Draco Malfoy, Muggle

by Jacob Oliver

Chapter 8. Harry Potter.


It had been nearly six hours fighting through the storm and enduring a very sore bottom indeed before I'd finally arrived at the Burrow. I know I wasn't the most welcome guest under the current circumstances, but, golly, I needed a friendly face. I only hoped Ron was still on my side.

Fortunately, it being a weekday, the Weasleys had all turned in early and were now likely fast asleep. I found Ron's room up top, and, hovering by his window and proceeding to wipe the glass of rain, I peeped inside in search of red hair. He was in his bed, as I had expected, snug and sound, and I almost hated to bother him.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Ron."

Tap, tap, tap!

"Ron! Ron, it's me!"

He shifted about at first beneath his old feathery eiderdown, until he'd finally managed to hoist himself up. "Eh?" He rubbed at his eyes, and his voice sounded half-asleep. "Is somebody at the door?"

"No! I'm out here. The window, Ron." Tap, tap, tap. I shone a bright Lumos upon my face so he could see me.

It was just the trick to wake him, it seemed; for, his eyes growing wide upon seeing me, he cried out, "Harry!" and leapt from his bed.

"Shhh!" I cautioned, but he'd already ran toward me, flinging open the window in so a great rush that I nearly had my face boffed in by the glass.

Steadying the broom, I began to pull myself inside. Ron, trying to be helpful, I'm sure, yanked me in a moment too quickly, causing me to come crashing forwards and land smack on top of him.

"I'm glad to see you too, mate," he said, with a smirk; "but you're soaking, so do me a favour and gerroff!" He shoved at me, playfully of course, though I was still knocked over onto the floor. "I'll get you a towel and a change of clothes."

Golly, I was glad see him.

"It'll be a tad long for you, but you won't mind," he said, handing me an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. I was surprised he was so calm, but, of course, it wasn't to last, and just as I'd picked up the towel to dry off, he'd shouted, "Bloody hell, Harry! Where've you been?"

I sighed out audibly and began to change. "Everywhere. Nowhere. You'd not believe me anyway. Gosh, I'm tired."

"You didn't bring him, did you?" He peered out the window, searching for Malfoy, until I pulled him away and shook my head.

"No. He's not here. I'm done helping him." I peeled off the wet shirt and began towelling myself. "Are you angry that I went against your father? I don't blame you if you are."

He sat down on the bed. "I mean, I was a bit confused. Nobody would tell me what was going on. You just bring in some stranger one morning, completely out of the blue, and then, the day after, you're on the run with him. Oh, and, to top it off, you stole Hermione's wand and all! Why, Harry? Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" (a pause, then) "I heard Dad talking about it. You can get prosecuted by the Wizengamot! Do you realise that?"

"I know," I said, sighing out and running a hand through my mop.

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I'm not," I insisted. "I mean, not anymore. I'm done."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I don't know. He needed help. So I..."

"Harry," he said, "I know you love being everyone's hero, but you've got to choose your maidens-in-distress more carefully."

"I know," was all I could reply.

"Now look, if you just tell Dad where the orphan is, he'll be able to help you. He'll appeal to the Wizengamot and―"

"No!" I shouted, without realising it; "they can't have him!"

Ron frowned. "They only want to do what's good for him."

"No, they don't! They think he's a Muggle, so they want to take away his memory and throw him at Social Services! Well, I won't let them!"

"Harry," he said, calmly now, because I was shaking in anger, "I thought you said you were done helping him."

"I am! … I mean, I don't know!" I held my head with both hands; it had begun a steady throb. And suddenly all I could think about was that surge of emotion, warmth―or, rather, heat―, and the loss of breath when our lips brushed. Brushed? Who was I kidding? I forced them together. A kiss. A sloppy, horrid,―rapturous kiss. What is the matter with me?

"Harry?" Ron was looking at me, concerned. I could feel myself blushing, and quickly I covered my cheeks. "Talk to me, Harry. Please. What's going on?"

It needed to be said. It was killing me, messing―fucking!―with my head.

And I suppose if there was any time to talk to Ron about my potential unspeakable attraction towards Malfoy, it was now, when Ron had no recollection of who Malfoy actually was.

"He..." I took a deep breath. "He makes me confused."

Ron was still looking at me, an expectant stare, so I mustered up the will to continue.

"I don't know. I can't explain it. He makes me feel funny...feel strange."

"Why? Is he a weirdo?"

I could feel my body trembling―could feel the palpitations in my heart. Standing in front of Ron, stammering and struggling for words, it felt like a long-coming confession―but of what? I certainly didn't know; or rather, I knew what the confession was meant to be, but it didn't seem real, authentic. It didn't feel as though there were an imminent secret buried somewhere inside my body; and yet, the course of my actions and yearnings of late seemed to require that there was. Ron was waiting, his freckled mien furrowed with both concern and impatience.

"No. Not at all," I said, and exhaling―"but perhaps...perhaps I am."

Ron quirked a brow. "You're what?"

"For God's sake, Ron, I kissed him!" I said in one breath.

There was some confusion in Ron's face for the first few seconds, and I stayed silent, allowing the cogs in his brain to turn and register what I had told him. It wasn't long before his body lurched backwards and his eyes widened in―surprise? horror? repulsion?

"Harry! You're gay?"

The word struck me as he said it. It felt so foreign, so estranging, and my body searched the sums of its experiences, perhaps in a vain attempt to bridge itself toward that being. But, indeed, I could feel no familiarity: for what does being "gay" mean? Is it an essence within me that holds dictatorship over my behaviour, desires, and experiences? Does my attraction to Malfoy presuppose a nature, in-born and immutable, that officiates my lifestyle and the most intimate of my emotions?

I began to think of Cho. I had liked her. I had wanted to hold her and to kiss her. And, in guilty secret, I had dreamt of spreading her on my four-poster and hearing her moan my name. But as time moved on, so too did my feelings and attractions. Did I still like Cho today? Perhaps a little. Perhaps if she made the first move, I might even share a kiss. But it wasn't her, at this present moment in time and space, for whom my mind and heart went a flutter.

"Are you gay, Harry?" Ron repeated.

That was the question, wasn't it? Was I now―recently filled with these unexplainable desires for my arch-nemesis―to be squeezed into the mould of the Homosexual, a frame that would henceforth define me in society and construct me to myself?

Rather than answer Ron, I questioned in return. "Does having kissed him make me 'gay'?"

"Yes!" he shouted, as though the answer were undeniable and apparent.

I didn't reply. Instead, I sat myself on his bed and, looking out at the night, ruminated some more on―whatever it was. A condition? A behaviour?

"So," Ron said, and, when I turned to him, he was standing against the moonlight, rubbing the back of his head, "does this mean you're going to suck me off?"

I nearly choked on my saliva. "What!"

"Isn't that what gay mates do? Suck off their straight friends?"

"Where on earth did you hear that, Ron!"

Ron blushed. "Charlie."

He knew about Charlie? Golly, that was a turn up.

"Charlie used to let his gay friends suck him off all the time."

Or maybe not.

This was growing far too uncomfortable. I needed to put the tin hat on it before it could get any more mortifying. "You're not my type, Ron." I said, hoping that was the end of it, but apparently it only opened a whole other can of worms.

"You think I'm ugly?" Ron asked, his words pouring out bruised and hurt.

"What? No!"

"Is it because I'm ginger? Is that it? Or is it my big ears? Or because I'm too skinny?"

"Ron, stop!"

He spoke bitterly. "Oh, I'm sorry―how could I ever compete with him? Go on, then. Go back to your gorgeous Aryan snowflake. Oh, just leave!"

"Ron! My God! Are you jealous?" I asked, completely astonished by his behavior.

He went rigid. "What? No! Of course I'm not! Why would I be? What made you ever think of a thing like that?"

"Well, you're kicking out of your house for refusing to give you a―" I couldn't bring myself to say 'blowjob' in front of him, but he got the idea.

"I wouldn't let you suck me off if you begged me, Harry James Potter!" Ron said, crossing his arms and turning his head away.

"I don't want to suck you off!"

Glowering―"You bastard! Some friend you are!"

"Ron, you're being ridiculous!"

"Oh, I'm being ridiculous, am I? I'm not the one having a sordid sex-capade with a Muggle on the lamb!"

I was about to open my mouth to deny such an outrageous claim―and to question the validity of the term 'sex-capade'―when I heard voices coming from the ground floor.

"What's that?" I asked, alarmed.

Ron didn't respond, apparently giving me the cold-shoulder now; and so I quietly opened the door a very small crack and listened. The light was turned on, streaming up from downstairs. I first recognised Mr Weasley's voice.

"Would you like a drink, Paddy?"

"No, thank you, Mr Weasley," came the other voice, Liverpudlian or Brummie―I could never tell the difference. "I've just come to tell you that we've found him. He's near Newcastle, and he's well protected."

"Well protected? How?"

"The house he's hiding in has some kind of powerful enchantment."

"I see." He took a swig of something. "And how was he located?"

"Apparently Mr Malfoy tracked him and put Billingsley on the case. We haven't heard anything from him since."

I was astonished. Why would Malfoy's father want to track him? He wasn't to do with Muggle Relations. And Billingsley? Didn't he do international work?

"Lucius? What's he meddling for? I'm head of Muggle Relations."

"Yes, but he outranks you," Paddy said. "We'll be sending more men down to try to break the enchantment. Will you come, Mr Weasley?"

"But is it really worth all this trouble, Paddy? I mean, why are we sending Billingsley, of all people, plus half the Ministry, just to apprehend one Muggle? Perhaps if we change our technique... Yes, perhaps we can reason with him. For instance, we can allow him to keep his memory as long as he swears an oath never to reveal the secrets of the Wizardingworld."

"It's too late for that," said Paddy. "Mr Malfoy has already ordered a full magical transorbital lobotomy to be administered on Leroy Bucket upon arrest."

I turned to Ron in horror. "Ron, what the hell is transorbital lobotomy?"

Ron was staring back at me, white as a counterpane. "I thought those were in only horror stories..." He gulped. "It's not pleasant, Harry. They take two ice picks enchanted with a memory-destroying spell, and they hammer them into your eye-sockets."

I felt nauseous and and stumbled to sit down.

"The spell targets the brain fibers in your temporal lobe, and they slice into them, mutilating all access to your memories. And the worst part is after the surgery. The patient can never remember anything ever again. He becomes a walking zombie for the rest of his life―living purely on instinct, never able to communicate with anyone, soiling himself and forgetting it's even in his pants."

"That can't be legal!" I managed after catching my breath.

"I didn't think so either."

Before I could say anything more, the door burst open, revealing Paddy―a rough, dark-haired man with a scar down his cheek―and Mr Weasley, both with their wands poised.

"I thought I heard your voice," Mr Weasley said to me. "You're in a lot of trouble, Harry. Petrificus Totalus!"

But Ron, in a flying leap, shielded me from the curse, which collided into him with a sharp, painful crack. He was instantly frozen and collapsed onto the floor in a solid block. Wasting no time and stupefying each of the men before they could return fire, I dashed onto my broom and sped away―northeast.


I could see them, the Ministry men, dressed in what they understood to be Muggle clothes, hovering around the house. A man in daisy dukes, legwarmers, and a sombrero went continuously up and down the road walking his miniature schnauzer. A woman wearing a satin ballgown, Ugg boots, and a pillbox hat jogged briskly around the general vicinity. More wizards in everything from bellbottoms to crushed velvet coats paraded around pretending to be minding their own business.

I landed several houses away, in the alleyway, and, as stealthily as I could, crept toward the back of the house, scaled the wooden fence, and, upon entering the privacy of the back garden, raced to the kitchen door. An Alohomora unlocked it, and, stepping over the red dust, I shut the door behind me.

And there he was―Billingsley, duct-taped to a chair, covered in burn-blisters, and shouting into his gag. And then came a sharp pain in the back of my head, and all was black.


I woke up with a devil of headache and, blinking my eyes open, perceived a bright, bond-white room, a metal bedpan, and the sounds of a tanoy. I listened carefully, trying to understand what had happened and where I was.

A ding! and gravelly speakers: "Dr Gupta to Geriatrics. Dr Gupta to Geriatrics. Maude Pumpernickel has been confusing her morphine patches for HRT again. She is passed out hairy and naked in the waiting room and is making all the visitors ill."

Dear God! I was in hospital! I lunged forwards in my bed, and, much more lucidly now, scanned my surroundings.

"Well, finally, Potter."

There was Malfoy at the corner, seated on an armchair and reading a magazine.

"Muggles really have the most preposterous sense of fashion. Listen to this: 'Goodbye Skinny-Jeans, Meggings are the New Must-Have!'"

"Malfoy!"

"Christ, would you look at that?" He held out the picture. "Black and white stripe. You'd think a person would know he's hit rock bottom when he's taking fashion advice from a mime."

I cringed at the picture, but soon forced myself to get back to the subject at hand.

"I don't care about meggings, Malfoy! What am I in hospital for?"

"Mild traumatic brain injury," he said, flipping the page. "Oh, I do like the look of those brogues. Can we get me a pair?"

I took several staggered gasps of air before I could shout: "Brain injury!"

"Mild brain injury, Potter. Don't spin my words."

"Malfoy," I said, trying to restrain myself from leaping up and throttling him, "what is going on?"

"Well," he said, setting down the magazine and picking up another, "you're in a hospital bed, recuperating from mild traumatic brain injury and a subsequent coma, and I am about to read an article on the 'Best Lowfat Wensleydale Tortilla', apparently."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Coma!"

"Yes, Potter, that's what I said. Now, do you want to hear about this tortilla or not?"

"No! Of course I don't want to hear about that stupid tortilla!"

"Well, pardon me for trying to bring some exotic charm to this hospital's fairly unpalatable menu. I had a rubbery croissant yesterday that still gives me nightmares."

"Yesterday? How long have I been in a coma?"

"Just last night and most of today."

"Malfoy, please just explain to me what happened."

He rolled his eyes and closed his reading matter. "Oh very well, if you must be so nosey. I heard a noise in the kitchen and thought there was another break-in. So I peeped inside, saw someone next to Billingsley, and, with a flying dash of valiance and fearlessness, bashed your brains in with a copper pot."

Unbelievable! "You put me in a coma?"

"Only because I thought you were trying to set Billingsley free. And I didn't know it was you, did I?" Smirking―"If I did, I might have have used cast-iron."

I glared. "How did we get here? Surely the Ministry men would have captured us if we left the house."

"The same way you came in. I dragged your fat lump of deadweight through the back garden, over the fence, slung your arm around my shoulder, and walked us all the way here."

That I hadn't expected. Never in my life would I have thought that Malfoy would carry me nearly three miles to hospital. I mean, yes, he was the cause of my injury in the first place, but I'd never have thought he'd actually try to save me in consequence. Surely, he'd have let me die in agony.

"They found you and rushed you in for immediate attention."

I was about to thank him, when I re-assessed his last statement and found myself immediately confused. "What do you mean 'they found me?'"

He looked surprised. "Is that what I said?"

"Yes, it was."

"Oh." He quickly became engrossed in his magazine. "Virgo, are you? Or is it Leo? Either way, you've got a spicy romance heading your way..."

"Malfoy!"

He sighed out and threw the magazine onto the table beside him. "Okay, so I couldn't carry you all the way. What do you want from me? I haven't got super-strength. Perhaps if you weren't so quick to dismiss foods like that lovely lowfat tortilla, I might have been able make it."

I could feel myself blushing, and, reflexively, I sucked in my belly. "I'll have you know I ate cabbage soup for a whole week and nothing happened!" I shouted out. "Those magazines are useless!"

Oh dear God, did I really just say that? How mortifying! I nervously glanced toward him and saw that devilish smile creeping upon his lips.

"Anyway, that's not the point!" I cut in before he could say anything to humiliate me further. "Just tell me what happened. How did they find me?"

I could see him physically biting back the urge to tease me cruelly, and I sighed out in relief when he allowed it to pass. "Well, I dropped you on a kerb about a half mile from the hospital, and, at that point, I was ready to collapse myself, not to mention the awful lumbago. Well, I was sure I was suffering from over-exhaustion, and so decided to pop over to hospital anyway to get myself checked up. Now, I had intended to mention you to the doctor and get them to send someone to fetch you, but when the doctor said I had myalgia, I thought, 'Dear God, this is it!' I thought I was going to die, Potter. You can't begrudge me a little forgetfulness in such a circumstance. Well, wasn't my face red when he explained that 'myalgia' was simply a fancy term for a body ache?" He chuckled to himself.

I couldn't believe my ears. "You forgot to tell them about me? You're unbelievable, Malfoy!"

"Oh, don't be so hysterical, Potter. You were found eventually. If you must know, a pair of drunken Geordies tripped over your body and, after several attempts to regain footing, rushed you to the mortuary forthwith."

"What!"

"Well, they thought you were dead, didn't they? Anyway, the mortician figured it out in the end." His wicked smile crept out again. "But, I think they forgot to take that off you." He nodded to my feet.

I looked down and, in absolute horror, saw the tag tied to my toe.

Malfoy was laughing hysterically as I struggled to rip it off. He doubled over when I managed to knee myself in the face in the process.

When I'd finally torn it off, Malfoy was wiping away tears. "Actually, I put that there. I wanted to see the look on your face when you found it! Shall I do an impression?"

He twisted his face in mock horror and laughed again. Bastard.

"Very funny, Malfoy!" I said, rubbing at the new bruise that was spreading on my forehead.

"Oh, grow a sense of humour, Potter. Anyway, this is all your fault. You're either full of empty threats or caprice. You left in an hysterical, overzealous huff, offended about God-knows-what, and with the promise you'd never again return. And, only the next morning, you're breaking and entering. So what is it, Potter? Are you back to help or what?"

I looked at him. He had stood up and moved to the foot of the bed, bearing down at me with intimidation. But it hadn't the aggression and threat by which I had once come to be acquainted. Beneath the glare, somewhere in the bluish-greys of his eyes that flicked away for only a second, somewhere in the delay of his blink, in the fall of his lashes, somewhere in what may have been an imperceptible tremble of his jaw, there was a plea, a hope, that I would stay. And it's all I needed, to know I had pledged to him my allegiance. And I hated myself for it.

"There's an order to lobotomise you."

With shock and bewilderment―"That's not possible."

"I was at the Burrow and―"

"You were where! Are you retarded, Potter!"

"I needed to talk to Ron! Look, just shut up and listen! A man came in and told Mr Weasley that the Ministry had bumped up your priority. That's why all those Aurors are surrounding Minnie's house. They're ordered to capture and lobotomise you on the spot. And Malfoy..." I didn't wish to reveal it, but he had the right to know. "The orders came from your father."

His expression was cold. "I know," he said, and began to pace. "I got it out of Billingsley."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be soft, Potter. Look, it's a good thing we're out of the house. We'll need to go into deeper hiding." He paused and looked at me. He appeared almost small suddenly. "That is," he continued, slowly, deliberately, "if you're coming with me."

It was my turn to laugh. "Don't be so soft, Malfoy," I mocked. "Now where's my wand? I need to heal my brain."