The first week of Healer training had given him a fair insight into the annals of addiction.
He understood about the needy desire, the one track mind, the enhancement that magical blood lended to the condition. Draco knew he exhibited those symptoms on a regular basis. If he were to diagnose himself - a risky and unrecommended practice by all accounts - he would declare himself an addict.
The fact that he never made it into the second week of training didn't matter, he was a fast learner, and had perused the background texts so he considered himself something of an expert.
It started in muggle London.
That in itself was a startling fact, when he considered the limited - and very much magical parameters of his life thus far. Certainly now Draco would never consider floo-ing between his ancestral estate in Wiltshire and the familial properties on the continent as being 'well travelled'.
The trip had been an accident of sorts; a stressful week ended with a bungled business venture, and turned into drowning his sorrows in the Leaky. They were kind enough to let him have one overpriced glass of Firewhiskey before he was cold shouldered out the door.
Of course, nobody thought to correct him when he slipped out the entirely wrong exit.
The first thing he noticed was the noise.
Growing up, Draco had been tutored to treat Diagon Alley with a cold indifference, enthusiasm was, afterall, a characteristic of the common riffraff. But behind his mask he'd been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of interesting sights, smells, and sounds to be absorbed. There was also something about the compounding of magic into a confined space that made the atmosphere hum with a feeling that made you feel as though anything were possible. It was, quite literally, magical.
The wizarding street was noisy, yes, but they were noises that he knew and understood.
This made him miss the familiar riff raff.
Draco's first, chilling thought, was that he'd been thrown into a sea of Inferi; greying skin, dull lifeless eyes, a bustling, herding mass, the muggles of London were very nearly as terrifying as any undead army.
Strange metal boxes on wheels shunted and screeched in the mid-distance. Urgency seemed to propel the crowd along, and they moved along as a horde. Draco stumbled and shifted rapidly from side to side, eyes wide with indignant alarm as the people around him pushed and barged their way past each other without a second glance. The air filled thick with shouts and curse words, which Draco was surprised to learn were the same in both cultures. Apparently shit was universal.
This shocking commonality amused him more than it should have, and had his mother been within hearing distance he'd have likely taken a second to delight in her horrified face.
He found that the lack of common courtesy offended him the most. The same way, he supposed, Weasley had always done with his slack-jawed mastication, lack of discretion, and generally abysmal wandwork.
If muggles were no different from Potter's lap dog - a pureblood wizard, it irritated him to admit - then he supposed they weren't so very alien afterall.
Nevertheless the press of the crowds was overwhelming, and he felt surrounded him from all sides.
In the race to lessen the suffocating weight of blind panic, Draco pushed past the chaos, stumbling through the first available door without registering where exactly he'd ended up.
Uncharacteristic for the boy who'd grown adept at strategizing to avoid torture.
With relief, he discovered he was in a shop. A bookshop to be precise. The room was filled with rows and rows of bookcases, which excited Draco more than he'd care to admit.
For all his posturing about superiority, Draco had always wanted to visit a muggle book shop.
He was very much intellectually driven, and so lacking an area of knowledge - even muggle knowledge - was a little distressing.
On closer inspection he realised that it wasn't background chatter but music permeating the air around him. Drawing from his existing knowledge, Draco searched for the source of the musical incantation without thinking. But instead of the magical signature he'd expected, his eyes traced the path of sounds and land on the source; several strange boxes on the ceiling.
Not entirely barbaric, he mused.
Muggle music, it turned out, was a damn sight better than anything he'd heard on the Wizarding Wireless. He rather liked the idea of perusing literature to a muted musical soundtrack. Civilised, he concluded with a jolt.
Except, they're not books on the shelves at all, Draco realised, watching a muggle beside him retrieve one from the shelves. The items filling the shelves were not dissimilar to wizarding records.
Muggle music.
A thrill of the forbidden tingled down his spine.
Better than muggle literature, he reasoned, as the education would be more immediate. Perhaps, he thought absently, he should do a little research and send a crate over to Hogwarts for educational purposes. It'd certainly liven up the muggle studies curriculum
Out of conditioned habit, Draco cast a cursory eye about himself for familiar faces before he made his decision.
Might as well.*Observing the procedure and etiquette of his fellow show goers, Draco decided it was - as the physical similarities between objects had suggested - quite the same as the wizarding way.
He was drawn to a record that'd been removed from the jumble and placed on display, his eyes widening with gleeful disbelief.
The muggle on the sleeve art bore a strong resemblance to his aunt - they had the same black wild hair, the same heavy lidded eyes, and the same strong facial bone structure.
It rather amused him to think of the formidable Bellatrix Lestrange masquerading as a muggle musician.
T Rex
Draco read what was, he assumed, the artist's name he removed the item from the stand and weighed it in his hands. He flipped it over and scanned the list of songs on the reverse.
Children of the Revolution
Draco shook his head rapidly at the thought, memories spawning behind his eyes: broken vanishing cabinets, scarred forearms, ostracisation. Definitely not.
Still intrigued, but frankly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of musical options available - and for the first time realising there were some things the size of the magical community may be limited by - Draco clung to the name T Rex, and focused his search on that.
Undeniably, there was no shortage of options in that category. Draco counted no fewer than six separate records by the artist, shivering as each visualised more and more disturbing likenesses of his mother's sister. One title, Electric Warrior sent excited chills down his spine. The words evoked a concept so deliciously muggle, the pronunciation of the words alone would have all eighty-three generations of the Malfoy family rolling in their graves.
However, it was the nods to the celestial in the list of songs on the reverse that spoke to the Black inside of him, and that sealed the deal.
There are three glass doored cubicles towards the back of the shop, which Draco had noticed muggles filing in and out of with their musical selections. His heart beat a rapid tattoo as his dragonhide boots clipped approached.
It was near nirvana locking himself into a tiny space in a shop filled with people who don't know him and won't judge him for his past history. Still, self-consciousness dictated the need for privacy and he charmed the door opaque; not comfortable, even here, with the thought of being on display. The thrill of the forbidden raced once more down his spine, blood fizzled in his fingers as he placed the strange earmuffs over his ears and lowered the metal arm.
*
The second side of the disc was louder.
It started with a rumbling bass that reminded him of a thunderstorm, drums pounding, and then vocals that lead to a riot of infectious sound that made him bop his blonde head vigorously in time.
It was melodic noise, something that Draco was fast embracing as his favourite thing.
He played the first track over and over again.
*
It was immensely satisfying to thrash around to screaming vocals. Draco didn't know the lyrics, but he let the syllables cascade over his skin, tingling in his fingertips like the aftermath of a powerful incantation.
Nothing, Draco had thought, as he watched his fine hair staticked and stood on end, sticking out at odd angles, would ever be as exciting as learning a new piece of charm work, but here he was, being proved most immensely wrong.
In his spelled cubicle, he silently transfigured his shirt to fit in with his surroundings, shifting under the lighter fabric of the T Rex shirt, and shaking his head with a wry smirk as he caught sight of himself in loose faded jeans.
I look like Potter.
He wordlessly tightened the fit, and cast an appraising eye once more down his long limbs.
Less boywonderish, and surprisingly comfortable.*The second trip was not an accident, and on the third he discovered David Bowie.
At first he fingered the familiar spine of Electric Warrior, blood already singing in anticipation of another listen.
"I think you might like this." A different album was pushed into his hands.
He looked down at the art, a indiscriminable street scene, and a rather long title. He glanced up at the shopgirl with wide eyes.
"Thanks," fell from his lips before he had a chance to process it.
Draco settled in the booth he'd come to think of as his own.
Father would hate this, he thought as the chords of the opening track begun, and he decided, with an air of importance, that the song about the man in the stars was for him.
Later, he smirked as he flipped through the stacks and the cover art of Diamond Dogs caught his eye.
Maybe I should do my hair like that for dinner on Sunday, he thought, the face paint too. And he was laughing, long and hard until his cheeks ached, like he hadn't done since third year.
Draco rather hoped his father would hate that more than he imagined.
*
Starman became his saviour.
He hummed it during awkward weekend meals with his parents. He recalled the staccato rhythm of the drums as he paced around his study. He echoed Bowie-esque howls in the shower. He closed his eyes and envisaged himself to be the very constellation he was named for.
He created a little bubble for himself, and it shielded him. It made the judgement, and the disappointment, and the loneliness bearable.
Draco Malfoy found peace in muggle music.
It was a delicious combination of safety and rebellion that he lusted over.
He wouldn't give it up.
*
Draco relished in the anonymity. Muggle London was free from recognition, and the music shop moulded into the perfect sanctuary.
The walk there along the busy muggle streets became a time to unwind. The noise now quietened his mind; it provided him with a delicious few minutes of excitement as he relished the unknown of his next discovery.
*
It took weeks for him to realise that girl behind the counter looks like Granger.
Draco huffed a laugh.
Granger would certainly have never let him live these past few weeks down, much less smile at him on sight.
He found a way to communicate with fake-Granger without speaking, engaging her eye and then following the tip of her head to another musical discovery.
He became familiar with Talking Heads, Pulp and The Cure. Psycho Killer was an anthem he dedicated with a hysterical laugh to the former Dark Lord. He began to understand the nuances of genre and instruments, and developed favourite chords and riffs. Naturally, he started to consider himself something of an expert. And honestly, if Granger could've seen him, Draco was sure her frizzy head would explode from the shock.
He stopped bothering with the notice me not charm on his booth. Limbs loose and eyes closed as he bounced softly to the drum beat in Get It On.
His visits always finished with the record that started it all.
*
He wore his T Rex shirt and jeans beneath his robes as he shopped for potion supplies on Diagon Alley.
The passers by were so dazed by his cheerful greetings that they forget to scowl.
*
It was a weekly occurrence, he would've made the journey more, but, he thought that if he did, he'd never leave.
"So what're you planning to do you do with your life?" Pseudo-Granger asked, propped against the counter as he moved from the Ramones to the Rolling Stones.
His mind danced from profession to profession: the week of Healer training cropped up, then the failed business meetings he'd attended to keep his father happy, and then nothing, just this.
Once again the symptoms of addiction spiked in his memory; his thirst for guitars, fast drums that made his heart race, and his ache to scream along to choruses that he mostly can't understand or pronounce, and Draco smiled.
"I think I'm just finding out."