Draco Malfoy never thought he'd spend so much of his free time in the Muggle world, but here he was, trailing Hermione Granger through a shop that sold blinking boxes, humming machines, and shelves stacked with "video cassettes." His gray eyes darted everywhere, wide with fascination.
"This is absurd," Draco muttered as he picked up a shiny camcorder, turning it over in his hands. "You're telling me Muggles use this contraption to… capture moving images? Without any runes? No charms? Nothing?"
Hermione, already scribbling notes in a small journal, beamed. "Exactly! It records the light and sound using electronics. If we study how this works, maybe we can enchant wizarding versions—moving pictures on command, stories that can be replayed, even shared across homes!"
Harry sighed, arms folded, leaning against the counter. "And here I thought we were just going to the park today."
"You're here to make sure no one bothers us," Draco said casually, still fiddling with the camcorder. "Which is very useful, by the way. Everyone looks twice before thinking of messing with us. It's like walking around with our own bodyguard who can call down lightning."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, remember, I'm ten. You two are the mad geniuses trying to create a wizarding television network. I'm just here to stop you from breaking things."
Hermione giggled. "Don't worry, Harry. You'll get credit when it works."
Over the weeks, Draco became completely enamored with Muggle devices. He'd demand explanations for computers—machines that could "calculate and store information faster than a quill could write." He asked about VHS tapes, about projectors, about microphones. Every visit ended with Hermione explaining enthusiastically, Harry groaning at how long they spent in shops, and Draco's arrogant mask slipping into genuine wonder.
"This is revolutionary," Draco whispered one afternoon as he watched a demo of a computer loading a game. "Imagine if wizards had these. No more scratching quills or dusting scrolls. And the moving images—think of it, Potter! Magical plays that people can watch from home instead of traveling to theatres."
Hermione clapped her hands together. "Exactly! We could start with a simple enchanted glass, charmed to show whatever story is being told. We can learn from these machines and improve with magic."
Harry muttered, "At this point, I think you two should just start a company. Granger & Malfoy Productions."
Draco smirked. "Not a bad name. Though Malfoy should come first."
"Not happening," Hermione shot back without hesitation.
Of course, not everyone was delighted with Draco's new hobby. When he returned home one evening, chattering about "video cameras" and "television," Narcissa Malfoy's expression froze.
"Draco," she said sharply, "I will not have you wasting your time with Muggle trinkets. You are a Malfoy. Your father—"
Draco cut her off, an unusual defiance in his tone. "Father always told me Muggles were useless. But Granger isn't useless. She's brilliant. Smarter than anyone I've met at my age. And these inventions… they're clever, Mother. Really clever. If we can adapt them, we could change wizarding society forever."
Narcissa inhaled slowly, pinching her lips. She wanted to snap, to forbid it. But Lucius was gone, his influence vanished, and her son—her only son—looked happier than he had since his father's disappearance.
Finally, she said softly, "Draco… do you understand what you're saying? Associating with Muggle-borns, admiring their world—it will put you at odds with everything your father stood for."
Draco's chin lifted. "Then maybe Father was wrong."
That silence hung heavy. But over the next month, Narcissa came to terms with it. She couldn't ignore the similarity: Hermione Granger reminded her of Lily Evans, brilliant, fierce, unyielding. A witch who had forced even the most stubborn Purebloods to acknowledge her skill.
One evening, she admitted quietly to Sirius during a rare visit, "Perhaps… Hermione Granger is a different breed of Muggle-born. Just as Lily once was. And if she helps Draco grow, I will not stand in his way."
Watching the two of them, Harry couldn't help but smile. Stage One had been to show Draco that Muggle-borns were not inferior. Stage Two was to open his eyes to the wider world. And now… Draco was taking the lead himself, dragging Hermione into his wild ideas about "Wizarding Television," while she grounded the vision with knowledge.
Harry didn't need to say much. His job was done.
As they left yet another shop, Draco's arms loaded with Muggle electronics manuals, Hermione with her notes, Harry chuckled to himself.
"Guess I'll just be the guy who funds this whole crazy project."
Draco grinned. "Don't worry, Potter. When the Wizarding World watches its first magical movie, you'll get a cameo."
Hermione laughed. "And I'll make sure the credits say, 'Inspired by Harry Potter—our reluctant bodyguard.'"
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt free—free from his father's shadow, free to dream. And Harry couldn't help but feel proud. His mission was working.
Draco Malfoy stared at the creamy parchment envelope lying on the dining table. The seal of the Ministry gleamed in scarlet wax. He had seen dozens of such invitations before; his life until now had been a string of glittering balls, banquets, and celebrations. Yet this one felt heavier than the rest.
Narcissa broke the seal with careful fingers and read aloud:
"The Ministry of Magic cordially invites Lady Narcissa Malfoy and her son, Draco Malfoy, to the Midwinter Ball, to be held in the Atrium of the Ministry."
Draco leaned back in his chair, an odd hollowness in his chest. "We're still invited?" he asked. "With Father gone, I thought…"
Narcissa's eyes softened. "We are still Malfoys. Our name carries weight, even if certain… friends have turned their backs."
Draco didn't answer. He remembered all too well the sneering faces at past gatherings, the boys and girls who used to seek him out because of Lucius Malfoy's power. Now, whispers followed him instead. Invitations dwindled.
Before he could brood further, Sirius Black's laughter rang out from the adjoining room. He strode in holding his own envelope, dangling it carelessly between two fingers.
"Seems the Ministry wants me too," Sirius said with a smirk. "How flattering. Shame I'm not going."
Narcissa frowned. "You should. It would do you good to reintroduce yourself properly. Your name is cleared, Sirius. The Blacks deserve to be seen again."
"I'd rather drink firewhisky and watch the snow fall," Sirius shot back, his smile thinning. "I've had my fill of politicians and their games. No ball is worth pretending to like them."
Narcissa's voice hardened, though her hands trembled slightly. "Easy for you to say. But I have been cloistered in Malfoy Manor since Lucius disappeared. I've lost friends, allies… even safety. I need to be seen. I will not fade into the shadows just because my husband is gone."
For once, Sirius didn't retort. He looked at her—really looked—and saw not the haughty cousin of their youth but a woman fighting not to drown in isolation.
Draco cleared his throat. "If you go, Mother, people will talk. They'll say you're vulnerable."
"They already do," Narcissa replied softly. "But I won't let them see fear. That is the Malfoy way."
The room fell into silence until Lily—no, Wanda, now called Lady Black—entered, her presence calm but firm. "If she wishes to go, Sirius, then you should support her. Family is stronger when united. And as for Harry…"
Harry, perched on the arm of a chair with a book in his hands, looked up. "I'm not going to the ball," he said flatly.
Sirius grinned. "Smart lad."
But Narcissa gave him a cool smile. "Perhaps not now. But one day, Harry, you'll understand—appearances matter. Tonight, Draco and I will carry the Malfoy name. You needn't worry."
Draco adjusted the cuffs of his robe as he stepped out of the fireplace, brushing a bit of soot from his sleeve. His mother, Narcissa, emerged right after, elegant in flowing silver silk, her posture as straight as a blade. The golden light of the Ministry Atrium spilled over them—crystal chandeliers swayed overhead, and music drifted from the enchanted orchestra near the fountain.
Narcissa's hand lingered on Draco's shoulder.
"Remember, Draco. Tonight, we walk with dignity. No matter what they whisper."
Draco nodded, though his stomach tightened.
The Atrium glittered with nobility: witches in peacock feathers, wizards in embroidered velvet, Ministry officials with polished medals. Almost instantly, Narcissa was swept away into a circle of acquaintances—women who had once been her classmates at Hogwarts. They smiled, too politely, the sort of smiles that cut more than they warmed.
Draco wandered the edges of the crowd, searching for familiar faces. Where Crabbe and Goyle usually flanked him, there was only emptiness. He had hoped, foolishly, that perhaps they would appear with their families. But no. Their fathers had vanished with Lucius, and power within the Crabbe and Goyle lines had shifted swiftly.
He overheard snippets from a pair of older witches by the punch table:
"—their uncles took over. Said the boys are far too young."
"Can't blame them. After all that mess, the families need strength, not children."
Draco clenched his fists. Crabbe and Goyle weren't clever, but they were loyal, and he missed their heavy-footed presence.
He scanned the crowd again. No Nott. No Pansy Parkinson. Theodore's family had grown silent, distant; Pansy's line, he'd overheard, had been seized by some distant cousin who wasted no time cutting ties with the Malfoys. His old world—friends, allies, the comfortable orbit around his father's influence—was gone, carved up by opportunists who circled the fallen like vultures.
For a moment, Draco felt the weight of his name pressing down harder than ever. Malfoy. Once, that word made doors open. Now it was a hushed warning, a liability.
A group of boys from noble families passed him, one giving a mocking bow.
"Where's your father, Malfoy? Couldn't find his way out of the dark?"
Draco's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His mother's words echoed in his ears—dignity. He turned away, choosing not to give them the satisfaction.
Across the room, Narcissa's voice carried as she exchanged formalities.
"Lady Greengrass, Lord Selwyn. It has been too long."
Her tone was steady, her chin high, but Draco saw the subtle tension in her knuckles gripping her goblet.
He realized then that they were both acting tonight. Pretending strength. Pretending they were not cornered. Pretending the world had not shifted beneath their feet.
Draco wandered the glittering atrium, feeling the weight of eyes on him but not in the way he once enjoyed. At other balls, people would flock to him, eager to curry favor with Lucius Malfoy's heir. Tonight, he was a shadow. No one rushed to greet him, no eager alliances to be made—his father's absence had stripped the Malfoy name of its power. The realization sank bitterly: here, everyone was hunting for powerful allies, and Draco Malfoy was no longer considered one.
His mother was across the room, already surrounded by a cluster of old acquaintances, their voices sharp with feigned sweetness. Draco clenched his jaw. He hated this world of masks, this constant need to prove oneself. He felt out of place, adrift, while laughter and polished conversation swirled around him like smoke.
It was then he noticed a man with thinning red hair, wearing slightly shabby but neat dress robes. His father's voice echoed in his memory: Arthur Weasley—dirt poor, obsessed with Muggles, no ambition, a disgrace to the name wizard.
Yet here Arthur stood, speaking animatedly with a Ministry clerk, his hands gesturing with genuine passion. Something inside Draco stirred. Maybe curiosity. Maybe rebellion against everything his father had drilled into him. Before he could second-guess himself, Draco walked straight toward him.
Arthur blinked in surprise when Draco Malfoy stopped in front of him.
"Mr. Weasley," Draco said, his voice quieter than usual, almost polite.
Arthur straightened. "Malfoy?" His brow furrowed. "What brings you to me? I'd have thought you'd be in the thick of the—" he gestured vaguely to the swirling crowd of aristocrats.
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I've been… learning things. About Muggles."
Arthur's eyes widened with open astonishment. "You? Learning about Muggles?" He gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Forgive me, but your father would hex the idea out of you if he heard such a thing."
Draco's mouth twisted. "My father isn't here, is he? Besides—" his pride sparked a little, "I've seen things. Computers. Moving pictures called films. Even cars that can outpace brooms, if you know the right kind."
Arthur's jaw practically dropped. He leaned in eagerly, as though Draco had just announced he'd been to the moon.
"You've seen a computer? Tell me—what's it like? Do they really think for themselves? What sort of power runs them? Is it true they have telephones you can carry in your pocket?"
Draco, caught off guard by Arthur's enthusiasm, recounted some of what Harry and Hermione had shown him: the blinking lights of a computer monitor, the way a film told a story without magic, the strange wonder of watching Home Alone.
Arthur hung on every word, nodding vigorously, his eyes alight. "Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating. And to think—most of our world still believes Muggles ride about in horse carts!"
Draco hesitated, then said, "That's what I thought too. But I was wrong. They've… advanced. A lot more than we give them credit for."
Arthur's expression softened, almost fatherly. "That realization, young man, is something many witches and wizards spend their lives avoiding. To hear it from a Malfoy—well, that's remarkable."
Draco's ears burned. For the first time that night, he didn't feel mocked or dismissed. Instead, he felt… respected.
Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You know, my department at the Ministry deals with Muggle artifacts. But truth be told—most wizards in power barely understand what Muggles have achieved. They underestimate them. Dismiss them. I sometimes wonder if it's our greatest weakness."
Draco frowned, his thoughts racing. He thought of Hermione outpacing him in every subject, of her passion for books and knowledge, of her absolute refusal to accept inferiority. He thought of his father's words, of Crabbe and Goyle's families clawing at scraps of influence, of the sneers he had endured tonight.
And slowly, Draco realized something: maybe the world his father believed in—the world of pure-blood superiority—was nothing more than a crumbling lie.
Arthur clapped him lightly on the shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. "You've got a sharp mind, Mr. Malfoy. Don't waste it on old prejudices. The future will belong to those who understand both worlds."
For the first time in a long while, Draco Malfoy smiled—not with arrogance, but with genuine gratitude.
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