11. Great-aunt Lucrecia's Intelligence
He sat on his bed, trying to come to terms with the situation.
He could think of no alternative to Lucrecia Runcorn. His mother hadn't talked to her other sister since Andromeda Black had turned her back on the family by marrying a Mudblood. Their daughter had gone and married a werewolf. Maybe Lupin hadn't been the same sort of brute like Greyback, but still...
He had spotted the body of his former teacher lying on the floor of the Great Hall. Lupin was dead, and so was his other aunt's badly chosen husband. Aunt Bellatrix had bragged about having had a share in the latter's demise.
It was all such a mess.
And everyone blamed him – one side for participating too much and the other one for not contributing enough. Great-aunt Lucrecia, he was sure, belonged to the latter. Half an hour after his arrival here, she already considered him a failure. She had probably done so even before. He had made a bad mistake in talking to Baxter Selwyn. But how could he have known the man was chummy with the great-aunt and would Apparate straight to her house?
Tired as he was, he could not sleep. The bed, although soft and comfy, smelled of Chizpurfle repellent. Apparently Lucrecia Runcorn was, among other things, paranoid.
He left the bed and stood by the window, staring into the starless blackness beyond. He wished he could stop thinking. He wished he could wipe his mind blank for a while – for this one night or at least for an hour. But scores of unbidden and disquieting memories kept revolving in his mind.
... Will you babysit the cubs?... You disgust me, you overindulged brat... An inept youngster who is trying to play it safe... Don't you dare you foul – Slap! – you evil... Eat slugs, Malfoy...
He remembered the day he had replaced Terence Higgs on the Slytherin Quidditch team. The change had made him nowhere as popular as he had initially hoped. Terence had never again spoken a single word to him in his remaining years at Hogwarts.
His father and Terence's mother – could that be? He couldn't relate his father to anyone but his mother. Yet things happened, did they not? Perhaps his father and Theresia Something had been close during their time at school, the way he and Pansy had been close before everything fell to pieces...
...
Breakfast was plentiful, but he didn't have much of an appetite.
The great-aunt seemed to be deeply lost in thought, and, therefore, the meal passed in comfortable silence. She left via Floo immediately afterwards, saying she had to call in favours.
Draco helped his mother to move the large wardrobe that blocked the sole window of her room from opening. Then he went to sit in the shade of the large elm tree behind the cottage. There wasn't much to see; Lucrecia Runcorn's comparatively small estate was surrounded by a dense, eight feet high yew hedge. He didn't mind. His eyelids were drooping, and the steady buzz of insects all around him lulled him to sleep in no time at all.
He woke to the cry of a bird. Slightly bemused about finding himself where he was, he searched the sky. A sparrowhawk circled above the garden, slowly gaining height. He wished he could circle there as well, the wind in his hair, his robes billowing behind him.
He was stirred out of his wistful musings by Great-aunt Lucrecia returning home.
...
She seemed to be bursting with freshly gathered intelligence.
No sooner had they sat down for dinner than she started, "Narcissa, my girl, I hear you were saved by a law of 1717, introduced by a hopeless romantic of a Minister and not once used ever since. And the irony of the Statute on Adequate Legal Action used in your favour is simply priceless. Do you know who originally cooked it up and fought it through? None other than that notorious meddler Dumbledore and his daft sidekick Elphias Doge. For once, they have given us a good laugh. Don't you think so?"
Draco made no sound. He carefully kept his eyes on his shepherd's pie.
"Sparing their adversaries a stay in Azkaban does not mean the people so inconveniently risen to power don't find ways to humiliate them," his mother observed, not remotely sharing the old witch's merriment. "Obviously, they opted for depriving them of their possessions and social status."
"Don't give Shacklebolt, Potter, and rest of the bunch more credit than they deserve. That doesn't come from their corner. I daresay they are less aware of what is going on in certain departments than they would wish."
The pie had lost all its appeal.
He wished he could stop listening. He didn't want to hear such news. He didn't want to hear about Potter being in some sort of trouble – not because he cared about Potter, but because it meant that the turmoil still wasn't over, and that he might be dragged in all over again. He wanted to be anywhere but where the fights took place.
"My sources tell me that Higgs dug out a Restitution Act proclaimed two and half centuries ago. Our celebrated war heroes were apparently thrilled with having another age-old law hitherto ignored for good reason. As it seems, they haven't yet realised that the law in question does not require decisions made by the Wizengamot. The Head Bailiff can act on her own."
"And she certainly avails herself of that right," his mother put in sourly.
"Quite so. You haven't been her only victim, if probably the favourite one. However, don't fool yourself. Her actions are in accordance with 'standing law'." She spat the word as if it had a foul taste. "I also heard a weird rumour about you, Narcissa. Is it true you sided with Potter in the very end?"
Draco almost gasped.
"Exactly as you say – rumours. Under other circumstances, I'd be inclined to call them slander. The obnoxious brat, how dare he assume my motives!" his mother replied briskly. Then, she lowered her voice to a whisper and added, "Listen, this is strictly between us – it was a simple case of letting one pest wipe out the other. I'm Slytherin enough to know when to abandon a sinking ship."
"Fancy that!" Great-aunt Lucrecia eyed his mother with a sudden caution. "What made you think the boy would win?"
"Nothing. Potter as a person is of little consequence," his mother went on. Her voice was so quiet that Draco had to strain his ears to hear her. "But I didn't see why I should devote myself any longer to a self-styled lord who had evidently just failed to execute his own plans. We endured two full years of his overbearing behaviour because of his alleged superiority, but somebody who isn't even able to kill an unarmed teenager at close range can hardly be considered the most powerful and accomplished wizard of all times."
"Seems you handled the situation quite skilfully."
"Thank you."
"The rumours are still objectionable."
"Unfortunately, they are. However, since the ridiculous view Potter took on the event in the Forbidden Forest clearly helped me in court, it wouldn't be prudent to complain too loudly at present."
Hesitantly, the great-aunt agreed, "Yes, you'll have to bide your time. That filth won't rule our world forever."
Draco didn't have time to marvel at that exchange. The old witch rounded on him without a second's warning.
...
12. The Last Straw
"Now to you, little spawn of a mediocre wizard fancying himself an influential man," Great-aunt Lucrecia addressed him. "I heard you spilled the beans?"
"I b-beg your pardon?" he managed, a wave of alarm washing over him.
"You conveniently forgot, eh? I can help you: You took a good swig of Veritaserum and then you got really chatty."
Burning heat rose to his temples.
"The blame lies partially with me," he heard his mother's voice over the loud pounding of his heart. "I advised him to say nothing at all. It might have been wiser to volunteer information where it would do little damage. The Aurors might have been mollified with-"
"You'll keep out of this," the great-aunt snapped in her direction. "I'm trying to figure out whether you were only lax in his upbringing or whether he is indeed a few twigs short of a broom."
His mother inhaled sharply; he kept his eyes firmly trained on the plate before him.
"Explain yourself, young man!" the great-aunt demanded.
"She poured a glass of pumpkin juice for herself," he croaked, almost paralysed with mortification. "First for herself. She drank first. I thought..."
He hadn't been thinking at all. He wasn't able to think straight right now. No words suited to help him out were coming to his mind.
Once he had been good with words. He could casually drop nasty little remarks, he could talk big and make veiled threats, he could drawl or jeer just as the situation required. It had been the one thing he had been really good at. It was gone.
"I doubt you thought at all," the great-aunt said. "The Veritaserum wasn't in the juice but in the glass, your glass! The Aurors deposited it there beforehand."
"How was I to know that?" he mumbled in a pathetic attempt to placate her.
"That's easy – never trust an Auror!" she rejoined. "They are bound to try and trick you. They get paid for it, after all."
The contempt in the old witch's voice told him how people would regard him henceforth. He would be considered a weak and gullible man, too unreliable to be trusted. The bad thing wasn't that it was true – he was faint-hearted and all too easy to fool. The bad thing was that people now knew or, at any rate, were going to know soon.
"So you are the average Malfoy poser, aren't you? That family has turned out a fair number of show-offs with no skills worth mentioning. I don't see to this day why my sister had to go and marry one of that lot," – she shot his mother a reproving look – "she could have done so much better... I guess she fell for the impressive facade. True, the Malfoys have always had influence, but not because of outstanding magical talent. No, they've always bought their way in. They've paved the roads to wherever they wanted to be with Galleons. One might wonder where all the beautiful money comes from since there isn't so much accomplishment in them. Well, the answer is simple: They've managed, time and again, to marry rich witches. Which reminds me, young man. We oughtn't to dally in marrying you off. You aren't planning on staying here for the whole five years, are you?"
Draco's head almost moved of its own accord. He wouldn't stay here for five days if he could help it.
"Thought so," the great-aunt muttered. Louder, she continued, "So, has there any girl struck your fancy yet?"
"I don't think it prudent to rush these things," his mother put in. "Considering our current situation and the overall political upheaval-"
"Quite the reverse, my girl," the old witch cut her short. "The early bird catches the worm! Rather act now, while that up-start Shacklebolt and his henchmen are preoccupied with administering 'justice' to the wizarding world, and while the people of reputable descent haven't yet fully caught on to the lamentable gossip about your son."
To his horror, his mother gave a slight nod, and the great-aunt continued, "Of course, we cannot choose from Death Eater families, which is a pity. Many of the finest bloodlines are in that area. A lot of wealth used to be amassed there, too, and that's a pity again. The new authority will strip them off their property just like they did with you. In short, we'll need to find a well-heeled, pure-blood family whose reputation with both sides is still intact."
He abandoned the last wisp of hope that she might be merely mulling over future possibilities. She was serious. She was hell-bent on playing matchmaker for him, and on doing so soon.
He glanced at his mother. She appeared to be completely engrossed in the subject and did not notice his silent plea for guidance.
"He's handsome. One has to give him that, even if not much else can be said for the pampered brat." The old witch talked as if he wasn't there. "Well, let's see then – who might be most in want of a handsome husband? Ah, yes, there's an idea. I shall write the Bulstrodes first thing tomorrow morning."
Draco involuntarily recoiled. Millicent? Never! That girl washed her hair about once a month – provided it was a long month.
"Millicent was in Draco's year. Slytherin, of course," his mother said. "Draco, do you think she's a-"
"No, no, the older one, Araminta," Great-aunt Lucrecia interrupted her for the third time. "Her being a tad older – a mere six years or so – than the young gentleman here will make up nicely for his immaturity. Besides, older daughters get larger dowries."
...
13. Away in a Mad Rush
He didn't even try to lie in the bed. He paced the small space between the window and the bulky chest of drawers like a caged animal.
So this was what he had been brought up for – marrying a fat cow who was as slack as she was ugly in order to collect a dowry for his family! Plus, by the old bat's insinuation, this was not only his destiny, but also the fate of Malfoy men in general.
He refused to ... he wasn't sure what he refused to do, he just... refused. He'd had it. He was done with... with... with...
He threw his whiffy pillow across the room in frustration. The pent-up emotions wanted out, but the only way he had ever known to let them go was by bullying the next best person who seemed weak enough to succumb.
Oh yes, it had been a great method to hide that – in actual fact – he was the weakling. At any rate, it had served to hide that titbit of unpleasant truth from himself. He wasn't so sure anymore that he had ever fooled anyone else.
He had put every effort into making his parents proud of him, but he had most horribly failed. Maybe his mother was better off without him around.
He had swapped the wooden statuettes with the Muggle money before he even realised what he was doing. He hid the works of art beneath his dress robes at the bottom of his trunk and filled the remaining space in the rucksack with random clothes.
He became dimly aware that his mother might worry. He searched for stationery, but all he found was a stub of pencil.
He wrote directly on the lid of his trunk,
Mother,
I cannot stay. Forgive me.
D.
Forgive me? What did he want forgiveness for? For not turning out the wonderful son she had expected him to be?
He had tried so hard.
He had tried so in vain.
He stared at his writing without actually seeing it. Then, abruptly, he jerked round and made for the door. He turned back almost instantaneously, wrenched the Code of Conduct out of the trunk, and stuffed it into the rucksack.
He turned to leave, but went back a second time to fetch his toothbrush and shaving kit.
His glance fell on the writing once more.
Six words.
Six words for... an urge that was beyond words... an urge to be anywhere but in his own skin. He spun round and bolted.
He rushed down to the kitchen. Without seeing much in the semi-darkness, he filled a hip flask with water and crammed as much food into the already full rucksack as would fit in. He nipped out through the back door and ran down the narrow, hedged in lane that led to a broader one nearly two miles away.
There, he slowed down a bit, panting.
He turned and went westward so the rising sun would not blind him. He didn't feel like the direction mattered in any other respect. His destination was simply called away.
There wasn't just Lucrecia Runcorn from whom he wanted to get away. There was something else from which he wanted to get away, and more urgently so. He couldn't put a name to it. He didn't want to think about it, either. He kept up the quickest pace possible, and, finally, his footfall started to drown out his thoughts.
...
After several miles of brisk walking across farmland alternating with groves, he neared a settlement. He chose a footpath that wound its way through fenced-in vegetable gardens. Soon he reached an area of overgrown dogwood shrubs where the path narrowed to one third of its previous width. The path curved sharply to the right and ended at a train station, a Muggle train station.
He stood there for almost an hour, watching trains arrive and leave again. There wasn't the slightest amount of steam or smoke issuing from the engines, yet the trains moved. Muggles got on and off, Muggles headed to and fro. There were signs saying enigmatic things like Park & Ride or No Smoking. One sign said Ticket Office.
Ticket Office was a term he understood. A weird idea formed in his head.
He took some of the purplish Muggle banknotes from his rucksack and studied them. Besides the Muggle queen there was the picture of a man on horseback, fighting an odd, winged animal. He wondered briefly whether it was meant to be a baby dragon. It seemed unlikely, however, since Muggles were not supposed to know about dragons.
Next to the picture were the words twenty Pounds, printed in capital letters. Did twenty Pounds equal twenty Galleons or was the slip of paper not more worth than a couple of Knuts? He was about to decide that his grandfather wouldn't have bothered if the latter were the case when a line of tiniest printing caught his eye, "I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of" – it was the beginning of a sentence, a sentence that ended with the words twenty Pounds in capital letters! A bit further down followed London – also in capital letters – and something about a Bank of England.
What did this mean? Weren't these rectangles real money, real Muggle money at any rate? Were they merely the promise of twenty Pounds – pounds of what? Gold? – to be obtained at a place somewhere in London?
He turned the note over. There were more pictures: a Muggle leaning on a stack of books, and, on the left hand side, a girl standing on a balcony, and a young man looking up to her. The only piece of information given was a name and a life span. It didn't help in the least.
He wasn't sure what to think. Didn't it seem a downright Mugglish idea to use little, ridiculous pictures as money? Everybody with a good pen could forge them. On the other hand, Muggles were in all probability too simple-minded to think of forgery.
There was only one way to find out.
When he saw the next train approaching, he went to the ticket office.
"Where to?" a sullen-faced Muggle asked him, barely looking up from the counter.
"Where does that train over there go?" Draco asked, gesturing towards the platform.
The reply was so slurred that the only recognisable words were railway station. A smell that reminded Draco of firewhiskey emanated from the Muggle's mouth.
"Then, I want a ticket there," he said with fake poise. As an afterthought, he added, "A single ticket."
Muttering unintelligibly under his foul breath, the Muggle snatched away some of the banknotes Draco was holding out to him. After some fumbling, he returned an unadorned slip of paper and a handful of assorted coins along with an almost deadly glare.
Draco hastily pocketed ticket and change and boarded the train. It was in many respects different from the Hogwarts Express. It lacked, for example, compartments. The carriages were simply filled with rows and rows of seats.
He would have preferred to be on his own, but as this was obviously impossible he sat down in a free seat where he at least didn't have to endure an immediate neighbour. He did his best to ignore the multitude of Muggles around him and kept staring out of the grimy window without paying any heed to the landscape rushing past.
The train moved with considerable speed; it reached its destination before noon.
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