Disclaimers always apply.

1.1

The hot summer of Calcutta had exhausted Draco somewhat agedly. He hadn't tried to fight off the heat, or the busy people, but thrived with the music all the streets would emit, and coped well with the endless nights of sleeplessness which plagued him horridly. The dreams he would have were unrelenting and he suffered badly nowadays from reckless insomnia. In Calcutta it was fine, for the city never really slept much, especially as it was just as hot sleeping as it was awake. He could hear, at night, the groans of his landlady as she tossed and turned in a fit of sweat- he supposed- and heat.

And why had he been there, and why was he leaving? He had started off on a worldwide trip to see the lands his father had once said were to uncivilised to visit and pour precious money into. It was a rebellion against his fathers immortal legacy, which would not stop piling on fear and gossip into the hearts of those within England and the surrounding places which had been greatly affected by Voldemort's tyranny. Draco had spent some years after his fathers deathly demise in England, however there was so many books and television shows he indulged in that told stories of places yet to see, and he moved within the pages towards the lands of fantasy and glory.

He had loved it. For almost six years he had been on the run from the oppression, and the magical influx of a communist society he could not shake off. That all had faded, at least the communism, four years after Draco had left. A new Minister of Magic had come into power, and his dutiful ways were not lost on the hearts of his people. Yet even Severus' happy reign over the Magical British Isles would not bring Draco home. The oppression did not stray from the people and could not be eradicated, despite Severus' desperate attempts to do so, from the Wizarding world.

It had been like the war again, the complex fear that around each corner lay some uninhabited evil waiting to consume you, and the fire that raged- like pride- beneath everyone's chests was not enough to burn out the dense fright. Yet, the war was over, so why now was everyone as small as mice and as incompetent as children? It had been to much, trying to cohere with society and think it stupid together, and that's why Draco strayed away.

Draco was travelling back the Muggle way. He liked the slow pulse of trains against the tracks they ran on, and he loved the bumpy idle cars that whizzed over roads like bee's eager for the pollen of a rose. He drank up the heavy, intoxicating fumes of movable contraptions like an old Witch guzzling her precious Pumpkin Liqueur, and he, for the first time, was able to sit back and relax. He detested now the easiness of Wizards, and how they felt no compassion for the beautiful scenery of the world; instead, each one seemed to enjoy popping back and forth, between time zones and space, and for Draco who had never really had to work for anything until now found this behaviour appalling.

Somewhere down the train a ticket officer was calling, asking everybody to have their tickets ready. Unused to the thick English accent, Draco tried not to grimace at its unmusical tempo. He imagined the man to not be of chocolate, or toffee, skin instead like each and every walrus Englishman he happened to pass. The train was rhythmic against his body, as it shuffled with speed from Dover to London.

The officer checked his ticket, giving a disapproving glance in way of the small cardboard item, and this left Draco reeling in the rudeness of English people. Such arrogant arseholes, the lot of them, he thought to himself.

Wondering to himself what the world would be like when he stepped off the train, his mind went back to mush like that of the Calcutta heat, and surely soon he was asleep.

1.2

'…London. Boy, we have, er, reached our last stop, er, you might want to get off." Spoke a voice to his left. Had he fallen asleep that long? Looking up through half lidded eyes, and he was met with the dark face of an Anglo-Indian cleaner.

The end of the line was doom. He was walking with such regret towards being back and not free anymore that it irked him merely to be alive. What was he doing here? Why had he left Calcutta for England when there was so many other places to visit and discover.

Draco had not, against the advice of his Godfather, let out his apartment which was situated in a rather prestigious part of Notting Hill. He had argued, quite profusely, that he would indeed come back and had not wanted the impending wait of tenants moving out. He had not wanted to move any of his precious belongings either, and eventually Snape relented. Draco, upon reaching the steps to his home, opened the door with a sigh of catharsis. He felt pent up with the anticipation to see things he had forgotten about, to see those pictures with memories he had lost, and to be secured within a place he had not been in for some time.

The keys clicked within the lock, much like the time he closed the door and locked it; a strange prelude to his disappearance from this place. Echoing back dreams, he launched himself into his house and stood in darkness just smelling. There was home, and it was unburdening like he had imagined it would be, and distantly he could smell sweet redemption from his escapism.

'You're home.' Whispered his jetlagged mind. Thank Merlin, he thought.

Draco went about opening his curtains in the living room, which sat behind his oak dining table. The midday light cast a glow upon the table which heaved with unopened and lost correspondence. Draco ignored the battle of letters for a while, whilst he whirled around his flat discovering something old, but quite refreshing, once again. But even that couldn't occupy his mind for long enough that the night overtook day, and so decidedly he began opening and tearing away letters.

There were few that he took interest in, but he opened all to thank the aged magic that placed his mail here. Having spent a time without the joy of such easiness, he felt the need to repay the earths good giving of wonderful, effortless magic.

The most affecting piece of news he received was left on the table, picked up again, and it followed Draco from his front door into the night time. The letter, written in tidy black ink on fine parchment, had been sitting for many years on Draco's dining table. It had not been forgotten, it had not been read either, but it held a piece of information that had been plaguing Draco's mind for as long as he could remember. It was the answer to a question he had needed for four years, and now all he had to do was make sure that the question had not been forgotten by Harry.