It was a steep drop on one side, and a wide green plain, lush with grass, on the other. Draco strolled through the thick, blowing grass, thumbing the apple he’d brought with him. Still well-preserved, thanks to magic.
It wasn’t too bad, this wonky Orient or Jianghu or whatever this was. The sun was shining, the air was clear, he could see the wrinkled mountains in the distance, and Green Apple was in his hand.
There was flute music drifting past from somewhere. He closed his eyes. This was nice.
CHOMP.
Wetness seeped onto his palm. He looked down, taking a few moments to register the scene before him.
There was a beast, a dirty mule or something, and it had bitten Green Apple! It held Green Apple in its hideous teeth — and then it bit again!
Draco yelled. That was his Green Apple; he had brought it all the way from when Potter had been dealing with the Prisoner of Azkaban business, and it had been perfect, green and white with a singular bite, all this time. He watched, horrified, as Green Apple disappeared altogether between the beast’s teeth.
“Xiao Pingguo!” a voice called. Gibberish words, but Draco was too shocked to cast a translation spell.
A tall man in black and red hailed him cheerfully, then shouted at the donkey. The man cooed over the donkey and found the evidence of Green Apple around its mouth — all that was left of — of —
The man was speaking to Draco, but Draco wasn’t listening. Green Apple! Green Apple was gone! He didn’t look even as another voice said, Wei Ying, and the first man turned slowly toward its owner.
They were all gone, men and ass, by the time Draco lowered his hands from his face and climbed back to his feet, dusting off his knees. He took an apple from the pocket of his robe — not Green Apple, just a green apple —and bit into it thoughtfully. Where to next?