14. Stranger in a Strange World
He left the station without enthusiasm. He couldn't say why going to a city had sounded appealing to him some three hours earlier. The place was just as ugly, busy, stinking, and loud as Muggle London. Muggle cars were rushing around, droning and roaring and hooting. A sudden screeching noise right behind him made him jump. A Muggle in an absurdly orange jacket yelled at him about whether he was completely stoned and that he should move his arse off the street.
Resenting the Muggle's behaviour and foul language, Draco moved to the side – and was almost run over by one of the stupid cars. The darn vehicle screeched to a halt mere inches away from him; the Muggle inside looked livid.
He hastened to get away, but soon he found himself drifting along with the largest crowd. He believed this to be the safest method – provided that Muggles were not as inane as not to know their way around in their own, awful cities. Sometimes the Muggles he followed would stop for some unknown reason and wait until a larger group was gathered. Then, as if prompted by a secret signal, they set off as one.
Before long the crowd dispersed, and he was left to his own devices in the maze of criss-crossing streets.
He opted against following single individuals. Instead, he made for a patch of greenery that loomed to his left, but the park turned out to be disappointingly small.
So, he walked on until he reached a river. The opposite shore looked less urban and, therefore, more inviting.
He found a ferry and used two of the coins to pay the fee.
...
The new town was smaller and quieter. The cars were fewer and moved at a more moderate pace. They still left bitter-smelling fumes in their wake, but most of them sat neatly arranged in several rows where they emitted neither noise nor stench.
He gave the sleeping cars a wide berth and left the town, following a lane that headed roughly southwest. He had, for quite some time, a lake to his right and green hillside to his left. He didn't pause to look at either, he simply walked on. When another Muggle settlement appeared, he passed it by, turning slightly left and climbing a hill. The hill was followed by a dell and a second hill. After that came a second dell and then more hills.
The sun was high in the sky, and he felt hot and sweaty. The straps of the rucksack hurt his shoulders; his shoes, despite having been custom-made and expensive, hurt his feet. He kept trudging on, though, until he encountered a genuine obstacle – a stretch of water that reached straight to the horizon.
He sat down on the warm sand, well out of the way of a gaggle of bathing Muggles. He had no idea what to do next or where to go now.
It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten the whole day, and he took out some of the food he had lifted in the morning. Thanks to the frenzy he had been in, his stock consisted solely of peanuts and onions. He ate a handful of peanuts, but without appetite. He was too exhausted. He emptied the hip flask to the last drop, and then he leaned back against his rucksack and closed his eyes.
...
He woke to the words, "Nothing serious, Jory. Doesn't smell of weed or booze."
"Maybe he injects?" another voice said.
"Heaven forbid..."
Draco felt his left sleeve suddenly being moved upwards. The amount of adrenaline that shot through his veins made him wide awake from one instant to the next. He jerked upwards, trying to pull his arm back.
"Easy now, young man," the Muggle who held his arm said in warning tones. Aside, addressing his companion, he added, "No, fine. Just an ugly tattoo."
"The taste of young folks nowadays is simply beyond me," the other replied.
Draco tried again to yank his arm free.
The Muggle let go, yet commanded simultaneously, "Gather your belongings and come."
Draco reached for his rucksack and peered quickly inside. Everything seemed to be still there. So, they apparently weren't robbers.
"What do you want?" he asked and scolded himself inwardly at the same moment because, instead of demanding, the question had sounded pathetically fearful.
"Look, we can't have that here," the Muggle said. "It starts with one youth sleeping on the beach. The next thing we know is the whole place littered with tents, illegal campfires and mounds of left-behind junk. And that, in turn, will scare off other tourists, especially the ones with the habit of spending their money here every summer. Our local economy depends on tourism you see. Now be good and come."
Draco slowly got up, not taking his eyes off the two identically clad Muggles for a single moment. Something in their behaviour reminded him of Aurors.
They ushered him back to the lane from which he had come. He had difficulty walking; his feet hurt more than they had done the previous night.
The Muggles led him towards a standing car. The older one opened a door at the side of the vehicle and motioned for Draco to step closer.
"Get in," he said. "We don't have all day."
"No!" Draco cried out, backing off in alarm and bumping into the younger Muggle.
"Calm down, you twit!" the man said, grabbing Draco's upper arms. "You aren't arrested. We'll just give you a ride."
"No!" Draco cried again, and more horrified than before. He wrenched himself out of the man's grip and took flight.
Despite his hurting feet, he ran at top speed. Only when his lungs started to hurt as well, he risked a backwards glance. There was no sign of the Muggles or their ruddy car. He slowed to a halt.
His feet were agonizing. Still fighting for air, he sat down on a patch of grass beside the lane and took his shoes and socks off. There were blisters, and the largest ones were filled with darkened blood.
He sighed. What could he do with no wand to perform a pain-easing spell and no ointment to rub on?
After a while, he stood up and set off again. Carefully placing his bare feet only where the ground looked smooth, he walked at a snail's pace towards a little village that loomed in the distance. It took him the better part of two hours to get there.
...
Trethwyn was not quite the size of Hogsmeade. There was a tiny square where four or five streets met. The middle of the square was marked by a well that had obviously fallen dry. He slumped down onto the plain, wooden bench that stood next to it.
He felt kind of ill. He was thirsty, his face burned like the Mark once had, his stomach made loud, rumbling noises, and the sore spots on his shoulders hurt almost as much as his feet.
He sat there for about ten minutes, doing nothing.
The place was agreeably quiet. Only few Muggles were bustling about, and the cars crawling tentatively along the cobbled streets were even fewer. The shops, except the baker's, had a closed look about them. A large poster above the shop window of the bakery advertised a special breakfast offer.
A plate of scrambled eggs and a nice cup of milk... The thought was enthralling. Irresistible, to be correct. He could pretend he didn't know a Muggle had been the cook.
He was about to put his socks and shoes back on, when a shadow fell on his feet.
"Still here?" somebody asked.
Draco looked up and into the face of the Muggle he had run from earlier. The dark epaulettes on the man's white shirt featured three chevrons and a couple of letters and numbers, respectively. The other Muggle was there, too, and so was the multi-coloured car with POLICE written on it.
Draco bit back a sigh. How could he possibly have known that Muggles had a law against sleeping on the beach?
...
15. Happy Birthday, Draco
"That's why you camped out at Maiden's Cliff?" the Muggle asked, pointing to Draco's feet. "The blisters? You could have said."
Draco gave a minuscule shrug. He was out of options – he had no wand to hex the git, no knowledge to argue back, and no strength left to run once more.
The Muggle prattled on about being willing to help.
"Come," he said when Draco was done putting his shoes on. "She won't mind opening her office half an hour early if I ask her."
"Whatever you suggest," Draco said softly, well aware that anyone would consider his compliance as disgraceful. Goyle, or Nott, or Greengrass would be bent double with laughter if they saw him obeying a Muggle. His father would give him a telling off that topped each and every previous one.
The Muggle knocked at a shop window and waved at someone inside. Thirty seconds later a woman opened the adjacent door and peered out, a curious expression in her eyes.
"Morning, Lowenna," the Muggle grinned. Slapping Draco nonchalantly on his tender shoulder, he went on, "Here, a backpacker. Jory and I caught him sleeping near Maiden's Cliff. Find him some accommodation that is less expensive than the fine for a second offence."
"Don't worry, dear," the woman said, beckoning Draco in. "Of course, we have lodgings for young people with a small travelling budget."
She asked his name, date of birth, and place of residence, and he gave her, out of habit, his address in Wiltshire. He didn't correct the mistake; the Muggle had no business knowing anything about him anyway.
"You should do something about your sunburn," she said conversationally, while she busied herself with papers. "Skin cancer is nothing to trifle with."
He didn't answer, and she put two sheets of paper on the counter.
One he was to give the proprietor, a Mr Penwith, the other one was a sketchy map of the village. She marked the way to Mr Penwith's house with an oddly thick, orange pencil.
"Enjoy your stay at Trethwyn," she smiled. "And, by the way, Happy Birthday!"
Caught completely off guard, he simply stared at her.
She laughed and pointed to the calendar on the wall. It showed June the fifth.
...
He exited the little office, trying to hide his trembling.
A year ago, he had spent most of the day whimpering on the floor. The monster had reappeared every time the clock had struck a full hour and had cast another Cruciatus in order to remind Draco how worthless he was.
He limped back to the bench and sat there again, willing himself to calm down, to stop remembering. It didn't work. The monster had been pretty successful in making sure he wouldn't forget. Maybe one of the reasons why the Ministry stripped the Death Eaters of their wands was to prevent them from performing Memory Charms on themselves.
Distraction eventually came in the person of a corpulent Muggle who sat down next to him. She had a white, smouldering stick in her mouth. The fumes that issued from the burning end stung his nose and almost drove tears to his eyes.
He got up, whereupon an aged, frail-looking woman sat down in his place, thanking him profusely. He hastened to get away from those weird folk.
...
The special breakfast offer turned out to be a plastic bag filled with assorted rolls. Cocoa was sold in cardboard boxes. He marvelled at how the Muggles kept the cardboard from going soggy.
The two young Muggle women working at the baker's appeared to be excessively pleased about being able to sell him Cheddar sandwiches – daintily decorated with parsley and bits of tomato – and a large mug of steaming hot tea. Just like the woman in the office, they told him to do something about his sunburn because skin cancer was a serious matter. They suggested he should ask for an "après solaire" lotion in the shop next door.
He actually followed their advice. His chances of getting his hands on a proper burn-healing paste were zero, and if the liniments of the Muggles were only half as good as their cheese sandwiches, he could give them at least a try.
The shop owner swiftly selected two products she thought the most appropriate for him. She also felt compelled to give him comprehensive instructions about how to use them – how to heal the current burn and to avoid further ones in the future. In addition, she recommended wearing a hat. There was headgear of various designs on display, and he chose a plain blue cap with a round part sticking out at the front.
"Well, that's eleven sixty," she said.
He had spent the last coins at the baker's, so he reached into his rucksack and brought out several purplish banknotes.
The Muggle frowned.
She didn't touch the one he laid onto the counter, but said, "You do know they are out of date, don't you?"
For yet another time this morning, he felt seized by panic. He depended on that money! Without it, he couldn't even go back to Runcorn's place.
"Are they worthless?" he managed, threading the answer.
"Well, no, of course not. But you need to change them," she said kindly. "Where did you get them, anyway?"
"My grandfather said I should have them," he answered absently while he tried to figure out what she meant by "change them".
"Well, that's elderly people for you. The old twenty pound notes were withdrawn in 1993; maybe you were a bit young then," she mused. "Well, love, I'll take that one here so you can have your sunburn remedy right away."
She took the banknote from the counter. While she put his purchase into a colourful plastic bag, she went on, "But for the rest of them you'll have to go to the post office. In the high season, tourists from abroad often try to pay bills with old money kept after a visit here about ten years ago. We are a holiday region; we need to keep our tourists happy. So, Mr Tregantle of our local post office usually takes care of that sort of thing. It spares the foreigners a trip to the city in order to change a single five pound note."
"Would he change two hundred?" he asked.
"Well," – she glanced at the paper rectangles in his hand – "two hundred pounds sound pretty much to me..."
He had meant two hundred banknotes. In fact, two hundred banknotes did not even amount to one tenth of what he had in his rucksack. The disillusionment must have shown on his face because she gave him a smile that was overtly sympathetic.
"Perhaps you had better go to Higher Holebrook, then. Or to Plymouth. You can go by coach. Wait a sec."
She disappeared into the backroom and returned with a crumpled leaflet.
"Here, look. This is a list of all bank houses that will change old money without fuss, some of them up to one thousand pounds at a time. And here, building societies, too." She held the leaflet out to him. "You can have that. I've got another one."
He took it and – remembering too late that he was talking to a Muggle – said, "Thank you, Ma'am."
She smiled.
"You're welcome."
...
Outside the shop, he consulted the village map. The post office appeared to be situated a mere fifty yards off the path marked in orange.
He traipsed down the cobbled street, trying to devise a clever plan. Since he couldn't hex the servant into co-operating, he would have to convince him with well-chosen words and a credible story. But what kind of tale would a Muggle consider credible, and what, on the other hand, would raise instant suspicion?
...
16. Muggles
Despite his hurting feet, he had reached the office building sooner than he had reached a decision. He had got by so far, but probably by sheer luck.
He replayed the conversation with the friendly shop owner in his head while he transferred sundry banknotes from his rucksack to his pocket. Then, he went in.
"Good morning," he said because showing formal politeness seemed advisable in the given situation. After all, he was here to ask a favour. "Mr Tregantle?"
"I am Mr Tregantle," the Muggle said gravely. "What can I do for you, young man?"
"I... er... found a number of old banknotes among my late grandfather's belongings." Why was sounding calm and collected so much harder to achieve than it used to be? He wasn't even lying! "He died in 1985, and judging by the layer of dust that covered everything, nobody has touched any of his things ever since."
"And you thought the money would come in handy when going on your holidays." It was a statement, not a question.
"Err... something like that..." The Muggle's steady gaze unnerved him. "They said in the shop you would change out-dated money."
"That depends. How much did you find?"
Instead of answering, Draco took out the little package of various banknotes. The Muggle took it and counted the notes with amazing swiftness.
"Two hundred and fifteen," he said and reached for a form and a pen. "What did you say your name was?"
"Draco Malfoy."
The Muggle nodded distractedly while he filled in the form.
Draco watched him. He wasn't used to such complete lack of reaction to his name. Lately, disdain and hatred had predominated. Perhaps, under the circumstances, he should view going unnoticed as an improvement.
The man had him sign the form and seemed perfectly content with the pitiful scrawl Draco produced with the unwonted Muggle pen. He leisurely counted out the new banknotes.
"There you are, young man," he said eventually.
"Thanks," Draco mumbled, embarrassed not so much by having to thank a Muggle but by the fact that he did feel something very much like gratitude because this whole exchange business had gone so smoothly.
"That's alright." The Muggle gave him a restrained smile. "You should do something about that sunburn. Perhaps you try olive oil; they said on TV it would help."
Draco managed a nod in response to that piece of mystifying advice and left.
...
Slowly, he made his way inland. The lane went ever so slightly uphill. Thanks to the blisters, he hobbled more than he walked. It took him half an hour to reach his designated accommodation, located well away from the village. And it took him just as long to brace himself for another encounter with a Muggle.
There were three small buildings, including a hen house. An area of grassland was fenced in as a run for the birds.
The owner was in his late seventies, gaunt and of medium height. His clothes were as faded as his thin hair. He was feeding the chickens when Draco arrived.
Mr Penwith seemed both surprised and excited about getting a lodger. Enthusiastically, he fetched a couple of keys from one building and then led the way to the other, the one Draco had believed to be a barn.
He thrust the keys at Draco, telling him to unlock the entrance door.
"It's the big one, the big key," he instructed. "The safety key is for your room upstairs."
Followed by the old Muggle, Draco went in.
The hall was laid with bricks; the only light came from a lone, narrow window. Two doors were strait ahead, marked with the words Gents and Ladies, respectively. The door nearest to the entrance was labelled No Admittance.
They had to climb stairs that bore a strong resemblance to a ladder. Five doors led off the first floor landing.
"Number two," the old Muggle said, wheezing. "You can have number two."
Draco opened the door that had a large, silvery "2" nailed to it and stepped into the room beyond. He couldn't help but gape at the sight that met him. There was nothing except a bed, a chair and a locker – no fireplace, no carpet, no hangings, no anything. Not even the infamous Burrow, the filthy, Ghoul-infested hut of the Weasley clan, could be that austere.
"That's the biggest room," the Muggle said. "It's all yours."
"The biggest room?" Draco echoed, aghast. That so-called room was about the size of a broom closet!
"What did you expect?" the Muggle retorted somewhat defiantly. "I'm not the Ritz."
Draco stared at the ugly, whitish sculpture beneath the window. It was the only piece of decoration in this room and, at that, clear evidence of abysmally bad taste.
"What now?" the Muggle asked, confused. "Do you want to stay or not?"
Did he want to stay? Here? Draco thought of his hurting feet and of the sad fact that there was no solution closer by than the bed in front of him. He also pondered the possibility that Muggle dwellings might look like this in general. If so, this place was as good as any other. And what was more – no-one, no Auror or other Ministry clerk would suspect him staying here, Lucrecia Runcorn least of all.
"Err... I guess," he said, "yeah..."
"Good, good," the Muggle sighed with relief. "Make yourself comfortable, then... By the way, I get paid in advance. No offence, young man, but there are such people that will sneak out before sunrise. Happened to me two times last year; I never saw no money."
"How much-"
"It's eight per night. No breakfast, though, only bed. My wife used to cook for the lodgers. But, alas, she is no more... So that's why it's only bed. You can get a snack at the baker's down in the village. And The Merry Fisherman opens at half past-" He broke off in mid-sentence when he spied the money Draco had taken out.
"You're staying longer?" he sputtered.
"I haven't decided yet," Draco said. He had no immediate plans – no plans whatsoever to be correct – but he needed some days of rest. He'd stay at least until he could walk properly again.
"Yes, yes, no problem, not at all," the old Muggle hastily assured him, his eyes fixed on the money. "You can stay the whole summer if you like."
Maybe not, Draco thought. The room was spartan even for a hidey-hole. He nevertheless proffered nearly one half of his valid money to the Muggle.
While the old man eagerly counted the banknotes, Draco glanced around. The window faced east and wasn't too big. There were no candles.
"Where is-" he started.
"The loo?" the old man cut in. "Downstairs. The bathroom to the right is for gents. Remember not to walk into the other one 'by accident'. Sexual harassment counts as a crime these days. That reminds me. No drugs and no smoking in here. Booze I don't mind as long as you don't puke all over the bed sheets. And as for young ladies, well, I'll be sure to look the other way."
He pocketed the money and turned to leave.
"I meant to ask how I can get some light in here," Draco said quickly.
"Light?" The Muggle gave him an odd look. He slapped a spot on the wall right next to the door whereupon the entire room filled with bright light. He slapped the same spot again, and the light vanished. "Any other questions?"
Flabbergasted, Draco shook his head.
The Muggle left, and Draco sank down onto the bed.
He reached for the pillow and sniffed it.
It smelled of lavender.
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