A Blonde Weasley
Draco Malfoy, curled awkwardly into the overstuffed loveseat of his study, rubs his fingertips absently across the edges of his Dark Mark. It’s hardly as though anyone else would notice that sort of thing, not alone in the odd corner of this lonely mansion, but he stops himself when he notices his straying hand.
Draco props one elbow on the corner of the armrest instead, burying the aforementioned offending fingers into the hair wisping at the base of his neck— honestly, when had he let his hair get so far past his shoulders?— and resettles the book teetering on the edge of his lap.
He’d spent hours searching, one dusty book after another. Veiling charms proved themselves useless, working better on the large scale than the finer details. Potions, conversely, seem suited to the temporary rather than any long-term solutions he would need. He thought Classical Body Art and Incantations would pan out with more luck, considerng. Still, all he’s gathered is that magical tattoos tend to disagree with getting stuck on top of existing pieces and inevitably wither under their own misery.
The frustration of it all gnaws at him. He lets out one sharp puff of air before pointedly flipping the page. Once, twice, and then flitting through at a speed his tutors would have scoffed at. Useless books.
About halfway through his mindless skimming, his eye snags on a footnote at the bottom of one brittle, yellowing page. He hunches further over the book, shifting into a more cross-legged position. For alternative methods, see Muggle Practices in Permanent Ink Application: Traditional and Electric in Ch. 4, Pg. 137
Draco blinks. Once. Twice.
Muggle practices?
The notion sets his teeth on edge, but curiosity wins over the initial shock enough to flit back to the mentioned page. He glides his finger across the text until he runs into a subtitle labelled Traditional Muggle Alterations. The images underneath are deceptively simple. They don’t even move,for Merlin’s sake. But, like all things Muggle, no magic seems to be involved in the process at all. A simple diagram explains the process: Needles puncture the skin, embedding some variety of ink beneath the surface permanently, with no fussy magic required.
Despite himself, he reads on. It’s fascinating, in a way, how Muggles seem to lack spellwork and replace it with something as simple as ink and pain. The process has an almost elegant permanence, something unchanging that doesn’t often come with magic. More importantly, there’s no magic to fight for the space on his arm nor enchantment to fail against any lingering dark magic that might be lingering in the Mark itself.
Draco’s pulse quickens.
He snaps the book closed, startling slightly as the sound rings in the dead silence of his study, and presses a palm flat against the faded cover. He stares momentarily, dragging his fingers across the spine, fingers curling over the letters as he considers it.
The idea itself seems nearly laughable. “Malfoys ought notto mix with the Muggle sort,” his father had once said. Malfoys don't do much of Muggle anything. But if this ends up being the answer: Muggle craft, Muggle tools, Muggle work. It’s worth looking into, at the very least.
He fishes out his wand from the plush divot it managed to roll into after a moment of useless, blind patting. Then, he waves the growing pile of books away to their rightful places on the library shelves downstairs.
If this could work— really, genuinely work— then he won’t find any answers at all in some old tomes from generations of pureblood collections. Any other helpful information is bound to be locked behind Muggle society.
He mumbles a quick “Accio pocketwatch,” holding out an expecting hand until the slim, silver timepiece flings neatly into the palm of his hand. The little stars arrange themselves quickly under his glare until they form a tidy smattering on each side of the delicately designed line splitting them down the middle. It’s only about half past noon.
The first problem, naturally, is that Draco Malfoy hasn’t the foggiest idea of where to find one of these Muggle shops. It isn't as though he could simply waltz into the streets of Muggle London, could he? On the other hand, he doubts Diagon Alley would have any worthwhile recommendations if they'd be willing to share them with him at all. His presence isn't exactly undesired in wizarding society. Still, his taking to a sudden interest in Muggle practices is sure to raise an eyebrow or two, and requires his admission of a rather... sensitive issue.
Draco, perhaps against better judgment but without any better ideas, half-walks, half-jogs to the fireplace in the foyer downstairs. He strides up with the confidence of a man without the time to think this through, pinches a bit of floo powder in his fingers, and tosses it in.
The orange flame burns green, licking at the edges of the marble hearth expectantly. Draco kneels, leaning at the waist into the dancing flame, and enunciates, “Pansy Parkinson’s Townhouse.”
A short moment passes, and suddenly, the flames shift into the greenish shape of Pansy’s living room. Pansy herself is perched atop her velvet settee, a subtle (according to her, at least, though she always has loved the colour pink) shade of magenta that does not settle well into its mucusy green floo-flame depiction. A flute of what he assumes to be champagne teeters delicately between her fingers as she leans forward.
“Draco, darling! I haven't seen your face in so very long.” Pansy bemoans, as though she hadn't barged into his home completely uninvited a mere four days prior. She appraises him with an arched brow.
“It’s been four days, my dear.” Draco rolls his eyes.
“Precisely! An eternity, practically speaking.” She huffs haughtily, taking a pointed sip before spelling the glass in her hand away. He grins a touch at her antics. “So, to whatever do I owe the pleasure?”
Draco hesitates only a fraction of a second before she frowns at him on the other end. “It is a pleasure, is it not?”
“Yes, Pans. There’s nothing wrong.” Draco exhales sharply. He rolls his shoulders back, fixing his posture. Bracing himself. “I am calling to request your help.”
She perks slightly at that, head tilting as she preens. Her frown slips effortlessly into more of a smirk. “Oh, how terribly mysterious of you.” She shifts, crossing one knee over the other and settling her pointed chin in her palm. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with that man you met at Flourish and Blotts, now, does it? He was rather cute if nothing else.”
“What? No— I already told you. Look, I need to find a Muggle Tattoo shop.” Draco rushes out, a pink tinge rising high on his cheeks. It likely makes him look sickly green in the flames on her end. He doesn’t attempt to determine whether that’s a blessing or a curse.
There’s a pause. The sort of charged pause that promises nothing good is about to come out of her mouth. She blinks, the slow, deliberate kind. And, like a woman possessed, her lips twitch, and she promptly bursts into a fit of laughter a tad too dramatic to be entirely honest. And really, should he have expected anything else?
She wipes her eyes, though no tears had actually reared their ugly heads, and Draco pinches the bridge of his nose until her cackling slows down into the odd puff or two of laughter.
Pansy shakes her head rather violently, suddenly looking like a put-upon, frenzied little pomeranian. “You, Draco Malfoy, sole heir of the Malfoy name, looking for a muggle shop? My darling, I’d sooner have thought I’d see those Weasleys pump out a blonde!”
“Ha ha, Pansy, how positively hilarious,” Draco grumbles. “Are you quite finished now?”
She takes a minute or two, whether to wrap her head around the idea or shake off any remaining need to laugh at him again, before wandering in front of the floo and curling conspiratorially toward him. “Yes, yes. Please do go on.”
Draco levels her with a look. “I’m being serious, dear.”
She glares right back, lips curling into a smile far too innocent for her face. “As am I,” some of that amusement must drain out of her, settling into an intrigued, more curious expression. “Circe’s sake, Draco, what has possessed you today?”
He huffs, pointedly looking anywhere but in the smoky vision of her knowing eyes. “It’s just. Something that I need to do. You know what I’ve been looking into recently; I know you do. With my other options all but exhausted, I believe this might be the solution to a problem, that’s all.”
Something in her tone seems to give. “Oh, alright, colour me intrigued.” Pansy taps a single, perfectly manicured nail on her chin. “I wouldn’t know where to start and all, but I can tell you that you can’t wander around in those pretty new robes of yours down in… Muggle land.”
Draco’s expression must have pinched, because she lets out a particularly sweet sigh. “Not that your attire isn’t the peak of our fashion world, really, it’s just... Those Muggles don’t exactly wear tailcoats and robes, do they?”
Draco startles a bit. “I hadn’t thought of that bit yet, no.”
“Well, of course you didn’t, darling. Always rather one-track-minded, you were.” Pansy picks absently at a thread sticking out from her shirt sleeve. “Your shoes alone cost the average wizard’s monthly wage. You catch eyes here already. Imagine getting that kind of attention from Muggles?”
She doesn’t precisely spit the word, but there’s an amount of wonder to her voice that one might more accurately compare to a child seeing a wild unicorn for the very first time. “No, that wouldn't do at all. If you’re wandering into that territory, you'll need to look the part, at the very least.”
Draco adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves as though they might suddenly change into something a touch more Muggle appropriate. “And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on Muggle fashion, now?”
Pansy taps her chin again, nose scrunched in what appears to be the most profound thought she might have ever had to come up with on her own. She hums lightly. “Well, obviously not, darling. But Blaise? He just might. I mean, he and his mother spent the last few months out on the Muggle side of Paris with her new Beau, and she’s always one to know the yes and nos of fashion.”
Her reasoning is solid. If anyone could slip from their world to Muggle society these days, it would be Blaise. His mother always had a taste for a level of variety— husbands, fortunes, and fashion. In theory, he would be the most suited to help.
“And he's been asking after you recently. How very perfect of an opportunity for us all to catch up!” Pansy grins gleefully, clapping her hands together with an air of finality that suggests no further debate on the matter. “Wonderful. I'll owl him now! Expect us at the manor no later than this evening. I've been meaning to go shopping, anyhow.”
“Hold on—!” Draco starts, but Pansy’s hand has already swiped into the flames, effectively shooing him off. The green flames sputter away, until he's kneeling in the smoke and ashes of a monumentally horrendous decision.
A sigh escapes him. He accepts his fate. Then, he stands, dusts away the soot still clinging to the crease of his trousers, and straightens his collar with the refined ease of a man who couldn't possibly be as ruffled as he feels.
Blaise will be insufferable. Pansy will be worse. Despite that, behind the inevitable, merry torment of his own making, something restless thrums through his veins. Anticipation, perhaps.
It isn't like the damn mark rules his life. It’s just an unkind reminder of a stain in his history he’d rather forget, is all.
Still. It would be nice to look down and see something else: something that doesn't advertise him as a tool in a war he had no business fighting.