A Night On The Town

A Night On The Town

Let me tell you, I had never liked Muggles. Especially not Muggle-borns. Not even if they’d read "Thirteen Ways To Destroy Your Enemies And Amuse Your Friends". No way. Not on your life.

Thus, I never expected that I, Draco Malfoy, would wind up living as a Muggle in London. But I was on the run from the Ministry; they had me down for a Death Eater, even though I’d never actually gotten the Mark on my arm. So I was working a tour guide in London. It paid well enough for a squalid apartment and dinners at Burger King. I even got used to the horrendous Muggle food after a while (though I still flinch at the mention of one of their damned Whoppers.)

It was early in August, the year I was twenty; the streets were warm enough at night to venture out in short sleeves, as my customer was that night. She wore a white cotton tee-shirt and jean shorts, standard fare for any tourist, though her long red hair was held back from her face by an exceptional pair of two delicate solid gold combs encrusted with red

rubies.

"Hi," she said, "I’m Virginia. I’ve just come from abroad, and I’ve always wanted to see - London." Her voice was sweet and tinged with a faint French accent, though I wondered about her hesitation before saying "London." Also, she seemed faintly familiar.

"Good," I replied, "I’m David," the alias I went by, "and I’ll be your guide tonight."

She was just like any other tourist, at first, truly she was. It was strange though, how familiar she seemed. But after you’ve been on the run for a couple of weeks, everyone looks familiar, believe me. So I dismissed it.

And that night… do you know how it is when things are so beautiful it makes your stomach hurt to remember them? It was the happiest night of my life. After making the requisite stroll past Big Ben and a designer fashion boutique of two, we took a double decker bus to a Polynesian club one of her friends had recommended. She coerced me into trying to do the hula with her- we didn’t leave until we had made complete fools of ourselves.

Another bus ride later we ere in an ethnic section of town, where she ate some tabouleh and I contented myself with a Diet Coke. She even tried her hand at the tambourine after she bought one in a small trinket shop. It was close on midnight when we entered an improv comedy club a few blocks up. And, as a tall Hispanic man in the garb of a Swedish milkmaid declared, "I would have milked the cow, but I was too busy yodeling," I realized two things.

First, the slender redhead seated just to my right was Ginny Weasley.

Second, I was in love with her.

You must understand, these two things were just as shocking to me as they must be to you – perhaps more so. And not just because I realized them in the company of that Hispanic guy in drag. Believe me, I had never expected to fall for a Mudblood-lover while on the run from the Ministry, especially while posing as a Muggle tour guide named David. I would have preferred a much more dignified name, Simon, perhaps, and a mysterious Oriental witch (with whom I would have a long, tearful parting when I was captured) would have been much more my style. (I will admit that I was possessed with a rather fantastical imagination even at the advanced age of twenty.) But I certainly never thought I would be innocent of the crimes I was accused of, or that I would fall in love with Ginny Weasley, Merlin forbid!

But I was, and I did. And I never asked for her telephone number, not that she would have had one, of course. I never even kissed her. Those are the things I regret most now; that I bade her farewell at her car with a brusque nod of the head and a quick goodbye. For it seemed to me then, that, paradoxically, she whom I loved might become the instrument of my demise as well. I was still a hunted man, after all.

So I left the tour guide agency, lest I run into any more old acquaintances. For the next two and a half years I worked in a metaphysical bookstore, learning to tolerate Muggles, grousing customers, and life in general. I was twenty when I came there; I was a fool.

Now I am twenty-three, my name ironically cleared by the sole person I have ever truly despised: Harry Potter. Fortunately, I have avoided any run-ins with him; he, his girlfriend Granger, and their oh-so-trusty sidekick Ron Weasley are off searching the world for an Ancient Artifact of Great Import, or some such, and the battle against its use for evil that will inevitably ensue when it is found. It doesn’t matter much to me, I who have been to the Dark side and back.

Upon resurfacing from three years of living undercover, I found my parents dead and their affairs in shambles. I sold Malfoy Manor, bought a nice home in an arty section of Muggle London (far away from any Burger Kings), and got a job as a Muggle/Wizarding Liaison. Changing drastically twice in three years is a bit much to ask of me.

Thus, most nights, I will dine out in ethnic sections of town, then visit certain improv comedy clubs where, as strange women in preposterous costumes bellow, "Yes, but only if you read him his rights first," I search the audience for my love’s red-gold hair.

For, despite general gossip and my inquiries of a few old friends, I have heard nothing of Ginny Weasley since I left her at her car that August night. Perhaps she has returned to France. Maybe she is dead, in the battle against Voldemort. Or, against all probability, she is still scouring the city for a tour guide named David.

I hope like hell she is.