Malcolm wasn’t the type of guy who gave up, nor was he usually the type of guy to waste time on girls but in this case the former seemed to be overruling the latter. See, Daphne was something different to him. She was magical.
Well, more magical than everyone else at that school.
Being one of the only few “muggles” as he liked to call himself, in a reference to Harry Potter which apparently only he found funny because ‘this is real life, Malcolm, not a children’s story’ wasn’t always easy. Not that he ever let himself be anything but top of his class and Monsoir Popularity, but still. It was weird, and if anyone had told ten year old Malcolm living poor in a tower block in Croyden that he’d be here today, at a private school full of witches? Well... They’d have been laughed out of the room. Still, there he was, drunk as an actual skunk on the liqueur which he’d managed to swindle into the campus. There was only a quarter of his bottle left when he made his way to knock on Daphne’s door, sneaking into the girl’s dorms with the great skill he’d acquired from his past not-really-relationships with girls who live there.
That’s how he found himself standing face to face with Daphne at 2am on a Sunday morning, waggling his eyebrows. “Daphne, my love. I’ve had a drink or two, and I’m ready for you to admit that I’m right, and that you don’t hate me.” Malcolm slurred at her, and an idea popped into his head, his smile shining as bright as the metaphorical light bulb that just turned on. “Or, if you’re not ready for honesty yet, perhaps I shall warm M’Lady up to it with a strip tease?”
