…I seriously think my muse is on cocaine herself lately. I don't know how to explain this any more then I know how to explain anything I've written lately.

Dedicated to BlueEyes444, because it was a conversation with her a while back that is the reason it exists, and she inspired violinist!Draco with a fic I betaed for her.

Bit of a Muggle!AU — the purebloods are a ritzy sect of aristocrats with a bit of a distinctive look about them and a reputation for being a bit odd. They still have a tendency to think themselves much better than others, which, in this AU, a teenaged Draco takes a disagreement to.


Sherlock's steps are purposeful and his head faces forward as he walks down the street. His eyes dart back and forth in their sockets, taking in every detail.

Seventeen. There are seventeen dealers on this street, twelve of which sell some form of cocaine, nine of which carry exclusively cocaine — Sherlock likes exclusive. Exclusive means more attention to detail..

One of the dealers is a user himself, and that's messy. Sherlock likes messy, most days, but not with things like this. At least one is mad, and three are just morons. Imbeciles. Not worth his time. One is asleep.

Sherlock stops, decision made.

The blonde in front of him has his eyes closed, but he is certainly not asleep. Long, slim, nimble fingers dance across the strings of a violin and his right and grips the bow elegantly. The notes that escape create a haunting melody.

Sherlock's sharp eyes take in the crisp suit, at complete odds with the dingy side-street — yet somehow the man keeps it from looking out of place. He takes in the steady hands and the trembling leg and he reads a troubled past and a lot of pain and an impressive dedication to his art. He sees a man still caught in a teenage rebellion against a family whose ideals he didn't believe in. He sees a man too smart to be a dealer and too trapped to be anything else, whose rebellion cost him every material thing he had — except the violin that he will never give up.

In a lot of ways, he sees himself. He sees a man always carefully composed, always thinking ahead, always clever, never letting go of the mask.

He drops a fifty pound note in the case open at the blonde's feet, but neither of them says a word until the violin trills and then, finally, tapers off.

"You're new." His voice is low, soft. He opens his eyes and Sherlock can feel his soul being analysed.

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. The violinist smiles faintly. "I don't usually get new people, not unless they're recommended."

Sherlock offers his own faint smile in return. "I'm not the usual," he says.

The man sets down his violin, piercing grey eyes still staring into Sherlock. "No, you aren't," he agrees. He slips his hand deep into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a small package. Seconds later it's tucked tightly into Sherlock's pocket, already opened, inspected, and tucked back away.

"Terrible habit," the violinist remarks, picking his violin back up and setting his chin into place.

Sherlock actually laughs slightly — more an exhalation of breath than anything else. "Of course it is, but I'm not certain that's the line you're supposed to be touting."

A shrug, and he rests the bow delicately on the strings. "I suppose I'm not any more the usual than you are." He draws out a long note, a slow reverberation of string that takes him from one end of the bow to the other.

Sherlock skims the man from head to toe again. "No, I suppose you aren't," he says.

"They call me the Dragon," he says offhandedly. "If you ever need to find me."

Sherlock nearly snickers. "Appropriate, I suppose, given your true name."

The man's eyes snap open, grey boring into Sherlock's green. "How…?"

Sherlock smiles at his surprise. "Guess. Good one, though. You come from a wealthy family but you don't like their ideals — that means they've got strong ones. The only families in the greater London area that fit that are old money, and you've got that aristocratic look about you, and the vowels." He smirks slightly. "That sect has a tendency toward the esoteric names. With a pseudonym like the Dragon, with how many mythical and astronomical references it contains, it seems likely your name could be some reference of the like. The constellation Draco?" he guesses.

The violinist is determined not to give anything away, and his face remains impressively impassive, but something flashes deep within his eyes and tells Sherlock that his guess is right. "Mmm, I thought so," he murmurs.

After a brief moment of consideration, Sherlock flips up his collar, sticks his hands into his pockets, and wanders off, humming the same haunting melody Draco had first been playing. After a moment, the stunned violinist finally begins to play again.