For one, he’d just admitted – yes, under duress, but still – that he trusted Harry Potter. Worse, it was true. And the very worst of it all was that he’d known Harry was trustworthy since the first day he’d met him on the train to Hogwarts, and had trusted him to do the right thing ever since. Even when he hated him – especially when he had. Harry’s friendship felt more treacherous than his enmity. And he certainly couldn’t let anyone know that. It barely made sense, even to him.

He examined his companions in the bright light of the late afternoon sun: Hermione Granger, the smartest girl in school – Ginevra Weasley, the most vivacious – Yolande Zabini, the prettiest. Each one with the heart of a Slytherin, no matter where they’d been placed.

He was doomed.

Oddly, for the first ten or fifteen minutes, they simply walked, ignoring him. Every now and then, Ginny would intone “come... slave!” and break into helpless giggles while Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes and, in general, made every attempt to avoid joining in.

“Just what are you plotting?” Hermione finally said as they reached the Leaky Cauldron at the end of Diagon Alley. “You told Harry we were going to take Draco shopping. There aren’t any clothing stores back here, much less witch dress shops. We passed Madam Malkin's ages ago.”

“Did I say all that?” Ginny inquired innocently, pushing open the door to the inn and restaurant. “Well, I certainly didn’t say where I’d be going shopping. Nor that I’d be doing it at wizarding shops.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, and for once, Draco was right with her. “What?” the bushy-haired girl demanded.

Yolande looked pale, he noticed. “You aren’t proposing we go into Muggle London,” she said, her tone low but definite.

“I’m not proposing it, I’m telling you,” Ginny replied with a spark of fire, walking determinedly to the back of the Cauldron. “You can come along or not as you choose.”

Yolande blanched. "Well I, for one, am not going into Muggle London. It's ridiculous."

Hermione's gaze darted from Ginny to Draco and back to Yolande again. "I'll meet up with you in a couple of hours," she told the blonde Slytherin firmly.

The girl paled. "You'll get into trouble."

Hermione smirked. "No I won't. I've done far more ridiculous things a number of times, and I'm rarely caught."

The blonde witch rolled her eyes but smiled, as if against her will.

Ginny, meanwhile, took Draco by the shoulders and moved him directly behind her. "Stand right there, and if anyone comes this way, distract them 'til I'm through." She reached out to the back brick wall of the inn's common room, and, confident that the cluster of Hermione, Yolande and Draco were hiding her actions, tapped it in a rapid sequence with her wand; after a moment and two or three tries, the wall opened brick-by-brick, revealing...

Draco took an unconscious step back at the sheer volume of noise that filtered in through that opening, experiencing an odd moment of raw panic. Then Ginny was ordering him through, and... and he was through. The wall closed behind Granger, who was watching him worriedly.

“All right, Draco?” she whispered.

Draco shook his head quietly, more in wonder than in negation, gazing around. Muggle London was loud and claustrophobic, and simply packed with people... autos raced back and forth along a road that seemed to wind behind him and to his left... although some buildings looked rather familiar in design, others were boxy, huge, and reached up into the clouds. A huge metal object passed in front of him, making an enormous noise, and Draco flinched, then flinched again as he felt something pinch his arm.

It was Hermione, who was gazing off rather innocently to the right.

“Merlin,” he breathed, adrenaline flooding his system.

“Merlin!” Ginny breathed, in an entirely different tone of voice, gazing about. “Where’s the fashion district, then, I know I read somewhere...?”

Ginny was still gazing around like a child presented with a lifetime supply of Gobstones, so Hermione murmured a question quietly.

“It’s your first time in London?”

He opened his mouth for a scathing retort, then paused, catching Hermione’s expression. When she looked at him with only worry painted in her dark brown eyes, swiping an errant curl out of her face, Draco felt an unexpected stab of guilt. He still couldn’t understand Granger – wasn’t sure he ever would. But it was obvious that she was, in her own way, as trustworthy as Harry. Maybe more.

“I’ll keep an eye on you, then,” she said, divining his thoughts.

“You’re loving this, eh, Granger?”

“Oh, it’s a laugh riot,” she replied. “Ginny, come now, this is your show.”

“Right. Hermione? Slave? Follow.” And Ginny took off.

Only to be grabbed by Hermione from behind. “Ginny! Red means stop – green means go!”

“’Course!” Ginny replied. “Everyone knows that! It’s green, so we go!”

“No,” Hermione countered patiently, “it’s green so the cars go.”

“Why do they get to go?” Ginny demanded. “Bollocks!”

“We have to wait our turn,” Hermione said.

Draco wondered if Hermione was petitioning for sainthood.

They finally crossed (still against the light – Ginny was impatient) and began such a long walk that by the time they reached their destination, Draco had long since forgotten the autos and horns and incredible press of people and had taken up complaining instead.

“How far is it?” he asked, and “how far is it now?” mere moments later. He thought he might actually be breaking Granger, who started twitching slightly whenever he spoke. He opened his mouth to complain, paused, without speaking – and Granger twitched anyway.

“Got you,” he said.

Hermione did what was natural and whapped him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“Children, children,” Ginny said, which Draco thought was rich. “We’re here.”

‘Here’ was, apparently, the fashion district of Muggle London. Very well-dressed women – five for every one immaculately attired or artistically disheveled man – meandered in and out of a long row of shops – clothing that was on sale draped the tables outside. Everywhere Draco looked there were flashes of color and motion, except where the shops deemed themselves even too expensive for that – then it was all black, white, khaki and brown, in harsh, severe lines...

“Ginny,” Hermione said in a low, anxious voice. “Are you certain you can afford this?”

“No,” Ginny said confidentially. “But he can.”

Hermione turned to stare at Draco, who immediately scoffed. “If you think I’m going to pay for you to receive a new wardrobe, you’re sadly mistaken,” he muttered as yet another Muggle brushed past him. It was like they didn’t even know who he was!

Oh, right. They didn’t.

Hermione spoke up timidly. “Hate to say it, Ginny, but he’s right. Harry said anything that didn’t get us killed, but that’s because he didn’t suppose you’d try theft. The boy may owe you a skirt–” she tacked on, glaring at him, “ – but it probably isn’t right to make him take you on a shopping spree.”

Ginny’s nose, slightly turned up already, climbed a notch higher. “Hermione Granger,” she said with a hint of effrontery, “you cannot possibly imagine that I would demand such a thing.”

“Oh – well, good,” Hermione said, her shoulders relaxing a bit.

“I’m far more diabolical than that. He’ll get to keep them.”

“What should I want with a bunch of Muggle girls’ clothes?” Draco demanded.

“Oh, they won’t be girls’ clothes,” Ginny replied, examining her nails. Then she locked her brown eyes with his. “They’ll be boys’. And they’ll be in your size...”

Hermione snorted. “Oh dear.”

Draco tried to remember to breathe through his nose and out his mouth. He seemed to recall that was how one stopped from passing out. “Muggle clothes?”

“Muggle clothes,” Ginny replied firmly.

“Granger,” Draco pleaded quietly. Slytherins had pride, but only when it suited them. He turned big puppy-eyes on her.

She turned her nose up at him.

Odd. That always seemed to work on Harry.

“Granger, please,” he repeated. What did she want him to do, get down on bended knee?

“Oh, Malfoy, really,” Hermione muttered crossly, folding her arms across her chest in indignation. “This won’t endanger your life, and, given the way you natter on about money, it certainly won’t injure your pocketbook. It might even be fun.”

Fun. The Mudblood was killing him.

“You swore,” Ginny reminded him sternly. “You swore to Harry.”

They had no idea, he decided. They really didn’t. “All right,” he muttered.

“Yeee!” Ginny squealed, jumping up into the air and hanging on his arm. “All right, here we go!” She grabbed on to Hermione with her other hand and proceeded to drag them into the first store with men's clothing she could find.

“Ginny,” Hermione whispered as they entered the store – the store, one of the white-black-and-khaki ones, seemed to demand it – “what have you done for money?”

“Simple,” Ginny said in a bright voice. “I had my money changed over from galleons into pounds this afternoon. All of it. Malfoy will just have to pay me back.”

Hermione looked horrified. “Ginny Weasley! Your parents will notice!”

“Not if he puts it back right away – this evening,” Ginny countered defensively. “And he will when Harry orders him to.”

“How much money can it possibly be?” Draco sneered. “With how many brothers and sisters you have–”

“I don’t have any sisters,” Ginny said angrily.

“Brothers, then,” he countered. “And your parents are poor already, aren’t they? You can’t have had much of a–”

“Two thousand two-hundred and eighty pounds,” Ginny announced proudly. “And I want to spend it all.”

“What?.!” Hermione screeched, clapping a hand over the redhead’s mouth.

It was too late. The salespeople descended like vultures.

“Would madam like to try on one of our party dresses? Is madam shopping for a special occasion?”

“Madam is shopping for him, today,” Ginny demurred.

The two women and one man literally fought for the chance to stand next to Draco. He had to admit to finding it all rather amusing, actually. But when it came to actually trying on the winter sweater, with its high neck and long sleeves which would undoubtedly hit him at the knuckles, he felt a wave of – something – overcome him.

He surprised himself by wishing Harry were here. Harry would be just as out-of-place here, no matter that he’d grown up with Muggles, and Harry would know what to say to – to make him feel –

Was he actually scared?

Of a sweater.

Draco snatched the offending item away from the woman’s offering hands and stalked into a changing room with a door so small he could still see Hermione and Ginny giggling like madwomen over top of it. Ginny actually winked at him, and he turned almost frantically away.

So now what? He was trapped in Muggle London with this pair of scheming harpies, and... and which side went in the back?

“Don’t you have anything in blue?” Ginny was inquiring in her best, most charming voice. “No? Ah well, that’s too bad. If that sweater were the palest blue, it might really be perfect.”

“Perhaps one of the other shops might have something similar in blue,” Hermione commented idly.

Draco listened as the shop owner quoted a slightly lower price, working his way through the sweater. He wasn’t at all certain that was how it went, and the fact that the mirror wasn’t commenting even though he pressed it for answers was a bit disconcerting.

“Well...” Ginny murmured. “I did have my heart set on blue. But let’s see how it looks, shall we?” Draco saw her turn to face him in an edge of the mirror. “Well, Draco, dear?” she inquired cheerfully. “Let’s see!”

Draco could hardly go out in his underwear and a sweater. Please don’t let her order me to, he prayed fervently.

Ever-clever Granger was tossing something dark over the top of the door, and, things being as they were, couldn’t help but get a good look. Draco felt himself turn pink against all reason and expectation, but was truly pleased when he realized that the dark things were pants of some kind. The button part was simple, but then there was a little tag made of metal just beneath. Eyeing it distrustfully, he pulled the little tag, which made an odd noise and unbuttoned the pants completely.

He eased into them, then buttoned and pulled the tag... it got inextricably caught in his underwear.

Worst. Day. Ever, he decided gloomily, finally emerging.

Hermione and Ginny eyed him critically.

“Jeans too big,” Ginny finally said. “White is sort of his color, I think. Do you have off-white? Something just a hair darker? And the jeans one – no, two sizes smaller. Hermione, what were you thinking? He’s not a thirty-three.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m far from being the expert on men's jeans,” she said mutinously.

“That’s not surprising, given that you can’t have gotten into Weasley’s pants just yet,” he shot back.

Everyone, from the shopkeeper and salespeople to Ginny herself, was glaring. Harry was right, he needed people like Granger to be on his side, she was smart and nice and really good, she wasn’t even snapping back at him and she obviously wanted to...

Right. She was trying the get-along thing. And here he was raining all over her little Quidditch match. He tried to salvage the situation. “Er... and he obviously hasn’t gotten into yours. More fool Weasley, if you ask me.”

There. All fixed.

Come to think of it, Hermione was now staring at him oddly. He supposed he was exhibiting multiple personalities, but honestly, Harry did that on a rather consistent basis...

He shrugged off the first shirt and pulled his arms through the second, tugging on the ‘jeans’ with more alacrity this time around. Then he emerged.

Ginny eyed him critically. “I suppose the color’s all right,” she said. “The jeans are, too.” She looked up at the nearest saleslady. “We’ll take them – price we agreed on for the sweater.”

Draco began to peel off the clothes.

“Oh, no,” Ginny said, tugging him back out of the changing room. “You’re keeping those on.”

Hermione snickered as his face fell, and Draco took everything back about Weasley being stupid about Granger. If Weasley was smart, he had run in the other direction the moment they were out of sight of Diagon Alley.

“What do I do about my robes?” he said.

“Quit moaning, Malfoy,” Ginny said, and he glared at her – he did not moan, the same way he didn’t whine or mope. At least, unless it was on purpose. “Give them to me.”

Draco handed her his robes in a neat, folded square; he didn’t want to be carting them around, anyway.

“Excellent,” she said, then passed them off to the salesman, still hovering hopefully at her arm. “Will you get rid of those for us, please? Thanks.”

Draco lunged for her, but Hermione held him back, and proceeded to drag him outside while Ginny paid.

“You ass, were you going to attack a girl? A girl younger than you?” Hermione demanded.

“Did you see – did you see, she took my robes–”

“You can buy new ones,” Hermione said idly.

“But – no, those are custom-ordered, Madam Malkin made them herself, by wand, and –”

“And I think Ginny knows that quite well,” Hermione replied primly. “So you’ll be in Muggle clothing for awhile. What’s the trouble?” She eyed him reprovingly, and he was reminded very strongly of Professor McGonagall.

“Muggle clothing for awhile. No trouble at all. Are you mad?”

“You can always buy generic robes when we get back to Diagon Alley,” Hermione suggested. “Which, d’you suppose, would cause more talk?”

Draco was hard-pressed to find the answer to that particular question.

Luckily, Ginny came sauntering out and they were on to the next store, and the next...

By the end of the two hours, he was holding four bags worth of admittedly well-made but nonetheless Muggle clothing, and was wearing the first pair of jeans and a new, pale blue sweater that he felt was slightly too big for him. Ginny, however, insisted that it made him look ‘awfully cute’. He did not want to look cute; he’d rather look awful, but Ginny merely ignored him while Hermione snickered. The Muggleborn girl’s expression appeared to have become frozen in some sort of combination of happiness, disbelief, and incredulous humor. That was, until he turned the tables on the poor girl and shoved her in to get a haircut after Ginny had literally wrestled him into a chair.

Hermione’s hair was now gone. Draco, for one, thought it an improvement. It didn’t look nearly so big, now, or rather, it looked big on purpose when it was cut around her shoulders. She had looked down at the twelve inches of wavy hair piled on the haircuttery floor and tears began to well in her eyes.

Making Granger cry should have been satisfying, but all he could do was wonder why she’d lopped it off in the first place if it’d meant so much to her. It was only a little hair, after all.

Of course, he’d screamed like a banshee getting his own cut, but that was different.

Ginny still looked at Hermione out of the corner of her eye every now and then, as if to make certain she wasn’t about to burst into tears, but the Granger girl had sobbed passionately for five minutes and then rather abruptly sniffled and wiped at her eyes. Draco supposed if a girl had to cry, that was probably the best way to go about it.

Ginny offered the occasional bracing comment, like, “I always thought your hair would look best short anyway, Hermione,” and “it really brings out your long neck like that, I could scarcely see it before, the boys’ll be wild...” When Ginny began to list actresses and famous women who’d kept their hair short, Hermione’s tolerance finally bled into irritation.

“All right already, it’s only my hair!” she snapped.

Draco was glad she had. He’d been beginning to feel like he wasn’t the one having a bad time of it.

By then they had reached the magical barrier which separated Diagon Alley from London Square. Draco and Hermione shielded Ginny while she withdrew her wand and tapped the bricks in sequence. After the first five times, it became apparent that she had forgotten the proper order, and Draco had the odd and dizzying notion that they might be trapped there forever... he wondered how much it cost to rent a flat in London.

“So now you know how it feels,” Hermione said suddenly, watching the people as they passed. A man across the street catcalled something to her, and she flushed bright pink; behind them, Ginny cursed increasingly creatively at the brick wall.

“How what feels?” Draco growled. “To be played with like a dress-up doll?”

“To be tossed into a world you don’t recognize,” she replied in a you-really-ought-to-have-known-that voice. It was Draco’s least favorite voice in the world. “I was so anxious over everything, I just kept nattering on... it’s no wonder Ron and Harry thought I was perfectly intolerable at first.”

The other questions buzzing in Draco’s head drained away with her last sentence. “Trouble in paradise? Between the Holy Trinity? Good gracious, no.”

She conveniently ignored his sarcastic tone; Draco was beginning to believe that when Hermione Granger had something to say, she'd say it, and never mind what anyone else thought of it. Must be a Gryffindor thing, he decided.

“I couldn’t involve myself in people’s conversations," she went on. "I didn’t know what Quidditch or Gobstones or Exploding Snap was, I didn’t know who the Weird Sisters were besides the three witches from Shakespeare... I was so lost. The only thing I had was textbooks – they were the only ones I could trust to tell me what to do.”

“Which explains a lot,” Draco intoned, examining his nails.

She whipped around to view him. “How should you like it if we left you here?” she snapped. “Left you here with an address for a new home, to fend for yourself?”

Draco felt himself turn white. “You – you wouldn’t really.”

“Of course not. But don’t you understand? That was me.”

And for the first time, Draco did understand. He looked at her with new eyes, feeling the unlikely stab of combined pity and respect.

For Granger.

“I always said we shouldn’t let the Muggleborn into Hogwarts,” he said.

She sighed, tried to tuck her hair behind her ear and failed because it was now too short. “I fear I’ve gone and proved the wrong point,” she said.

“Oh! Oh, bollocks, it’s reversed, of course! We’re on the other side!” Ginny exclaimed suddenly, and the bricks slid away to reveal...

Draco found it odd that he could be startled all over again. Somehow, he had gotten used to the sheer, dizzying noise and bustle and...

Merlin, what an odd thing it was to think that Diagon Alley was too quiet.