The next morning, they sat in Ruth's room, having breakfast and trying to figure out what to do next. The previous evening, Draco had spent twenty minutes deliberating whether or not to consume the contents of the tray delivered to his room—filet steak with roasted vegetables coated in some sauce, poached salmon, a creamy potato dish, a bread basket, and a cheese platter—torn between his stabbing hunger and a deeply ingrained sense of disgust. The food didn't look bad; if anything, it was neatly served and smelled delicious. At last, hunger won; or perhaps it was the voice of reason reminding him that he hadn't come all this way just to die of starvation. Quashing mental images of filthy muggle hands preparing his dinner, Draco ate it all. This morning, in front of Ruth, he began eating breakfast without much hesitation. Muggle cuisine had proved edible, after all.

Draco couldn't help but notice that Ruth used forks, spoons, and knives properly, so she couldn't be that much of a savage. And, since she lived among muggles her whole life, this observation could indicate something about them too. But perhaps he was being too generous.

"When you said there is a Wizarding Britain," she said slowly, as they were nearly done with their meal, "you meant... What?"

Ruth was wrapped in an enormous white bathrobe, much too big for her petite form, and her wet short curls were tucked behind her ears. She sat on the edge of her bed and ate grapes. Draco sat in an armchair across from her, devouring an apple.

"I meant exactly what I said," he replied flatly.

"Does that mean there is an alternate wizarding universe or something?"

Draco choked on his apple, coughing so violently that he had to rush to the bathroom to spit it out in the sink. Turning on the faucet to wash it away, he blinked.

"How did you get it to be warm?" he called out, raising his voice so she could hear him.

He heard the sound of her getting up from the bed, followed by approaching footsteps. She entered through the partially open door, sidestepped him, and turned the faucet to the right, making the water grow hotter. Then, with a quick turn to the left, she made it freezing cold. The look she shot him was worthy of Snape himself, that is, when Snape corrected one of Longbottom's particularly idiotic potion mistakes. Draco straightened his spine. If she was trying to make him feel stupid, he refused to let her.

When they returned to the room, he continued in a caustic tone, "Of course it's not an alternate universe. Do you even hear yourself?"

"Then explain." She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed and stared at him sternly instead.

"All right." He sighed, sprawling in the armchair. "There is a world hidden from the eyes of muggles. If you are a witch or wizard and know where to enter, you can see it."

A brief silence followed his words.

"So," she said, her voice reluctant for once, "am I a witch?"

"Yes." Draco rolled his eyes. "If you haven't grasped that by now, you are."

"But I'm not like you?"

He hesitated. "In a sense. I'm a wizard as well, which you must know by now. But no, we are not the same."

"How so?"

Draco let out a long sigh and began explaining, adopting a patient albeit slightly condescending tone. "I am a pureblood, which means both of my parents are wizards. You, on the other hand, are—" A pause. "You are a muggleborn. That means you come from muggles."

Common sense told him he was not supposed to insult people he needed something from.

"Muggle?" she asked, her brows furrowing.

"That is the term we use for non-magical people."

Ruth looked thoughtful for a moment. "I do remember now something that woman said after torturing me with that thing." She nodded at the wand in his hand. "An abominable creature, she called me. So did you, though in different words."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

Draco didn't know what to say, he knew only that he wouldn't be apologizing for it.

"So, there is a war between muggleborn and pureblood wizards?" Ruth asked then.

"Not quite." He searched for the right words. "There are pureblood wizards on both sides."

We call them blood traitors, he almost told her but decided against it.

"And then there are halfbloods, who have one magical parent and one muggle parent. Some of them support one cause, while others support the other."

"And which causes are those?"

Draco opened his moth. Then closed it. The memory of her shoulders shaking as she cried over her brother's dead body filled his mind. He realized he didn't have the heart to tell her what it was her only family member had been killed for.

"We had a deal," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "I can't reveal everything at once, or you won't have any incentive to answer my questions."

She seemed to have bought it. "Fair enough. Here's some advice off the top of my head. I should've told you that earlier, but anyway. Lose the cloak, or whatever it is. I don't know if it's common where you're from, but here it's not, and it's bound to draw lots of attention. Although... Without the hood, you reveal your hair, which is also quite distinctive. The first thing I did when I went into hiding was dye my hair."

A deep frown came over Draco's face. He was very proud of his silver hair and rather protective of it. Dyeing his hair was not on the table. One could always use a glamour charm, after all.

"Go on," he said, his expression tight.

"Your shirt and trousers are fine, I guess. A bit formal maybe, a T-shirt would help you blend in more easily. Oh, and you really need a pair of normal shoes."

Normal shoes. His were of the finest quality, crafted from the hide of a Graphorn and custom-made by a highly respectable French craftsman. They probably cost more money than she had spent in her entire life. With a scowl on his face, Draco said nothing.

The decision was made to go out and buy new clothes. After paying for three nights at the hotel, there was some money left, but not much.

Ruth went to the bathroom to change. When she returned to the room, her clothes—a baggy black sweater and dark-blue trousers—were visibly damp. Draco raised an eyebrow, and she explained that they hadn't dried overnight after she washed them by hand, but it was fine because it was hot outside and they would finish drying in an hour. Draco muttered "Muggles" under his breath and followed her out of the hotel, leaving his cloak behind and hiding his wand under his sleeve.

"You said I shouldn't use magic until I turn seventeen, or they would find me," Ruth said in a questioning tone as they left the building.

He shrugged. "Can you?"

There was a pause. Draco looked at her, and she met his gaze, her eyes slightly narrowed. "Why should I believe you?"

"Why would I lie about that?"

"Oh, I don't know." Her voice was laced with cold sarcasm. "There are many reasons I can think of why you might want me to remain defenceless."

No reply came to his mind, and he left it at that, as they headed toward the city centre.

Her eyes looked puffy, more so than the day before. Crying girls made Draco uncomfortable. In that respect, he was just like any other boy. So he was glad she wasn't crying in his presence anymore. Though, if Draco were completely honest, he hadn't expected her to be so composed after suffering a grief-triggered mental breakdown that had wiped the entire Lestrange family out of existence. All things considered, Draco should have been more cautious around the girl, but he didn't at all feel like he was walking next to a cauldron full of Erumpent Potion. No, she didn't seem to be on the verge of another explosion. In fact, she hid her emotions rather well, silently planning her revenge, no doubt. Like a Slytherin would. Although no Slytherin would be foolish enough to pick such a dangerous foe to begin with.

Slytherins wouldn't appreciate being compared to a lowly mudblood. They wouldn't appreciate it at all. The thought amused him, but not for long. Draco thought of Blaise, Theodore, Pansy, Vincent, and Gregory. They would soon learn of his death. With a lump in his throat, he realized he didn't even know if they would care. He had alienated himself from everyone during the sixth year and could barely call anyone his friend anymore. Some of them would probably be sad, but they'd get over it quickly.

Draco's thoughts drifted to his parents. What were they doing now? How hard was it for them? If nothing had changed, the Death Eaters would be preparing for the Potter mission. The attack could even be planned for tonight. He was suddenly relieved that his father no longer had his wand. It was better for both of his parents to stay at home and do nothing.

Draco briefly wondered what would happen if Potter, against all odds, won the war, and was surprised to find that this possibility didn't evoke nearly as much dread as the other outcome. But that was a traitorous thought and a foolish one. Pot-head didn't possess any significant talents, only fame and lots of luck. He couldn't possibly defeat the Dark Lord. And yet, there was a prophecy. The Dark Lord believed it to be true. Draco's own father considered it immensely important and lost his freedom in his attempts to obtain it. There must have been some truth to it.

It didn't matter now. What mattered was...

Draco turned to Ruth and asked, "What about that weapon—"

That your brother wielded, he wanted to say but decided against mentioning him.

"—that you promised to tell me about?"

"A gun, you mean?"

"I don't know what it's called." Draco couldn't keep annoyance out of his voice. "Obviously."

With her lips pursed, Ruth stayed silent. Draco was beginning to think she wasn't going to answer, when she finally started explaining. "I don't know how to describe what a gun is to someone who's never heard of it before, but I'll give it a try. A gun is a weapon that uses gunpowder. When you pull the trigger, a small explosion inside the gun forces a bullet—a small metal object—to fly out at such speed that you can't even see it move. It can injure or kill, depending on which body part you hit."

Draco remembered a bang followed by a cry of pain. He remembered the bloody wounds but hadn't seen what caused them. His understanding of what happened that night got a level deeper. Even so, his expression grew increasingly worried. "How common is it to have a gun? Can everyone use one?"

"No. Most people don't own guns. And using one is a skill, like any other. My brother taught me."

"Rabastan and Rodolphus were only wounded," Draco noted, still frowning.

Ruth immediately understood who he was referring to. Her features sharpened and her gaze got heavier. "Raymond didn't shoot to kill, and he should have."

"Yes, he should have," Draco whispered. She gave him a strange look, but he quickly redirected the conversation. "And how would someone go about purchasing such a thing?"

"They'd go to a gun store. Obviously," she replied, mocking him. "Only no one would sell it to you without a license, which, I presume, you do not have."

It was a relief to hear that not just any brainless muggle could obtain such a dangerous weapon. Still, it posed a new problem.

"So we'd have to steal them," he said simply. Ruth didn't seem much opposed to stealing, if yesterday's car theft was any indication.

"That would be difficult," she said. "Unless you know a magic trick or two."

Draco sneered. One Confundus, and the job would be done. He told her so.

"And I suppose you'd know how to disable a camera if there's one?"

His blank expression gave her all the answer she needed. They continued walking the streets of Hull, discussing the best ways to destroy a camera.

"Cons of staying in a hotel this expensive," she noted, "include the presence of security cameras. I saw one at the entrance. I'm not sure if it's operational, but if it is, they would have video footage of both of us, which is very, very bad."

Draco's first muggle shopping spree was made much easier by Ruth. He didn't have to try on any clothes; she guessed his size and grabbed a couple of so-called T-shirts for him, plain and black. He didn't have to interact with anyone either; Ruth was the one who handled payments. Under normal circumstances, he would have been embarrassed if anyone saw a girl buying him things, but not now.

As for shoes, when Ruth led Draco to a footwear shop, Draco—unable to overcome his disgust at the thought of some filthy muggle trying those shoes on—decided he would simply Transfigure his own shoes to resemble muggle ones.

Then they were done, and it was time to go back. However, Draco found himself not wanting to. He told Ruth to go ahead—he'd memorized the way and was sure he could find the hotel without her help. With a reluctant nod, she turned back and disappeared into the crowd.

Draco walked, and walked, and walked. A lap around the centre, then another lap even bigger. Through the streets, old and new. Anonymous. Unrecognised. Forward, forward, towards the waters that ran even further, into the sea.

Watching the river's blue waters turn pink and orange as they reflected the sun, Draco was overcome by an unfamiliar sensation.

Freedom. That was the name of the sensation. It smelled like the sea, felt like a gentle breeze caressing his face, and tasted like butterbeer.

He couldn't believe it. He had never been so free.

It could all backfire in the worst way imaginable, but right now, enveloped in the sense of calm, he drove those thoughts away. As his eyes flickered to muggle families and couples walking through the streets or watching the sunset like he was, the city no longer felt so foreign, so unwelcoming, so strange.

Muggle cities were so brightly illuminated that true darkness never seemed to settle. The constant glow kept the night at bay, and for once, his body and soul remained at ease. Buoyed by this unexpected calm, he made his way back to the hotel in good spirits.

As soon as he entered, he felt someone's eyes on him. The woman at the reception and an unfamiliar man stopped speaking the moment they saw him. Their narrowed eyes followed him all the way to the lift. And just like that, his muscles tensed again, and his hand gripped the tip of his wand.

When the lift stopped at the fifth floor, he immediately heard voices.

"Miss Cooper!" shouted a man. "Open the door, it's the police!"

There was a sound of furious banging on the door. His self-preservation instinct kicked in and told him to stay in the lift, to close it, to flee. His legs didn't listen.

At Ruth's doorstep stood three formidable men, each holding a gun and a big, black-and-white stick. Their eyes glinted with hatred as they kept banging on the door.

Something told Draco this was not the police.