Draco Malfoy, Muggle

by Jacob Oliver

Chapter 1. Draco Malfoy.


I hadn't opened my eyes yet, but I knew something was terribly wrong. Firstly, there was a strong and unmistakable stench of fresh urine in the air. I thought, 'Good God, Draco, you've gone and wet the bed, and it's a bloody cashmere duvet.' But then I also smelt some rather low-end brandy―E&J or Paul Masson―and I thought, 'Right, it's not me. I wouldn't be caught dead.' Whoever or whatever was emitting these most unspeakable odors, poked at me and asked me if I was alive.

I opened my eyes, and above me was the night sky, which, indeed, was signal number two that I was in fact in a most uncanny predicament. A drunken, beardy vagabond, who'd apparently just wet his trousers, asked me if I could spare a quid or two. I looked around and saw not far away a huge iron gate, black and gold;―not a patch on Malfoy Manor's balustrade, but acceptable, nonetheless. Oh hell. Apparently, I was in front of Buckingham Palace, sprawled on the steps of Queen Vic's Memorial.

Shit.

London.

But that's miles and miles from home. How―?

A few pigeons scurried past. Naturally, I remained perfectly calm. I didn't scream or panic. I simply stood up, shoved the homeless man down the steps, and took off running.

I never had been in Muggle London by myself prior. It's always been with Mother, and generally it's a visit to Harrods (Father disapproves, but Mother will have her way). In any case, I had no idea what was going on. Last I remember, I was in my bed at the Manor, having just finished a warm skim milk and a chapter of Sons and Lovers, and now apparently I was some hundred miles away, having narrowly escaped the clutches of a urine-soaked drunk. I wound up running to a main road somewhere beside a strange building called McDonalds or something Scottish. Several people were still out, apparently. A group of young night-owls passed by―tarts in mini-skirts and stiletto heels, despite rather a bitter winter frost; their thuggish boyfriends with shaved heads and scars from, no doubt, street battles, which their strata does so often engage in. A particularly nasty-looking one of the bunch said, "You looking at my bird?", and he cracked his knuckles to mean business.

"Yes, I was," I said, as I surreptitiously reached for my wand in my back pocket. "If it's no bother, may I ask how much she charges by the hour?" He towered over me, this brute with broad shoulders, and it was at that mortifying moment I realised, in fact, that I did not have my wand after all, and, secondly, that I was about to suffer a rather tragic death by the hands of an underclass street hooligan. What I hadn't planned for was the bimbo removing her hoop earrings, leaping onto me, and pounding my face to the dirt. She took me by the hair and repeatedly smashed my forehead into the curbside; after which she kicked me with her stiletto heel and spit on me, right where I was bleeding most profusely. I didn't cry, when they left. Not very much at all.

Well, now I was bloody, dirty, wandless, and still miles from home, and I had no means of contacting my parents. I thought, 'What ever shall I do?', when it occurred to me, in my woozy and blearied state, that I could likely head over to Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross and seek help there. Inspired by this new-found resolve, I hobbled over to Victoria Station, sneaked under the ticket gate, and I was soon down the steps at the Tube platform. Funny how people stare when you're bleeding down your face, but don't care to ask if you need a tissue or emergency services. Bloody London.

I got on the train, and we whizzed towards King's Cross Station. An inebriated youth in tracksuit bottoms offered me a sip of vodka and told me how "heavy" he considered my gash to be. I hadn't a blithering clue what he meant, but I took the swig anyway. I needed it.

When I finally reached King's Cross, I made my way to the partition that led to Platform 9 ¾. Fortunately, the area was more-or-less empty of people, and so I confidently strode into the brick wall, and smashed my teeth into it. An expletive or two may have escaped.

"Are you alright?" It was a man's voice. I turned around, and God be praised, I recognised him to be one of the ticket-takers of the Hogwarts Express. He asked what happened had to me, why I was so terribly bloody and hurt, but I hadn't the patience for irrelevant chit-chat.

"Will the train be running to Wiltshire this evening?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "but you need to heal yourself up first, mate. Come on, and let's get to the platform. I know a quick cleaning charm for that wound. You don't want it getting infected." He walked through the partition. I followed and got a face full of wall yet again; and had to hold my head trying to stop the world from spinning. After a moment, the conductor popped back out.

"I can't seem to get in," I said.

"But it's wide open." He put his hand through the wall to show me.

I tried to do same, but it was solid against my palm. "I don't bloody understand."

I saw his expression suddenly change, a glint of something like suspicion in his eye. "You can't get through," he said, slowly.

"Did you find that out all my yourself, or did the fact that my nose is almost completely caved-in tip you off?"

"You're a Muggle."

"What!" This was outrageous. How dare he insinuate that a Malfoy was anything less than pureblooded; much less a Muggle. "I'll have you know," I said, poking a firm finger into his sternum, "that my genealogy as a wizard goes back as far as the Iron Age. What about yours? 1985, is it?"

"Then why can't you get through the wall?"

"For Christ's sake, I don't know!"

"What's your name?"

"Draco Malfoy," I said, then added for good measure―"Lucius Malfoy's son; so you had better start treating me with the respect I'm due."

He laughed at me. "Now I know you're lying. Lucius Malfoy never had a child."

The man must have gone mad. Well, he could count on my Father writing to his supervisor. Then, all of a sudden, he took his wand out and pointed it at me. I stumbled backwards. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going Obliviate your memory of this incident."

"You can't do that! It's illegal!"

"It's illegal to Obliviate wizards. Not Muggles."

There again with this Muggle business. "I'm not a bloody Muggle, you ticket-taking cretin! I'm a wizard! I'm a Malfoy!" I shouted.

"I have no idea how you found out about Platform 9 ¾, but you'll be forgetting all about it soon. Obliviate!"

Seeker agility at the ready, I evaded it with grace.

"Obliviate! Obliviate! Obliviate!"

I was running now, side-winding, and eventually I lost him. I leant my back against a pillar, panting and trying to remain as silent as I could, when I felt his hand on my shoulder. The bastard's faster than I took him for. I turned around and punched him in the face.

...or rather, I punched a policewoman in the face just as she was asking me 'What the trouble was, son?'

Well, it was the second time this evening I was tackled by a woman. She had her knee on my shoulder, and it really wasn't doing much for my masculinity. Did you know handcuffs are made of steel? I've never worn any accessory outside of the precious metals. It really was most unprepossessing.


Well, they "finger-printed" me, whatever the hell that's for, and then they took my picture, for which they didn't even let me fix my hair. Very inconsiderate. And the doctor fellow cleaned up my wound with some medieval torture liquid that apparently burns it into submission.

They told me I could make a telephone call. I stood in front of a strange device and had no idea what to make of it. But hold on;―yes, of course! We had learned about this in Muggle Studies. I'd talked through most of the lecture, and sneered, but I remembered now that it was a means of Muggle communication, like the Floo Network. I surveyed the telephone machine for a moment. It said, "Dial 0 for Operator Assistance." I picked it up, placed it on my ear, as I remember Professor Burbage demonstrating for us, and dialed 0.

"Operator," I heard come from the telephone machine.

"Erm, hello?"

"Who would you like to be connected with, please?"

Who, indeed? I didn't know any Muggles. The only people I could think of who might own this ugly contraption would be... Jumping Jehovah. Either Harry Potter or Hermione Granger. Well, this was fantastic. Should I prefer the guy who hates my bones to come fetch me, or the girl who hates my marrow. Well, I had no idea where Granger lived; but I did once overhear Potter complaining about how much he hated living in Surrey. That's what, an hour away? "Harry Potter. Surrey."

"There are two H. Potters in Surrey, and there's a Harry Potter listed under Dursley. Which would you like?"

That's right;―Potter lives with his relatives. "The Dursley listing, please."

"Connecting you to that listing. Thank you."

The phone began making an irritating chirping noise for a while, then―

"Hello?" It was Potter! He sounded rather groggy. There was also the distant shouting of an apparently incensed man saying, Didn't I know what the cunting time was. What a poet his uncle must be.

"Potter! Thank God!"

"Is this―? Malfoy?" Shock in his voice. "What on earth?" He paused and then―"You know how to use a telephone?"

"Potter, shut up and listen to me. I'm in jail. A Muggle jail in London. I need you to―what did they call it?―'bail me out.' Two hundred and fifty pounds."

I could hear him choke on the other end.

"I'm good for it, Potter! And I'll pay you back double. Just get me out of here! It's the Westminster Police Station."

"You're mental, Malfoy, if you think I have two hundred pound fifty just lying around my bedroom. Anyway, why me? Couldn't you ring up your parents? ― Okay, stupid question. But, honestly, Malfoy, what do you expect me to do?"

A moustachioed officer came in. "Time's up, Longbottom."

"Longbottom?" Harry said. "You gave them a false name?"

"Well, they don't know who he is, do they? I had to think on the spot. Look, just get me out!"

"I don't have the money. And London's nearly thirty miles away! Sorry, Malfoy, but you're on your own."

"Potter, you little twerp, I swear to God, if you leave me here―!"

"Hey! Time's up, Longbottom! Are you deaf?" He took me by the arm and began to drag me away. Glazed icing on his fingers. I wondered if there was a place to wash up.

"Potter! Potter! You come down here now!"

And then I was in a prison cell. Concrete all around, no windows, just a bench and a mat and a disgusting metal toilet with a broken handle. The ambiance of Hell, basically. I called out, "Excuse but I think the mattress needs washing. In fact, while you do that, can you give the toilet a scrub, as well?"

The moustachioed cop walked over. "And what would you like for dinner? Waldorf salad and tenderloin steak?"

I said, "Thank you, but I'm allergic, actually. Would it be weird to ask for no walnuts? No;―I sha'n't be fussy. I'll pick them out myself."

He buggered off, but in a short while he was back. He opened the bar doors, shoving in a man about six foot and built like a brick house. He had immense arms and a broad, bristly face. Waldorf salad he was not.

He smiled at me.

Harry Potter, if I end up getting raped because you wouldn't come down here, I'll kill you and all your friends.

The bars were shut again, and there we were,―alone. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. He offered me one, but I was too concerned about whether I'd need to pay him back for it―and how. "Suit yourself, kid," he said, and after a moment―"What are you in for?"

I didn't think to embellish, but I should have said that I killed a man with my bare hands. "I―I hit a p-policewoman." Did I just stutter? Damnation. Malfoys don't stutter. Get a hold of yourself, Draco. You've not been in the pen a half hour and you're already cracking up. Did I just call it the bloody pen?

"Nice one," he said, taking a long drag. "I hate coppers."

"And you? What are you in for?" I deepened my voice and attempted to sound hardened. Whatever the hell that sounds like.

"Rape."

Oh, good.

"R-r-r-rape?" I'm fairly certain I just went up four octaves.

"Well, and aggravated assault."

He really wasn't all that bad a chap, once you've had a chat with him; even though he did rape somebody. Turns out he picked up a swinging chick at a bar, and they went back to her place for bondage and light refreshments. He was rather plastered by this point, and they'd had another tequila maria when they got in, so by the time he was flagellating her, he'd forgotten the safe word was 'fettuccine'. Well, the upshot being that she was tied up, screaming her head off―"Fettuccine! Fettuccine!"―which he didn't know how to make head or tail of, so finally he looked through the cupboard and shoved a handful of tagliatelle down her gob. Whatever got her rocks off, he said.

A few hours had passed, and my cellmate had taken the mat and dosed off. He did have the grace to ask me if I wanted it, but being offered a bed by a rapist and bondage fanatic wasn't anything I'd be keen to accept. And, at any rate, I couldn't say I was very impressed by the sheets. Forty percent synthetic, I'd wager, and my skin simply couldn't abide it.

"You've been bailed out." Mr Moustache again, now eating a sausage roll.

I bid my sleeping friend adieu, and got the hell out of there.

I saw Potter sitting in the waiting room as they processed my paper work. Moth-eaten coat, hair a mess, and unshaven to boot. Honestly, who had spent the night in the nick, here?

"It took you bloody ages," I said to him, as they saw me out. "How long does it take to fly here?"

"I took the train, Malfoy," he said, rather testily, "for which you owe me another fifty quid. You'd better not go back on it. If Uncle Vernon finds out I've stolen it from his secret hiding place..."

We walked out into the cold. It was terribly late now, and I wished I had brought my greatcoat. Of course, I didn't plan to be out and about in Muggle London getting hexed and put in prison, so I really couldn't have known to bring it.

"I told you I'm good for it, Potter. A Malfoy's bond is sacred. I said I'd pay you double, and I will."

"I don't need double, Malfoy, just make sure I get the three hundred."

"Really, Potter," I said, waving a dismissive hand at him, "all this talk of money smacks terribly of the middle class. I'll have no more it. Now, what do we do from here?"

Potter stopped walking and turned to face me. He really could have used a shave. Whiskers do very little to flatter him. "I'm going home, Malfoy. I've bailed you out. I've certainly done more than enough for you. Much more than you'd have ever done for me if it had been reversed."

"Ah, but that's because you always feel the need to the almighty hero, no? You couldn't help yourself. You had to come to my rescue, no matter how much you despise me."

"I don't need to be a hero, Malfoy. And as proof, I'm going to go home now. Have fun wandering London."

He began to walk away. Bastard. "Hey! Potter!" I caught up with him. "I don't have my wand. I have no means of getting home!"

"Take the Hogwarts Express," he said, walking faster and not looking at me. "It passes by your place, doesn't it?"

"I can't seem to get through the partition."

He stopped again. "What?"

"For God's sake, Potter, have you lost your hearing? I said, I can't get through the buggering brick wall."

"Why?"

"I don't bloody know, do I? I haven't a clue how I got to London in the first place. I just woke up here. And then I tried to get to King's Cross, but on the way, I got solicited by vagrants and attacked by deliquent youths. Look it this gash! A big brute gave it to me." A big brute with hoop earrings and stiletto heels, but I left that bit out. I showed him my forehead. "I'll likely scar, Potter, and then I'll look like you. Disfigured and hideous."

He began to walk again. "I'm not interested in your problems, Malfoy."

"Look, let me come home with you."

"Definitely not. First off, I hate you. I could never have you over. What would Ron say? Second, Uncle Vernon will have a coronary if I bring another wizard in the house. Third, I hate you."

We stopped at a bus station. "I don't need to go inside, Potter. I just need to borrow your broom to get home. I'll return it tomorrow, first thing, with your money. Go on, you know it's a good idea."

Potter let out a sigh, which meant I'd won.


On the train ride home, we rode "Standard Class", meaning even Flitwick would have been cramped in these seats. Of course, I was lumbered beside a woman who was the size of baby humpback. I mean, it was enough that she was taking up both our armrests, but she was spilling over to boot. I swung my head around to Potter, who sat behind. Of course his seatmate was a pretty, young girl.

"Potter, let's trade seats."

"Not on your life, Malfoy."

"But you're used to discomfort. It's hundred times worse for me."

"Suck it up and turn around."

Why did people like him so much? He really was very disagreeable.

"When does the trolley come?"

"Trolley's only in First, Malfoy. You'll have to go to the dining car."

"Will you―"

"No."

"Fine! I'll go."

"You don't have the money, Malfoy."

"That's right, Potter. So fork it over."

"No."

"Potter, I swear to God―!"

"What? What'll you do?"

Once I get my wand back, I'm going to make him grow breasts,―big jiggly ones. Yes, won't that be humiliating?

"Malfoy, what are you laughing at?"

Ahem.


His broomstick was broken apparently. Utterly useless, just like he was.

"Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

"Malfoy, will you keep quiet? People are sleeping."

"What the hell is wrong with your broomstick? If I don't get out of this disgustingly bourgeois suburb in the next two minutes, I'll go mad."

It really was awful. All of the houses were exactly the same, all seemingly attached to one another, and all some horrible shade of puce.

"It was fine last I rode it."

"Well, your fat arse must have broken it, Potter."

He went red. Score. "I―I beg you pardon?" Ah, the stammer of self-consciousness and insecurity.

"You heard me. A little less chocolate frogs, a little more celery; that's my advice."

"Just because I'm not emaciated like you, Malfoy. We can't all be Karen Carpenter."

I wasn't sure who she was, but I was certain the reference was in poor taste. "I'm delicate, Potter. But you wouldn't know anything about that."

"Get out the way!" He shoved me (bastard) and got on the broom.

And he flew. How―?

"Apparently, Malfoy," he said overhead, "you're just useless at flying. But considering your Quidditch technique, it's hardly a surprise."

"Get down here, you little turd!" He landed, and I grabbed the broomstick from him. "Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

Blast. Didn't move an inch. Why wouldn't it work? Damn, damn, damn.

"Potter―"

"I'm not flying you home, Malfoy." He started walking back to the house.

"Potter!"

"Good luck, Malfoy." He unlocked the door.

"At least let me in!"

"No. Good night, Malfoy." That smirk. I'll kill him.

"What am I meant to do?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to take my 'fat arse' upstairs to a warm bed, where I plan to go straight to sleep."

And slam went the the door, shaking the wreath that was positioned perfectly in the centre. I looked, and as I guessed, all the other houses down the line had the exact same wreath―same hideous tartan bow up top. Though I cannot abide Marx―for reasons quite obvious, I should think―, I really am beginning to understand his quarrel with the bourgeoisie. Terrible Christmas décor.

A light switched on up above, in a room which I can only assume to be Potter's.

I do hate to ruin your plans, Harry, old stick, but you won't be turning in just yet. You're taking me home.


Go on. Review! :)