Chapter Five
No matter how hard he tried, Draco couldn't shut his mind off long enough to fall asleep. It also didn't help that no amount of cushioning spells could improve the bloody awful bed. Wouldn't he have laughed even a few days earlier to learn he would one day actually spend the night in The Hog's Head on purpose? He would've liked to go on to London to find somewhere nicer they could stay, but his funds were severely lacking. Who was the last Malfoy who had to worry about money? The preposterous predicament he found himself in made him chuckle. If he didn't laugh, he feared he might do something terribly unmanly like cry.
What were they going to do? He tried to keep his composure around Hermione, but he couldn't deny in the dark, stillness of the night that he was terrified. How was it even possible they could've been hurled backwards in time so far? He knew the Room of Requirement had its own incredible level of power and no one really knew how much magic the castle itself actually possessed. There had always been rumors and speculation that the castle was a sentient being, far more than just a building. What could its true purpose be to send them back?
And how was he able to so quickly think of them as a unit? He was unable to think about next steps or his potential future without thinking of Hermione being right there with him at his side. It was a bizarre feeling to actually think he might have an ally, a partner, possibly even a friend. He was used to being alone. With no siblings and no cousins, he spent most of his childhood by himself. He'd had some friends, but the older he got, the less he felt like they truly wanted to be his. Some were scared of his father or urged to be friendly by their parents. No one ever liked him.
He'd never even had a proper girlfriend. Pansy tried to worm her way into the role, but most days he could hardly stand the sight of her. Only one other girl ever caught his interest and their short three week relationship was over when Hannah Abbott found them in a broom cupboard and shamed Susan Bones so thoroughly she couldn't even look at him again for days. It had all been very sweet and innocent in their fifth year before life became so complicated.
Truthfully, Draco was unsure how he felt about being stuck in the past beyond the initial fear. There was enormous pressure put on him simply for being a Malfoy. Maybe it would be nice to not be one. His relationship with his parents, especially his father, was strained to describe it mildly. Somehow he never seemed to meet his father's lofty expectations. He didn't expect that to get any better with time if he was back where he was supposed to be. Everywhere he went in his correct time period everyone looked at him with suspicion and even outright hatred. Some of it he knew he deserved, but not all of it. Could he have a chance now to start over?
Though the room was dark, he could see well enough to look at his bare arm. After he got over the shock of seeing Hermione naked, he couldn't believe the Dark Mark was gone. His greatest shame, he'd thought he would have to stare at it for the rest of his life. The constant reminder of the filth he'd become being a part of his past no longer branded on his arm would be something that would take some getting used to. He really had been given a chance to start over, build a life entirely on his own merits. Maybe he would still make mistakes that would ruin his life, but at least they would be his choices. More excited than afraid of what was to come, Draco fell asleep soon after he had his moment of clarity.
Hours later when the sun was starting to shine its way though the window, he woke up feeling calmer and more refreshed than he had in a very long time. The soft snores coming from the sofa made him smile. Who would've guessed Granger snored? He'd assumed when she was asleep was the only time she was ever completely quiet. Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed and crossed to the bathroom.
While he waited for the water in the shower to warm up as much as it was going to, he cast cleaning spells on his clothes. It would've been nice to have been thrown into the past with at least one spare set of clothes. He'd seen Hermione's pajamas when he got up and wondered where she got them. If he wanted a chance to really start over, perhaps it was best that he didn't have his own clothes. Maybe when he bought more he could try wearing more than just black and the occasional emerald green. He rather liked the color blue. The new Draco could try it.
His attention caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. There was one reminder of his identity and his past he knew he couldn't easily get rid of. Just like his father and his grandfather Abraxas before him, he possessed the silver-blond hair of the Malfoy family. Left alone, he would stand out in the past every bit as much as he did in his correct time. A simple color-changing spell was easy enough to complete. Charming his hair to a darker shade of blond to keep from looking too sickly because of his fair skin, at least he didn't look the very image of his father. Or his grandfather. The older he grew the more his grandmother would comment on how much more like his grandfather he looked. The way she said it never made him think it was a compliment.
When he exited the bathroom a quarter of an hour later, Hermione was awake and fully dressed in clothes she hadn't been wearing the day before. Was she just transfiguring her clothes or did she have a wardrobe in her pocket he didn't know about? He didn't miss how her eyes went straight to the top of his head. When she didn't make a comment about his new hair color, he wondered if she hated it. The thought made him laugh to himself. Why would he care what she thought?
"I'll go downstairs to settle the bill. Then we can leave."
She didn't argue with him nor did he expect her to. The events of the previous night and in the inference made by the tavern-keeper when they needed a private room for the night embarrassed her more than she wanted to admit. It amused him to think of her red cheeks and inability to speak. Was that how she acted when she was really alone with a wizard for less than wholesome purposes or did her confident, reckless Gryffindor traits take over? Realizing the dangerous avenue his mind was traveling down, he cleared his throat and tried to think of anything else.
Dumbledore didn't appear to need much sleep. When Draco descended the narrow staircase to the main room of the pub, the proprietor was already behind the bar wiping down glasses with a dirty rag. Far from friendly, the wizard was almost hostile when Draco asked how much he was owed. Once he dropped the exact amount asked on the bar, he spun around to make his escape. Being around any member of the Dumbledore family was awkward and uncomfortable. Before he could get more than a couple of steps away, Dumbledore spoke again, much kinder than before.
"I usually have an empty room if you ever find you need a place to stay again."
Though he had absolutely no intention of ever darkening his doorstep again, Draco appreciated the offer. He thanked the wizard and rushed up the stairs to find Hermione waiting impatiently for him to return. Evidently he wasn't the only one unnerved by their present location.
"I think we were right last night when we talked about going to London. We'd have a better chance of blending in there."
"Too bad everything is so bloody expensive there. I might actually have to get a real job."
Hermione didn't appreciate his attempt at humor. Or maybe she was hungover from drinking the night before. Her face did seem a little greener than usual. After the past few years of horror he'd endured, Draco learned how to handle his alcohol. There'd been little else that could help him get his mind off of the worst parts of his existence for a few minutes here and there. Perhaps that was why he loathed seeing his father drink so much. He could see himself in that broken shell of a defeated man and he didn't like it.
Unsure of where else to start, they agreed upon going to Diagon Alley first once they stepped out of The Hog's Head in the fresh air. It was the largest wizarding district in the country and with so many visitors from out of town, no one would find two strangers suspicious. Apparating just behind the Leaky Cauldron's entrance to the Alley, Draco didn't understand why he was suddenly so nervous. He'd been there countless times in his life. There was no reason to be worried.
It was still early in the morning when they passed through the entrance. Most of the shops were quiet and few people were outside. Sunday mornings were usually rather lazy days in the Malfoy home. Likely they weren't the only ones.
"It's weird, isn't it? Everything looks the same even thirty years in the past."
Hermione's whispered comment broke him out of his thoughts about past Sundays spent with his parents. He was grateful for the distraction. No good could come from dwelling on days he'd never see again. Even less from nostalgic wishes he could return to the innocent days of his childhood.
"Beyond the names on the outside of the shops changing now and then, I don't think much about Diagon Alley has changed for the past two hundred years at least."
"I suppose you're right."
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm nearly always right."
She laughed, but didn't dispute him. He took it as an encouraging sign. With no set destination in mind, they continued their walk further down the Alley. Some of the shops had signs in their windows advertising they were hiring. When Draco imagined what his father would think of him taking a lowly job as a shop assistant, he couldn't help but laugh. Lucius Malfoy would be mortified if he thought a member of his family had fallen so far.
"Flourish and Blotts hasn't changed at all."
Just as Draco was prepared to agree, a sign in the middle of the bookshop window caught his attention. Not a help wanted sign, it was an advertisement for a new potions book written by Hector Dagworth-Granger. He vaguely remembered Professor Slughorn asking Hermione their first lesson in sixth year if they were related. Hermione said she didn't think so.
"Wait."
Draco stopped Hermione from walking past the shop with a gentle touch on her arm. The sign had a large portrait of the wizard in color. Looking at the picture and then at Hermione and then back again at the photograph, he would swear their eyes were nearly identical. From the shape to the color, there were far too many similarities to ignore. There was also something familiar about the potioneer's face he couldn't quite explain.
"I think you are related to Hector Dagworth-Granger."
"That's ridiculous, Draco. I'm Muggle-Born. There are no witches and wizards in my family tree."
"None that you know of. Muggle-Borns aren't just random freaks of nature. Not usually anyway. Most have a squib grandparent or great-grandparent. I think he's probably related to you."
She remained unconvinced.
"If I was related to a world-famous potions master, someone would've told me."
A dozen questions popped into Draco's mind about her family history. Most of the Purebloods he knew could recite both sides of their family trees back at least six or seven generations. Some, like the Malfoys, could go even further back. While he understood that not everyone put as much stock in their ancestry, it seemed bizarre to him that someone, especially someone as curious as Hermione, wouldn't be interested in doing the necessary research to know where they came from.
"Your father is a Muggle? You're certain of this?"
"Of course I am. He didn't even know magic was real until I got my letter."
"Or so he claimed."
She didn't appreciate his remark. Years studying her annoyed facial expressions taught him enough that he could usually read her. Of course Draco would be the first one to admit he knew almost nothing else about the witch he used to make it a mission to torment. Those days seemed so long ago at times. A lot had happened since those relatively carefree days.
"Stop it, Draco. I think I know my father better than you do. If he had any inkling that magic was real, he would've told me. He's not a squib."
"All right. Maybe I'm wrong."
An odd theory came suddenly to his mind that he couldn't ignore. It could be nothing or maybe it was a clue to explain why the Room of Requirement dropped them specifically back to that year.
"How old was your father in 1965?"
"What does that even matter?"
"Maybe it doesn't, but just tell me."
She had to stop to think about it for a minute. When her brow furrowed and her eyes widened, he had to fight off a smirk. Before she even opened her mouth to answer, he already knew what she was going to say.
"Nineteen. Yesterday was his nineteenth birthday."
"Curious. And how old are you, Hermione?"
"Nineteen, but I don't really see how that matters. It's just a coincidence."
"I don't really believe coincidences exist."
Her snort and the dramatic roll of her eyes told him all he needed to know about her opinion. It didn't matter to Draco that she didn't agree. Everyone was entitled to their own opinion no matter how wrong might it might be.
"There's a resemblance between you and Hector Dagworth-Granger. The Room of Requirement brought us back in time to the exact day your father turned the exact age you are right now. It's all very curious and something I don't think you should dismiss without a little investigation."
"We don't have time to keep arguing about this, Draco. Let's stop."
He promised to drop the subject for the present, but he never promised he wouldn't bring it up again. There was something to his theory. He just knew it. Wizarding families often denied the very existence of squibs in the line. To many it was seen as a shameful secret, a blot on their family's honor. No one ever came right out to admit so, but he'd heard a rumor about a Malfoy squib being abandoned at a Muggle orphanage before his father was born. He didn't know any details beyond that. It was as if the mysterious member of his family never even existed. Later, when she thought he'd given up on his theory, he'd ask subtle questions about her family.
"Our first priority should be finding a place to live."
Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she nodded in agreement. Distracted by the sight and graphic fantasy of what it might feel like to have those lips pressed against his, Draco didn't hear her question. Or was it a statement? Either way it didn't matter. He'd been too focused on letting his mind wander and remembering what he'd seen the night before when he'd rushed into the bathroom after hearing her scream. A sharp slap to his arm with the back of her hand brought him back to reality.
"You're not even listening to me, are you?"
He cleared his throat, mildly embarrassed he'd been caught.
"Terribly sorry. I was… distracted."
"I asked you how much money you had. I don't have much but we can pool our resources. At least until something better comes along or we find our way back."
Neither of them really believed they would ever return, but sometimes a harmless lie could do more for morale than the painful truth. Draco reached into his pocket to pull out what was left of his weekly allowance. He wished he hadn't put half of it in his trunk when it arrived by owl. When she saw the pitiful collection of coins he held, she laughed. Mortified, he shoved the tiny sum back in his pocket. Wasn't it bad enough he was caught with so little? Did she really have to shame him so?
"I know it's not much, Granger, but I wasn't exactly expecting to have to live on what I carried in my pocket. If I'd known what was going to happen, I would've brought more."
"Oh, no. You misunderstand me. I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you, I promise. I just thought it was funny that you were embarrassed. Draco, you have more in your pocket than a lot of people make in a month… thirty years in the future. You're not as destitute as you seem to think you are."
It was true he had a warped view of finances. Malfoys were always wealthy. He wasn't sure when that started, but based on the antiques in the family manor, hundreds of years probably wasn't an exaggeration. Never being forced to go without his entire life, money didn't hold the same value for him that it did for others. Some of his embarrassment about not having enough money was replaced with shame about his ignorance. He wished he could tell what she was really thinking. Did she think him as big of a joke as he feared?
"But it still won't last forever. We will need to be very careful how much we spend. We need to find somewhere fairly cheap."
"I think I know of a place."
She would hate his idea, he just knew it. Taking her hand in his and refusing to answer any questions she asked out of fear she would flatly refuse to consider, Draco all but dragged her to the entrance to Knockturn Alley. His father would be horrified that he would even consider seeking out a residence in the dark and dangerous district, but he didn't exactly have many choices. Real estate was cheaper in the places no one wanted to live. Could they really afford to be choosy?
As much as he hated the reminders of his year working to bring the Death Eaters into the castle, Draco led them straight to Borgin and Burkes. Every bit as dark and disreputable as it would be in the future when his father dragged him there to sell illegal artifacts before a Ministry of Magic raid or when he threatened Borgin with a visit from Fenrir Greyback, the antique shop didn't look much different in 1965. Maybe some of the paint was fresher, but not much else.
"Draco, what are we doing here?"
If she was frightened by their surroundings, she did a good job of hiding it in her voice. Gryffindors usually could pretend they weren't afraid when they were ready to start crying for their mums, but he knew she was different. What was the previous year like for her? He wanted to know just what it was she endured with Potter and Weasley to not even flinch in seedy Knockturn Alley. At least stuck in the past together they might actually have the chance to talk about those horrible days.
"People in Knockturn Alley usually keep to themselves, mind their own business."
He plucked the sheet of parchment hanging outside the front door of the shop off of the wall to show her. One feature of Borgin and Burkes never seemed to change in all the years he'd been forced to go there. They were always advertising an attic flat for rent. The shop either never could keep a tenant very long or forgot it still hung on their wall.
"You can't be serious. Here?"
"Let's just look at it before we make up our minds to hate it."
When Draco pushed open the door to the shop, he really did feel like he'd gone back in time. Nothing was different from the last time he was there. Even the displays had some of the same merchandise. All that changed was Mr. Borgin behind the counter was thirty years younger and not as stooped as he'd been. His oily hair was less oily and thicker too. Instead of falling all over himself to rush to serve Draco as he did when he entered the shop with his father, young Mr. Borgin was annoyed to be interrupted.
"What do you want?"
Draco stepped forward with the parchment to lay it down on the counter. The horrible wizard might try to intimidate him, but he would fail. How to successfully look down on inferiors was one of the very first lessons he learned as a Malfoy. Even though he didn't have the same influence or vault in 1965, he wouldn't cower or flinch.
"My cousin and I would like to see your attic flat."
Borgin narrowed his eyes at Draco, clearly unimpressed by the confident tone of his voice. Turning his head towards Hermione, his expression softened. A slimy grin appeared the moment his eyes moved up and down her body. It took all of Draco's self-control to keep from lashing out at the disgusting man. They had to keep a low profile. Attacking the wizard would be the opposite of that. If Hermione was bothered by the leering, she didn't let it show.
"Your cousin? All right. This way."
Borgin shouted at someone they couldn't see to watch the shop. Gesturing to a door behind the counter, he led them up a narrow, creaking staircase. They passed the first floor that seemed to be used primarily for storage and then up an even more narrow, twisting staircase to a dusty, dismal landing.
The door to the flat was battered and the lock broken. Conditions didn't get much better inside. A heavy layer of dust coated every surface. Draco's suspicion that they couldn't keep tenants was confirmed. It was horrible. Every square centimeter seemed to reveal another horror. He wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry or run out of there as quickly as possible. Was that what he had to look forward to being poor? How did anyone stand it?
A small room with ancient furniture huddled around a fireplace that probably hadn't seen a good cleansing charm in decades was the bulk of the flat. There was no kitchen to speak of. If they wanted to cook their own meals, an odious-sounding task he was sure poverty would force them into completing, they would have to use the fireplace like their ancestors did several generations before they were born. He supposed it was a positive benefit that they wouldn't need to buy furniture even if the thought of being able to relax on the sofa without fear of catching some horrible disease seemed impossible.
"The bedroom can easily be turned into two smaller rooms if you don't wish to share with your cousin."
It was painfully evident that Borgin didn't believe the lie, but Draco didn't care. Their relationship, for lack of a better term, was no one else's business. Let the horrible man think what he wanted. At least the bedroom really was large enough to partition into two separate spaces. Sharing the room the night before was awkward enough. They couldn't do it for much longer. Having only one bathroom would also be a challenge he wasn't looking forward to.
All he could say about the collection of rooms that was positive was at least the rent was cheap. Paying for one month hardly put a dent in their small stack of coins. Rent was even more affordable when Borgin offered a discount to Hermione as part of the job he wished to offer. It was easy to tell just by the way her eyes widened ever so slightly that she wasn't a fan of the idea.
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Borgin. What exactly would I be doing?"
"My shop girl just quit last week. I need someone to keep the shop tidy and organized."
The way Borgin's eyes seemed to linger far too long on Hermione's arse made Draco's hands itch to curse him. Why the shop girl left was obvious. He worried he would be trouble.
"When would you like me to start?"
"Tomorrow. Very early."
Borgin swept out of the flat letting the door slam shut behind him. Concerned he might be listening at the keyhole, Draco cast a silencing charm on the door. He hoped they wouldn't have too stay there long.
"You didn't have to accept the job. You could've gone somewhere else."
"I know, but I think it's best for both of us if we don't make too many waves. I don't trust him, but at least working in the shop I can keep a closer eye on him."
Draco looked around the dismal flat and sighed again. Never in a thousand lifetimes could he have imagined ending up where he was.
"It could always be worse, Draco. We could be living in a freezing tent with the whole country hunting us. A dirty flat in a creepy shop with a gross shopkeeper is nothing."
She spoke from experience, but offered no follow-up explanation. Even after living in the same castle and attending the same classes for six years she could be a complete stranger. Maybe one day he might feel like he actually knew her.
"I'm going to find my own job. Can't let it be said of me that I'm nothing but a kept wizard."
Her soft snort of laughter at his joke made him feel a little bit better about their new circumstances. Once she assured him that she would be all right on her own, he didn't stick around. It was a matter of pride that he find some way to help support their odd arrangement. Glad to use the narrow iron staircase on the side of the building to avoid going back into the shop that had so many memories, he made his escape out of Knockturn Alley. The cheap rent might be enough of a lure to sleep there at night, but he didn't want to work in the seedy district. He hoped there would be no reason to.
Diagon Alley was busier than it was just the short time earlier before they found their flat. No one paid him much mind. If a shopper even noticed his existence, they offered him a smile and a warm greeting. It was something else he knew would take some getting used to. In his own time, he would've been glared at or insulted.
As he stood in the middle of the shopping district, Draco wondered what shop would bring his father the most shame to know his son worked there. Some professions were simply "beneath" a Malfoy. Maybe it was childish to try to embarrass his father without him even being aware, but he couldn't deny there was a sense of satisfaction doing something his father would hate.
When his eyes fell on the magic greengrocer shop 'The Magic Chicory', he chuckled. Only housewives and house-elves were allowed in one of those shops according to his father. Draco was nearly a teenager before he realized that wasn't true. Knowing he had a greengrocer for a son would humiliate Lucius Malfoy. Having a lowly shop assistant to the greengrocer would kill him. Despite knowing his father, the version he left behind at any rate, would never know what he was up to, he wanted to be something so simple and honest.
Seeing a sign advertising a job in the window seemed like destiny. Draco took a deep breath before opening the door. Immediately fascinated by the clean, ordered lines of well-stocked shelves and the colorful display of fruits and vegetables, he couldn't believe he'd never been inside a shop like that before. What other normal, simple life experiences had he missed out on because of his last name? It all felt so ridiculous and unnecessary. His family wasn't any better than any other family. If anything, they were worse.
The middle-aged witch behind the counter had kind eyes. Her bright smile as he approached put him at ease. When he inquired about the job, she grew serious as she looked him up and down. Similar to what Borgin did to Hermione, but in no way creepy or disgusting, once satisfied he looked up to the physical labor required, she nodded her head once and smiled again.
"You'll do. I'm a bit short-handed right now, but I'll give you a trial. What's your name?"
"Draco…"
He paused, unsure what to say. Malfoy was too well-known. There would be far too many questions asked of him if he used his real name and even though he couldn't explain why, he didn't feel like he had any claim to his real name in that time period. He needed a simple last name, one that was common and wouldn't draw too much attention to his existence. An easy solution came to mind. It almost made him laugh. Why didn't he think of it sooner?
"Draco Black."
