Chapter 3 - The Ballad of Danny O'Malley
Hermione Granger was still freezing.
Snow was now pelting down on the exposed trailer as the tractor pulled up again outside the back of the salon. The town band was now marching in double time, causing the woodwind and brass players to huff a little faster into their instruments. Hey Jude had never sounded so… breathy.
"Quick!" Marie (Mah-ree) shouted, shaking flakes from her green hair, and leaping from the back of the trailer as if it was second nature. "The furniture will be feckin' ruined!"
She ran to the salon's back door and wrenched it open, dashing back to the trailer to grab throws, pillows, and anything else she could reach before the snow could do much damage.
That left Hermione, Marian, Mary, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — to lift the beauty bed, chairs, and tables down from the back of the trailer and start hauling them back towards the salon. Hermione, being quite fit — war does that to you — jumped down easily, lifted off a portable nail station, and followed Marie (Mah-ree).
The other four women began to discuss who'd get off the trailer first and who'd stay on to hand down the furniture, despite the driving snow threatening to freeze them where they stood. It was eventually agreed — after Hermione had returned, climbed back up, moved all the small items over to the trailer's edge, jumped down, collected two support stools, and carried them back inside — that Marian and Maura would stay on the trailer whilst Mary and Margaret — aka Peggy — would hop off.
'Hop' is probably not the best term to use. Mary got down on her hands and knees in the middle of the trailer and crawled across to the side, turned herself around, and tried to drop off the edge before realising she had nothing to hold onto and began wailing for someone to help. And — since the Sacred Heart of Jesus wasn't available at that precise moment — Marian and Maura came to her rescue, each holding onto one hand as Mary lowered herself off the side, frantically waving her feet around until she felt terra firma — approximately three-and-a-half feet below.
"Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus," she panted, blessing herself several times. "Sacred Heart of Jesus, oh, Jesus."
"You're alright, Mary," Marian tried to calm her friend. "Aren't you back on the ground now?"
"Oh, Jesus."
Whilst Mary's dramatic descent of "Mount Trailer" was going on, Hermione returned — again —to retrieve two styling chairs, carrying each one back into the salon before spending a few minutes inside helping Marie (Mah-ree) place the damp throws and pillows near the radiators.
She then headed outside to witness Margaret — aka Peggy — sitting on the edge of the trailer with her legs dangling down. Wiggling her arse forward, she used her arms for support as she began to lower herself down. Unfortunately, her skirt got caught on a loose nail and gathered up around her waist, leaving Margaret — aka Peggy — hanging over the side of the trailer with a massive pair of granny knickers on display.
It was no use. They were not going to get all the furniture inside fast enough and there was no sign of the weather changing. If only, Hermione thought, tapping her leg where she could feel her wand.
Looking around for some masculine assistance — Hermione wasn't one to admit feminine defeat but the muscles on Paddy would really come in useful right about now — she discovered his arse sticking out of the passenger window of a DeLorean that had just pulled up.
"Nah, it's over," she could just about make out from his muffled voice. "Our parade's earlier, lads. But you'll catch the one in Garradrimna if ye hurry."
He maneuvered himself of out the window and stood up, tapping the roof of the sports car in a my-best-mates-are-in-this-car-despite-the-fact-I've-only-just-met-them sort of way.
"But you'll only get there on time if you go at eighty-eight miles an hour, lads, wha?"
There was silence in the car, and outside as well. If it wasn't for the blizzard conditions threatening to transform the village into a winter wonderland in the middle of March, rolling tumbleweed would have made an appearance.
Paddy was the only one who laughed before muttering under his breath about feckin' kids not knowing a decent movie if it kicked them in the arse. Turning to the ladies, he rubbed his hands together.
"Right, what's to be moved?"
Ten minutes later, the rest of the salon furniture — along with a middle-aged lady — had been lifted off the trailer and was safely indoors. The snow-covered vehicle was now on its way back to the farm where Marie (Mah-ree) and Paddy lived, the stench of slurry and air freshener still lingering in its wake.
Saying goodbye to Marie (Mah-ree), Mary, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — at the salon's front door, Hermione and Marian dashed across the Square — well, now — towards the hotel.
"Everything's set for tonight, Hermione," Marian chatted as they stamped their feet just outside the main hotel entrance. "You get yourself ready and I'll have a dinner sent up. The bar's full already, judging by the noise."
Hermione smiled, despite shaking from the cold. "That'd be lovely, Marian. I'll be down in an hour or so."
"Grand," the older woman replied over her shoulder as she made her way to the kitchens. "Then we'll see what we're going to do about Danny O'Malley, alright?"
In the meantime, Maura left her friends in the salon — where Marie (Mah-ree) was breaking into her secret stash of Bailey's Irish Cream — and headed next door to FitzGerald's Pub and Undertakers. The business had been in her husband's family for generations, and she found Declan behind the counter laughing heartily with some members of the town band who were downing hot whiskies like they were glasses of lemonade.
He excused himself from the present company and walked over to his wife of twenty-seven years.
"Hey, love." He kissed her tenderly, taking her small hands in his larger ones and rubbing them together. "You must be freezing. Fancy a hot port?"
"No, I'm alright," Maura answered, loving the way her husband had no issues with public displays of affection. It mortified their two sons but still made her insides go all gooey. "I'm looking for Danny."
"Trading me in, are you?" Declan winked. "He's changing a keg for me, then heading home for a few hours. He's supposed to be off today but… something's on his mind, Maura. Lad's not happy."
"It's still bad outside, Dec," Maura replied, frowning. "I'll work the bar for a bit. Will you drive him home? See if he'll talk."
"Yeah, alright," her husband agreed. "But you'll get no gossip outta me."
"Course I won't," she winked.
An Taisce Faoi Cheilt, The Hidden Treasure, was a rather imposing country residence located around two miles from the village — in Ireland measurements don't have to be too precise as "close enough" is perfectly acceptable — and stood as a local landmark for almost a century.
It was a large Georgian three-bay country house with three storeys looming over a basement, and was surrounded by various outhouses and stables, all of which were converted into small apartments catering mostly to the tourist trade. Only a few were lived in all year round. The house was usually booked for weddings, the grounds for film locations, and the entire estate was maintained by Mick and his family of employees, Mary and Michael.
Nobody knew who actually owned the property; all leasing agreements were carried out by the local estate agents, who acted on behalf of an unknown board of trustees. The family name on the original title deed was of French origin but wasn't familiar to anyone living in the locality — de Malfoi.
After the trials, when Draco had needed somewhere to escape to, Lucius suggested the house at Castleford. The family only kept the property for sentimental reasons — Draco had been conceived there — although that tidbit of information was only known to his parents.
He researched the house and its history first, discovering some old diaries belonging to his great-great-great-grandmother. In one, Draco learned her sister had eloped with a local Muggle called Danny O'Malley and was obliterated from the family tree. Had things gone Draco's way — if he'd got what he always wanted — he, too, might have been ripped away from the infamous tapestry.
Although, in the past year, his parents had publicly acknowledged the error of their pure-blood ways. But would they have welcomed her? If not, he would've gladly followed in the departed footsteps of his great-great-great-aunt. But that was all a moot point anyway and he needed time… to heal. And forget.
Danny O'Malley? Well, Draco Orion Malfoy could work with that.
So, a vague descendant of one Daniel O'Malley secured a lease on one of the smaller apartments — although Lucius couldn't understand why Draco didn't just move into the main house — and spent his last few weeks at Malfoy Manor with the house-elves, learning to fend for himself. When he could successfully iron a shirt and his boiled eggs no longer had the consistency of grenades, he travelled to Castleford — the Muggle way.
His first week there was peaceful; he walked for hours around the estate, familiarising himself with his new surroundings. He met Mary, Mick, and Michael one morning as they were arriving to prepare the house for a wedding party and spent an hour playing the tourist in his own family home. Then, having accepted their invitation to join them for lunch, Draco found himself in FitzGerald's Pub along with Maura and Declan, eating toasted cheese sandwiches and tasting his first pint of Guinness.
"What do you do then, Danny?" Declan had asked him over lunch.
Draco had already prepared a backstory for himself but, being a skilled Legilimens, he was able to word his answers to suit the questions. And Declan was currently in need of new staff.
"I work in the bar trade." The lie was easy. "I took some time off to travel around but I'm anxious to get back behind the bar now."
"Are you staying here for long?" Maura enquired.
"Well, I've a year's lease on the apartment with an option to extend it," Draco replied. "So, if something comes up here, I might stay. Castleford feels very much like home right now."
Maura and Declan exchanged one of those 'we've been together for so long we can read each other's minds' looks.
"Fancy a trial here, Danny?" Declan asked as he organised another round of drinks. "Our eldest is taking over the funeral home, our youngest is away at college, Mary spends her time between An Taisce and the salon, and I can't run this bar on my own. I could do with a good barman."
"Yeah, absolutely," Draco smiled. "Although maybe not tonight, I've had enough Guinness that all I want to do is go home and sleep."
"You'll get used to it," Mick laughed, nodding in thanks as Declan placed another pint in front of him.
"Friday night then," Declan replied. "Come in for seven and I'll show you the ropes. It'll get busy around eight."
An hour later, full to the brim from Guinness and the best toasties he'd ever tasted — don't tell the house-elves, they'll be devastated — Draco wobbled home and collapsed onto his couch. Two hours after that, and a small vial of Hangover Cure later, he completely disguised himself and walked back to FitzGerald's. On the way, he stopped off at the hotel to book a room for the night, giving Marian a fairly common Irish name and paying in cash.
Sitting up at the bar in FitzGerald's, and sipping fizzy soft drinks until he could practically burp the alphabet, Draco — in his disguise as a sales rep for a company that sold novelty mugs — observed Declan working behind the bar. He watched the older man pour pints of Guinness, ale, and various lagers, before reaching behind to push glasses under an assortment of optics and serve the drinks with various mixers. Draco paid close attention to what soft drinks accompanied the alcoholic ones — tonic went with gin, coke was usually served with Bacardi etc.
It was all basically Potions… but more fun and no Snape.
He left the pub near dinner time and headed back over to the hotel to get something to eat. Again, Draco sat up at the bar in the hotel and, this time, followed Marian's movements as she served her customers. Here he learned a little about ciders and craft beers, paying particular attention to a conversation the landlady had with some tourists about which tasted better - Irish or Scotch. Neither party mentioned Bourbon.
Draco watched and observed until closing time when he headed up to his room. He slept for a few hours before sneaking back downstairs — under a Disillusionment charm — and spending the rest of the night studying the various bottles and kegs behind the bar. Marian had an assortment of books about cocktails stashed near the till so he made copies of the pages that looked like they were opened the most — the stains and dog ears making them fairly obvious.
By late morning, he had Apparated back to Malfoy Manor and borrowed the Pensieve Lucius kept locked under protective wards and ancient spells in his study. Needless to say, there would be hell to pay when the head of the family opened his safe next to discover a note detailing ways in which he could improve his security and a postscript asking said patriarch to give Mum a kiss.
From the time he returned to An Taisce until late Friday afternoon, Draco replayed his memories over and over again until he knew the location of every drink in both bars and could probably make an Irish whiskey in his sleep.
So, with a confident swing in his step that evening, he walked into Declan's pub at seven and was the new barman by twenty past.
Declan dropped Draco home at Maura's request, taking care to drive along the tree-lined avenue to An Taisce through the bad weather. The snow was easing off but the ground was still covered in a white blanket which completely covered up the potholes that never seemed to be filled in. Originally, Declan had planned to drive his employee home in his beloved Toyota Hilux but their eldest son had talked his mother into handing over the keys for the day, leaving Declan to drive their other vehicle - a rather smart Mercedes E280 hearse.
Pulling up outside Draco's small apartment, the publican turned to the young man he'd come to consider family.
"Tell me to mind my own business, Danny," he began, as his fingers lightly tapped the steering wheel. "But do you fancy a chat?"
Draco looked down at the floor — his feet tangled up in a pile of brass reproduction handles — before closing his eyes and nodding slowly.
"Yeah."
"Right," Declan turned off the engine. "What've you got to drink?"
There were a few bottles of Ogden's in the kitchen but Draco figured he could disguise the labels easily enough. They'd have to do.
He climbed out of the hearse, taking a moment to send a prayer to Merlin that it'd be a very long time before he'd see the inside of one again. Although, by then he'd be dead, so he wouldn't be able to see the inside… technically.
"I'll park her up here and we'll walk back in a bit," Declan was shouting out the window as he reversed the hearse. "We'll pick it up tomorrow. Let's just hope to fuck no one dies tonight."
Draco laughed as he let himself in the front door and made straight for the kitchen. He disguised the Firewhisky labels with a quick wave of his wand and set out one of the bottles with two crystal tumblers. His wand was back in his pocket just as Declan was walking in.
"Thanks, son," he nodded, taking a proffered glass and sipping what he presumed was Scotch. "Fuck, that's strong!"
Draco smiled behind his own drink and gestured for his boss to sit down on the couch.
"Good, isn't it?"
"What Scotch is this?"
"Ogden's," Draco replied. "One of the smaller distilleries."
"Hmm," Declan licked his lips. "Must get this for the bar. Remind me tomorrow to order some, will you? Now… I'm not being nosey — it's Maura, really — you know she worries. She… er… mentioned a young lady..."
Draco sighed heavily and sat in his favourite armchair opposite the couch. Pretending to sneeze, he cast a quick charm, watching Declan's face relax as the older man slumped back into the cushions. Telling his boss the truth wasn't an option but neither was talking to the wall, so the next best thing was a bewitched audience and a lot of firewhisky.
"Would you like a top up, Declan?"
"Hmm? Oh… yeah… top… up..."
Draco leaned forward to pour more firewhisky into their glasses before settling back into his seat. Declan just sat with a dreamy look on his face and drank when Draco did — if ever there was a male equivalent of Luna Lovegood — so, taking a deep breath, the young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders began:
"I'm in love with Hermione Granger, and have been since I was fifteen years of age. She's beautiful, perfect, brave, and… fuck… her intelligence! She's the Brightest Witch of Our Age. Not that you'd understand that, Declan, but she is. She's the only reason Potter survived, nevermind the rest of them. And I have loved her for so long but I've never been able to do anything about it.
"During the War, we were on opposite sides but halfway through I realised that I was — not on the losing side — but on the wrong side. The very wrong side. But I was too scared — too fucking chicken — to do anything about it. The day of the Final Battle — after Potter had killed him — I found her in an abandoned corridor on her own. She was huddled in a corner, sobbing her heart out. I should have left but… I couldn't. I just couldn't walk away from her. I couldn't…"
Draco's eyes misted over as he remembered finding Hermione, battered and bloody, in that corridor. She looked heartbroken, crying for the dead and wounded, crying for the innocence they had lost. There were no happy tears that day, so much had been taken from them all.
"I remember crouching down beside Hermione and aching to touch her. She looked so small; so fragile. Here was the brains behind the Light winning the war and she was so… so… tiny. Behind all the blood and tears, she was the most beautiful vision in that moment; she was hope. She just looked at me — those dark brown eyes with the golden sparks I'd dream about — she didn't speak but reached over and held my hand. Me. A loser. A fucking coward. She held my hand, she gave me comfort. Like I fucking deserved it!"
Declan was now snoring gently, his head against the back of the couch, and his mouth wide open. The whisky tumbler was almost hidden by his large hand as it balanced on his chest. Meanwhile, Draco kept pouring, and sipping.
"I told Hermione I was sorry — sorry for everything I'd ever said and done to torment her. I told her she was the light that kept me from being smothered by darkness, and… and… I begged for her forgiveness. She's the only person I've ever cried in front of. Myrtle doesn't really count now, does she? Ha, not that you'd know.
"I remember that I kept staring at her tiny hand — I couldn't let it go. She put her wand down and sat up on her knees in front of me, putting her other hand around mine. Then she told me to look at her and I think that was the hardest thing I've ever been asked to do. When I did, she was crying but her face was like an angel's; her smile was so bright, so full of… I don't know… if this was a fucking romance novel, I'd nearly say she looked like she loved me. Who the fuck would love me? And don't say my mother.
"I wanted to kiss her, right there. I wanted to kiss Hermione Granger and tell her I was so fucking in love with her, it was eating away at my gut. I wanted to grab hold of her and run…"
Draco threw his head back against the armchair and closed his eyes.
"Aurors arrived at that moment and hauled my sorry arse away. Cell after cell after cell, house arrest, trials in camera — I never saw her from that day… until last night. And… I don't know what to do. I don't know how to tell her I've never stopped loving her. Pans was the only person who knew I'd be here but maybe I always hoped…"
He looked over at his snoring friend and smiled sadly. "Sometimes you have to run away to see who comes after you, right? Now she's here and I'm terrified."
Declan grunted and began to list.
"Well, there you go, Declan. It's been no help at all telling the truth — even if it was to your sorry arse. I'm still fucked."
Draco stood up — only wobbling a little — and made his way to the bedroom to change before returning to the small galley kitchen beside the living room. Placing two strong coffees laced with hangover remedies down on the coffee table, he Rennervated Declan and commented with a grin that Ogden's Scotch was a bit too strong for a lightweight.
"Jesus, don't tell Maura I fell asleep!" Declan rubbed his eyes and reached for a coffee. "Some fucking friend I am, Danny. St. Patrick's Day always has me knackered."
"You only dozed off a few minutes ago, Declan," Draco assured him. "Thought I'd leave you while I changed. And… thank you… for listening. I really appreciate it."
Declan hadn't a clue what he was being thanked for but muttered a brief acknowledgement into his coffee mug and stood up.
"Best head back, Danny. Marian's party will be in full swing and I've a date with the missus."
By the time they left Draco's apartment, the snow had stopped completely and was beginning to melt along the avenue. Most of the potholes were visible but it was still a perilous trek to the main road.
The two men chatted about the small town the FitzGeralds had lived in all their lives and Declan — an undertaker at heart, the pub came second — took great pride in explaining how they managed to bury Father Kennedy — Lord, rest him — during the Great Snow of '82.
They were blowing into their hands and looking forward to a few pints by the time they arrived at the hotel where the annual St. Patrick's Day party was in full swing. Making their way slowly towards the packed bar, Declan announced the first round was on him and waved at his wife as she congaed past between Mary and Margaret — aka Peggy.
Moving away from the bar, the two men headed towards the hotel reception and sat down on one of the plush couches, although they could still hear the thumping music from the ballroom where the conga line was now headed. All of a sudden it stopped and a big cheer went up, followed by the muffled tones of a man speaking into a microphone. Declan looked impressed.
"What's going on?" Draco asked.
"It's Luke Kelly," Declan replied. "Well known singer around these parts. Marian was hoping to get him to play tonight but she wasn't sure if he'd make it with the weather. Maura loves him!"
"Doesn't that make you a little jealous then?" Draco teased.
"Don't care who pumps up the tires, Danny. I'll be ridin' her home."
Remember Guinness isn't supposed to be drunk through the nose? Well…
"Ah," Declan closed his eyes as the crowd in the ballroom and the bar lowered their voices. "We all love this one."
The twang of a banjo floated through the hallways before the deliberately harsh tones of Luke Kelly followed.
A father's pride he used to know,
His mother's love was true;
For emerald shores he let them go,
And bid his friends adieu.
At first he lived each lonely day
And most of life was hell;
But even strangers pick you up
When once they know you well.
One time he guessed he'd cease to roam,
And greet his past again;
And so he turned to what was home
And through the window pane
He saw his mother, worn and grey . . .
He gazed from the garden gloom,
A weeping angel, lost was she
In that dark and dreary room.
D'ye think he hollored out: "Hullo!"
The prodigal to play,
And eat the fatted calf? Ah no,
He cursed and ran away.
His eyes were blears of whisky tears
As to a pub he ran:
But once at least he beat the beast
And proved himself a man.
Oh, someday he is going back,
When he'll have pride galore;
He'll wear a suit of sober black
And knock upon the door.
He'll hold his head up tall and strong,
His true love by his side;
This family she will reunite,
This lioness with her pride.
Cheers erupted around the hotel as Luke thanked the audience and struck the chords to his next song.
Draco stared into his pint, afraid that if he spoke, he'd break down.
"Danny? You alright there?" Declan's concern brought him back to the present.
Looking up, Draco opened his mouth to speak but no words followed. Without realising he had moved, he found himself at the end of the stairs holding his hand out to take Hermione's as she took the last steps towards him.