Draco Malfoy despised April. The gloominess of it. The clouds, the constant rain. Not even a proper rain, but a sort of misty wetness that hung in the air and made his hair look like a flat nest. For as long as he stayed within the realm of civilization, he used magic to keep himself dry. Today was Saturday, though, and so he was standing in Muggle London. Damp and depressed. Warm, at least, although that made the world disgustingly clingy, the humidity turning his clothes staticky. He regretted wearing long sleeves.