For weeks, Draco Malfoy had been arriving at Highlands Manor, polished robes and all, with the same air of superiority he always carried. But the cracks had started to show.
It began in the library, where Hermione corrected him for the sixth time in a row during a potion-theory debate.
"You added the monkshood too early," Hermione said crisply, pointing at the bubbling cauldron. "That's why it curdled."
Draco flushed. "That's not possible. I followed the Severus's method exactly—"
Harry, sitting on the sofa with a book half-open on his lap, smirked. "Yeah, Severus Snape's brilliant, but Hermione's right. She's been ahead of me in potions since last year."
Hermione raised her chin. "Thank you."
Draco glared at the cauldron, his pride smarting. How? His godfather was the youngest potion master in Britain, and Draco had been spoon-fed theory since he could walk. Yet this muggleborn girl had just dismantled his confidence without breaking a sweat.
That night, when Harry went upstairs, Draco lingered by the enchanted pond outside. Hermione followed, hugging a book to her chest.
"You hate losing, don't you?" she asked softly.
Draco's jaw tightened. "Malfoys don't lose."
"Well," Hermione said with a shrug, "you just did. Maybe the world doesn't care that you're a Malfoy."
Draco snapped his gaze to her, insult flashing in his eyes. But instead of firing back, he surprised himself. He laughed. A short, hollow laugh.
"You're… impossible," he muttered. "My father always said pure-bloods were superior. He wanted me to believe it. But you—" he gestured helplessly—"you make me doubt him every time you open your mouth."
Hermione's smile was faint but genuine. "Good. Maybe you'll start thinking for yourself."
Over breakfast the next morning, Draco's thoughts spilled into words when Harry teased him about scowling at the eggs.
"You know what bothers me?" Draco said, slamming down his fork. "I'm better than half the so-called heirs I grew up around. Crabbe and Goyle are… well, useless. Nott can't duel, he just hides in books. Pansy—Merlin's beard, my father thought of betrothing me to her—she's clever with gossip, but she couldn't out-brew a five year old."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "And yet you still believed pure-bloods were superior."
Draco flushed again, cornered. "Because that's what I was told! That's what my family believes. And then you come along, beating me at everything—even potions! It doesn't make sense."
Harry leaned back, eyes gleaming. "Maybe it makes perfect sense. Maybe your family was wrong. Hermione's proof of it."
That afternoon, in the dueling hall Sirius had conjured for practice, Hermione disarmed Draco three times in a row. On the fourth try, Draco slumped to the floor, breathing hard.
"All right," he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. "You're better than me."
Hermione blinked, surprised. "Did you just say that?"
"Don't make me repeat it," Draco grumbled, rolling onto his side. "But… maybe blood doesn't mean what I thought it did."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "There's hope for you yet, Malfoy. Who knows, maybe you'll end up a Gryffindor."
Draco groaned. "Don't push it."
Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, Draco Malfoy had begun to see the truth: Hermione Granger, a muggleborn witch, outshone him in almost every subject. And for the first time in his young life, Draco didn't feel disgust at the idea. He felt… respect. A begrudging, reluctant respect that grew each time Hermione corrected him, challenged him, or beat him.
Deep down, he couldn't deny it anymore: blood didn't make someone great. Skill, wit, and willpower did.
And in Hermione, he saw all three.
The plan had been simmering in Harry's head for weeks. Stage One had gone just as he envisioned—Draco Malfoy had finally, grudgingly, accepted that Hermione Granger, a so-called "Mudblood," could outclass him in almost every branch of magic they had studied together at Highlands Manor. The library duels, potion races, and transfiguration contests had humbled Draco more than he cared to admit.
But Harry knew Draco was still clinging to something—the comforting illusion that Muggles themselves were backward and helpless. That belief was the cornerstone of pure-blood pride. So Stage Two would strike at the heart of Draco's worldview: show him the Muggle world with his own eyes.
The next morning, Harry leaned over the long oak breakfast table. Draco was buttering a scone, looking smug as always. Sirius was sprawled in a chair, reading the Daily Prophet, while Wanda busied herself at the stove.
"Draco," Harry said casually, "how'd you like to see something no Malfoy has ever dared step into?"
Draco snorted. "What nonsense are you on about now?"
Harry grinned. "The Muggle world. Properly. No sneaking glances through wizarding windows. I'm talking about cars, shops, electricity—things your father probably told you Muggles don't even understand."
Draco froze, knife in hand. "Why would I waste time with… them? Father always said—"
Harry cut him off. "Your father also said pure-bloods are superior, and yet Hermione beats you in potions."
Sirius choked on his pumpkin juice, smothering a laugh. Lily raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Draco flushed scarlet. "That was beginner's luck."
"Luck?" Hermione's voice came from the doorway—she had just entered, carrying another stack of borrowed books. "I brewed six perfect drafts in a row, Malfoy. Meanwhile, you melted the cauldron twice."
Draco turned away, pretending not to hear. Harry pressed on, voice teasing. "Come with me to Hermione's house. See the Muggle world yourself. Unless you're scared?"
That did it. Draco slammed his butter knife down. "I'll go. But if this is boring, Potter, I'll hex you."
Later that afternoon, Harry found Sirius polishing an old goblet in the study.
"I need a favor," Harry began.
Sirius smirked. "Those words usually mean trouble."
"I want to take Draco to Hermione's house. But not with a Portkey or the Floo—I want him to actually see the Muggle world. Streets, cars, shops, all of it. He still thinks they ride horse carriages."
Sirius barked a laugh. "Merlin's beard! That's perfect. Yes, I'll drive you. The car's been gathering dust at Grimmauld Place anyway." He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Draco Malfoy's first car ride—this, Harry, I wouldn't miss for the world."
The next day, the three of them stood in Highlands Manor's grand fireplace. Harry tossed Floo powder with practiced ease.
"Grimmauld Place!" he shouted, and vanished in green flames. Draco followed more reluctantly, stumbling out the other end coughing ash.
Sirius came last, clapping soot from his coat. "Alright, gentlemen, the adventure begins!"
He led them to the underground garage. Parked there gleamed a black Muggle car. Sirius patted the bonnet affectionately.
"She's a beauty, isn't she? Pure Muggle craftsmanship—with a little magical upgrade."
Draco eyed it skeptically. "This is just… a box. On wheels."
Sirius winked at Harry. "Wait until it roars."
The moment Sirius started the engine, the car rumbled to life. Draco yelped, clutching the seat.
"What was that noise?!"
Harry chuckled. "Relax, it's the engine."
Then they pulled into traffic. Cars streamed past, horns honking, lights flashing. Draco's head whipped from side to side, his mouth slightly open.
"They— they built all this without magic?" he muttered, eyes glued to a massive double-decker bus.
"Yes," Harry said, grinning. "And you haven't even seen the airplanes yet."
Sirius hummed along to a rock song on the radio, drumming the steering wheel. "This, Draco, is freedom. Music, wheels, the open road."
When an airplane flew overhead, Draco nearly hit the roof. "That— that thing is flying without magic!"
Harry leaned back, smug. "Told you."
By the time they reached the quiet suburb of Erling, Draco was pale and exhausted from sensory overload. The rows of identical houses confused him more than anything.
"They all live in the same kind of house? How do they tell them apart?" he asked, scandalized.
"Numbers on the doors," Harry said.
Hermione answered when they knocked. She froze at the sight of Draco. "You brought him?"
Harry shrugged. "Stage Two."
Hermione sighed. "Fine. But if he insults my parents, I'll hex him."
Draco stepped cautiously into the Grangers' living room, staring at the humming television.
"What's that box?" he asked.
Hermione smirked. "Television. Moving pictures, news, stories—all without magic." She clicked the remote, and the screen flickered to life. Draco stumbled backward.
"It's like… like a Foe-Glass but with actors!"
Mrs. Granger entered, smiling warmly. "Hello, Harry, Hermione. And this must be your friend?"
Draco stiffened, bowing awkwardly. "Draco Malfoy, ma'am."
Mr. Granger came in with tea. "Malfoy, eh? You play chess? Harry always says he's good, but Hermione still beats him."
Draco blinked, unused to such casual conversation. He sat stiffly on the couch, sipping tea from a Muggle mug, staring at the electric lamps, the refrigerator, the framed photos where no one moved.
Hermione dragged Draco into the kitchen, pointing out appliances.
"This is a toaster." She dropped bread in, pressed the lever. "It heats bread in seconds."
Draco peered in suspiciously. When the toast popped, he jumped. "Bloody hell! That thing just attacked the bread!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Attacked? It made toast. Try it."
Cautiously, Draco bit into it—and his eyes widened. "That's… good."
She smirked. "Exactly. And this—washing machine, vacuum cleaner, microwave. Muggles aren't backward, Draco. They've replaced half the things wizards still struggle with."
By the time they left that evening, Draco was quiet, thoughtful. In the car back, he muttered almost to himself, "All my life… I was told they were powerless. But they've built all this. Maybe… maybe we were wrong."
Harry caught Sirius's eye in the mirror. Stage Two had worked.
Draco Malfoy had never imagined that he would be the one pestering Harry Potter to take him back into the Muggle world. Yet here he was, tugging at his cloak as they stood in the Highlands Manor library.
"Potter," Draco insisted, "I need to see another one of those moving picture things. That Home Alone was… extraordinary!"
Harry smirked. "You mean a movie, Draco. And you laughed so hard at the paint cans swinging from the stairs, I thought you'd choke."
Draco flushed but didn't deny it. "It was clever, alright? Cunning. Very Slytherin. And the contraptions the boy built! Muggles aren't half as dim as Father made them out to be."
Hermione, who had been curled up in an armchair with a book, closed it with a satisfied snap. "I've been telling you that since the first day we met. But you wouldn't listen."
Draco shot her a look but then leaned forward, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Don't you see what this means? If Muggles can do this with wires and electricity, then wizards—with magic—could make something even better. Imagine: entire stories from our world, on enchanted glass, playing for everyone to see. Magical movies, broadcast everywhere. Why hasn't anyone thought of this?"
Hermione's face lit up. "Actually… that's brilliant! Wizards already enchant portraits to move and talk, so enchanting a larger surface for storytelling shouldn't be impossible. And if we could channel it through the Floo Network or special mirrors, it could become magical television!"
Harry chuckled at the way the two of them were feeding off each other's energy. "You two sound like you're planning to build your own wizarding version of Hollywood."
Draco ignored him, pacing now, hands gesturing wildly. "Whole channels! Programs for potions, Quidditch matches, dueling tournaments… even dramatic stories! Wizards watching from every home."
Hermione nodded eagerly. "It could change how magical society sees itself. Muggleborns wouldn't be seen as outsiders if their inventions inspired wizard culture. Knowledge could spread faster, children could learn spells by watching demonstrations, safety lessons could reach thousands!"
Draco grinned, a rare, genuine smile. "And it'll be me who brings it. Draco Malfoy—the boy who gave wizards movies!"
Harry snorted. "Careful, Malfoy. Your ego's showing."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. We'll need to start with research. I can study how televisions are built, then think about what charms would mimic the effect. And you, Malfoy, can start writing down your grand ideas for magical programs. Just don't make everything about Quidditch."
Draco put a hand dramatically on his chest. "Granger, you wound me. Quidditch would only be one channel."
Harry leaned back in his chair, amused. "Alright then, founders of Wizarding Broadcasting Company—just don't expect me to be your test subject. I've got my own studies to worry about."
Draco frowned. "Still mysterious about that, Potter. Why aren't you coming to Hogwarts?"
Hermione answered for him, her tone soft but proud. "Because he's going somewhere more advanced."
Draco blinked. "Advanced?"
Harry quickly cut him off. "Long story. Trust me, Malfoy, you wouldn't believe half of it."
Hermione's eyes sparkled with excitement as she looked between the two boys. For the first time, she and Draco were working together as equals, united by an idea bigger than both of them. And Harry, watching them, couldn't help but feel a quiet satisfaction. Stage Two was complete—Draco Malfoy was no longer just a Malfoy. He was becoming something more.
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