Chapter Seven: Depressants
On Monday, Hermione had brought Draco three books instead of just two: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, and The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.He noticed that each one was quite thin, unlike any regular book he'd ever seen. At first he'd reckoned he could get through the whole lot in one evening because they were so short, and he'd wondered if Muggles just had less to talk about or knew fewer words or something. After he read the Bradbury book, he changed his mind. He finished it in four hours, and then he closed it carefully in his lap and stared straight ahead for a long time.
It turned out that Muggles had quite a lot to say, and they didn't bother to distract you with lavish descriptions of dress robes, ballrooms, and mood lighting. He'd been used to having that sort of languid prose around to soften the blow, but Muggle writers were merciless. They didn't care if he cried, or he got so angry he couldn't see the pages anymore, or it got so intense he had to look away and stare at the wall and wonder what the use was in even having walls, if this was what the world was like. He'd never put much thought into life without magic in an empathetic sort of way; when something went wrong for the characters in his books, there was no one who could wave a wand and fix it.
If this was the sort of terrifying stuff Hermione Granger had grown up reading, he could understand why she was so passionate about everything. Draco used to think he was well-acquainted with fear, but tonight he felt like he'd never known anything at all. From childhood, the things he'd been afraid of were logical and concise: death, his father, Voldemort, and failure, in that order. Malfoys had a reputation for being cowardly, but he'd always thought it was because they were simply pragmatic. On the other hand, the thing about wizards was that they were hard to kill: when there wasn't a war going on, murder in the magical community was exceedingly rare, and Draco could expect to live upwards of 150 years with the current medical magic.
It was odd, then, that such a resilient race would be the ones who fought the hardest to stay the inevitable. Somehow, the Muggles seemed to understand that little gem of wisdom that had eluded much of the wizarding world for so long: death wasn't the enemy. Sure, Dumbledore and a few of those other crazy old fellows had tried to explain it, but Draco just didn't believe them – of course, death was the worst thing that could happen to someone. It was death.
In Muggle books, dying was just another thing that happened to people, and they had to get over it because there were more important things to worry about. Hermione had explained to him that this book wasn't about what was really happening in the Muggle world, but he knew some parts of it were true. They still had machines just for killing each other, and there were so many people that it was impossible for anybody to look after them all.
Individuals could do anything they wanted over there, no matter how evil or unlawful or dumb, and a lot of the time they'd just get away with it. He'd never fully comprehended how sheltered he was just because he grew up with magic, which was ironic considering he'd fought in a war as a teenager. The world was so much larger than he had ever imagined.
He didn't have it in him to start the next one that night. Instead he lay in bed, and it took him forever to fall asleep.
The first thing Draco did at work the next day was make himself a strong cup of coffee with extra Pepper-up. His mind had overexerted itself trying to explore moral issues, and now it had gone on holiday with no warning, save a quick note scribbled on the inside of his skull about Jamaica and rum. When he walked in with those big, dark zombie eyes, Bianca was so convinced he was sick that she almost sent him home.
He handled the after-work rush with considerable difficulty and may have snapped at a few old ladies, but it was all worth it when Hermione finally made her appearance. He handed her the book he'd finished, and she smiled.
"You read that quickly," she said. "Did you like it?"
"I've never been more depressed in my life," he said, and he'd been pretty depressed.
Her smile went away. "Then you won't like the other ones, either."
"I didn't say I didn't like it. What does it mean?"
"What do you think it means?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
He didn't want to tell her he didn't know, so he took a guess. "I think the author's warning people about what it would be like if they stopped thinking for themselves and just followed orders all the time. It was much better than the edited version, though. I wasn't confused about how the story was going."
"That's part of it," she said, nodding. "It's also about American Muggle culture, which you wouldn't really know about. He was frustrated because people weren't reading books anymore the way they used to. In the Muggle world, they have television and all kinds of other entertainment, so hardly anyone reads books."
"That's sad," he said.
"That's what Bradbury thought, too." She opened her mouth to speak again, but Draco cut her off.
"Don't you dare get cross about this again, because I'm going to say it: would you like a drink?"
She seemed to smile at the strangest times, when normally someone would yell at him, but it was such a great mystery why she even talked to him at all that he wasn't about to tackle the smaller questions just yet.
"I want an iced latte with vanilla," she replied.
He made the drink and placed a book-shaped bubble in the center, and he tried really hard on this one – it had thin pages that turned with the motion of the liquid. She didn't say anything when she saw it, but he could tell from her face that it pleased her. She gave him her money and took a sip.
"This is good," she said.
"I know," he replied. She turned to walk away, but he stopped her. "Wait – do Muggles ever write happy books?" He didn't realise how stupid it was going to sound until after he'd already said it.
She took him seriously, though. "I know they do, but it's hard to think of any. Most of the really good ones are sad, since they're supposed to make you pay attention to what's important."
"If you come up with one, bring it to me."
"I will," she said. She waved goodbye, but he hadn't expected her to do that. He didn't wave back.
He stared at his two depressing Muggle books whenever he was home, but he wasn't ready to start reading them yet. In his boredom before work the next day, he decided to check out the Muggle music shop in Diagon Alley. He'd been walking past it every day, and it wasn't exactly inconspicuous: gaudy metallic spheres and rings glittered in mid-air around the entrance, and loud music blared into the street. A large sign flashed the shop's name in ever-changing neon colours: The Basement.
Once inside, the selection was overwhelming. Rows of tiny, clear boxes stretched on and on into the narrow room, and Draco didn't know anything about any of them. He didn't even recognize the headings – rock, R&B, techno, and metal, among others. Half of those weren't even words. People were standing in the aisles wearing thick black earmuffs that were attached to the display by a string, many with their eyes closed, and he didn't know why they were doing that. He wandered aimlessly along the first row, marveling at the unexpected artwork on the covers. From the signs he could tell that "CD" was actually an abbreviation, but they didn't say what it stood for. He picked one up, read the song titles, and put it back down.
"Did you need some help over here?" called a voice to his left. He turned to find a middle-aged man with long and ragged hair, wearing a torn t-shirt with faded jeans and strange markings on his arms.
"You look familiar," Draco said.
The man's leathery face folded into a grin. "I'm Donaghan Tremlett. I used to play for the Weird Sisters."
Draco felt starstruck. This man had written and sung the soundtrack to his youth, at the top of the wizarding charts for more than ten years. "I'm a big fan of yours," he said, reaching out to shake Tremlett's hand. He may have held on a bit too long, but this was Donaghan Tremlett. He wished he could forget his pride long enough to get an autograph, but his heritage stayed his hand. "Why'd you quit the band?"
Tremlett glanced around the store to see if anyone else needed help, but they didn't. "Since you're such a big fan, you want the whole story?" Draco nodded eagerly. "All right. So, my parents were Muggles, and I grew up with the music here in this shop. Then, I got my Hogwarts letter, and I heard some of the shite people were listenin' to in this world. Made me sick to my stomach, it did. I get to talking to people at school, find out who loves music as much as I do, and that's how we end up getting together. I showed them Muggle music, and they saw how great it was, and we set to emulating that sound, which is how we got so popular. Nobody'd heard that kind of music before. But the years went by, and I was getting less and less satisfied with what we were playing and even more upset about what everybody else was playing. It was like there was only three bands in the whole wizarding world, and we was none of us doing our honest best."
He hadn't known until now that Tremlett was Muggle-born. It certainly put a new spin on all those angsty teenage nights in his dormitory, blasting the Weird Sisters while cursing Hermione Granger for surpassing him in Ancient Runes.
"So, I'm stuck in this rut, right? And then, almost like a blessin' in disguise, that was when Voldemort –" Draco winced at the name – "started making us Muggle-borns get registered. Now, there was no way I was going to register a damn bloody thing with that nutter, pardon my language, so back to Muggle Dublin I go. While I'm there, I play with some Muggle bands, I catch up on the new music, and I don't end up comin' back 'til last year. And aren't I surprised to find out that all of a sudden, everybody wants to be a Muggle." He shook his head with a short, barking laugh. "So, I set to work figuring out how to make CDs play by magic, and then I open up this store, and soon I got Muggle-borns comin' in with their CDs, wantin' to make sure their favourite bands get in, too. I'll still play with the Weird Sisters sometimes, if they owl me and ask real nice, but I'm happy doing this. And I gotta be honest –" he gestured around the room with one arm – "this music's better than anything I ever wrote in my life."
"I like your music quite a bit," said Draco, and Tremlett laughed again.
"Well, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate the compliment because I do. But you might only think so because you never heard this stuff. Would you like some help gettin' started?" Draco nodded. "I made some compilations just for wizards like yourself who never heard any Muggle music before, 'cause it can be a bit harsh at first. Lot more emotional than the music you hear on our radio – a lot more truth to it, I think. There's a rack over there," he indicated a shelf to the left of Draco, "where you can find all types. I'd recommend one of the rock ones."
Draco stepped over to the shelf and browsed through the compilations, which only had a list of songs on the covers instead of artwork. He purchased the one with the least serious song titles, in the hope that Muggles would be just as adept at expressing joyful emotions as they were with the depths of despair. Tremlett asked him to come back with a list of his favourite songs, so he could recommend more music, and Draco continued down the street to the Raven.
When he walked in holding his CD, Bianca asked to see it and looked fondly at the track list. "I think you'll like this, Draco – these are fun songs. You have fun sometimes, right?" she asked, handing it back to him.
"Of course I do," he said, with a somewhat ironic scowl. "I have fun all the time."
"Except right now," she teased.
"I'm not having fun right now because you're making fun of me for not having fun," he said, and she laughed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It's just that mum and I worry about you. Sometimes you get this look on your face like you're just about the most wistful bloke in Britain."
"Well, you'll be surprised to learn that I'm not," he said, recovering. "I thought I was, but the other day I met a slightly more wistful bloke and was forced to relinquish the title."
She laughed again, and he almost smiled. "That reminds me – mum wanted me to ask if you're free next Wednesday. I know it's Phoenix Day, so you might have other plans, but we'd like to invite you to a little get-together at her house. You can meet the rest of our family."
"Oh," he said, caught off-guard. Was this the clincher for friends three and four or more?
He'd also completely forgotten about the upcoming holiday. Phoenix Day was observed on May second in remembrance of the Battle of Hogwarts, and all the shops would be closed. In the beginning, people celebrated the victory modestly with their families after vigils were held for the fallen; now, they got drunk and set things on fire.
Usually, Draco feted the occasion by remembering it the day of and racing himself to the bottom of a bottle. He remembered when they were first naming it: everyone had initially wanted to call it Harry Potter Day, but the golden boy had pounced on the opportunity to highlight his boundless humility and refused the honour. Instead, Potter had suggested the current title, both for the Order of the Phoenix and also because he'd come up with some first-year quality symbolism about rising from ashes and whatnot. Draco had been less than impressed.
Bianca misinterpreted the look on his face and started talking again, nervously. "If you're busy, I understand, but we'd all kind of like to get to know you better. You're so quiet at work, and dad hasn't even met you yet. I have to tell you, though, he and Will – that's my husband – have stopped in a few times to see what you're like, so you might recognise them. They've said you're very pleasant to customers."
"No, I'm free. I'd like to come," he said, putting her out of her rambling misery.
"Oh, good! Come over at about six. It'll just be a casual dinner, so there's no need to get dressed up or anything. Here, I'll write down mum and dad's Floo address for you." She grabbed a quill from the counter and wrote the information on a napkin. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good shift," she said, heading for the door.
Draco placed the napkin in the pocket of his trousers – imagine, trousers with pockets! The Muggles really were onto something with this one – and went back to studying his CD. The only song he couldn't be sure about was the last track: "Crimson and Clover," as performed by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, but he reckoned it couldn't be too melancholy.
Hermione came in later, and she also wanted to see his new CD.
"These are pretty good songs," she said. "The last song is one of my favourites."
"Is it depressing?" he asked, knowing that she liked that sort of thing.
"No, it's a very famous love song, but it is a bit ambiguous. That isn't the original version, but I think it's almost better," she explained, placing the CD back on the counter.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"Yes. I want an iced vanilla latte."
He made her the drink in silence, but she was watching him closely in the most unsettling way. Her gaze was upon him every time he glanced up, and he had to work to dodge eye contact. He brought her the drink, trying not to show his nerves. She paid for it and made an awkward noise like she had something to say, and he waited.
"I brought you a happy book," she said, "but you have to promise not to laugh at the title."
"What's it called?"
"You can look at it." She handed him a well-worn paperback, and it was titled The Princess Bride. Since he hadn't technically agreed to the promise, he didn't feel bad about laughing.
"Really, The Princess Bride? I guess you haven't noticed, but I'm not actually a ten-year-old girl."
Her cheeks tinted pink with either embarrassment or irritation, but she defended the book. "It's really funny, and it's not meant to be taken seriously. It was one of my favourites as a child."
"So, it is a book for ten-year-old girls," he observed.
"No, it's a book for everyone," she said. "If you don't want a happy book, then you can give it back. Go and be depressed for the rest of your life, and see if I care."
"It's too late – you already gave it to me. I might read it. Who knows?" He shrugged and placed the book under the counter, where she couldn't reach it.
"Has anyone told you today that you are completely infuriating?" He couldn't help but notice that her cheeks were still a bit pink.
"Yes," he lied, "but I promise you can have the first go at it tomorrow."
She sighed and rolled her eyes and left without saying goodbye, but he could tell she wasn't really that infuriated. He lifted a hand to wave at the back of her head, realised what he was doing, and smoothly diverted its path to run it through his hair. Nobody saw that.
He'd been tempted to start the new book at work that day, but there was a steady stream of customers up until close. He didn't get a chance to read more than the back cover, but it did sound happy.
Pansy had returned from her trip that day, so Draco set his new book on an end table and fire-called her after he got home from work. She was sitting at her desk, drinking white wine and drawing with charcoal on a large piece of parchment, and she inclined her chin in greeting.
"Welcome back," he said.
"What is the purpose of your call?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion. If someone didn't know Pansy, they would think she was being short with him, but really she was expressing interest. If she didn't care to speak with Draco, she would have said so. For someone who literally had unlimited free time, Pansy was quite stingy with it.
"Blaise and I would like to meet you at the Cauldron tomorrow night at eleven."
"Hm," she muttered, taking her time. "I wasn't in any particular hurry to see the two of you, but I suppose that would be all right."
Thank goodness he was making more friends, since he didn't know how much more unmitigated Pansy time he could handle. "If that's how you feel, then this can be our last outing together."
She smiled elegantly with all lips and no teeth and said: "It won't."
In her native tongue, this meant "I like you," and Draco was used to translating. Pansy's language was almost like English, except with fewer words. There was no way to beat around the bush, and it was difficult to discuss feelings.
"Good night," he said, as he pulled his head out of the fire.
Hermione didn't come in the next day. He wondered if she was mad at him until he realised what a ridiculous concern it was. Of course, she was – he was Draco Malfoy, she was Hermione Granger, and he was pretty sure they would always and forever be at least a little bit mad at each other. In any case, there was no reason to expect her to come in every single day. Perhaps she was busy. Not that it bothered him one way or the other, but he knew she had to come back eventually because he still had three of her favourite books.
He'd been watching every time the door opened, only to completely not care each time when it wasn't Hermione. No, he wasn't disappointed: he was an ocean of apathy, a study in stoicism, a monument to "meh." Yet the shift did seem to drag on a bit longer than usual.
Later, he made it to the Leaky Cauldron at exactly eleven o'clock. Pansy had already been waiting at a table, and she informed him that he was late: in Pansy-ese, "late" meant "arrived after Pansy." Blaise showed up a few minutes after Draco, and she didn't have to say a word. He apologised immediately.
A waitress came over and showed them a smile. "Hello," she said, "how are you folks doing tonight?"
"We're fine, and you?" he asked, just to be polite. Pansy looked at him like he was a changeling, and Blaise snorted. He decided they were both right.
"I'm lovely, sir. Would you like to hear our specials?" The two men nodded, but Pansy didn't. "It's Wednesday, so it's a Galleon off on all our gin drinks, and –"
"Excuse me," said Pansy. "I don't think I heard you properly. You're having a special on drinks with what?"
"With gin," the woman repeated, probably confused by the accusatory tone.
"I see. And what is –" she paused to inhale slowly through her teeth – "gin?"
The waitress looked around, as though hoping desperately that the cavalry were on the way, and Blaise helped her out. "It's a Muggle drink. I think you'd like a gimlet."
"Actually, Blaise, I don't think that I would like a Muggle drink, but I do so appreciate your suggestion that I erode my tongue with poison crafted by animals," she said. The waitress muttered something about giving them more time and left in a hurry.
Blaise narrowed his eyes at Pansy. "It's been a while since you've spent much time in the country, hasn't it?"
"It has, and it's simply dreadful to be back," she said. "This is so typical of England, always wanting to water down the culture and throw the finer things out the window. There's no need for the upper class to mix with plebeians. When did it become fashionable to act like a sewer rat?"
Draco felt his patience snap, as it occasionally did with this woman. For the first time he could name a few specific Muggles, and Ray Bradbury was anything but a sewer rat.
"That's enough, Pansy," he said, with just enough hard consonants to show her he meant it. "I've known you for a long time, and my highly-informed assessment is that you are not that great. If you hate this country so bloody much, you could do everyone a favour by leaving and never coming back."
They were all silent for a long moment, until the tension grew so unbearable that Pansy had to speak.
"You know," she said, "I don't know why anyone calls you a coward. You're the only one who ever stands up to me."
His anger faded: acknowledging a truth was the closest Pansy ever came to an apology, and that was good enough for him. This was their routine. Their triangular friendship situation was kept strong through checks and balances: Draco kept Pansy in line, Pansy watched Blaise, and Blaise took care of Draco. Pansy also sniped at Draco, but she was usually far worse to Blaise. He shuddered to think what would happen if one leg of the triangle fell off for good. The remaining two would probably turn into deranged alcoholics and possibly duel to the death, because that might suddenly seem like a good idea. Even worse, if they lost Pansy, he and Blaise might get so nice that they'd end up… hugging. He tried to gag as inconspicuously as possible, so his friends wouldn't ask what he was thinking. He didn't want to say it out loud.
When the waitress returned, Blaise and Draco both asked for a gin & tonic. Pansy ordered a gimlet, which made Draco smile.
Blaise updated them about his family and how much richer he was getting every day at work, and Draco told them about the Raven. Pansy observed him silently while sipping her drink, which she seemed to enjoy very much; he was pleasantly surprised that she didn't ask why he'd gotten a job. He should have been wary, though, because a Pansy not talking was a Pansy thinking, which could be very dangerous.
"So, Draco, who is she?" she asked, with no regard for the current topic of conversation.
"Who?"
"That woman you keep thinking about." He could tell she was very pleased with herself and with whatever great secret she seemed to believe she'd sussed out.
Blaise cut in before he could respond. "Of course! I knew there was something off about Malfoy, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it," he said, grinning at Pansy.
"That doesn't surprise me," she said, moving her eyes briefly from Draco. "You are remarkably obtuse."
As he always did in these situations, Draco fantasised about the day when Pansy would be wrong about something like this. It hadn't happened yet, but it was inevitable, and it was going to be great. However, that day was not today. He was pretty firmly in denial about what was going on, but he had suspected that something was.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "I'm not seeing anyone."
"Yes, I'm aware of that. Would you say that's the problem?"
"No, the problem is that I don't know who you're talking about," he said. "I really don't, Pansy. Don't give me that look."
She sighed, light on the drama this time but with just enough disdain. Pansy could give sighing lessons. "Well, you'll figure it out. You aren't the dumbest person at this table."
"What the fuck? He clearly is," said Blaise.
The moment passed, and Pansy changed the subject to talk about her trip. Draco wouldn't have been listening to her ramble about Colombian coffee anyway, but in this particular case he was ignoring her to do some thinking.
Pansy could spot what she liked to call "pathetic love-puppy eyes" from a kilometre away, which meant that Draco had probably been making those. In fact, though, his mind had been on literature. He'd been thinking about the books that Hermione had – the books that – he kept thinking about – okay, start over.
He kept thinking about the Muggle books he had obtained, and how much he was looking forward to starting the new one that Hermione – no, try again.
He was looking forward to starting the new book that he now possessed. So, there, thought Draco. He wasn't thinking about any woman, especially not someone so completely off-limits that he would never have weird, unreciprocated feelings about her, such as – never mind.
He stumbled home after the pub closed and listened to his CD for the first time, and Bianca was right: it was fun.
