Disclaimer: Harry Potter, not mine.
A/N: Hello guys! Hope you're all staying safe in the Station Eleven apocalypse. To distract myself from my endless anxiety, I wrote this little thing for Cards Against Muggle Crack Fest over at Hermione's Nook. I hope it makes you guys smile.
The Prompt: Black Card: The Ministry of Magic has just announced that they have put a new tax on... White Card: Draco Malfoy's perfectly coiffed hair
Thanks to MournfulSeverity and Farbautidottir for betaing!
The atmosphere in the pub was delightful. That is, it was perfectly tawdry. Exactly the sort one would expect in a shit pub at the edge of the world. Which is where Draco Malfoy was at, at present. Well, if you considered Cockermouth the edge of the world. Which he most certainly did. No self-respecting wizard in their right mind would come here. And yet here he was, dressed in Muggle attire of a particularly distasteful composition. What was this Merlin-awful fabric? It certainly wasn't silk. He doubted it was even satin.
Merlin, was it cotton?
Had Draco Malfoy, only heir to the prominent house of, well, Malfoy, lowered himself to wearing cotton?
Salazar, it was a travesty. How had he sunk so low?
Bloody Circe and Rowena. Who even WAS he anymore?
Draco cursed nastily, but internally, and upended the tumbler of amber liquid he was holding into his mouth. The Muggle man had called it whisky, but it did not burn the way firewhisky burned. Which was bloody disappointing because he wanted to set the entire pub on fire. He wanted to set Cockermouth on fire. He wanted to set all of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland on fire.
Yes, that might do.
Draco ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. At least there was that.
He needed more alcohol while he contemplated this sad turn of his life. But he'd be damned if he paid another knut for this shitty, subpur excuse of a beverage. Much less 443. Did Muggles really pay almost a galleon for a shot of this bloody Jameson trash? What in Salazar's name was wrong with the lot of them?
But luckily… luckily, he was still a bloody wizard, even if he had to leave behind his home, his family, his friends — some friends.
Draco scowled and grasped his wand beneath the table, his fingers running over the firm wood. He pointed it up at his empty tumbler and watched it refill. Behind the shitty, perfectly polished bar, the amber liquid swirling within the bottle of 20 Year Matured Jameson Irish Whiskey diminished in equal part. The Muggle barman didn't notice.
Draco took a smaller sip. It tasted like Muggle shit with a side of smoky oak. He frowned and sheathed his wand. It would not do if any of the Muggles saw it out. Merlin, what would they think?
If they saw him so bare and vulnerable, he'd have to Obliviate them. What a hassle. He didn't have time for that. He was on the run.
He sank back into his brooding thoughts. In the end, it all came down to Blaise.
Bloody Blaise.
The betrayal. Draco should have seen it coming. Blaise was handsome. Such perfect facial structure. Such fine features. But he had never had Draco's hair. He had always been jealous. Draco had ignored it to his detriment. Had stolen women and men alike from right under Blaise's perfectly symmetrical nose. Of course, he left them all by next morning. He wasn't looking for anything long-term. Baise wasn't going to marry them or anything. What did it matter?
He supposed it was Daphne Greengrass that must have done it. It was bad enough that Draco had claimed Astoria, the one Blaise really wanted. But when he'd slept with Daphne as well… But what could he do? The girls were practically falling over each other to get him depantsed. It really wasn't his fault his hair was so perfectly coiffed all the time. What was he supposed to do — shave it off?
Shave off ALL his hair?
Certainly, that's what Blaise wanted. Because the next day, the first bulletin had come down from the Ministry: All perfectly coiffed hair is now illegal, and continuing such hair-wearing practices is subject to a tax by the Ministry of Magic in order to recoup damages sustained during the Second Wizarding War.
What a bloody joke! He couldn't believe it had come from Blaise's office at first. He was Draco Malfoy; Death Eater for a hot second. Leader of his little DE Youth Group. Blaise should have been groveling before him, happy to get his sloppy seconds. It's not like he ever saw any of them for more than one night. Daphne and Astoria were free agents. They could fuck whoever they wanted to fuck. And if he'd shared an evening with Gregory too, so what? Gregory could go where he pleased. And if it didn't please Gregory to go to Blaise, how was that Draco's fault? What in Merlin's name did his perfectly coiffed hair have to do with it?
Surely, the whole thing was a ridiculous joke.
So he had rolled his eyes and carried on as normal, ignoring the odd look from Pansy when he walked into the Leaky for his liquid breakfast.
"Draco," she had stage-whispered, approaching him as he was halfway through his tumbler of firewhisky with a side of coffee. "Your hair."
"What about it?" he said suggestively. "Fancy seeing how it feels? We could have a romp out back, if you like, and I'll show you what you can do with it."
She scowled at him, crossing her arms against her chest. "It's illegal! Haven't you seen?"
"Oh, that dragonshit bulletin?" He waved a hand dismissively. "What a joke. I didn't take you for such a sheep, Parkinson."
"It's not a joke! There's a fine!"
He scoffed. "The day I start paying the Ministry for wearing my hair perfectly coiffed is the day the world ends."
And the world, it appeared, had ended. For soon there was a flock of owls seemingly following him everywhere, each bearing an official envelope with an official seal from the official Ministry, all demanding a tax of 300 very real galleons for every day his hair was perfectly coiffed. And when he ignored those, he received more letters, all rather passive aggressive, demanding interest on late tax payments. Then the letters became threatening. Tax evasion. If he didn't pay all tax owed immediately, he would be sent to Azkaban.
Forever.
Well, forever, until he paid his bloody taxes and fees. Which would be never, obviously.
But when the Aurors showed up at this door, he knew he had to run. Even though he was rather proud of it, he preferred not to think about how he had Stunned three of them, Petrified one, and trapped one in the first floor bathroom before escaping with what little of his galleons he had squirreled away in the manor. Going to Gringotts was certainly not an option, for new notices had gone out all over the wizarding world.
Wanted, they read, Draco Malfoy and his perfectly coiffed hair. Guilty of tax evasion. Reward: 500 Galleons.
Even his own parents seemed perfectly content to hand him over. His mother had screamed as much from the window of the manor as he raced his broomstick towards the property line.
And that was how Draco Malfoy found himself in the lovely town of Cockermouth at the edge of England.
It was an adorable bloody shithole.
Draco scowled and took another sip of his drink. It tasted ten percent better now that he was well and properly watered. He supposed after five tumblers, even Muggle alcohol would have to start working. He hoped.
Oh, what he would give for a firewhisky. Perhaps he could escape to Spain. Or better yet, America. The further the better, really. There, he might even be able to venture out into wizarding society. Carve out a living with his good looks and perfect hair. Perhaps he could start charging for sex. Two for one. Women did it all the time. Why not him?
The bar door opened, casting bright afternoon light into the dim space, and a woman walked into the pub. Merlin, she was gorgeous. Draco watched her approach the bar, her hips swaying pleasantly. He took another sip from his tumbler, his eyes trailing across the edges of her profile. She had long hair. Dark. Silky. He longed to run his fingers through it. She looked positively fit… for a Muggle. And actually fit. Like she played one of those ridiculous Muggle sports where nobody flew on anything and there was only one ball. Why, for the love of Merlin's two saggy balls, Muggles found that interesting, he couldn't imagine.
The woman turned and, in a flash of what he was sure was destiny, her eyes caught his. She smiled, then took a sip of her drink. It was in a wine glass, so he could only assume it was wine. Of course, it wasn't elf-made, so it was garbage. She seemed to enjoy it though.
She had another sip and took a tentative step in his direction. Then another. Draco casually glanced around the mostly empty bar, wondering if the booths in the far corner would be sufficient for a quick romp. Because Merlin, he hadn't had one for a week. And he was feeling awfully blue about it.
"Day drinking?"
He started. The woman was standing in front of him. Apparently she had crossed the length of the bar without him realizing it. She casually placed her drink on his table and stared into his eyes with her perfect deep, dark orbs. As deep as the deepest ocean. They were practically begging him to rip her dress off. And it was a fine dress. Tight, and showing off all her curves. Baring her arms, which were perfectly muscular, as expected.
"Do you play sports?" he asked casually.
"I do a little ball chasing."
"It looks good on you."
She smiled. "Would you like some company?"
"Help yourself." He gestured broadly at the empty seat before him.
Not ten minutes later, she had him pressed up against the crumbling brick wall of the alley behind the pub.
"I'm going to do all sorts of things to you," she moaned, pushing her body against his. He felt her breasts press into his chest through the thin fabric of her dress. They felt small and perky. He reached out to cup them, but she pushed his hands against the wall and leaned closer to lick his neck. He shuddered.
"You stay right there," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "Don't move."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he growled. "Do whatever you like."
"Close your eyes."
His body twitched in response. He complied, and felt her draw back, leaving him wanting. Her shape bloomed across the dark sea behind his lids. He imagined how she would look once he finally got her out of the dress and grinned stupidly at the image.
"Hurry," he moaned. "Don't make me wait."
"I won't," she promised, her lips next to his ear, and he suddenly felt something close firmly around his wrists. His eyes snapped open.
She was standing two feet back, pointing something at him. Something that looked suspiciously like… a wand. A bloody wand. He cursed.
"What the fuck?! "
"Draco Malfoy," she said calmly, and a grin spread across her features. "I'm so pleased I found you. The Aurors are on their way, I'm afraid. I don't recommend moving. You might hurt yourself."
"Merlin, bloody, Circe!" he cursed. He struggled to move his arms, but they were secured to the wall behind him with invisible bonds. His legs, too. He cursed again. "How the fuck did you find me?"
"I tracked your wand, you bloody idiot." She grinned. "Couldn't go a full week without it, could you?" She lifted a glowing, pulsing ball of light. "Caught your magical signature right away. Harry gave me this, so I had a head start on the others." She looked disgustingly pleased about it.
"Did you say Harry?" he sputtered. "Who the f— ah, of course. Ginevra."
"Ginny," she said brightly, and turned her wand to point it at her face. The black of her hair faded away, shifting into that disgusting Weasley red he couldn't stand. As if someone had set her head on fire. He wished he could. Her face changed too, her eyes lightening to brown. Her features shifted slightly. A light spray of freckles stretched across her cheeks. "Poor, sad Draco. Did you think you were getting laid?"
"Poor, sad Weasley," he spat back. "What's the matter? Potter won't share his gold, so you had to take up bounty hunting?"
She shrugged. "Harry's having a bit of a slow week, actually. But I'm sure he'll be terribly busy now."
And then she grinned and stepped away, leaving Draco securely trapped against the crumbling wall of the pub, perfect hair and all.
Draco sighed. He was going to have to get a good lawyer. Someone trustworthy. Someone properly secretive.
Someone who could smuggle in that bloody Muggle hair gel.