Chapter 1: Summoned

American boxing. 1 - 2. 1 - 2. You move left to dodge right. And right, to dodge left. The sounds of my boots stopping in the ring as I countered my opponent by placing my body just beyond their reach, then pressuring them into a corner to avoid a potential attack. Until they feel the ropes against their back, wondering how they got there. All without throwing a punch. Baiting and luring, it was the way of this world. A lifetime of magic had made me ignorant to this type of muggle survival. This physical need to be superior in order to make your enemies submit. In a word it was addicting. Sizing someone up by their looks, their movements, how they reacted, and acted. I suppose this is how wands felt before a duel. The wizard being the brain, the wand the body. Would it win? Could it feel fear? I've read that wands were intelligent, to a point, they could feel magic as much as they could channel it. And I believed that anything able to do magic? Well, they were superior.

I finished my shadow boxing with a few more jabs at eye level, temporarily blinding my opponent, setting up my strong left hand for a blow to the temple. I grabbed a towel and started heading towards the shower. These past few months I had been building my body, carving away every inch of the weaknesses I'd developed, that clung onto me like tumors during my captivity. I used to believe that only the weak feared, but now I know better. If the strong forget about fear, they'll become the weak.

My wand hand clutched emptily at the air. It had been months since a wizard council had decided to ban me from a wand like some common house elf. I suppose if it weren't for Potter's testimony, they'd have done worse. Put me in Azkaban. Or death. It had been generations since anyone had been sentenced to death, didn't make sense really. Not after Ulbrich the Beheaded chose to become a ghost in order to haunt the seven judges who had given him such punishment. I suppose it was the lack of the wand that made me want to try my hand at boxing, in a way it also proved the Malfoy line of genetic superiority. Father always said that there was nothing we couldn't do. I stepped into the grand hall of the manor, it was completely empty. The ministry had set a magical parameter around my home, and herded the servants away with clothing long ago since this was ground zero for Voldemort's base of operations during the Second Wizarding War. Everything of magical value, generations of my family's collections, had been carted away by those thieves. The walls hung emptily, studies, cabinets, secrets chests were all left barren. If it weren't for Gringotts I'd be hovelling the streets for food. I'd rather Voldemort have killed me than that.

What a stupid thing to say, my magical provider had been steering me away from thoughts like that. Also refraining from words such as superior, better, muggle, and pure-blood. I understood some of those, knew it wasn't good for public image in this new front of the wizarding world, but honestly, muggle?

It was about six weeks ago, I had arrived in Diagon Alley, the remnants of it anyways. A woman gathered her children opposite of the sidewalk from me, store owners that had benefited from my family's dealings quickly closed their doors as I drew near - each afraid to be associated with me now. Others stood up from their chairs to stare me down, going so far as to step out from the Leaky Cauldron. Self-made heroes who weren't even at the battle of Hogwarts. I wouldn't have been there if it weren't one of the requirements for my release, to seek professional help. I tapped the right brick and walked into muggle London. About three blocks away I arrived at a small white office, the black letterhead above told me that this was the right place.

Mayer Puntiker was his name, a pure-blood who had steeped deeply into muggle teachings. They'd tell him as the father of Mental Magic in history, but for now, he was just some hornbill who I had to report to once a week.

"...then this muggle turned on this glass screen with a rectangular looking wand."

"Draco," he interrupted. "What did we say last week about not using words that are offensive?"

I gave him an incredulous look, "What are you suppose to call people that can't do magic then?"

"People, Draco. Just people."

I didn't know if this guy was an idiot or if I was more into pure-blood than even I realized, because this made absolutely no sense. It was moments such as that one, that was cause for my good mood today. Instead of having to go through Diagon Alley, only to plop down on some dingerbat's couch, I would be expecting a new order from the council at noon. I had no idea what the next part of my habilitation was going to include, but anything was better than turning up for another session.

After I had showered and toweled off. I stood naked in front of the mirror for a moment. The scars Voldemort had inflicted on my body as reminders of what would happen if I failed to get the Death Eaters inside Hogwarts lined my flesh in no particular pattern. The light marks of Buckbeak on my arm were barely visible, but the zookies, a form of sprite, under a hippogriff's claws still stung my bones from time to time. A dozen other scars that didn't get healed properly when my parents and I fled Hogwarts, too many to count. So I didn't. I slipped on my robes, the green silk lining felt comforting. I had been wearing muggle clothing most of the time now since I was forced to get my own groceries, and a plethora of other menial labor. Not being able to apparate was such a pain. I mean, I even had to go get a license. Could you imagine the indignity of me standing in a line - waiting, in jeans and a polo, right next to muggles?

"Next!"

"I'm here to apply for a muggle certification."

"What?" asked the dubious brunette behind the counter. If only she knew that I had the power to bend her small brain to my whim if I had a wand, she'd be speaking to me in a befitting tone. I kept my face even but discreetly gripped the counter with more force than observable, all to keep calm in order to answer her question.

"I want to operate a muggle contraption. The kind with four rubber wheels."

"Sir, this is the department of transportation," she said as if that was the last word of the matter on this planet. She was about to be in the department of magical maladies if she. Breathe, breathe. Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter. I have no idea why I chose that as my safe word. Actually, the more that I think about it, the more that I realized that it has never worked. Not once. In fact, if anything, it has made it worse each time. Not that I hated Harry, but just the idea of it all. The reminding of this storm that was manifesting itself inside of me, and me - wanting to express it for the world to witness.

"Where would I go?" I asked in my most neutral tone.

"You're looking for the desk of the DVLA," she answered.

"And where is that?"

She pointed at the counter directly behind her. The line was surprisingly empty, but still a ticket wheel sat on the counter. The young woman nodded her head, "Take a number and someone will be right with you."

I walked over to the counter top and pulled out a ticket, number 86 it read. I looked at the monitor hanging above the counter, in red pixels it displayed the number 85. I looked around but no one else seemed to be waiting on this side. I looked at the woman, whose back was now turned to me, servicing some muggle. I sat down in a hard plastic chair and waited. No one was coming, the long line on the other side, the one I had just been in, was starting to become shorter and shorter. Finally when the last muggle was helped, the young woman stood up. She adjusted her uniform before turning around. She sat in the seat behind the counter in front of me, turned on a computer screen, shuffled some papers, and then flicked a button. The monitor above changed from 85 to 86, and the loud boom of a woman's voice called out, "Number 86 please. Number 86."

I'd never understand the chaos of muggles. I don't think that I ever would, no matter how much time I spent in their world. And I was hoping that today's owl would make it so that I wouldn't have to learn much more. I made my way down the stairs, through the large living room, and out onto the balcony of the 3rd floor. A single shot of black fell from the sky, my night owl Sir Kadon had folded his wings and plummeted towards land. He looked like a meteor as he broke through cloud after cloud. I could make out the red ribbon on his leg fluttering behind him like a fiery trail. And right before he smashed into the ground, he opened his deep wings and glided majestically towards my arm. He always did like to show off.

I ran my fingers through the feathers on his head, feeding him a singular snidget as a prize for arriving early. The traces of blood on his beak told me he had to peck a few officials in order to do so, but the rare delicacy was worth it, and he knew it. I loosened the parchment from his leg, and unrolled it hurriedly.

"Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy,

By order of the Ministry and the Magical Council, you are to arrive at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by sunset on July 17th, 1998 for further instructions on your rehabilitation as required of your parole. You are also, still, ordered to report to the offices of Third Merlin Dr. Mayer Puntiker once a month. Failure to do either requirements shall result in your immediate arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban without trial. Thank you and have a day."

Sincerly,
Percival Ignatius Weasley
Head of the Department of
Magical Law Enforcement"

Hogwarts? I had never expected to be going back. What did it want from me? No doubt my family's money to rebuild. I felt some responsibility for what had happened, not that Voldemort wouldn't have found another way. But if giving a few galleons to the right people, could perhaps speed up my banishment, then it would be a worthwhile experience all on its own. Most importantly, it was finally time for me to return into the folds of the magical world. And what better place to make my comeback, than the place where it all started. I almost didn't notice the order to show up to that lunatic's office once a month. Almost.