Through the duration of the Second Wizarding War, Draco’s gone through a large number of changes. Perhaps not all of them were great, but they were certainly great enough to him to open his eyes up to some of the things he’d always been purposefully blind to. He spent the vast majority of his life taught to hate Muggles and Muggleborns - those he and his family believed to be ‘less worthy of magic’ for not having it in their family to begin with - and with the war, he slowly began to realise that perhaps that wasn’t the best way of looking at them. By no means is he accepting of Muggles or Muggleborns during or after the war, but he most certainly does begin to slowly regard them as human as well. With his personal experiences of Voldemort and the more extreme Death Eaters, his own belief system was thoroughly shaken, teaching him that perhaps it’s high time he gain a little perspective of his own, and form his own opinions. Needless to say, though truly accepting them as peers is a far-off pipe dream for Draco, he doesn’t quite revile them the same way after the war.

In fact, it’s more likely that he would actually avoid them entirely, so as to never bring matters up. After the war, it became more and more obvious to Draco that some of the Muggleborns he had grown up with (and, naturally, had treated poorly) were growing more and more vocal in their own defence, and that - having been on the wrong side of things all throughout - he was no longer in any position to talk back to them. Regardless of his own personal beliefs, he was a Death Eater as much as the others, having had at least some hand in the torture of Muggles and Muggleborns; to everyone around him, that made him as bad as the rest. Therefore, in the true form of a coward, he began preferring to hide himself away. There is no doubt that this action is done out of fear, a desire to have his much more normal life back, but also as a way to try and dissociate himself from the more vocal and hateful Death Eaters he had once been lumped in with.

Suffice to say, though it may not be entirely obvious that Draco’s mind had been changed by the Second Wizarding War, it most certainly has. Even so, there are some habits that are hard to break, and his knee-jerk reaction will always be that magic is the best, and that those without are not only missing out, but are somewhat lesser individuals than himself. Perhaps eventually, he’ll be open to coming around to everyone having their own talents, but that day is far from immediate, even if he one day realises that perhaps a little outside help is necessary, no matter how much he despises relying upon others and showing weakness around them. There’s little doubt that, given how much he hides himself away, he’ll need others to do things for him at some point in his life.

It had been a couple of days since he found himself waking up in a strange place, his wand present but apparently unwilling to cooperate with him. It had taken over an hour before he realised that no, he wasn’t capable of magic any more, save perhaps the most basic spells; it had taken another three after that to come to terms with the idea that this was reality and not just some horrendous nightmare. The idea of being without his magic had a knot tightening in Draco’s throat, his stomach tying in knots until he wanted to throw up what little he’d been eating. Reality or not, it was still a nightmare, and he wanted out of it. He wanted nothing to do with this bloody town or exploring or leaving his stupid house. He wanted nothing to do with any of this.

The network had proven difficult to figure out; there had been more than one angry muttering of bloody Muggle technology along with innumerable other epithets, none of which were nice. He’d hesitated to respond to anyone as of yet too, mostly regarding the screen with a sneer. Muggles, the lot of them. They had to be. Even the magic-users, if there were any at all, were probably in the same boat as him, and what could any of them do then? He was useless without his magic. He doubted any of the others were much better off.

But sooner or later, he got hungry. Too hungry to just sit around and wallow in his own miserable life and the turns it had taken since his father was sent to Azkaban. Too hungry, apparently, to realise that going out in the chill would inevitably have him running into someone.

It wasn’t even the hunger that had him so irritated when they offered to help him; it was the fact that he was being condescended to. As though he was incapable of taking care of himself. And perhaps that wasn’t what was actually happening, but it certainly sank into Draco’s mind that way when paired with the knowledge that the person before him couldn’t possibly have magic, and that made them a Muggle. How could a Muggle possibly know what was best for him?

“Get the hell away from me,” Draco all but snarled, his teeth threatening to chatter as he drew his robes a little tighter around him, wishing for not the first time that he had a warming charm to keep the worst of the chill out, instead of letting it sink into his bones.