This work is complete at 31 chapters and ~127,000 words. I'll be submitting a chapter a day through March until it's all up.


Chapter 20: An Encounter with Muggles

Throughout Dagmar's days in Nice, a new guilt rose in her. She spent the hours with sunlight busy, and the hours without it dedicated to talking to Draco. The school books she'd brought hadn't been touched yet at all. They still laid in a stack at the bottom of one of her bags.

The feeling of having remembered something she was supposed to do visited her every night before sleep. However, it seemed like it just never occurred to Dagmar at any other hour of the day. There was too many other things to do that Dagmar couldn't do once she returned home or to Hogwarts. There were no museums there. She likely wouldn't ever have this kind of time with her parents again. She certainly wouldn't find a beach like Nice's to lay on back in Britain.

Come the tenth of August, while out shopping together, Dagmar's mother had dropped a few hints that she and Dagmar's father intended on having a romantic night together, starting with dinner. Dagmar took that for exactly what it likely meant and planned to spend her own evening out of the condo. In the afternoon while her mother napped and her father read in the living room, Dagmar slipped her messenger into her purse and headed out.

She walked the half-kilometre south to the Promenade des Anglais, and then turned east. Dagmar had made it a quick habit to send Draco a little something every few days via owl delivery. The first time she'd sent anything (some balistique bonbons from the same sweet shop they'd visited during their day-trip) the surprise and thoughtfulness of it seemed to make a deep impression with Draco.

Dagmar got a smaller thrill out of sending Draco Muggle knick-knacks. She'd sent him a keychain one time, another time a hand-made mug (with a fresh pêche de vigne tucked inside), and most recently the kitschiest piece of street art she could possibly find. It consisted of a wall-eyed French bulldog with garish flowers around its neck. She'd forewarned Draco that she meant it as a gag gift, and he confirmed upon receiving it that it was 'positively ghastly'. He said he liked it anyway, that it had some weird sort of charm.

Dagmar combed through the Muggle souvenir shops for another decent find. She decided upon a postcard with a picture of the beach on it. After she paid for it, the lady working the counter asked if Dagmar wanted to borrow a pen. Dagmar's initial reaction was to decline since she'd brought quills and ink, but with a second thought she accepted the writing utensil.

Hardly suppressing a grin, she wrote:

I wrote this message with a Muggle pen. Isn't that mad?

Yours,

Dagmar

The irony of the message being otherwise pointless to have written shouldn't be lost on Draco. She slipped the postcard into her purse to send off once she'd made it to the wizarding post office she'd been borrowing owls from. To give the day's parcel some extra heft, she stopped in at a Muggle confectionary shop to pick up more of a particular chocolate truffle Draco liked. Dagmar had picked them once before for their green sprinkle coating, unaware that it had almond slivers and nougat inside until Draco mentioned how good they were.

She didn't bother getting any other kind this time. The confectioner boxed them up for her so that they would be protected during flight (Dagmar didn't specify it was an owl that would be flying them), and then Dagmar headed off for the post office.

While digging in her purse for her postcard, Dagmar paused when a pen appeared amongst her things. She pulled it out as well and added to the postcard:

PS. I apparently stole the pen so have that too.

Dagmar added it to the care package, paid for a carrier, and then boxed it all together for transport. She headed to a Muggle café next. While standing in the long queue, Dagmar pulled out her messenger. It was then, as she considered her quill and ink, that she realized she could've used that pen again to write a quick heads-up to Draco.

A pen appeared in Dagmar's peripheral vision. She lifted her gaze to see a young man either in his late teens or early twenties holding it out to her.

He smiled. "It's what you're looking for, non?"

"Ah, oui," Dagmar replied when she'd parsed out the French he spoke. "Thanks."

He kept talking to her in French as Dagmar opened her messenger across her left forearm. She wouldn't have been able to keep up with him even if she hadn't been trying to concentrate on what she wrote to Draco. She felt awkward when he finally stopped. The upward lilt at the end of his sentence indicated that he'd asked her a question.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I don't speak a lot of French."

The man tilted his head, studying her with dark brown eyes. "English?"

Hesitantly, for Dagmar didn't even know what his preoccupation was while she literally just borrowed a writing utensil, she nodded.

"You must be a tourist," he spoke English with the usual soft, sing-song accent that Dagmar grew accustomed to hearing in Southern France. "Where are you from?"

"Britain." Dagmar dashed a few words down in her messenger for Draco.

"My name is Marc." He held out his hand. "What's yours?"

Unsure what else to do that might dissuade him, for Dagmar wasn't interested in the telltale glint to his eye, she set the pen back in Marc's hand.

"Thanks again," she said.

The smile slid off his face. To avoid having to make eye contact, Dagmar busied herself putting her messenger away. Guilt poked at her as Marc turned back around to face the front of the queue. He'd been kind enough, but she had a sense about what he might be after. There was no point letting him get that kind of idea when his efforts could never lead anywhere.

Dagmar felt better when Marc had finally ordered his coffee and moved over to the pick-up area. She stepped up to the counter and recited a phrase in French she'd perfected over the past few weeks: "May I have a black coffee, please?"

"Voulez-vous quelque chose plus cher?"

"Er—pardon?"

It wasn't a question Dagmar had ever been asked before in a café. She parsed it over when the barista repeated herself, but Dagmar still frowned out of confusion. Why would she be asked to order something more expensive?

The barista pointed over at Marc. "Le monsieur a payé votre boisson."

It took a repeat again for Dagmar to comprehend. Her cheeks grew warm out of discomfort. Marc looked at her, leaning against the counter, when Dagmar glanced out the corner of her eye.

"Just the black coffee, please," she told the barista.

Dagmar had no choice but to migrate over to where Marc stood while she waited for her drink.

"You didn't have to do that," she said to break the awkward, heavy silence.

"You British girls are hard to crack."

"I didn't want to waste your time," Dagmar replied. "I'm not interested."

Another barista handed Marc his coffee in a plastic cup. He held it up to Dagmar. "Cheers, anyway. While you enjoy your coffee, just think of it as some local hospitality."

Dagmar managed a tight smile before Marc left. Regardless of what he said, his insistence had left her uncomfortable. She tried to shake it off now that he was gone.

She forgot about him for a moment when she found a place to sit down in the wizarding shopping alley. Out of habit, she checked her messenger. Draco had replied.

The ones with the green sprinkles? he'd written in response to her original message about truffles.

Dagmar brought out her ink and quill. I sent a couple dozen. Enjoy.

They won't make it to lunch tomorrow.

She smiled genuinely now as she dipped her quill again. The tip of it came to a halt above the page as Dagmar hesitated to recount what had just happened. No benefit came from telling Draco. At best, he might get weirdly jealous and wonder why Dagmar would even mention it. At worst, he might agree with Dagmar that Marc's insistence was weird, and then he might worry needlessly about her.

Dagmar ended up staying in the wizarding district for the rest of the afternoon. She had dinner alone at the nicest restaurant she was dressed for and then found another café, this one witch-run, to occupy for the evening. Since coffee after dinner was a local cultural custom, the place was quite busy. All of it faded away as Dagmar checked her messenger for anything from Draco. He'd written again.

Tell me about your day whenever you're ready, the page read. I'm just bumming around reading up more of the books I bought so I'll have my messenger with me.

Dagmar dipped her quill. These books you're reading, would they be of a more school or Quidditch variety?

Draco's writing appeared again shortly after. Before I answer that, tell me. Have YOU opened your books yet?

He had her there. Touché.

I figure so long as the more disciplined one between us hasn't, I'm doing all right. Besides, I'm studying, just for other things.

What have you learned today, then?

Whenever asked about Quidditch, Draco tended to take a long time to reply so that he could fit everything he wanted to say on the page. Over time, he and Dagmar had both expressed a preference for shorter replies so that there wasn't such a delay in their conversation. Dagmar also felt more engaged with Draco that way. When he broke up what he'd learned, she was free to ask him for clarification on something or for more details. It helped Draco too, he had said, for sometimes the things he was trying to tell her about were only half-understood even by him. By slowing him down and then forcing him to think harder on it, Draco got more out of everything he'd been reading for the past few weeks.

Dagmar still had no interest to ever play Quidditch, but she enjoyed this aspect of it. She attributed that to Draco's passion, for she not only wanted to encourage him (he didn't need it) but his excitement was contagious. Endearment toward him swelled in Dagmar's chest as his writing grew increasingly messy and his thoughts more scattered. She could just imagine him on his balcony at Malfoy Manor, face screwed up in the same kind of concentration as when he was writing an exam.

Anyway, that's probably enough about that, he summed it all up with. Before I forget again, there was something I wanted to ask you about your birthday.

They'd already discussed Draco coming to Nice on the fifteenth so that they could spend the afternoon and evening together.

What is it? Dagmar wrote back.

I've been thinking about what would make a good gift. I have an idea but it's not really something I can just surprise you with. Plus you might have one, but I'm not sure because I haven't seen it lately. . .did something happen to your cat?

Dagmar's smile faded. She felt nauseous to think about it.

He wandered off into the Forbidden Forest, she told him. He was old. Almost as old as us.

Sorry to bring it up. I just realized last week I never saw your cat when we came home for the summer. Is it too soon yet for another?

I haven't really thought about it, Dagmar replied. I think if I went back to Hogwarts without an animal I would really feel Grim's absence. I sure have since March.

He was a big cat, that one. I saw him get into a fight once with another while I was at a CMC lesson. There was fur flying everywhere but your cat didn't look too hard off.

He had so much fur I doubt any claws could've gotten through it. Dagmar managed to smile again out of remembrance. She'd never known Grim as a fighter except to protect what he perceived as his territory. As one of the oldest cats at Hogwarts who had also been there the longest, he probably had a lot of it where the hunting was best.

Is that a yes, then? Draco asked. If it is, any preferences? Colour, etc.

No colour preference, but I do prefer males. They're cuddlier. Dagmar paused before continuing to write, I also like that particular breed, but they aren't really the type of cat you can just buy from the Menagerie in Diagon Alley. They're expensive. I don't know if I'm comfortable with you spending that much money on me.

How expensive are we talking? Draco replied.

At least twenty galleons.

That's it?

Dagmar pushed her lips off to one side. Money certainly wasn't ever a problem for either of them, at least for now. If they were both planning on working once they finished at Hogwarts, and at well-paying jobs at that, then they probably wouldn't have much need for their families' wealth. Dagmar planned that as an adult she would separate herself as much as possible from outside control. If she had her own money for instance, her parents couldn't attach conditions to what she might receive from them.

Maybe when I get back we should sit down together and figure out how exactly we're going to handle our finances, Dagmar wrote instead of answering the question. It's unrealistic that we'll never spend money on each other, especially for things like birthdays or Christmas, but I'd rather we didn't go crazy.

The galleon amount isn't what's important to me. If you want a specific kind of animal and it would make you happy, then it's worth it. Besides, how long does one of those cats live for? How much per year does the cat cost if you break it down like that?

Draco made a good point. Grim had lived for fifteen years, the average for Norwegian forest cats.

I guess.

Is that a yes? Draco wrote again when Dagmar paused long enough: Would it make you feel better if we each went in half on it, then? If we're going to be living together in a year, I guess the cat will technically be both of ours.

That's true, Dagmar replied. Okay, I'm good with that.

Minus from your end what I owe you for my messenger.

Dagmar chuckled. You prat.

It's something we equally benefit from that we both own. Makes as much sense that we each pay equal amounts for it.

Fine. We'll figure that out when we square up for the cat.

So what kind of cat was Grim, and where would I get one?

The longer Dagmar and Draco talked, the more Dagmar realized she grew tired. She didn't want the conversation to end, and it would have to if she packed up to head back to the condo. Her head snapped up when one of the baristas approached her table.

"We're closing soon," he told Dagmar.

"Oh," Dagmar replied. "What time is it?"

Dagmar's stomach dropped to hear it was coming up on ten o'clock. She thanked the barista for a head's up and wrote one more quick message to Draco: I'll talk to you again tomorrow. Sleep well.

It was better Draco not know that Dagmar was five kilometres away from her condo at such a late hour, and alone. She bagged her messenger and headed out. Going along the promenade would lengthen her journey, but it was probably also the safest route. Dagmar hadn't bought anything expensive today. If she happened to be mugged, the most valuable thing she would lose was her messenger.

She meant it as a light thought, but nerves started to set in as Dagmar reached the promenade. It was at least still busy and well-lit.

Her shoulders relaxed some as she passed Boulevard Gambetta, the halfway point back to where she'd head away from the beach to the condo. Dagmar started to dread what her parents might say if they were still awake waiting for her to come back. She'd never stayed out this late, and she hadn't specified on the note she left when she would return. The best Dagmar could do at this point was apologize and then ensure it never happened again. They were only in Nice for another week now. Dagmar would just settle back in at the condo each night before getting involved in a conversation with Draco.

Dagmar's mind ground to a halt, her feet almost with it, when a familiar face appeared ahead coming toward her. Marc still wore the same backwards red cap, his curly hair poking out from underneath. Dagmar took a hard right, trying to get away from him and the loud, inebriated crowd he was part of. They were pretty absorbed with themselves, so Dagmar felt confident she'd managed. However, that dissolved immediately when she looked back over her shoulder and made eye-contact with Marc.

Because he'd left her alone earlier after she clearly expressed her disinterest, Dagmar figured he had enough respect for her wishes that he would just carry on. Her throat tightened when, a little further down the promenade, she glanced back over her shoulder to see him and a few of his mates. They now headed the same way Dagmar did.

She quickened her step, blindly feeling around her purse. Maybe there was a chance she had brought her wand despite never packing it anywhere. She hadn't.

Dagmar got ahead a little bit until it came time to cross the street. She reached the pedestrian crosswalk right when the red hand popped up opposite her. Marc and his mates had nearly caught up when it changed. They were able to cross the street as well.

That confirmed for Dagmar that they were following her. Would it look strange if she just broke into a run? Now that she'd left the promenade, although the street was still just as well-lit, there weren't as many people around. Dagmar could hear them now, their voices just low enough to be beyond her comprehension even if she spoke French well enough. Every time they laughed, nausea tickled the back of Dagmar's throat. This couldn't be happening to her right now.

She stepped off the sidewalk in the dim light between two lamp posts and skirted across a building's lawn toward some walled stone steps. She climbed a few before promptly sitting down. Staying as still as she could, Dagmar listened. Their laughter and talking had stopped.

Something rustled, and then someone leapt in front of her. "Boo!"

Dagmar screamed in surprise while a chorus of laughter returned around her. She jumped up. Marc himself leaned over the bottom of the stone wall where it started to incline with the stairs. Dagmar pleaded him silently with her eyes to make this end now that they'd gotten the reaction they wanted. Dagmar's heart rapped painfully against the inside of her ribcage.

"What're you scared for?" Marc's mate asked in heavily-accented English. "You know this boy here, do you not?"

Whether Marc was just clueless or too drunk to read Dagmar any better than he did while sober, he merely looked sheepish about the whole thing. It went over his head that the three of them had cornered an underaged foreign girl alone in a dark, lonely part of the city.

"I don't." Dagmar's voice trembled. "You need to leave me alone and quit following me. You're scaring me."

Dagmar turned and started up the stairs. She didn't have much hope she could outrun them when they'd found her so easily. What little hope she did have diminished when Marc's mate took the stairs after her two at a time.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said. A hand closed around her wrist. "Just what's the problem? We only wanted to see if you'd come with us to the next club. Our other friends are waiting there for us—"

"Let go of me." Dagmar pulled, but his grip only tightened.

"You won't even think about it." His tone was accusatory, annoyed.

"Nei. Leave me alone."

Irritation reared in Dagmar too. Her upper lip curled as she swung an open palm at Marc's mate holding her in place. Before Dagmar's hand connected, red sparks emitted from her fingers. The Stunning Spell went broad without her wand to focus it, but it was still strong enough for the grip on her wrist to loosen. Marc's mate tumbled down the steps. While Marc and the third one dumbly watched him, Dagmar bolted as fast as she could.

"Qu'a-t-elle fait?" Marc said.

"Saisissez cette connasse," his other mate replied.

Dagmar had reached the top of the steps when Marc took a step over his stunned mate's sprawled body. Angry anew, Dagmar grew tired of running. If this was the game they wanted to play, then she would stand her ground. She could do it with or without a wand.

She turned to face Marc and dropped her purse. He slowed with her stop, breathing harder than what running up those stairs called for.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded. "His head is bleeding."

"Good," Dagmar said. "He deserved it."

Marc advanced toward her again. "Just what is wrong with you? Can't take a bit of fun? It's not like any of us are going to hurt you."

Dagmar focused on her right hand, repeating telolumenos in her mind. A prickle of pain in her hand caused her nerves to twitch. The spell felt heavy as her muscles tensed as well. Circles of lightning started at the tips of her fingers and ran down over her forearm in attempt to find a conduit.

"I'll hurt you," Dagmar ground out.

She couldn't hold onto it anymore. Like throwing a ball, she flung it at Marc. His eyes were wide, and then he disappeared behind something that made a loud crack.

"Protego!"

Lightning dissipated in every direction, crackling and crawling through the air. Dagmar cradled her right arm against her chest. Wincing, she bent to pick up her purse with her left hand. Just as she touched it, another loud crack sounded beside her. Something large and tight closed around her upper arm. A second later, the sensation of being squeezed through a rubber tube pulled her away from where she'd been standing.