The streetlights fascinated Greg. As a young wizard growing up in Goyle Manor, he was used to light sources flickering, floating, guttering, and occasionally going out for no reason at all. These muggle machines, though, now they were predictable as a flobberworm. Absolutely no personality. Greg was no artist, of course, but the rows and rows of concrete flats stirred some ancient cloak-and-inkwell instinct inside of him that said: this is where magic goes to die.
The muggles agreed, surprisingly. He could feel their ravenous eyes boring upon the hem of his robes as he made his way down the street to his new lodgings, keener than they should have been, positioned as if trying to capture a single shining spark of his talent to take home. During the war, Greg had always been assured the muggles were beneath him, and had seen no reason to disagree, but seeing firsthand their open subservience brought it all home somehow.
Their unquestioning respect was the absolute best part of this new job, better than the sudden alternative to a shopboy's life for a Hogwarts dropout without two OWLs to rub together, better than the escape from a too-bare life without his best friend. Greg had never been special before. He recalled the headline which had started this whole mess: 'Man with mysterious powers levitates book'. In the muggle world, you were a man with mysterious powers; in the wizarding world, of course, that made you a first-year.
The Outing had taken many people by surprise, but some reckoned it had been a long time coming. After a flurry of careful press appearances, demonstrations, and international summits, the muggles now more or less believed wizards existed, and suddenly the non-magical job market was snapping them up like Nimbus Four Thousands.
His dad wouldn't like it if he knew where Greg was headed. Gaius Goyle might dwell now in beautiful downtown Azkaban with his mother, but it was hard to get the man out of his head. For the first few months after the war, Greg and his family had served concurrent sentences with the Malfoys, the Crabbes, the Notts, and all the rest: one big, depressing Death Eater reunion. Even with the dementors newly banished by He-Who-Thinks-He-Knows-Dragon-Bogeys-About-Interna tional-Politics, the place still sapped something from you.
Seeing as his particular mischief had been outer-circle stuff, Greg had gotten out of prison first, but he wished he hadn't. Never before had he been forced to survive alone in the manor without guidance from Mum, Dad, Draco, Vince, or anybody, and after a few months cleaning up manticore droppings for a living, he'd jumped at the chance to become one of the first wizards-for-hire.
But he was here now, stepping inside the homey brick building he'd seen in the letter, and the landlady was looking up from her desk at him with that same reverent look, and he'd started to hope he wouldn't have to let these people down sooner rather than later.
"Are you Gregory Goyle?" she asked.
"Yes," he agreed, relieved. Until now, he'd been highly skeptical of his first forays with the muggle post system. "Is my room ready?"
"It is," said the lady, a strange blush creeping up on her face. "But I wonder if you'd come with me first. I mentioned to several friends of mine that I had a wizard coming to live in my boardinghouse and, well, they're a bit curious, you see. I'm Mrs. Andrews, by the way, Gregory. Anything you need while you're here, you only have to ask!"
Greg allowed Mrs. Andrews to take his old school trunk and obediently followed her down the hall to a small sitting room.
"This is him!" she announced to three older women arrayed anxiously around the sectional.
The one in the yellow floral muumuu clasped her hands together excitedly. "Well?"
Greg stood uncertainly. "Hello. I'm Greg Goyle."
She was unimpressed. "And?"
"And?"
"Are you going to do a trick for us?" asked her tall friend.
Greg cracked his knuckles uncertainly. "I guess I could. What sort of trick?"
His professional reputation was about to get started.
