Chapter Text
To say that Draco was surprised to find himself halfway across the globe would be an understatement.
He had been knee-deep in the marshes of the Fenlands, hunting down a particularly naughty witch who seemed to be under the impression that Transfiguring goats into deeply befuddled humans was a hilarious joke (which was partially correct, but also highly illegal), when the world had rudely decided to stop making sense and twisted around him in a dizzying display of glittering lights.
For a brief moment, Draco was quite pleased with this development; even if it was a trap, his sudden departure meant he wouldn’t have to wade through the absolutely appalling gunk of swampwater any more. However, when the lightshow stopped, he disappointingly found himself knee-deep in yet another, drastically more urban swamp, which somehow accomplished the dubious feat of smelling even fouler than his swamp of origin.
He thanked his lucky stars that he’d already cast water-repelling charms on himself and his robes. If his clothes had been unceremoniously dunked in this rancid excuse for water, he would’ve hunted down whoever was responsible for his current situation and applied a few choice curses to a handful of their less vital organs.
He might do that regardless. He was feeling distinctly peeved at the moment.
Having bemoaned his misfortune enough, he took a closer look at his new surroundings. (Of course, he had already launched a fairly exhaustive array of detection and reconnaissance spells the moment things had gone awry. He wasn’t a moron.) He was in some sort of city, if you could still call it that.
The entire area looked like it’d been slammed by a typhoon, or perhaps a tsunami or three. The surrounding buildings were in utter ruins, windows shattered and walls crumbling, their contents disgorged onto the surrounding streets and left to rot in the stagnant water. A moldy mattress, sodden with filth to the point not a single spot of white remained, lay sadly in the middle of the road. Mosquitoes, gnats, and all other sorts of creepy crawlies enjoyed their version of paradise in the shattered ruins of civilization.
From the architecture and the signs on the surrounding buildings, it looked as though the area had been quite upscale not too long ago, before whatever disaster had befallen this place. It had been the type of place his mother liked to visit during her brief tourist excursions to the Muggle world: nice enough, but lacking any sort of authenticity— not that his mother could discern authentic Muggle culture if it was wearing oversized mouse ears and whistling Steamboat Willie.
Now, though, the place was entirely too authentic. Scratched into every corner of this previously upstanding commercial area were the desperate struggles of its residents, embedded in the scrawled messages on the walls, the shattered store windows smashed in by hurled bricks, and the stench of human waste that permeated the air. Everything smelled like death.
All in all, it wasn’t too different from a typical American city.
It was a dreadfully dreary locale, and Draco rapidly resolved to find his way back to the comparatively cheerful bogs of the Fens as swiftly as possible.
He’d been rather hoping to avoid making a scene of things, but it seemed as if it couldn’t be helped. He cast a Patronus with directions to inform Goggins of the unfortunate translocation he found himself subjected to, and was subsequently shocked to see the ghostly borzoi merely shake its long head dejectedly in response before promptly disappearing. He attempted to send envoys to Montjoy, Buckley, Potter, Tonks, Shacklebolt, and his mother, in that order, all of whom resulted in morose borzois shaking their heads.
Draco was beginning to grow concerned.
Given that there wasn’t a trace of magic within a thousand yards of his location, he was fairly certain he wasn’t trapped in a city-wide magic blockade, but given that the city had apparently undergone some apocalypse or another within recent memory, all bets were off as to what exactly was happening. In a turn of events which was highly, highly unusual, Draco found himself caught off-balance, uncertain as to what to do next.
As he stood there taking in the nauseating ambience, Draco realized with a shock that the smell of death he’d noted earlier was more literal than he’d first assumed, as his eyes stumbled across a lifeless body face-down in the water about ten feet away from him. He strode over and flipped the corpse onto its back, perfunctorily searching it for signs of life despite already knowing it was futile; his earlier homenum revelio would have revealed the body were it still alive. He was surprised to find that the corpse was recent, still warm to the touch. Based on the body’s temperature and the pallor of its skin, he estimated they’d been dead for less than half an hour.
Searching the body for clues, he quickly uncovered the cause of death: a set of over two dozen haphazard stab wounds delivered to the man’s abdomen. It was a frankly excessive number of stabs, in Draco’s humble opinion. Judging by the wild, uncoordinated strikes the corpse had suffered, its assailant had been significantly less skilled with a blade than Draco was, and seemed to have gone for quantity over quality with regards to their bladework. Draco supposed not everyone was as capable of efficiently dispatching an opponent as he was.
His musings on the sloppiness of the man’s murder were interrupted when he sensed… something.
He couldn’t say for certain what it was that tipped him off. Maybe it was a split second of silence, maybe it was some shift in the air currents, maybe it was just the abstract sensation of being watched. Regardless, something in Draco’s years of experience as an Auror alerted him that something was amiss.
Foregoing subtlety entirely (there was no one around anyway), he stood abruptly and cast his usual gauntlet of shielding spells upon himself, followed by another battery of reconnaissance and detection incantations directed at the surrounding area. Ghostly figures appeared in his field of vision, providing wispy outlines overlaid on top of the human forms nearby. He took note of the silhouettes as they appeared, effectively peering through the surrounding buildings.
A pair of people huddled against each other in a nearby building. A group of small figures, probably children, rummaging through a large boxy container of some kind. And, furthest away, a solitary figure, standing stock still in an alleyway about three blocks away, just barely visible on the fringes of his spell.
There.
As he turned his head to focus on the figure, they visibly stiffened, and all doubt as to their guilt was instantly banished from his mind. Whoever this person was, they were most definitely watching him, and he decidedly did not appreciate that fact, especially after being kidnapped from an unpleasant bog to a somehow even less pleasant husk of a city.
He briefly considered playing it safe and surveilling the stranger from a comfortable distance, but quickly decided that particular approach was boring, unexciting, and unlikely to get him answers as quickly as he’d like. Besides, they already had their eye on him anyway, it wasn’t like he had the element of surprise.
He Apparated directly behind them with a crack, wand at the ready.
The figure immediately wheeled around, wand in hand, as they—
…what the hell were they wearing?
Draco Malfoy, seasoned Auror, was most certainly not so distracted by the stranger’s bewildering outfit that they almost hit him directly in the head on their first swing of what he belatedly realized was a baton, not a wand. And if he was distracted, could anyone blame him? His stalker was wearing a dark costume that seemed to have walked straight out of a comic book, with black armor panels layered across the chest and piercing yellow lenses embedded in a mask that had honest-to-god mandibles built along the jawlines. It wasn’t exactly haute couture, but it cut a striking (if slightly ridiculous) figure regardless, which was further accentuated by the wild mane of black curls that emerged from behind the mask.
All of this was secondary to the sudden realization that they were completely covered by bugs. Centipedes, spiders, flies, and Merlin knows what else crawled over every square inch of their clothing, black against black, to the point it was difficult to tell where the outfit stopped and the bugs began.
Despite having his attention diverted by his opponent’s baffling wardrobe choices and unbelievably creepy insect collection, he successfully managed to dodge their baton strike at effectively the last second. This small victory was immediately soured by the sudden appearance of a frankly absurd number of bugs, which emerged from the crevices of the stranger’s costume and immediately converged upon his person in a maneuver he personally considered deeply unsportsmanlike.
Stepping backwards to give himself space, he let loose a Stunner in the general direction of the stranger. The cloud of bugs obscured their figure; the spell hit nothing but air. In the split second the spell took to cast, the insect swarm relentlessly advanced, forcing him onto the defense. He managed to disperse the majority of the incoming stream of bugs with a few well-placed explosive bursts, momentarily fending them off, but the swarm swiftly adapted by surrounding him in a hemispheric dome and launching a renewed offensive from every angle simultaneously. It was impossible to target all three hundred and sixty degrees of exposure before the creatures were upon him, entirely bypassing his protective spells (which, surprisingly, were meant to protect against curses, and not hordes of angry insects).
Draco had been bitten by bugs before; in fact, he’d been enduring quite a number of mosquito bites not five minutes earlier. This, however, was an entirely different, significantly more unsettling experience. These bugs were determined, coordinated, and seemed to be unduly focused on penetrating his various orifices. Worse still, they somehow burned everywhere they touched with an intensity that made his eyes water and nose run.
Draco mentally upgraded his assailant from “deeply unsportsmanlike” to “fucking annoying.”
Finding himself suddenly and severely on the back foot, he elected to make a tactical retreat, and Disapparated to the top of a nearby building. His eyes were in poor working order due to the excruciating bugs that had tagged along, still trying to worm their way into his head, but his ears were mercifully unobstructed; as a result, he heard more than saw the incoming swarm, come to finish what it had started.
He quickly tried to cast a warding spell to shield himself from the encroaching biblical plague, but found himself unable to properly recite the incantation due to his lungs being otherwise occupied with an unrelenting coughing fit. He was forced to resort to a significantly weaker nonverbal ward instead, which he managed to hastily throw up just in time to protect himself from the pursuing horde of insects. They impacted the barrier and bounced off, angrily pressing in from all sides as they buzzed menacingly. Draco braced himself, trying to prepare for his opponent’s next attack; this was tricky to accomplish, considering he couldn’t exactly see at present due to the combination of his severely irritated eyes and the furious swarm that now surrounded him and impeded his line of sight.
The duel wasn’t going well, on the whole. In hindsight, perhaps it would’ve been a good idea to play it safe before Apparating directly behind a stranger immediately after being transported to an unknown location. Then again, he hadn’t expected to be immediately assaulted by bugs, especially not ones that targeted his most sensitive areas and burned like hell.
He used the brief reprieve provided by the barrier to quickly dessicate the bugs crawling on his face and down his throat, giving himself a severely dry mouth in the process. A brief balming spell helped soothe his irritated eyes and nose, but did nothing for his now painfully chapped lips. He briefly bemoaned the fact that he wasn’t carrying chapstick (one of the few Muggle inventions that had found full acceptance amongst wizardkind due to its sheer utility). At least he could see and speak again, although his eyes were still watery.
The first thing his newly functional eyes alighted upon was the stranger, standing in front of him and somehow even more bug-covered than before. He couldn’t even see the yellow lenses of their mask anymore, just a constantly shifting mass of bugs where their face should be. He wondered how they could even see.
“Did you kill him?” the figure spoke, their voice amplified by the susurrations of the insects’ wings. The effect was unsettling. He couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female beneath all of the bug noises.
Draco paused. The fact the figure had even asked the question implied a number of interesting things. First, they hadn’t been watching him when he’d first arrived (which partially implied they weren’t responsible for his impromptu excursion). Second, despite the fact they had been three blocks away, they’d somehow known he was next to the floating corpse (assuming that was, in fact, the person he stood accused of murdering; it seemed a fair assumption). Third, they had such a low opinion of him that they thought he might murder someone, despite the fact he was an Auror (a suspicion many people rightfully had of Draco, but which they typically were unable to prove).
“No. If I did, I’d have to fill out a substantial amount of paperwork, which I endeavor to avoid whenever possible,” Draco responded.
The figure stared at him, unmoving. “You’re part of the Protectorate?”
Draco found himself at a pretty severe disadvantage in the conversation, given that he didn’t know who this person was, what city he was in, what the Protectorate was, or what the hell was going on. He briefly debated lying through his teeth to try to bluff his way through the situation, but decided that as a representative of Good that he probably shouldn’t. Plus, lying to this person would probably be a bad idea. “No. I’m an Auror from the Ministry of Magic.”
He left it at that. No point in playing all his cards up front, especially since he didn’t know the intentions of Bug Person (as he’d newly mentally christened them).
Bug Person just stood there silently, giving no indication that they’d even heard what he said.
Draco wasn’t used to being stonewalled like this. “Nice trick with the bugs. Impressive stuff.”
Bug Person was silent for a while longer. “You’re not wearing a mask.”
Draco’s memories of the last time he’d worn a mask weren’t pleasant ones. He tried not to let his irritation show on his face. “No. Masks mess up my hair.”
They lapsed into silence yet again. Draco watched out of the corner of his eye as a collection of dragonflies carrying some sort of thread tried and failed to penetrate the barrier of his ward. He decided not to mention it.
“Are you with the empire?” asked Bug Person. It was difficult to read their tone of voice. Draco still wasn’t used to how intensely buglike Bug Person’s voice was.
Draco mentally ran through the list of empires the figure could possibly be referring to, but drew a blank. He was pretty sure they weren’t referring to the British Empire though, unless the American educational system was even more dismal than he’d heard. “Which empire?”
Bug Person went silent again.
Draco let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes, which still stung. “Look, if we’re just going to stare at each other, can I go? Or are you going to shove fire ants up my nostrils again?”
“You teleported directly behind me without warning. It was a proportional response.”
“I assure you, it was not.”
Silence fell once again. Bug Person really wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “What about you? Who are you with?” he asked.
After a moment, Bug Person responded. “My name is Skitter, I’m with a team called the Undersiders. I run this territory, my teammates run some other areas of the city. The government calls us warlords, but we’re the only people actually making the effort to help.”
Draco focused on the most important part of that statement. “There’s no way your name is Skitter.”
For the first time, Bug Person moved, tilting their head to the side half an inch. “It’s my name.”
“You’re telling me your parents sat down and wrote ‘Skitter’ on your birth certificate? I guess that explains the outfit and the bug obsession, at least. Nominative determinism, and all that.”
“It’s not my birth name, it’s my cape name.” For the first time, Draco detected a hint of emotion in the bug voice: disbelief. “Where are you from?”
“Well, I grew up in Wiltshire, but I doubt you care about that. What the hell’s a ‘cape name?’” Draco was getting the distinct sense that he wasn’t going to enjoy the next words out of Skitter’s mouth, regardless of what the answer was.
Skitter was quiet for a while this time, then exploded. Every single bug comprising their body burst outward simultaneously, leaving nothing behind. It was an impressive effect, which was somewhat ruined by Skitter’s immediate reappearance as they climbed up the fire escape onto the roof. What was the point of making a dramatic exit like that if you were just going to reenter the scene in the most boring way possible?
Skitter strode over, and Draco noted that they were remarkably less bug-covered than they’d been moments before. They pulled out a Muggle mobile from a pack on their back. “I’m going to make a call, and you’re going to talk to my teammate.” Skitter’s tone brooked no disagreement.
It was more than a little weird that Skitter just had a mobile on their person. Perhaps they were a Muggleborn, or were just eccentric. Then again, the Americans had always been more willing to throw out tradition in favor of modern convenience. In any case, this seemed like a prime opportunity to glean some knowledge on the situation. “If you insist.”
Skitter pressed a button on the mobile, which rang briefly before being picked up halfway through the first ring. “B, kale. Yello?” answered a cheery voice, louder than he expected the audio from a mobile to be.
“N, hay. I’ve got a British cape here who says he’s from the Ministry of Magic. Doesn’t wear a mask, and doesn’t know what a cape name is.”
“…what?”
“Talk to her.” Skitter held out the mobile towards him. He dispelled his ward and reached out to take it, but she pulled back her hand as he did. “I’m holding the phone. Talk.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Hello, this is Draco Malfoy, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The woman on the other end of the call added to the day’s count of awkward pauses, which at this point was well into the double digits. “Skitter, are you sure this guy’s a cape? That’s his real name.”
“He’s got powers. He can teleport, make explosions, and has some sort of invisible energy barrier. A tinker, I think.”
Draco realized with a strange sinking feeling that Skitter didn’t seem to know what Apparition, wards, or even spells in general were. He got the distinct sense that the two sides of this conversation were approaching it from vastly different perspectives, and began to wonder if he’d just severely (if inadvertently) violated the Statute of Secrecy. He stealthily readied an Obliviate. Not much he could do about the person on the call, though. “You keep using the word cape. What does that mean?”
“…Oh, this’ll be fun.” The voice on the mobile sounded interested, in a way that was sly, smug, and almost predatory. If a fox could speak, its voice would sound an awful lot like hers. “My name’s Tattletale, and I know everything. I’ll answer your question, but first: tell me about yourself, Draco.”
Draco debated simply bolting and taking his chances in the ruins of the city, but he doubted he’d get another chance as good as this one to get the lay of the land any time soon. These people, as strange and off-putting as they were (well, just one of them, really), apparently ran most of what was left of the city, if they were to be believed. Given that he had no real idea of why his Patronuses were failing, how to contact the local magical population, or where he could find a Floo, it seemed Skitter and her teammate on the mobile would be his best bet at getting home for the time being.
And, in a phrase he never thought would cross his mind in a million years, he really wanted to get back to wading through the bogs of the Fens.
If he was going to have this conversation, he’d need to be careful. While the Statute of Secrecy was hardly airtight (the Obliviators were one of the Ministry’s busier departments for a reason), it would be a decidedly bad idea to blab too much to two strangers who seemed entirely unaware of the existence of magic (even though one of them somehow had the ability to explode into insects and seemed relatively unsurprised at his use of magic so far). Still, given the circumstances, some calculated risks were in order.
He dispelled his Obliviate. “What do you want to know?”