Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).
***
In the first week of December, Neville and Granger knock on his door as a delegation to let him know that McGonagall has approved the outing to London and arranged for an escort of Aurors. To his immense relief, the honor guard does not include the brown-haired one who hates him, but a pair who are actually the least surly of the lot—a man and a woman.
Granger tells him they've been selected on the basis of their ability to pass as Muggles and their inclination for long walks. Speaking of which, he needs to pick out some clothes for the outing. He frowns. He has a winter cloak and robes—
No, that's not acceptable, apparently. He's expected to look like a Muggle. And Neville, apparently, has a whole wardrobe full of Mugglish things he could borrow. He takes a brief look and shakes his head. Neville's clothes look lumpy even on him, jeans and rugby shirts and jumpers, and no amount of transfiguration and tweaking is going to make them look even marginally acceptable. Draco is not going out looking like that. Full stop.
Granger goes into her room, and returns with a pile of clothes that she throws on Neville's bed. "Try these," she says.
He rummages among the pile. They're much closer to his size, and some of them are recognizably Muggle men's clothes, so far as he can tell from what he saw in Neville's collection. He finds a black tunic made of something elegant and soft, and a black garment that apparently goes with it, and shrugs out of his robes to try them on. Granger turns her back, facing the fireplace, apparently to respect his modesty, which amuses him, given that she already has seen everything there is to see.
He stands back from the mirror. The black sets off his paleness to perfection; it must have a slight tilt to the green because he looks luminous rather than sallow.
He turns to see Granger looking at him, and he can tell from the way her eyes darken that she likes what she sees. She's looking at his bare legs in fascination.
"You can't wear that," she says, after a considerable pause.
"And why not, Granger? There are dashing young fellows in paintings all over Hogwarts wearing this very thing, or something not too different." Yes, he does have rather nice legs; Pansy always told him he looked quite fanciable in Quidditch gear. He turns in front of the mirror to admire the back view. He will need hose with this, which he didn't see in the pile.
"That was the fourteenth century, Malfoy. You can't walk out into central London dressed like that." She pauses, still staring at his legs. Licks her lips. Oh yes, she likes what she sees. He will have to remember that. "And you'll freeze, with bare legs."
He turns to lean in toward the mirror, stroking the fabric of the tunic. It's elegant stuff, and he's more than a little surprised that Granger even owns something like this. He's never seen her wear it. "No, you will not get me out of this," he says.
"All right," she says. "But you have to lose the skirt."
He gives her his most fetching come-hither expression, reaches behind to find the talon of the zipper, and pulls it down as slowly as he can. Muggle clothes have their possibilities for enticement, too. She loses patience and throws a pair of jeans at him.
"You're wearing these. Not negotiable." Then she goes into Neville's study and tells him, "Your turn. You get to tell him about warm underthings and socks. And sensible shoes. I've done my duty."
He hears Neville laugh and put down his book. Granger adds, "He's impossible."
Neville replies, "Oh, not impossible. Merely difficult."
He looks over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of them; Granger has her hand on Neville's shoulder and she's leaning in close. He's struck by how much they look like a couple, and how the exasperation sounds like two parents talking about their child.
***
The expedition has very official approval. The next morning after breakfast and a last altercation about what he'll wear (he refuses the ugly Muggle shoes in favor of his own boots), they go up the staircase to the Headmistress's office and step through the Floo, one of the Aurors preceding them and the other bringing up the rear. Twelve Grimmauld Place, rather than the public Floo at the Leaky Cauldron. Great-Aunt Walburga's house.
They don't linger there long, but troop out of the kitchen to the entrance hall and thence to the front steps onto Grimmauld Place.
After the fact, the walking tour runs together in his mind. They get on and off Muggle conveyances that are crowded with a variety of human animals and their smells—tobacco smoke, curry, leather, damp wool, unwashed clothes, perfumes beyond counting. They walk along an embankment on the river—that would be the Thames—and the two of them get excited pointing out landmarks. Neither of them is a Londoner. Granger is quite clear on that; her parents live—lived—in one of the suburbs. Neville hails from Lancashire, as if you couldn't tell that from his accent. They argue about what to show him—the Tate? The National Gallery? "Oh no, he won't like that. Muggle pictures don't move." (Granger's tone is dismissive, and he bristles even though she's absolutely right; he's not interested in seeing more of the weird static pictures that Muggles make. The one on her wall is unnerving enough.)
What he can't believe is how many Muggles there are. Crowds of them stream by as they're gawking at the Houses of Parliament. Big Muggles, little ones, thin ones, fat ones, in a whole range of colors— blue-black, deep brown, olive, rosy, freckled, pale—and configurations—young Muggles in groups, older ones in couples, Muggle families with baby Muggles—and a staggering variety of costumes. He's dizzied by the whole thing. At first they all look alike, and then as he watches, faces come into focus, mostly unfamiliar and each one different. Once in a while, he thinks he sees a face he recognizes—a ginger who might be a Weasley, a blond who looks like his father, a girl with straight black hair who looks like Chang—but on closer examination, they're someone else.
He'd had a vague idea that Muggles were a sort of homogeneous mass. And now he's seen more of them than he's ever seen individuals of any description in the wizarding world—maybe more than he saw at the Quidditch World Cup?—and from what Granger is saying, this is only a tiny part of the London they have made. There are streets upon streets. She unfolds her map to show him. It goes on for miles in all directions, and it's entirely inhabited by people without magic.
They walk him down streets with Muggle shops whose fronts are all glass, with all manner of artfully lit goods inside—clothes and jewelry (the styles are quite different but the articles, at least, he recognizes) and then wholly alien artifacts: odd little silvery things in a variety of shapes and sizes; boxes with colorful moving images that at first he thinks are paintings, except that the images change frantically.
At some point, the grey overcast afternoon starts producing a damp mist and then a sort of peevishly spitting wet, somewhere between rain and snow. "Muggle weather," he mutters, and they laugh at him. Can't help themselves—the idea that Muggles have separate weather. Fifteen minutes later, Neville is still producing the occasional giggle and repeating, "Muggle weather," until Granger says, "Oh, Neville. Be nice. It's an understandable misconception," which annoys him even more.
At the third hour, his feet are sore and his patience is wearing thin. Muggles apparently have nothing like the Knight Bus or the Floo to get you from one place to the next; whether on foot or in one of their conveyances, you have to traverse every point in between. Alphabetical order is no guide to how close your destination is. And he's feeling disagreeable, because none of it makes sense. Granger has taken them to the banking district, which goes on for mile after mile—really excessive—and he's failing to get any kind of answer from her or Neville about how it all works. Between the lines of their conversation, he reads that Granger visits here fairly frequently.
Could that other job be in the Muggle world?
He stares at the glass monoliths that stretch so far into the sky that there's scarcely room for more than a narrow band of pearly overcast above them. It's unnerving, the idea that they've crowded out the sky. "It's a shame we can't stay after dark," Granger says. "They light it all up."
He shivers, thinking that she comes from this alien world. For the first time, he wonders if she's felt anything like the dislocation he's feeling now. Probably not. The wizarding world is human scale, and it's normal, with predictable rules.
Neville and Granger agree that it's time to find hot tea and refreshments. Granger finds them a place, a little glass-fronted café that reminds him a bit of the shops in Diagon Alley, except that inside it's perfectly enormous.
However, they do have an assortment of pastries that's quite enticing, and Granger gives him carte blanche to select what he likes. She buys for the two Aurors, too, who are looking relieved to be in out of the disagreeable weather, since they've had to be discreet with Impervius charms. He's shivering, until Granger notices and does the most discreet wand-work he's yet seen—dries him and warms him—and then he's wedged warmly between her and Neville, bumping elbows with them as they drink tea.
And suddenly, it goes quite precipitously downhill—like unto dropping off a cliff.
There's a he-Muggle with a supercilious manner standing in front of their table. "Miss Granger, I presume," he says, with a slight and mocking bow. "And may I assume that these are your wizard friends?"
Granger proceeds to introduce them both to him, by their actual names, as if this fellow hadn't just announced that the Statute of Secrecy is a dead letter. He sees no reason to play along, not least because this Nigel fellow is taking altogether too familiar a tone with Granger, and looking at him superciliously, as if there were something wrong with his clothes. He's wearing his very best cloak and the boots are finest dragon-hide. Nothing wrong with him. He lifts his chin and tosses his hair back, staring at the impertinent fellow and wishing very much that he could hex him.
Yes, she said something about working with him. She works with Muggles—she has a Muggle job—and this particular Muggle fancies her.
It's quite intolerable. And, absent a proper hexing, there's really only one answer to it.
He puts an arm around Granger, and a hand on Neville's thigh, and says in his iciest tone, "I believe that Miss Granger—Hermione—prefers the company of her own kind. As do I." Under the table, he presses his leg against hers. They belong to him, both of them, and no presumptuous Muggle ought to be looking at either of them. Especially not her. Because even if she came out of their freakish world, where she really belongs is with her own kind. As if it weren't perfectly self-evident: this fellow wouldn't know the correct end of a wand, let alone what to do with one.
There's a flash in the street outside that distracts the he-Muggle, in which interval Granger steps on Draco's foot, hard, and tells him to behave, as if he were an unruly child.
Once the interloper is out of earshot, Neville whispers to her, "What was that? How does he know--?"
"The other kind of wizards," she said. "He means computer programmers. He's been after me for a date for simply months and I finally convinced him I didn't date bankers."
This answer appears to satisfy Neville, who relaxes visibly. Draco decides that he understands at most half of what she said. "He doesn't look like a goblin."
She doesn't bother explaining, which indicates just how annoyed she is; instead, she reproves him for his proprietary display. She doesn't appreciate his chivalry, but she does buy another round of chocolate éclairs, which he decides is nearly a substitute for appreciation. The food here is really quite acceptable. Not quite up to Hogwarts standards, but not bad.
It isn't until that night that it occurs to him that he didn't so much as think the M-word the whole day. And that he not only admitted but asserted that her place was not with the Muggles. That he is her own kind.
***
Three days after the London visit, he doesn't actually see the Daily Prophet until after lunch, because there's a letter for him from Andromeda Tonks. It's nearly as vague as the one he sent, but it seems to assume that they're now corresponding regularly. Under the gracious locutions he recognizes a will as powerful as his mother's. He sighs. There's really nothing for it, if the two of them have made up their minds, any more than there would have been any hope of defying his mother and Bella.
And next time he ought to be a little more timely, he supposes. He doesn't know Andromeda Tonks, but he does know his mother, and if he imagines that last line of the letter in her voice, he's just been told that he's been remiss in his social duties and she's letting it go this once.
He picks up his quill to compose a reply. He doesn't want to talk about the improvement he's making in recovering his magic, because that would be admitting—in writing—that there had been something wrong in the first place. And if the letter is read by someone at the Weasley compound, then he'll be for it the next time Ron Weasley shows up for Potions revision. He left Weasley's gibe about Azkaban unanswered, much as that made his skin itch. If Weasley suspects that he did so from a position of weakness … well, he doesn't want to think about that.
He decides that he'll write about the weather—that's always safe—and the late visit to Muggle London. That will reassure her that he's getting exercise. He will not mention that he did not eat anything sensible at the cafe. (Upon thinking that thought, he realizes that he's thinking of Andromeda as a copy of his mother. But she was somebody's mother, so surely that model can't be far wrong.) He writes a little about revising for NEWTs, because he really can't say much more about Muggle London. Quite frankly, it was overwhelming. His picture of ultimate disaster has been revised substantially; he isn't thinking about them burning the Manor but overrunning it.
There are so many of them.
After he'd said that for the third time, Granger gave him a pocket lecture on the population of the wizarding world—well, wizarding Britain—which appears to be something in the neighborhood of 17,000. No more than 20,000, certainly, although she adds that these are pre-war estimates and they haven't finished counting the casualties in outlying districts.
And then she told him the full population of the British Isles. Sixty-five million. With the prim little aside that not everyone in that figure is a Muggle, because there are witches and wizards who show up in the census. Neville Longbottom, for one, and his grandmother. Apparently his Gran is even registered to vote in Muggle elections (she votes Labour), and she shows up at town meetings in her mostly Muggle locality. And Granger herself, of course. She has a National Insurance Number, she says, and she's seen Neville's identification too. The real one, not the one she faked up for him so he could get a driver license at fifteen.
Draco made her write the number out just so he could be sure that's what she said: sixty-five million.
Of whom 7.1 million live in Greater London, Granger adds.
He filed the part about Neville and his Gran, because that's a little bit more than he can comprehend just now, and he doesn't understand half of it (the elections and voting part is puzzling, and he doesn't know what a driver license is).
He shakes his head. This is getting him nowhere with finishing the letter. Oh yes, he should add that it was Neville and Granger who arranged the tour. Say something nice about them; that should help, since Andromeda is affiliated with the whole Potter-Weasley-Granger-Longbottom axis. And then he supposes he should say something about Muggles, since that's what they went there to see. Hmm. "There are so many of them." He's not going to say that he really didn't know that before, or understand it, because he doesn't need Andromeda looking askance at him; her husband was Muggle-born. Nor is he going to decorate his letter with amusing facts about Muggle demography. He will leave that sort of performance to Granger.
***
When he does see the Daily Prophet, it's in McGonagall's office. She pushes the paper across her desk to him. "Before we begin, Mr. Malfoy, let me tell you that I have already met with Miss Granger and Mr. Longbottom." He's not sure what Neville and Granger have to do with this and says so.
McGonagall smiles one of those dry cold smiles he absolutely hates, because it's trouble itself, much more trouble than Snape's most imperious glare. "So I understand that you have not seen today's Prophet." He shakes his head slowly, frowning a little. "Do look at it, Mr. Malfoy." The small tight smile is arctic. "Take your time, and be sure to read the lead article in full. Then we can discuss what we propose to do."
Draco unfolds the paper and can't suppress a gasp of utter horror. There he is on the front page of the Prophet, his arm around Granger—and Merlin's balls, it looks much worse than he meant it. For one, the hand with which he's squeezing her upper arm is just a little too close to her breast. For another, the glimpse of the other hand, the one on Neville's thigh, is in deep perspective and it actually looks as if he's quite a bit further up the leg than he was—or thought he was. The only good thing to be said about it is that the presumptuous he-Muggle is mostly obscuring the view of what he's doing with Neville.
He puts the newspaper down in his lap and stares at McGonagall. She's not sympathetic. "We have matters to discuss in detail about that article," she says. "I suggest you read it. And do stop gawping."
He realizes that his mouth has been hanging open this whole while, so he closes it.
He picks the newspaper and grits his teeth to read the headline article. Rita bloody Skeeter, of course.
He feels as if he's standing naked in a cold north wind, which effectively he is. Rita Skeeter has guessed—maliciously, but with utter accuracy—exactly what's going on. Granger is having an affair with him, and she's possibly also involved with Neville, and he fancies both of them. Or at least he's having sex with both of them. Of course—even daft Skeeter could piece that together, from that picture. It's not as if he'd been subtle.
He continues to read. Now she's implying that Granger protested his parents' incarceration in Azkaban because she was sleeping with him. No, he perfectly well knows that's not true. He was still in the hospital wing when that happened, and they were certainly far from friends at the time. And he's certainly overheard enough of her rants about the wizarding justice system since then to know it has nothing to do with him.
He says as much to McGonagall, carefully crafting the words to avoid any reference to what's going on in present tense.
McGonagall says, "Given your record, I would be much surprised if Miss Granger were in fact involved with you as Rita Skeeter claims."
Draco points to the picture and says with some pique, "She stamped on my foot, right after that was taken."
McGonagall says, "Miss Granger exercised admirable restraint. Of course, given that she was in a Muggle locality, that was absolutely required." (Translation: you're lucky she didn't hex your bits off, then or on return to Hogwarts.) "Had you exercised some self-control in the first place, her action would have been completely unnecessary."
Of course. How much fairness can he expect from the erstwhile Head of Gryffindor House? How was he supposed to know that some idiot photographer from the Prophet was trailing them? He's thinking about how to say this in a way that doesn't sound like active whining, when McGonagall cuts in again.
"Mr. Malfoy, I think that any rejoinder of yours is completely superfluous at this juncture. Let me be candid with you. Your actions have placed your parents in deadly peril." That gets his attention. "Rita Skeeter appears to have a substantial grudge against Miss Granger, and she is not particular about whom else she damages in her campaign to discredit her. That includes her former patron. There is a faction in the Ministry that want to proceed to expropriation and execution of your father and mother, without the intermediate formality of a trial. Interestingly enough, it includes some number of your father's former allies in the Ministry."
Draco stares at the picture again, aghast. That impulse of his really was stupid, wasn't it? Not that he'll say so to McGonagall.
"However culpable your father may have been in recent events, he is being put forward as the scapegoat for policies carried out by a great many willing hands in the Ministry. Miss Granger and Healer Derwent have systematically protested this. It is not in your interest to do anything that would cast discredit on their efforts."
He feels sick now. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Continue your admirable efforts to prepare for the NEWTs. Under no circumstances contact the Prophet on your own initiative. That includes letters to the editor, Owls, Howlers, fire-calls, and the like. I am working with Healer Derwent and Mrs. Longbottom to get this situation resolved, and we will be involving Minister Shacklebolt. I cannot sufficiently stress how delicate a matter this is. If we need you to speak to the press, you will be thoroughly briefed in advance. And if you receive any overtures whatsoever from Skeeter or anyone else on the Prophet, they are to be referred to me. Is that understood?"
He nods.
"Regrettably, you have lost visiting privileges to Hogsmeade for the foreseeable future. We are considering whether you should be permitted to continue the flying tutorials with Miss Granger, given the rumors of your involvement with her. Your tutorial with Mr. Longbottom will continue, as we do not have an appropriately qualified tutor to replace him under current circumstances."
He leans forward, head in hands. The more he thinks about this, the sicker he feels. He rather wishes the Headmistress had summoned him to her office before lunch rather than after, because the meal is not sitting too well on his stomach just now.
***