It had been a horrible experience, the whole thing. Getting to the airport—not even in Edinburgh, but a scrubby little scrap of land on the outskirts flanked by a boggy-grey industrial estate and about twenty different car parks—moving through the airport, with all its contraptions and gates and people shouting at him to take his shoes and belt off. And then he had to do it all again on the other side, after hurtling through the atmosphere in a glorified Pringles tube with wings. The entire process had been bureaucratic and long-winded and, from Draco’s perspective, frightfully disorganised. 