Chapter 52: The Funeral Pyre
Draco slowly picked up the notebook and turned it over in his hands. The cover was smooth and soft, as if it had been picked up and read many times. The ribbons that held it closed were frayed at the ends, and Draco ran the pads of his fingers against the loose threads as he stared at the dimples on the cover.
He knew exactly what it was, of course. But he had tried so hard to forget. To forget everything, nothing, all of it, none of it should ever have happened, and, as far as anyone knew, nothing ever did. But here, within the pages of this notebook, he knew it would all be here. He didn't want it to be. An image flashed into his mind of this notebook's twin, its pages flapping in the wind, its cover flipped inside out as it fluttered down to the bottom of the ravine that lay just outside that school, the one he had gone to, the one that he wanted to forget he ever went to.
But here it was again.
He wanted to Vanish it, to erase every smudge of ink from its pages, to banish it from existence. But he couldn't, because as soon as it left his hands, it would fall into those of another, and someone else would learn who he really was, what he really was, and what he had done with his miserable life.
Draco shoved the notebook into the pocket of his coat and hurried inside. He yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and threw the notebook inside. He locked the drawer, then cast every enchantment he knew on the tiny wooden nightstand to prevent anyone from discovering its contents.
For the time being, the notebook didn't exist. And for all anyone knew, it never had.
It was half past eight on a Friday night, and Draco was still at work. The editors' meeting was still going on; the copy editor and the design editor were engaged in an intense argument about fonts and spacing, and Draco was close to boring his eyes out with his own fingers, just to have an excuse to leave. Albert was, unfortunately for Draco, not allowed into this particular meeting, and now Draco had to face the meeting alone; Claudine was busy mediating the debate.
"Can't you just give us a little more space?!" Amelia, the copy editor was saying, trying to keep her voice level. "How am I supposed to fit a whole story in 5 square inches of space?!"
"You are being a little unreasonable, Roger," Claudine reprimanded the design editor, who was sitting in his chair, fuming.
"Well, if you want your paper to look like it was designed by a four-year old, then fine, she can have her way," said Roger, sounding like a petty older brother.
"Oh, shut up!" Snapped Amelia. "You're the one who designed the original layout in the first place!"
Draco pressed his fingers into his temples and leaned his elbows on the table. This was getting ridiculous.
"You are all being ridiculous!" Exclaimed Marie, the sports editor. "This is not an argument that needs to take place! Grow up and make a compromise! The rest of us would like to go home!"
Everyone else in the room verbalized their agreement, and some even banged their fists on the table.
Claudine sighed. "I agree. The rest of you can go home. You two-" she glared at Amelia and Roger, "-stay here. We're going to figure this out, even if it means I make the final decision."
"Thank Merlin," mumbled Draco as he gathered up his belongings and shuffled into the line that was forming by the door. Once he was outside, Draco quickly apparated back to his flat. When he stumbled into the entryway, he found that Albert had already made dinner and was now lounging on the couch, reading a book.
"Hey," Draco said, dropping his bag on the floor. "What've you been up to?"
"Nothing," Albert said distractedly, not looking up from his book. Draco shrugged off this cold response and busied himself with serving himself dinner. The beans had gone cold, but he was in no mood to heat them up, so cold beans, rice, and chicken it was. He sat down at the kitchen counter and began spooning the mixture of food into his mouth, trying to read the newspaper at the same time. When he was done, he stood up and checked the time- nine-thirty.
"You up for drinks?" Draco asked Albert as he grabbed his coat.
"Nah, I'm tired," Albert said, looking up for a brief moment. Something in his expression seemed strange, but Draco ignored it- Albert was probably just drunk.
"Well, I'll be at the pub with Callum if you want to stop by," Draco said, straightening the collar of his coat. Before leaving, he tossed their owl out the window, a hurriedly scrawled note to Callum attached to its leg.
About twenty minutes later, Draco was sitting at the bar of his favorite pub ordering a giggle water, a specialty from the States. It just tasted like champagne, but a few sips in, Draco could feel the sense of elation spread through his body.
"Hey there, mate!" He exclaimed as Callum walked up to him and sat on the stool beside Draco's.
"Giggle water? Seriously?" Callum teased as he ordered himself a butterbeer.
"Staying sober tonight, are we?" Draco asked playfully, throwing some money on the counter. "I owe you from last time," he added in response to a look from Callum.
"I have a girl coming over later," Callum responded almost smugly. "Don't want to be smashed when she gets there."
Draco rolled his eyes and ordered a few shots. He directed his gaze toward the billiards table in the back of the pub. "Wanna play?" He asked Callum, downing his first shot.
"Why not?" Callum said, standing up. "Bring those shots with you," he added as Draco followed him over to the table. Draco carefully balanced the shot glasses on the edge of the table and picked up a pool stick.
"Do you want to break?" Draco asked Callum as he arranged the balls into the triangular plastic frame.
"Sure," Callum said, grabbing himself a pool stick. He rubbed some chalk on the end and leaned over the table, the tip of the stick placed carefully above his knuckles. He pushed his back arm forward and, with a loud crack, the balls went scattering across the table. The orange and purple striped balls rolled into the pockets. "Looks like you're solids."
"Alright," Draco said, setting himself up to strike the cue ball. He flicked his wrist, and the blue and yellow balls went rolling into the pockets on the far end of the table.
"Not bad," Callum said, feigning shock.
Draco laughed and rolled his eyes. "Let's see you go then, come on." Callum lined up and shot, missing the cue ball entirely. Draco doubled over laughing, clutching his chest; he couldn't breathed.
"Shove it," Callum said, pushing Draco toward the table.
A few more turns ensued, and by the end of the fifth round, Draco was winning. He had four balls left, not counting the 8-ball. He leaned over the table, lining up his shot carefully. His vision was focused on the top of his pool stick. He breathed in, and allowed the pool balls to come into focus. When he did, his breath hitched in his throat. Two pool balls, one red and one green, were staring him in the face. They were right next to each other, touching. Draco felt the edges of his vision becoming fuzzy and black. Trying to stop his heartbeat from speeding up, he squeezed his eyes shut, breathed in, and brought his back arm forward. He opened his eyes and looked up to see the black 8-ball spinning its way into a pocket. The red and green balls stayed still, unmoved by the cue ball. Draco stood up, his shoulders sagging, as Callum whooped with delight.
"I won!" Callum exclaimed, breaking his pool stick in half over his knee. "Yes!"
"Nice work," Draco said quietly. He glanced up at Callum for a moment to see his broad smile, then looked back down, his eyes going out of focus. All he could see on the green sea of the table was two smudges of color: one bright red and one green. And then suddenly, he wasn't in the pub anymore. He was back at Hogwarts, outside the tapestry on the seventh floor, staring at a flower that lay crumpled on the ground. He was back there, back there, in a time where the skull on his forearm was still jet-black, when he was still an attempted murderer, when he had no one, nothing, not a single thing worth living for except his mother. He was supposed to have left that all behind. He had left that all behind. But here it was again. All of it. And it had to go away.
That night, Draco pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and took out the tiny black notebook. Even though it was the middle of August, he got the fire roaring in the fireplace, kindling it with old copies of the Gazette. When the fire was big enough- and when he was sure Albert was fast asleep- Draco untied the ribbon holding the notebook closed and began tearing out pages one by one, throwing them into the fire as he went. Finally, when his hand started cramping up, he tossed the whole notebook into the fire and sat back to watch the flames lick over the pages, erasing the words that had been written on them with black ink in the depths of the night, when Draco was still at Malfoy Manor, hiding in the trees beside the lake, when he was back at school, sick to his stomach, wondering where she was, if she was alive or not. The pages grew black, disintegrating to ash and taking the past far, far, away from Draco as the smoke billowed out the chimney and dissipated into the cool Parisian night.
Draco felt the warmth of the fire burn his cheeks, turning them bright pink, as he watched the notebook fall apart under the heat of the fire as the memories of his past burned in the angry fire within his own heart. He shouldn't have to be doing this. This was supposed to be over. He was a different person now, just like his mother. But as the notebook withered away in the flames, Draco felt his anger subside, and felt himself overcome by a sense of calm, of tranquillity. It was done and gone, and now the last physical link to his past was gone, gone, gone away, flying high above the rooftops and settling down onto the ground as the rain started to pour down, down, down on the city, washing away the dirt and the ashes, taking Draco's sorrow and anxieties away.
Draco sat in front of the fire until it burned itself out, then cleared away the ashes, throwing them out the window. They fell onto one of the tables outside the bookshop, then slowly disappeared under the force of the rain. Then Draco stepped into the shower and washed himself clean of the past, too, until he felt certain he was Draco Matthew again. Because Draco Malfoy had burned in that fire that night. And now he was dead and gone, left to die on the shores of Azkaban by everyone except those who now accompanied him in France.
A/N: Please leave me a lovely review and help a poor soul get through exams :( Let me know what you all think!
