Among The Ordinary: Draco Malfoy

London was loud, as it always was.

Yet that day, beneath the constant churn of traffic and voices, something else lingered in the air - a quiet tension that settled deep into the bones long before the sky ever broke. The clouds hung low and heavy, pressing down upon the city in a suffocating blanket of grey. Rain had not yet fallen, but it was inevitable. The sort of weather that waited, patient and watchful, for the right moment to strike.

Draco Malfoy moved through the streets with practiced anonymity.

Or almost.

His hair was cropped short now, the once immaculate platinum reduced to something utilitarian, unremarkable at a glance. A carefully kept beard framed his face, obscuring just enough of his features to give pause to anyone who thought they recognized him. He wore no sign of inherited wealth or former status - only a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar, a plain black tie, and a dark cotton cardigan drawn tightly around his shoulders.

The clothes were ordinary.

The man was not.

Time had reshaped him. The slim, sharp-edged boy had grown into his frame, his body hardened by discipline rather than indulgence. Broad shoulders pulled at the fabric of his cardigan, and the sleeves, pushed back to his forearms, revealed thick, veined muscle. This was not the build of someone who relied solely on magic anymore. It spoke of physical training, of effort measured in repetition and restraint.

Every movement he made was economical. No wasted steps. No unnecessary gestures. He carried himself like someone who had learned the cost of carelessness.

And still, he drew second glances.

There was something about him that resisted obscurity, no matter how deliberately he sought it. His face remained angular beneath the beard, coldly handsome in a way that had not softened with age but sharpened instead. Control had replaced arrogance. Precision had replaced bravado. Pale grey eyes peered out from behind thin-rimmed glasses, moving slowly, methodically, cataloguing the world around him with detached awareness.

He wore no emotion. Not irritation. Not curiosity. Not even boredom.

That absence unsettled people more than any visible hostility could have. It was the kind of calm that suggested danger did not announce itself. It simply waited.

Most Muggles passed him without a second thought. To them, he was merely another man navigating the city - perhaps an academic, perhaps a solitary professional with nowhere urgent to be. But a select few lingered with their stares just a moment too long. Confusion flickered behind their eyes. A half-formed recognition without context.

Witches and wizards, no doubt. Those who remembered a younger face. A sharper sneer. A name once spoken carefully.

Draco did not slow his pace.

He turned down a narrow side street and slipped into a quiet coffee shop nestled between two aging record stores. It was the kind of place time seemed to have forgotten - wood-paneled walls darkened by age, amber lights casting a warm glow over worn furniture, the air scented faintly with cinnamon, coffee grounds, and old paper.

A refuge.

Low jazz murmured from unseen speakers, slow and deliberate, like a heartbeat meant to soothe rather than distract.

Draco chose a booth in the far corner, one that allowed him a clear view of the room without placing him at its center. He slid into the seat with practiced ease, back straight, posture relaxed but alert. From a nearby table, he retrieved an abandoned copy of The Evening Prophet and unfolded it with careful precision.

The lenses of his glasses caught the light as he scanned the headlines.

Politics. Quidditch. Ministry maneuvering disguised as public interest.

None of it held his attention for long.

A waitress approached without comment and set a steaming cup of black coffee before him. No questions were asked. No pleasantries exchanged. Draco inclined his head once in quiet acknowledgment, never lifting his gaze from the page.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, distant but steady, a warning rather than a threat.

Inside, Draco Malfoy sat alone in the dim light of the coffee shop, unreadable, untouched by the noise of the world around him.