to be, do not possess magic, not even an ounce of it. On the outside, their existence seems just as ordinary as ours, but they exist with only their body. Flesh, bone, and blood. And the human body, it appears, cannot Apparate without the assistance of magic. So far, I have observed that Muggles are capable of walking, running, and skipping just as well as we are, but, as you may have concluded by now, doing so for long distances would prove quite troublesome.

And so, Muggles invented vehicles. Most prevalent are small, four-wheeled ones capable of holding anywhere between one and eight Muggles. These are called cars, which are further divided into subtypes such as the cab, which is always small and black.

There are buses, but unlike the Knight Bus, which some readers may know of, Muggle buses have a maximum of two decks and run much slower. They cannot change their shape to squeeze past obstacles, nor can they make obstacles move out of the way. A Muggle bus is about as good as a Muggle car; the only notable difference I could find was that the Muggle bus can hold more Muggles in it.

Then there is the Muggle bicycle, a two-wheeled contraption that is run manually by applying force on moving footrests called pedals. The heavier, sturdier version of this is the Muggle motorcycle. These motorcycles seem to grant Muggles the benefit of traversing through routes that the Muggle car cannot, such as narrow alleys, the space between two Muggle cars, and the footpath. Some of this behaviour seems to be against Muggle law, however, since I once saw a Muggle get stopped by a Muggle Auror and thoroughly rebuked for doing whatever it is they had done wrong.

Now that I mention it, Muggle Aurors are called ‘police’. It is my understanding that these ‘police’ are in charge of enforcing Muggle laws and ensuring that rowdy Muggles receive due punishment if they break them. I am unsure as to the usage of this term, however. Some Muggles call such a person a ‘police-man’ or a ‘police-woman’. I have also found words such as ‘copper’, ‘cop’ (presumably an abbreviation of the former), and ‘bobby’ used in relation to the police. I have also overheard terms that I perceive to be insults, though there is a small possibility that terms like ‘pigs’ and ‘filth’ are not considered as derogatory in the Muggle world.

Resuming the discussion on Muggle transportation, I have also learnt of special Muggle trains that run underground. I have had the opportunity to visit one underground Muggle train station, and it was about as pleasant as one would expect from a population that cannot cast a simple cleaning spell. There are, of course, many worse places to be. Even the wizarding world isn’t as clean as I would like it, so I decided to cut the Muggles some slack and explore the station as best as I could.

It was after a while of examination that I pieced together the things I overheard from the numerous Muggles passing me by.

This underground train system is one of the most popular modes of travel, at least in Central London, and it bears the uninspired title of: The Tube. The name, I presume, arises from the shape of the tunnels that these thin trains pass through.

The trains have a fixed route, and a passenger will have to purchase a ticket of a route of choice (called a ‘line’. Muggles don’t put overmuch thought in their naming. Or perhaps it is Muggle slang. Ask your Muggleborn friends about it if you’re curious, but I am not). The Tube trains are not nearly as equipped as our standard trains; there are seats pressed against the walls of the carriage, facing inwards, and those who cannot find a spot available (which seems to be the majority of passengers) stand with some minimal support provided by means of handrails. It is perhaps fortunate that Tube journeys are intended to last for only a fraction of the typical duration of a train ride.

This brings me to the end of this article, as it seems my first draft far exceeded the word limit granted to me. Ideally, you might have gained an insight into how Muggles travel despite their lack of magic. There are a few other means of Muggle transport that I have discovered, which I will be covering in tomorrow’s issue.

For any queries regarding this article, readers may owl the Daily Prophet, Diagon Alley Office.