First Place Winner for A Third Floor Corridor Challenge Fic:

In order to create more understanding between Muggles and Wizards after the war, the pure bloods are required learn about muggle activities by actually doing them without magic. Could be a sport, housework, any everyday activity that muggleborns would take for granted.

As always, I own nothing. Harry Potter, his whole magical world, and Draco Malfoy with his whole Muggle world, belong exclusively to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Brothers, and perhaps a few others I've forgotten. I'm just playing with Jo's characters while I wait for the last book to arrive.

A Year Without Magic

The dungeons at the Ministry were dark and cold. A lumpy and obviously old mattress took up a large part of the small cell. The only other items in the cell was a rickety chair with one slightly shorter leg and a loo that wasn't the least bit private. Hardly civilized. The cells at the Ministry were a far sight better than any cell in Azkaban, however, so Draco Malfoy wasn't going to complain. Much.

He'd been transferred in the dead of night, rousted from his hard slab bed in Azkaban and brought to this larger, cleaner, more pleasant smelling cell to await his sentencing. He knew that upstairs, a large crowd was gathering in Courtroom Ten in anticipation of the sentencing of the last of Voldemort's supporters.

So Draco enjoyed the luxury of the clean, comparatively sweet smelling cell, and stretched out on the mattress to take a short nap before the guards came for him. However, just as he began to drift off, a guard arrived and banged on the cell bars noisily. Draco winced and sat up, obeying as the guard ordered him forward. Draco stuck his hands through the bars, looking the other way as the guard slipped the wrist restraints onto him.

Not like he would get far if he ran anyway. Not like there was anyone left to rescue him; they were either locked away in Azkaban, languishing in St. Mungo's without their souls, or rotting somewhere in the Muggle world, bound from doing magic.

None of those options was the least bit appealing, but Draco figured he'd rather sit in Azkaban for however many years than be deprived of the feeling of magic coursing through his veins. Not that he had any choice in the matter.

The guard led him up to Courtroom Ten, which, as Draco had feared, was standing room only, as witches and wizards from all over had come to see this momentous occasion. He searched the many angry, jeering faces for his mother, but he did not see her among the crowd. He did, however, see Harry Potter and his entourage of Weasleys, all of whom were standing still, their faces devoid of emotion.

The guard led him to the horrible chair at the center of the room, and Draco took as long as possible to sit down in it. The chains sprung around his arms and legs, and wrapped around his waist, holding him tightly to the chair. Draco grimaced, trying not to make a face as a chain snuck around his neck and pulled him back against the chair. He swallowed heavily.

The Wizengamot entered and the previously noisy room went deathly silent. Scrimgeour took his seat and motioned to Percy Weasley, who stepped forward with a scroll. Draco observed him, his face a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

"Draco Malfoy, you have been found guilty by the members of the Wizengamot, for crimes against wizards and Muggles alike," Percy began. As the list of crimes was read, Draco's attention waned. He knew perfectly well what precisely he'd done, and what crimes he'd committed. He'd never killed, refused to kill, and instead had taken part of a wide spectrum of Muggle baiting and terrorizing. He'd also tormented families of Muggle-born, and spent a great deal of time traipsing around Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade in his Death Eater blacks.

He brought his attention back to Percy when he said, "However, due to the lack of space in Azkaban and the relative lack of severity of your crimes, as well as the urge for clemency from Harry Potter - " Draco glanced into the crowd of spectators and spotted Harry, his face stony " – the esteemed members of the Wizengamot have agreed to sentence you to one year of life as a Muggle, starting immediately."

Draco felt his stomach drop as the crowds erupted in jeers and hisses of displeasure. This was a mercy? Taking his magic? They couldn't do that. He felt the impassive expression on his face falter.

"It is hoped," Percy continued, his magnified voice booming over the noise of the crowd, "that your experience as a Muggle will grant you a better understanding of the Muggle world, and the Muggleborn witches and wizards among us."

Two guards closed in on Draco as the crowd grew noisier. Panic, like a cold shower of ice, froze him where he sat, chained to the chair. They couldn't take his magic. He was nothing without his magic. He was a Muggle without magic. Muggles were beneath contempt.

He tried to protest, but found his voice choked, and inaudible even to his ears. "You can't!" he gasped, any vestige of calmness slipping away. It was barbaric; it was cruel. It was, he had to admit, the perfect punishment.

After the guards dragged Draco from the courtroom, they deposited him back in his small cell in the dungeons. Though Malfoys were above begging, Draco couldn't help but plea with them as they slammed the barred door shut behind him and turned to walk away, their laughter burning his ears. He clung to the door of his cell and pressed his face against the bars, the coolness of the metal doing little to sooth the burning terror raging through him.

In short order, a familiar looking witch approached, her heels clicking in a no-nonsense way as she came to a stop before his cell. It took him a long moment to place her, but then he recognized her as a fussy Ravenclaw prefect a few years older than him. She observed him for a moment, her full lips curved up in a sinister looking smile.

"Ah, Malfoy, how often I hoped I would see you behind these bars," she mused.

Draco tried to muster a sneer. "Your professionalism astounds me," he said bitingly.

Instead of looking offended, she simply looked amused, her smile becoming nearly predatory. "Penelope Clearwater," she stated, "your Ministry liaison during the fulfillment of your sentence." She waved her wand, and two items appeared, floating between them. The first, Draco recognized as his wand, and he was momentarily relieved that it had not been snapped in half, as he believed. The second item was a small, clear globe, slightly larger than a Golden Snitch.

"Draco Malfoy," she said clearly. "After I bind your magic, you will not be able to perform magic for a year, nor will you be able to divulge any information about our world to any Muggles you encounter."

Draco curled his lip at her. "Am I allowed to at least think of magic?" he asked coldly.

Penelope regarded him with a haughty look. "I am quite certain," she stated just as coolly, "that there will hardly be a moment that goes by that you won't think of magic."

As the impact of that statement sank in, Draco swallowed, recognizing the cold truth in her words.

"Furthermore," she continued as if he had not interrupted, "you will not attempt to tamper with the tracking spell that will be placed on you, nor will you attempt to leave the area. You will have no contact with any member of the magical community other than me, unless you are granted the special privilege of visitation.

"In order to prevent you from possibly finding a way to reverse the traditional magical binding, the Ministry has implemented a new procedure, in which your magical essence is stored in this fragile globe," she informed him, her voice dripping with thinly veiled contempt. She reached out and plucked the glass ball out of the air. "Should you violate any of the terms I've set forth, I am fully authorized to destroy this globe, and its contents."

"You wouldn't dare," Draco hissed, more terrified than angry at the thought of such a vital part of him stored in something so breakable, and completely beyond his ability to control.

"I would."

"Interesting that the Wizengamot doesn't make this part of the sentencing public knowledge," Draco growled, feeling an icy sweat creeping down his back.

"The community is not concerned by the methods in which we contain our criminals," Penelope said coolly. She stepped closer, plucking Draco's wand out of the air between them.

"As a small courtesy, you are allowed to perform one last spell before your sentence begins." She made to hand Draco his wand and he reached out, thinking of just the spell he wanted to use on her. She stopped just out of reach. "Just so you know, your wand has been modified to only function for Lumos," she informed him, as though she'd seen the sinister thoughts forming in his head.

Draco felt the sting of disappointment that even this, his last spell for an entire year, was being dictated. Still, he felt a tiny thrill race down his spine as he closed his hand around the smooth hawthorn wand. He felt whole again. He started to shake as he thought of an entire year without this feeling. His legs felt weak.

"Well? Get it over with," Penelope snapped, gesturing at him impatiently.

Draco could not form the simple word, could not make his lips part for those two tiny syllables. He knew as soon as he cast the spell, he would have to relinquish his wand.

"Now, Malfoy, before I take your wand away." The woman on the other side of the bars leveled her wand at him.

"Lumos," Draco whispered, his hand shaking. He felt the power surge up in his chest, building warmly and shooting down his arm, and into his fingers. He felt the small, nearly imperceptible jolt as his magic bonded with his wand.

At the same moment, Penelope tapped the glass globe, whispering an incantation, and the brief glow of light from Draco's wand was sucked into the glass ball. An intense feeling of suffocation gripped him, and he could not breathe. He fell to his knees and started to shake with a sudden chill. He felt it, his magic, struggling not to leave his body, but the tugging sensation was stronger. He watched, his eyes tearing up, as his magic erupted from the end of his wand in a brilliant glow of multi-colored light.

Then it was over, and he sagged against the bars, panting and feeling hollow. Penelope reached forward and grabbed his wand from his limp fingers.

"Your punishment starts now. In exactly three hundred and sixty five days, you will be granted the return of your magic, provided you've done nothing that warrants the destruction of this globe." Penelope wrapped the glass globe in a white cloth, and then she placed it in a small wooden box, which she placed in her pocket. She squatted on the other side of the bars and looked at him, the barest hint of pity in her eyes. "A guard will be along to escort you to your new home, and I will check in with you in a week's time. Good luck, Malfoy."

His new home turned out to be a small flat in a rather seedy part of London. It was so small, in fact, that there was only one room, with a small loo off to one side. But Draco hadn't really cared about that when the guard had brought him to the flat. He'd been exhausted, drained and broken down; thus, he only listened with one ear as the guard explained about Muggle currency, keys, and cookbooks. He nodded wearily when the guard provided him with a small folder which contained all the details of his new life, and then he saw the man out.

After that, he fell onto the bed, which was by no means as comfortable as his bed at Malfoy Manor, but was a vast improvement from his previous accommodations. He slept deeply, curiously the first sleep in months that wasn't haunted by nightmares.

He woke quite early the next morning to loud music. He bolted up in bed, reaching under his pillow for his wand. Then he remembered it wasn't there and he felt like curling up in the bed and putting the pillow over his head. But the music was quite loud, and quite obnoxious, so he warily rolled out of bed, searching for the source of the noise. It was coming from a small black box that looked to be a clock, though it was unlike any clock Draco had ever seen. He examined it, noting several words underneath odd shaped buttons. He tentatively pushed the one labeled 'Snooze', and exhaled in relief as the music cut off.

He returned to the bed, intent on sleeping for the entirety of the day, and perhaps the year. He'd no sooner dozed off when the infernal music started again. Gritting his teeth, Draco threw his pillow at the clock, which did nothing but leave him without a pillow. He got up and pressed the 'Snooze' button again, hoping it would stay snoozed this time, retrieved his pillow, and retreated to the bed once more.

The third time, Draco growled angrily, thoroughly annoyed by the musical nuisance. He jumped out of bed, crossed to the box, and brought his fist down hard on its top. The music squawked to a halt, and Draco jumped up and down, swearing mightily at the pain in his hand. That Muggle contraption was hard!

He gave up on the hopes of returning to bed, realizing he needed to use the loo. That at least, wouldn't present him with any difficulties. Feeling just slightly saner after he finished his business, Draco emerged and looked around the flat.

He spotted what he assumed was the kitchen area on the other side of his bed, and he stared at it, perplexed. How did Muggles cook, anyway? Deciding he was accomplishing nothing by staring, Draco opened a cupboard door, and saw brightly colored boxes and bags inside. He pulled one out and read the box, which claimed to contain instant oatmeal. He poked around some more until he found the dishes, and selected a bowl. He poured some of the oatmeal into the bowl and watched it, waiting for it to transform into something edible. However, nothing happened.

Draco felt his throat grow tighter. What he wouldn't give to have his wand right now. He wasn't very hungry suddenly, but he had to figure out how to cook sooner or later. Somewhat despairingly, Draco examined the box again. Maybe he had missed a step somewhere in the 'instant' process.

Somewhat triumphantly, he spotted cooking directions on the back of the box. He added the appropriate amount of water, which he measured from a glass that had hatch marks and measurements on the side. Now he looked around for a source of heat. He couldn't eat his oatmeal cold, but he didn't see anything that resembled a stove. He searched the kitchen, opening random doors. One door, on a large white box, revealed a cooling cupboard, or whatever Muggles called them. Apparently, this one was called Maytag. The Maytag was stocked with food that Draco actually recognized, like apples and grapes. At least he wouldn't starve.

He continued his search, stopping when he saw a label on another machine. 'Stove', he read, looking dubiously at the contraption. It certainly didn't look like any stove he'd ever seen before, but then again, Malfoy Manor's kitchen had the most high-tech wood burning stoves money could buy. He couldn't expect the same luxury here, he supposed.

It didn't matter anyway, however, because Draco could not figure out how to make fire come out of the stove. In the end, he ate his oatmeal cold, grimacing, and chased it down with an apple and some milk he found in the Maytag.

After his miserable breakfast, Draco put his head in his arms and cried.

It wasn't until late afternoon that he thought to look at the folder the guard had presented him the previous day. He'd retreated to the bed after breakfast, but was eventually driven to the kitchen again, his stomach unsatisfied by the meal of cold oatmeal and apple. Munching on some white grapes, Draco noticed the folder on the sofa, where he'd tossed it before collapsing into bed.

He flipped open the folder, which contained a brief description of his fictional past and a selection of helpful hints, including how to make the stove give heat. Draco was so elated by the prospect of a hot meal that he very nearly forgot the part about not having magic, but he remembered quickly enough after he burned his second helping of oatmeal, as well as his hand.

Swearing, and sucking on the back of his hand, Draco looked at the folder again, focusing on the helpful hints. He couldn't believe the Ministry expected him to carry on this pitiful existence for an entire year. They couldn't make him. He'd find a way around it; after all, he was a Malfoy. Then Penelope's words floated into his head: 'I am fully authorized to destroy this globe, and its contents.' And he saw the deadly serious expression on her face as she assured him that she could, and would, if he slipped up.

Wishing more than anything that he'd just been given the mercy of a turn in Azkaban, Draco dropped his head into his arms once more, wanting to curl up and die. He couldn't remember ever being this miserable. How did Muggles live like this? If this punishment was proving anything to him, it was that wizards were a much more evolved species, and Muggles deserved not scorn, but pity.

Evening found him sitting in the darkening flat, with no idea how to make the lights turn on. He scoured the folder for some hint, but kept coming up at the problem of flipping the switches to the 'on' position. He wasn't sure what switches even were, let alone how to flip them on.

As the last of the daylight faded from the two windows in his flat, Draco appreciated the simplicity and beauty of the Lumos spell more than he ever had before. What he wouldn't give for that one small spell.

Draco stood, deciding he might as well go to bed, since it was so dark, and fumbled his way to the loo. He felt around, still unsure where everything was located, and brushed his hand against something that gave slightly against his hand. In an instant, the bathroom was bathed in beautiful bright light. Draco blinked, wincing at the sudden shock of it, and then he looked to his hand, which was resting against a small toggle on the wall. He ran his hand over it again and felt slight resistance, and then give, and the toggle moved down. The lights blinked off.

Somewhat enchanted, Draco repeated this action for several minutes, watching the lights flick on and off, until he remembered that he needed to use the loo. After he was finished, he returned to the toggle, the 'switch', he supposed it was called. He flicked it up and down a few more times, amazed by the speed and ease. There was no need to wave a wand, no need to say an incantation, or even think one. With one touch, he had light.

Leaving the light on in the loo, Draco ventured back into the main room, feeling along the walls for more of those 'switch' things. He found one near the main door to the flat, and flipped it on. A softer glow from one overhead light cast the room in a slightly sickly yellowish light, but Draco was willing to overlook the quality of light for the quantity. He could see, and that was all that mattered.

He'd figure out the rest as he went along. After all, what else could he do?

It was going to be a long year. Only three hundred and sixty-four days to go.