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The Ideals of the Victorian gentleman, like other ideals adopted by the upper classes, were worked out, preached, or put across by both upper and middle class propagandists.

Mark Girouard (1992.) Victorian Values and the Upper Classes. Proceedings of the British Academy, Vol 78. 49-60.

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"You know that Spavin doesn't actually want you to take the case, don't you?" asked Ginevra, hurrying to catch up with Draco as he walked out along a passage that ran parallel to the atrium.

Draco looked up. He had scarcely registered the fact that she had been approaching him from behind; he had been far too busy running over the events of the meeting in his mind, and reminding himself over and over again that he could not possibly become involved.

"I don't know what you mean, Weasley," he said.

"Oh, I believe you would know, if you'd only spend a bit of time thinking it over," she said, matching his stride on much shorter legs. "'Staff?' 'Be of service?' He must have known about how much you'd love that sort of thing."

She's probably right, Draco realized, although he was not particularly happy about admitting it. "I suppose so," he said. "Spavin clearly didn't initiate this entire plan; the Muggle Commissioner must have done. I wonder if he'd rather avoid a formal coordination between departments."

The two of them stood for a few moments, looking out over the atrium. Draco felt suspended in midair, in a strangely clear space, not of the wizarding world nor the Muggle one. He knew that he must turn down this work. He knew, in fact, that he must give notice at the Ministry. And yet… and yet. This case fascinated him. Sir Charles Warren was more clever than he had expected any Muggle to be. Perhaps more of them at the Metropolitan Police Department were the same.

And then there was the presence of Ginevra Weasley, silent at his side, her presence somehow seeming stronger than that of most people, her essence permeating the air like a clean fresh scent.

She cleared her throat.

"I meant to say earlier, in the elevator—and I'm sorry I didn't, Malfoy- I'm dreadfully sorry about your, er, losses. Your brother, Rastaban, and your father," Ginny said awkwardly.

"Yes. Well. Thank you." Two years ago, one year ago; enough time had passed so that he was long out of mourning, and could listen to words of condolence with his inner mask intact.

"And, er, your oldest brother, Eltanin," said Ginny. "I heard about what happened—I haven't seen you since Hogwarts, of course, so I didn't exactly have a chance to express sympathy, but, er—"

Was there some sort of time limit on sympathy, depending on how long someone had been deceased? Draco wondered about that. The wizarding world of the day, like the Muggle one, had elaborate, specific rules about mourning and behavior after death. So much time at full mourning; so much at half mourning. This length of months or years in black crepe, then gray bombazine, then lusterless Paramatta silk. The depth of black edging on parchment used for letters. The width of the black band on a hat. Very much like Muggles, actually, now that he thought about it.

She seemed to be plucking up courage. "I'm quite good at finding people," she said. "That's why I was called in on this case to begin with. I'm with the Missing Persons Department, you see, as the Minister said. So if I could help you in any way… I mean, if it might be useful…"

She was offering him her help with finding Eltanin. The realization was a shock as sharp as the flash from a new electric bulb, sharp and merciless. Anger. Cold rage. All warred within him. The last hour had taken his mind off the letter, and the news it contained, and everything that the news meant. This case had made him believe, however briefly, that he had the power of choice, and that he could choose to cast aside the letter.

But he knew that he could not. And the time when he must face it was already past; the indecision had already dragged on longer than it should have been allowed to do. So he spoke, each word like a knife cleanly severing the secrets of the letter.

"If you are referring to the whereabouts of my eldest brother, Eltanin," he said through clenched teeth, "the mystery has now been solved. Several of his… personal effects…have at last been found in Johannesburg. Eltanin did indeed perish in the Boer War, that Muggle conflict in which he inexplicably chose to fight. He has now been declared dead, the status changed from 'missing.' My great-uncle informed me of this turn of events less than one week ago. So your kind offer of help is unneeded, Miss Weasley."

She was silent. Just as she had at school, she seemed to know when she had gone too far. He remembered her from school, her frankness, her realization that she had said too much, had gone too far, gone beyond what her middle-class wizarding culture permitted. Was she going to say nothing? But what could she have possibly said? Holding her tongue was the kindest thing she could have done, he thought. And by some miracle, Weasley was managing to accomplish it.

At last, he did all that a gentleman could do in such a situation. He tipped his hat to her. "Good night, Miss Weasley," he said, in tones of ice. He turned away and strode down the corridor, not looking back.

His mind was made up now. His doubts were gone.

The Ministry simply couldn't be expecting him to actually work on this Muggle case, with the Muggle police. How had he even allowed any of it to get this far? From the start, he ought to have treated it as some sort of hideous joke at best, and one in very poor taste, at that; as an insult, at worst. Well, his proper reaction to the nonsense would begin now.

Draco turned into a smaller corridor, and then another, and then the narrow hallway that ended at a door leading directly outside. It was somehow connected with the Malfoy bit of property in the Ministry, and when he simply wanted to get out of the Ministry and be alone with his own thoughts, he used it. His plans grew. He would write to his great-uncle at once and tell him that the Muggle police, of all people, were expecting a Malfoy to aid them in a criminal investigation—and all because they believed that the Muggle involved had some of knowledge of the wizarding world. This Sir Charles Warren seemed to have the matter well in hand, and did not, in fact, need their help. He had probably been convinced that the murders might be connected to the wizarding world because of a few phrases that any Muggle could have learned with a bit of sleuthing work. On top of the insult, there was no reason for Draco himself to become involved. Ginevra Weasley could do so if she chose, but not he.

And he would tell his uncle that he was going to return to Wiltshire, and to Malfoy Manor.

Abraxas Malfoy was probably regretting that he had ever sent his great-nephew to work at the Ministry in the first place. And this horrifying news would awaken his proper sense of the activities in which it was correct for a Malfoy to engage, which did not include mucking about with any group of Muggles, much less the police. Draco had no idea why he had given no definitive reply to that letter earlier, only a vague note. It was past time he did. He needed to live up to his responsibilities, and they did not include this.

He reached the door, a slab of unbelievably ancient wood from a tree which no longer existed in either the Muggle or wizarding worlds and that the druids had taken with them when they moved their Britain into the mists, and he reached out his hand to the doorknob. Then he hesitated. For one instant, it seemed as if he had heard odd noises behind him, like the rush of whispering voices. But surely it had been his imagination; he waited, and the sounds were not repeated. He threw the door open.

For a moment, he simply stood in the crisp early autumn air, looking out over the street. The streets were the same in the wizarding world and the Muggle one, as were many of the buildings; the two laid on each other like a lover and his reluctant lass, almost touching but not quite. The wizarding version of London was almost silent, containing no carriages, no horses, no hansom cabs, no noise or smell or chaos. Only witches and wizards walked the streets, and only shops owned by magical folk were open. Everything was muffled, and had an abandoned air. And yet the Muggle world was closer here than anywhere else, as if it could be seen and heard and smelt and felt through a gauzy barrier—if that was what one wanted.

Not that he did want that, of course, thought Draco, scanning the silent streets. The pollution, the noise, the filth, the Muggle diseases—who would want any of it, when magic could sweep it out of the way? Their rigid rules surrounding the role of women were ridiculous—vapors and fainting and helplessness, all tightlaced corsets and fluttering white hands. And those bustles! Women might have well have been carrying an elephant behind them. At the thought of Ginevra Weasley striding into the Muggle police station, bustle-free, he had to smile—which he swiftly turned into a scowl.

Even by living in London at all, he lived closer to the Muggle world than he ever would have done outside of the city. But in his private clubs, in his well-appointed flat, while hosting the elegant dinners for his friends, attending the theater with a witch on one arm, strolling through Hyde Park, and above all, at the elegant brothels he frequented, he was able to forget about Muggle proximity and enjoy himself. At the Ministry, he was forced to mix with all sorts of people who were not gentlemen and ladies, and that experience reminded him too much of Muggles.

And anything that reminded him of Muggles… anything at all…

Draco blinked. Without realizing it, he had walked up Whitehall and then all the way up Charing Cross Road, almost to Trafalgar Square. It was quite empty. The space seemed sterile and boring. But then, he was looking only at the wizarding world of London, where nothing else could be expected.

He stared up at the statue of Minister Egbert von Eggleston, known as the Exceptionally Unready, annoyed by the fatuous smile. That wasn't the figure Muggles saw, he knew. Who was it… he could almost remember…

Draco raised his hand. "Revelo," he whispered, and it was almost as if someone else spoke through him, an impatient, intractable self, kicking at the halter and blinders that were being put on him. He was only trying to prove to himself that all of his damning thoughts were right, he thought weakly, but either way, it was too late.

He pulled aside the veil, and he reached into the Muggle world.

The statue above him grew and flowered into Nelson's Column, flanked by fountains, guarded by four massive bronze lions. And the air burst into noise, a cacophony of a kind never heard in his own world.

The deep boom of barges on the Thames, the shriek of whistles. The clattering of horses' hooves and steel wheels on granite stones. The cries of costermongers, the rattle of omnibuses, the bustling of hansom cabs and the rolling of water carts spraying to keep down the dust of early autumn.

Above all, the sheer volume of street life, the endless streams of Muggles walking, the mix of middle-class men in sack coats, laborers in dirty caps, respectable women in shawls and bonnets, demure millinery girls, flashily dressed ladies of the night. Only the nobility used hansoms or gigs, and even they did not always do so; everyone else walked.

Draco found himself walking towards a corner. Before he reached the street, a small figure hurried his way, broom in hand.

"Clear yer way, guv'nor?" the young boy's voice piped. "A brown or two?"

Draco looked down and saw an eager child with a grimy face. A crossing sweeper, he remembered, one of the nameless hundreds who stood at the corners and cleaned and swept the street so that others could pass through the filthy mud.

He had no Muggle money. He also had no idea if wizarding coins could be used in the Muggle world.

"I've nothing with me at the moment," he said gently. "Or—no, wait." He did have a few shillings, he remembered now. This was not the first time he had walked into the Muggle world for a brief, strange visit, and he had used money a few times- although after each excursion, he always swore that it would be the last and he need never think of it again. He drew the forgotten coins out of his pocket and handed them all to the child. A smile broke through the grime on the little face, and the little boy tipped his cap and began to sweep. He could not have been more than eight or nine years old.

Draco stood, looking round, seeing more of the busy scene. Potboys and shop staff were standing at the shop fronts. There was a small but steady stream of clerks, the ones coming late from work, doubtless. There was a watercress-vendor girl… the rich scent of roasted chestnuts… an old clothes' man with a broad-brimmed hat. Because Draco saw these Muggle things rarely, and each time he did see them was an occasion he wanted to forget afterwards—forget the shame of even having wanted to see this Muggle world—it all seemed fresh and new.

There was the dirt he'd expected, too. A grimy brown film covered everything, every building crusted with soot, the streets an ankle-deep churn of coal-black mud, and mud was the most polite term that could be used to describe the mixture. The air smelled acrid. A haze hung over the tops of the buildings and the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square, just visible now.

The wizarding version of the same scene was neat and silent and empty and odorless. Far preferable to this roar of noise and light and color.

And yet… and yet.

The Muggles were vibrantly alive.

He was surprised that his thoughts were not completely negative. Surprised, and disturbed as well. Muggles moved; whatever else one wanted to say about them—and there was a great deal that was disparaging to say—their lives were in motion.

How long had it been since any of the Malfoys had done the same?

This latest heir to the name Malfoy, this monument to the wizarding aristocracy that had changed so little over the past millennia, stood arrested in space. He stared out at a world that changed so aggressively from one moment to the next. The Muggles' world had revolutionized from rural peace to the shrieking wheels and gears and motors of the Industrial Revolution; from flickering candlelight to flaring gas and crackling electricity; from horses to trains and horseless carriages, from letters and post to telegraphs and the very first telephones, from Shakespeare's plays to the earliest movies. The world was changing around him, and he suddenly had a thought.

He had read a book originally written a couple of decades ago by a Squib, On the Origin of Species. The implications had seemed merely interesting then, but as he watched the swiftly evolving Muggle London around him, a more disturbing meaning occurred to him. Like Darwin's finches, the wizarding world needed to adapt as well, and smartly. Or they would all be left behind, stranded like fossils in their very own Burgess Shale, and he himself along with the rest.

Then Draco shook his head. He was angry and upset and muddled in his thinking because of today's insanity, and that was all. He raised his hand and brought in down in a swift gesture, muttering a wordless spell, and the Muggle world retreated into the mists once more.

He wanted to relax in his club. In all honesty, Draco could think of somewhere else he would like to relax as well—the elegant, upper-class brothel he sometimes frequented- but now did not seem quite the time.

One last heretical thought—what would it be like to walk the rest of the way to his club? He was less than a mile, after all…

Draco set his teeth and stepped into the nearest Apparition point, the memory of Ginevra Weasley's pale face and burning golden eyes following him all the way to St. James's Place.