Draco

Theo nearly laughed his ass off the first time he saw Draco in the black apron the Wilkinses, and now Draco, wore as employees of the bakery. The reaction was nearly enough for Draco to hang up the apron and go back to sulking in the Zabinis' cottage. Before he could melt into the floor from embarrassment, Monica came out to the front of the store and chastened "Chrys" for shaming "Argyros" in his attempt to learn about Muggle culture. Theo hung his head until Monica gave him a free cupcake with a final scolding.

"Your brother is doing the right thing, and if you want to blend in, you should consider doing the same." Monica handed over the cupcake, which Theo took with a humble thank you and I'm sorry. But the glint in his eye as he walked out of the store told Draco that this wasn't over.

"He's a bit of a prat, now, isn't he?" Monica said once the door closed.

Draco snorted. "That's putting it lightly. If he was allowed to use magic here, my apron would probably be blue and bronze, or red and gold, or some horrifying shade of pink." An idea crept into the back of his mind and he made a mental note to implement his own Taboo within the bakery. If Theo wouldn't say the names of the Hogwarts houses at home, he could certainly be tricked into saying them in the company of the Wilkinses.

"You can't use magic here?"

"We can, but technically it's a violation of the International Statute of Secrecy to use magic in Muggle areas."

Monica furrowed her eyebrows. "But what about—what did you call them? Muggle-borns? Are they not allowed to use magic around their families?"

"I've never really given it much thought," Draco said. And why should have he? His interactions with Muggle-borns were generally short and confrontational if he paid them any attention at all. Even Granger only warranted his attention for ten minutes at a time unless she was topping him in marks or sneaking around with Potter and Weasley. He hardly gave Brown, Thomas, Finch-Fletchley, and the others in his year a conscious thought. "My family doesn't associate with Muggle-borns."

"Because you're pure-bloods."

"Yes."

Draco still hadn't gotten over how bizarre it was to talk openly about magic with the Muggles. Even more so, he had a hard time understanding how they weren't judgmental about his situation or his beliefs. They just nodded and accepted him as he was. He knew for certain that most Muggles weren't like the Wilkinses: Theo had confessed being a wizard to Lydia Poirier and subsequently Stunned her and had Draco Obliviate her when she reacted badly. Much to Draco's chagrin, Theo continued seeing the Muggle girl after that fiasco, but he never brought up magic again.

Monica nodded absently and glanced at the register. "Alright, Argyros. Do you have your notebook?"

He pulled the Muggle notebook out of the right pocket of his apron. Pages upon pages were covered in black ink as he took meticulous notes, including notes about the notebook itself.

The cover of the notebook was a thick, stiff paper three times the thickness of parchment. The internal paper was thin and white with blue lines and was much smoother than parchment. He didn't like the way the texture felt beneath his hand.

To write in the notebook, the Wilkinses gave him something called a 'ballpoint pen', which housed a tube of black ink and was made of something called 'plastic', with a tiny metal nib at the bottom that looked nothing like the nib of a proper quill. Using the Muggle writing materials made him ache for his parchment and quill. The paper felt wrong and unnatural, and the pen was too light. He found his penmanship suffered without the weight of the feather angling his hand.

His first lesson was turning on and off the lights of the bakery. The 'light switch', which was also made from plastic (but a different kind of plastic than the pen), managed these. Wendell patiently explained to Draco the concept of electricity, wiring, and the electric lightbulb for close to an hour after showing him the light switch. That conversation led to discussing drywall and insulation for another two hours before Draco's head hurt so badly that he called it a night.

The introduction to the kitchen 'appliances' took three days. He learned about acrylic sheets, another kind of plastic sometimes used in place of glass to create windows. Wendell showed him how the electric coils in the oven baked the breads and how to turn on the gas stove. The refrigerator was another marvel and Draco spent thirty minutes opening and closing it to see how the light turned off before Monica caught him with an amused twinkle in her eyes.

The odd utensils on the counter turned out to be made of yet another type of plastic that was more similarly related to the pen than the light switch or the acrylic windows. He breathed in relief when Wendell pulled out an iron skillet. That was something he knew how to use.

When Wendell showed Draco wax paper, cling film, and plastic bags in rapid succession, he nearly ripped the notebook in half. How on earth did Muggles have so many types of plastic? And what the hell was plastic made of, anyway? Metal, paper, and glass had served the wizarding world just fine for millennia. This—whatever this was—was absurd.

At the end of two weeks, Draco had a grudging appreciation for the ingenuity of Muggles. He still didn't feel comfortable using more than the light switch, but he understood the basic concepts of Muggle life. The two things that still bewildered him (and thus he didn't go near them), were the television and the telephone. The Wilkinses only used their telephone once or twice a month to call friends in Perth, but Monica told him that when they lived in the same country as their friends, she used the thing daily. As for the television, Draco didn't like anything that appeared to think for itself. That generally meant Dark Magic was involved, and he'd had enough of Dark Magic.

In the present, Monica pointed to the register. "You'll use this to charge the customers for their food. When you type in the cost, it adds the numbers automatically. Hit this button," she pointed to something green, "to finalize the sale and print the receipt. The drawer will open automatically for you to put the money in. If they give you more money than you need, you'll have to make change."

Draco's heart raced at the thought of having to interact with Muggles and their money. When Wendell asked if he wanted to bake, he expected to remain in the back of the store. This was a new form of torture.

"Can I just help Wendell?" he asked weakly. He already discovered he liked the process of preparing ingredients and watching the dough come together. It was blessedly similar to Potions, just as Wendell promised, only he was able to eat it at the end of the day.

"You'll get back there in a couple of days, but we need you to be able to handle the front if we're indisposed."

The door chimed and an elderly woman approached the counter to order. Draco punched in the cost of her muffin and banana bread, and cursed as his hands shook when he took her money. Monica stood behind him and whispered the correct change. As the woman tottered out of the store with her goods in hand, Monica grinned at Draco. "Well done. You didn't even faint."

He growled even though he knew she was teasing. "That was one of the worst experiences of my life."

"So dramatic. Honestly, Argyros, a few more and you'll be fine."

"I don't know why I ever agreed to this."

"Because you're brave and intelligent," Monica answered.

Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "You're the first person to ever call me brave. You make me sound like a Gryffindor."

Monica cocked her head and shrugged. "I have no idea what a Gryffindor is, but you are brave. You're learning about a culture you've never experienced. I don't know why you're doing it, but I know it takes bravery to do so." She nodded to the window, where a group of three were standing outside the door. "Alright, Argyros. Are you ready?"

He took a steadying breath and rested his hands on the register. "Okay."

Three weeks later, the Wilkinses finally relented and allowed Draco to spend all of his time in the back. He only worked six-hour shifts three times a week, but it was as mentally exhausting as his Arithmancy studies. He watched the oven constantly to make sure nothing was burning. Wendell showed him how to make the sandwiches he liked so much. Overall, he started to understand the workings of the store and the appliances and even the Muggle currency. He refused when the Wilkinses attempted to pay him a salary, instead taking left-over goods back to the house for himself and Theo. While Theo still tormented him for getting a Muggle job, the pastries went over well.

"I thought you said that Muggles and wizards didn't belong in the same world," Theo said one night over a chocolate-filled croissant.

A hot temper flared in Draco's chest before he took a deep breath to still it. The contradiction between his beliefs and his actions bothered him incessantly and he tried to put it out of mind. Something drew him to the Wilkinses, like he'd been fed a platonic love potion. If he didn't know they were Muggles, he would have suspected they laced their goods with something of the sort.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, shutting down the conversation.

"But it's fascinating and I do want to talk about it."

Draco snarled. "Well, what about you? He who resented the idea of going into Muggle territory at all and now spends all his time in the company of a Muggle girl."

Theo took another bite of the croissant and shrugged. "She's pretty."

"She doesn't have magic."

"Neither do the Wilkinses."

"That's different!" Draco snapped. "They can at least handle knowing what we are without prejudice."

"Not that your bigoted arse would have learned that if I didn't listen to them long enough to find out."

"So good for you, then. Saint Theo, trusting the Muggles you didn't want anything to do with in the first place."

Theo rolled his eyes and raised his wand to point at Draco across the table. "Are you quite done taking out your internal conflict on me? If not, I learned a handy new curse yesterday I've been aching to try out."

"Why do you do it? Spend time with the Muggle girl?"

"Because otherwise my only human interaction would be with you, and while you're quite pretty, I'd prefer her to fulfil certain needs."

Draco blinked slowly at Theo before he set his mouth in a firm line. "You're using her for sex?"

"I'm not using her for her brain, that's for sure. I'm not convinced there's much more than wool between her ears." Theo set his wand down and picked up another croissant. "These are the best you've brought home, by the way. Mrs. Wilkins's work?"

Though he was still frustrated and somewhat disgusted by Theo's casual address of using the Muggle to quench immoral desires, a smug smile settled on Draco's face. "Mine."

The other man's croissant-holding hand dropped to the table. "You're joking."

Draco shook his head and the smug smile was joined by a cocky eyebrow. "Not in the slightest."

"You utter bastard. It's not fair that you're already next to top of our class, you had to be a natural at baking, too?"

"There's very little I can't do."

Theo gestured to the pile of parchments at the edge of the table. "Granger's assessments of your Arithmancy work still beg to differ."

"I'm starting to think Granger isn't as good at Arithmancy as she believes," Draco sniped, the self-satisfaction disappearing from his face.

"My Outstandings contradict your point."

"Then you're both delusional." Draco snatched a croissant for himself and bit into it with a vicious chomp. When the chocolate exploded in his mouth, he moaned. "Goddammit, these are good."

"So when you reclaim the Manor and get your house-elves back, who's going to do the baking?"

The thought stopped Draco mid-chew. He hadn't thought about the Manor since learning of his mother's house arrest, and he'd dismissed the idea of house-elves longer ago. He'd been in France for nearly eleven months, and in the company of Muggles for nearly five. His childhood, the Manor, the war...they all seemed to belong to a different person. A person whose beliefs were still steady, whose faith in his family name and his own righteousness was still unshaken. It all still haunted him in the middle of the night when he woke up tangled in sheets as he tried to run from his nightmares, but in the day he felt different.

He swallowed the pastry and frowned at his companion. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about any of it."

Theo finally took the hint and nodded. "Okay." After a long pause, he finished his final bite and folded his hands. "So, is Mr. Wilkins going to make any more of those apple-cheddar muffins?"

Draco rolled his eyes and stood to head for the library. "I have studying to do."

"Are you going to try for a N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies?" Theo asked, jumping to his feet with a wicked grin.

The blond pointed his wand at his tormenter and chanted under his breath. Theo's fingernails began growing out into spirals, preventing him from reaching his own wand.

"That's not fair!"

Draco conjured a nail file. "Good luck."

"Ruddy git."

The back of the store was hot as both ovens and the stove were engaged. Draco tugged at the neck of the long-sleeved periwinkle t-shirt the Wilkinses had finally convinced him to wear. On one hand, he was grateful for the light clothing in the warm environment. On the other hand, he still felt like he was parading around in his underwear.

The timer on the upper oven went off. Draco pulled on quilted flower-patterned oven mitts and retrieved the pie—Dutch apple, his new favourite—to set on the cooling rack. He let an amused grin cross his face as he considered casting a Cooling Charm on the pastry. Baking would certainly be faster if he used magic, but there was something about doing it the Muggle way that just felt right. Letting things take their natural course, like letting the pie cool on its own, felt right.

When did the Muggle way start to feel more natural than magic? He blamed the heat of the kitchen for making him delusional.

Noting the time left on the second oven, he removed the mitts and reached over to the stove to stir a chocolate-evaporated milk concoction. Wendell walked into the kitchen with a grin and a box of milk. "That smells delicious. If I'd known you'd be this good, Monica and I would've offered you a job months ago." He opened the refrigerator and Draco heard him shuffle an array of dairy products to make room for the milk. "We really need to invest in a walk-in. Having to source this stuff every day is for the birds."

Draco had no idea what a walk-in was, so he pulled out his notebook and wrote the term down to ask about later. The second oven went off with a persistent high-pitched beep. He set the wooden spoon aside and reached for the flowered oven mitts again.

With the baked goods cooling on the counter, Draco sent another round of pastries into the oven and turned to Wendell. "Can you hand me the dough for the croissants?" He held out his left arm while he looked over the recipe sheet in his right hand.

The dough stopped a few inches from Draco's hand and Wendell let out a low whistle. "That's quite the statement on your arm."

The recipe sheet fell to the counter as Draco jerked his left arm back and pulled the sleeve of the t-shirt down. He hadn't meant to push it up, but it was so hot. It must have been subconscious. He tucked his arm against his stomach and refused to meet Wendell's eyes.

"Can I ask what it means?"

His tone was curious, not judgmental or disdainful or fearful. After spending his life in a world where the Dark Mark inspired either maniacal pride or bone-chilling terror, Draco found it disconcerting that this man, this Muggle, thought it was simply interesting.

"You don't have to. I know tattoos can be extremely personal—"

"Death," Draco answered tonelessly. "It means Death."

Something rustled behind him, and Monica brushed by his shoulder with a sad smile on her face. "You teenagers can be so existential. If you have Death on one arm, you should at least mirror it with Life on the other."

The heat in the kitchen became oppressive and Draco started gasping for breath. "I need to take a walk," he mumbled, and stumbled past the couple, out the back entrance, and into the tree-line.

He heard footsteps approach an hour later, invading the space where he sat with his back against a tree. He kept his eyes closed and held his left arm tightly to his chest. He clutched the edge of his sleeve in an iron grip, ensuring it could not possibly fall down and reveal his past a second time.

"Your second pie is done," Monica said as she sat on the ground next to him. He didn't answer, but opened his eyes and stared at the dense canopy. "It's a remnant of the war, isn't it?" He still didn't answer. If he didn't answer, would she stop talking? "You know, they have a name for what you're going through." No, of course she wouldn't stop talking. Monica and Wendell were the type of people who liked to talk things through, like just talking about something would make it go away or heal it or something.

"It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," Monica said. She picked up a pine needle and twisted it until it snapped. "It's not commonly addressed outside of certain circles. People who have survived wars tend to have nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks. Sometimes they'll be aggressive or despondent for no reason other than reacting to some sort of stimuli reminiscent of what they survived. When you draw out your wand when the bell rings, that's part of your PTSD. And based on what I saw earlier, you get panic attacks, too. Don't you?"

He closed his eyes and breathed out, waiting for her to go away. But she didn't move. Why wouldn't this woman leave him alone? Why did she care?

After several painful minutes of silence, Draco clenched his right fist around the edge of his sleeve and opened his eyes. "What are panic attacks?" he asked quietly.

Monica seemed to think over her words before speaking. "Sometimes, they feel like the world is closing in on you and you can't breathe. You can't get a grasp on anything. Even your thoughts are beyond your control. You might feel completely numb or you might feel like everything is on fire. You might become catatonic or you might have to over-exert yourself until it passes. It's common to cry." She paused as he tensed. "There's no shame in that. There's no shame in any of it." She tugged his right hand away from where it rested against his left and held it firmly in her own. "I don't know what you've gone through, but I will listen if you ever choose to share."

They sat in silence for a long time, Monica's hands holding Draco's as he regained control of his mind. Panic attacks. So there was a name for it. It was odd how calming it was to give it a name.

"I was raised to hate you," he whispered. "Pure-bloods, we're—we're taught that everyone is below us, especially Muggles. But since the war ended, since coming here, I don't—I don't know what to believe anymore." He sniffed and cursed the tears pricking his eyes. "You've accepted me even though I was taught you would fear me. That I would have power over you and it was my place—my birthright—to have that power." He flexed the fingers of his right hand, pulling away from Monica. "I believed it all for eighteen years and now I'm just...I'm just confused."

"That's okay. I would be more concerned if you went from one dogma to another without any conscious thought as to why. It is going to take time—it might take a long time—but it's good that you're working to figure it out for yourself." Monica fumbled for the pine needles again. As Draco turned to watch her, he realized she was the type of person who constantly had to do something with her hands. It was why she took his hands when trying to comfort him; it comforted her.

Without overthinking it, he reached out and tangled his fingers with hers and the needles fell to the ground. "You remind me of my mother." He took a breath and hoped he could speak without becoming emotional. It was the first time he'd talked about his family in nearly a year other than referencing their flight and incarceration. Monica's hands stopped fidgeting as she held onto Draco. "She always has to be doing something. She likes to garden and organize society events, and when she's not doing those, she's reading. I've rarely met another person who reads as much as she does. She likes historical fiction set in the time just before the International Statute of Secrecy was instated. It's—it doesn't portray Muggles in the best light." He frowned as he thought over the plots of some of her books before he changed course. "She's kind. Everything she says is deliberate. Everything she says or does has some sort of meaning. She's cunning and wickedly intelligent. She doesn't fall for empty promises, nor does she make them. She's able to keep my father and I in check most of the time. In pure-blood culture, the husband is the public face of the family, but the wife is who makes the family strong. She's strong." He stopped again.

Monica gently pulled on his hand. "There's a saying in Muggle culture: 'Behind every great man is a great woman'. I think our cultures might have more in common than you realize."

"Maybe," he acquiesced. "Maybe."