Life has gone to the dogs, Vincent Crabbe decided as he uncertainly boarded a muggle train for the first time in his life. Six months ago, he had entertained plans of leaving Hogwarts and becoming a dark minion. Actually, he had considered that his only option, leading him to neglect his studies for far too long. Now that Voldemort had died and his fellow wizards were getting friendly with the muggles, the Walpurgi were much easier to track, and most experts in the field predicted that no Dark Lord would take the place of the previous one. The muggles tended to regard wizards with a congenial sort of reverence. What cause would a pureblood have for malice in a few generations?
Not that the life of a post-revelation wizard was perfect. Radicals everywhere had condemned the entire race, twisting their story so that it seemed the wizards had hidden themselves and other magical creatures out of shame. However, just as many civil rights groups as hate groups were springing up, and a younger generation of muggles was learning about the Salem witch trials from a new perspective. Whether out of fear or magnanimity, most of them appeared to see no reason to dislike their newly discovered neighbors.
A middle-aged woman in the seat across from Crabbe noted his outlandish robes and the broom slung defiantly over his shoulder with goggling eyes. "Oh, are you magical, young man? You're the first I've met up close. I've been ever so stunned since last winter. This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened in my life! Are you a wizard for hire? Why aren't you riding your broomstick?"
Definitely not fear, Crabbe decided. "Hey, lady. Don't think you know anything about brooms," he challenged her, not willing to admit he didn't know the way to his new town. "What makes you think they can go on long trips?"
"Well, I saw one fly over the highway last week," she responded coolly.
"Listen. There aren't a lot of wizards on this earth. Now that the fools up in Ireland ruined everything, my lot is going to start marrying muggles, and magic is going to disappear forever. It's best I don't mix with any of your lot."
She regarded Crabbe with a sullen stare. "Well, don't you worry about that, young man. I'm far too old for you."
He couldn't help it—he had to smile. She sounded exactly like Pansy Parkinson. "Vincent Crabbe," he said, extending his hand.
"Charmed, I'm sure," she responded. "Where are you headed?"
"Edmonton. They don't have a wizard for their police force yet. I'm no hit wizard, but I can Stun well enough."
She grimaced. "You've proven that." Looking down. "Don't worry about your heritage. Somehow I think your lot is having more influence on us than we are on you."
He had never thought of that. "There are six billion of you."
She didn't see the significance of the number. "Don't you think we'd give our right arms to have the skills of the weakest witch in the world? You're like so many boy bands." She looked down. "But this, too, shall pass. We will come to take magic for granted as we do electricity. The real magic is not in a stick of wood, anyway."
Crabbe had a few moments to consider this before the conductor came by. When the wizard appeared confused—he had not realized one must keep the strange scrap of paper-- his companion bought another ticket for him. He wondered if all six billion muggles were this magical.
Fin
A/N: Let me take this chance to thank all of my reviewers, from the shortest ("") to the longest (which turned out to be a political attack) to the one that astoundingly arrived five minutes after I posted. I am considering writing about the adventures of Vincent Crabbe, wizard for hire, but I want to at least wait to see if this becomes alternate universe and correct the parts that are. When you review this one, please tell me if you're interested enough to read anything that insane.
