17. Money and Memories
He spent the next two days nursing the sunburn – the Muggle medicine was surprisingly effective – and the blisters. He didn't walk any further than the bathroom.
While his feet had their much-needed rest, his brain found no rest at all. Random thoughts, vague fears, and the most unwanted memories tumbled through his mind. He could not focus on anything. In fact, he felt too tired to try to. Despite the exhaustion, he couldn't sleep at night. In the darkness, the haunting images were even more vivid.
There was nothing to calm his nerves – no Cheering Charm, no Sleeping Draught, no Pensieve to store away at least the most troubling thoughts.
He wanted to stop thinking but couldn't. The moment he closed his eyes, he saw Chimera-headed flames roaring up. Memories pushed their way up into his consciousness with brutal force, and it seemed their stream would never cease – his unconscious mother was lying next to him on the floor, his father was writhing in agony, the monster was forcing Bellatrix Lestrange to put a Cruciatus on herself, Greyback was breathing into his face, She-Carrow was spitting at him, He-Carrow was yelling at him, Snape was glaring at him, Goyle was sneering at him, Pansy was laughing at him, Dumbledore was falling backwards – ever so slowly – over the battlements...
He wanted to cry but couldn't. No tears would come.
He had had frequent breakdowns in the course of the past two years – either in the Ghost Girl's bathroom or in his grandfather's study. Somehow, he had always managed to walk out of the respective room with the required expression of pure-blood superiority back on his face. He couldn't really tell where the strength had come from. Fear for his and his parents' lives had kept him going during the most part of his sixth year at Hogwarts. At some point in seventh year, a basic survival instinct had taken over, compelling him to fade as much as possible into the background – more often than not literally thanks to his skill at casting Disillusionment Charms.
But now with the worst horrors being over, now when he should relax and rejoice and recover, he couldn't even cry anymore. Every last grain of energy seemed gone.
...
He forced himself to eat the stale rolls. Swallowing seemed a real effort. Once he threw up afterwards. Several times, he was seized by shivering fits.
On the third day, he ran out of provisions. He couldn't bring himself to leave the house because the weather had changed. It poured with rain. He tried to eat the onions but gave up soon.
The following morning, after a sleepless night plagued with hunger and harrowing memories, he gasped at his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't shaved in days, the skin had started to peel of in places, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He looked thin. He knew he had lost weight since his trousers had become more than a little loose.
He had to get things back under control.
Although neither of the two taps in the shower cubicle – a sad affair apparently knocked together by particularly inept Muggles – provided warm water, he took a shower. For some reason, the cold water stinging his skin helped him to steel himself for an outing.
He didn't have a towel so he dried himself with a vest.
...
The rain had diminished to a drizzle when he set off for the village.
In less than ten minutes, he was at the baker's where he stuffed himself with assorted sandwiches. Feeling decidedly better afterwards, he made the shop girls happy by buying a bag of rolls and several boxes of cocoa. He also asked them where he could purchase a towel and promptly got a rambling description of each and every retailer in the vicinity.
...
The towel shop wasn't difficult to find. The extra-large specimens on display in the shop window were yet another proof of the Muggles' lack of taste. They all had questionable pictures printed on them: oversized dogs and cats with pink collars or sparsely clothed women.
He went in nonetheless. He asked for plain towels and was shown a small selection thereof. He decided on a thick, soft one of purest white.
And then he made a mistake. A dressing gown hanging on a stand had caught his eye. It's style was fairly elegant, and it matched the towel in colour. The thought of having it was alluring. After all, he had to cross public territory when going to the bathroom, and it wasn't unreasonable to think that there might be other lodgers soon.
Smiling jovially, the shop assistant fetched the gown from the stand and held it out to him. The fabric felt warm and velvety. He nodded, allowing himself to imagine the sensation it would cause on his naked shoulders. He did have a weakness for comfortable garments, for smooth textiles like silk, for things warm and soft that were made of cashmere... Although this gown here was made of something he knew no name for, the idea of it gently caressing his thighs as he moved held him in its sway. His reverie came to an abrupt end when the shop assistant told him the price.
While he frantically tried to determine what would be the least disgrace – trying to pay with out-dated banknotes again, making excuses and saying he had to go and change money first, or admitting he couldn't afford buying both items – the Muggle cheerfully babbled about promotion weeks and busied herself with one of those odd, noisy boxes that apparently belonged in any Muggle shop. When she was done making the device clatter, she handed him the bill it had produced. Mysteriously, the sum had dwindled down by exactly five percent. He realised that he could pay now, but only just so.
He left the shop both dazed and relieved.
On the way back to his lodgings, he pondered his situation. He had a towel, a dressing gown that was probably luxurious by Muggle standards, provisions for two days, and some small change that would buy no more than a cup of tea and a single sandwich at the baker's.
...
18. Abraxas Malfoy
In search of the settlement he had passed by on his way here, he went northeast early the next morning. He needed to change more of his grandfather's money, but going to the post office here in Trethwyn for a second time would surely raise suspicion.
He marched at a good pace; the cold wind blowing in from the sea almost shoved him forward. Initially, the air had a somewhat salty flavour, which became less detectable the more hills he crossed. The sky was hung with dark clouds, but it didn't rain.
...
The place was larger than Trethwyn. Exploring the streets systematically, he found a post office as well as branch offices of two different Muggle bank houses.
His story of dusty banknotes discovered among his late grandfather's belongings met either with sympathy or with indifference. The servant at the post office refused to change more than one hundred pounds, but the other two were more generous. Draco had soon money enough for nearly ten dressing gowns.
...
The way back to the coast took him a long time. His shoes chafed again and in the very same places as before. He sat down after every mile to take them off for a few minutes. They were custom-made, yes, but for the single purpose of matching his black dinner suit. They were intended for indoor use or, at the utmost, for a short, leisurely stroll around the garden, but never for long walks.
He had worn them for the second dinner at the Great-aunt's, and in his frenzy to get away he hadn't thought of changing into his dragon-hide boots. And sadly, proper boots weren't the only thing he had failed to think of. He had no trousers or jackets apart from the ones he was wearing. After a week of constant use including a nap on the beach, they had an uncomfortable, grubby feel about them. He didn't have the faintest idea how to get garments clean without spells.
There had to be a method because the appearance of most Muggles was neat and tidy. Except for his grandfather, nobody had ever told him how to do things without magic. Doing things without magic simply wasn't on.
Grandfather Abraxas, defying decorous manners, had taught him how to tie his shoelaces without Dobby's help. He had explained how to make fire with a magnifying glass or how to tell the compass points by the stars. The latter had been pretty much beyond a five-year-old's grasp, but when Sinistra had given a lecture on the subject, Draco had remembered his grandfather's words.
He tried to recall more details about his grandfather. It wasn't too difficult because his mother had made sure he learned not only the names of his ancestors but also the basics of their biographies like dates of birth, marriage, and death as well as what honours they had received and what their major accomplishments had been. He knew the complete data of seven generations by heart.
Grandfather Abraxas was the son of Great-aunt Lucrecia's older sister Sibylla. He had married a nearly eleven year older, exceptionally rich widow from Scotland in 1906. The wedding ceremony had taken place in the summer before his grandfather's final year at Hogwarts. So far, Draco had accepted that as a given fact and never wondered about the story behind.
Being still a student, where had Abraxas Malfoy first met a woman more than ten years his senior? A social gathering, a ball or Yule reception for example, seemed most likely. How had they become acquainted? Why had she been interested in a teenager? What had he seen in her?
She hadn't been pretty. Judging from the oil painting and photographs Draco had seen, she hadn't even been handsome. She hadn't been pregnant, either. Or had she? Pregnancy would explain the haste. In that case, however, she must have had a miscarriage later. The first marriage of Draco's grandfather had been childless and had ended after only three years. Draco knew when his grandfather's first wife had died – on August 1, 1909 – but not how.
It had taken Abraxas Malfoy until he was well in his sixties before he had married again, and this time, his wife had been a good thirty years younger than him.
Draco had never known his grandmother. She had been a Death Eater and was killed by Aurors the year before his birth.
Had Grandfather borne the Mark, too? It didn't seem too likely since nobody had ever said anything about Abraxas Malfoy having been a follower of the so-called 'Dark Lord'.
In fact, nobody had ever said much about Abraxas Malfoy at all. Draco's parents had hardly mentioned him.
Slughorn had brushed him off when he had asked.
Was there a catch?
If so, what was it?
Draco recalled the bespectacled, slightly stooped man as being kind, but very earnest. He had probably never seen him smile, let alone laugh. Nevertheless, he had liked to spend time with him. How they would have fared had his grandfather lived longer was hard to tell. Would he still have appreciated the old man's company and teachings as a teenager, or would they have grown apart?
At any rate, he felt gratitude towards Abraxas Malfoy – for the magnifying glass, the money and especially for the unwittingly provided sanctuary. Draco had huddled in the corner of his grandfather's study, hoping that the opening door would still shield him if somebody in search for him peeked in. But nobody – no werewolf, no mad aunt, no monster – had ever tried that door. Draco had never wondered why. He probably hadn't dared to. He had cherished the feeling of comparative safety and had feared that thinking about it might already be enough to destroy it.
There had been one incident, however, that should have made him think. His mother had asked him, "Draco, where have you been?" when he had just stepped out of the room before her very eyes. More than the strange fact that she hadn't seen him – it wasn't entirely impossible; she might have been preoccupied – his own answer should have puzzled him. Rather than, "I was in Grandfather's study," he had said, "Oh, I was just in here somewhere."
He hadn't used the phrase my grandfather's study in any of his conversations with Muggles today. He couldn't utter the words.
There was a logical explanation for this, but it was a peculiar one. What could have driven Abraxas Malfoy to put a Fidelius Charm on a part of his own house?
Thinking back now to life at Malfoy Manor thirteen or fourteen years ago, Draco realised that something had been amiss. He remembered noisy altercations between his father and his grandfather. Some of them might have been actual fights. He didn't know for sure because he had never been anywhere near the action. Usually, at the first sign of any disturbance, Dobby had appeared as if on cue and Apparated him, the small child, away.
Suddenly, his thoughts were galloping down quite another avenue. Like his grandfather, Dobby had vanished from Draco's life without warning. In neither case, he had heard afterwards an explanation compelling enough to help him deal with the unexpected change.
Dobby had reappeared – in a most spectacular way and at the most unexpected moment. He had turned up to Apparate Potter out off harm's way.
As to what creepy twist of fate had brought Dobby into league with Potter, he could only speculate. He could not tell where their former house-elf had been hiding for years, or when and why he had lost the creature's loyalty and fierce determination to protect him. Dobby had rescued Potter, not him. In point of fact, the elf hadn't even spared him a glance.
He still wished Lestrange's knife had missed and buried itself deep into Weasley's thigh rather than into Dobby's chest. Such hopes were, in all probability, futile; Weasley had not limped when they had met soon after.
Unlike Weasley, he was limping. One hill still separated him from his lodgings, and deep down, he was almost glad about the pain in his feet because it distracted him from the pain in his heart.
...
When he finally returned, an owl was waiting for him.
...
19. Owl Post
Experienced enough to avoid unnecessary attention, his mother's old tawny owl sat quietly in the bush beneath his window.
Luckily, owls couldn't be tracked. Trailing them was perhaps thinkable in theory, but all witches and wizards who had endeavoured to follow one on broomstick had soon found themselves in the middle of a flock of agitated birds. According to their tales, the owls had circled and swirled around them, blocking both sight and flying path, and then vanished as suddenly as they had gathered. If, occasionally, a single owl had lingered behind, it had never been the one the human pursuers had intended to trail.
Owls were mysterious animals. They were clever and reliable. Above all, they were unconditionally loyal to the addressee of any message they were carrying even if this required to disobey their owner. Draco had never heard of a Ministry owl piloting Aurors to their prey.
There were legends about owls that had led somebody to another human being. In all those cases, however, the person in question had wanted to be found.
...
Ada watched him enter the house. She didn't stir before he had opened the window for her.
He took the ham-filled roll he had saved up for dinner from the plastic bag, broke it in two, and offered one half to the bird. She accepted, probably understanding that he had no proper owl treats. Ada was the only one of the Malfoy family owls that had survived the troubled times.
...
His mother's letter was short.
Draco,
Taking into account both the note you left on your trunk and Lucrecia's firm statement about no Auror ever being able to sneak into her house undetected, I assume that you have not been arrested but disappeared due to a whim of your own.
I expect you to return home without delay.
Remember to bring the rucksack and its contents with you.
Sincerely,
Mother
He dropped the parchment onto his bed, letting out a sigh.
The owl ruffled her feathers and hooted loudly. Without doubt, she had orders to insist on a reply.
He needed a few minutes to mull the message over, so he went down to the bathroom where he washed slowly the dried blood and the dirt off his feet.
His mother expected him to return home... What home? Runcorn's cottage was no more his home than the shoddy place here. He looked round. There was nothing but an admittedly large washbasin and a three-legged stool. Shower cubicle and toilet were separated from the main room by simple hangings made of plastic. The small window had iron bars on the outside, and the floor wasn't tiled but laid with red bricks. He was pretty sure that this building had been a barn before somebody had had the idea of making it into a lodging house.
He put fresh socks on and climbed back to his room, carrying the shoes in his hand. Maybe he should ask the bakery girls where he could acquire slippers.
Of course, staying at Lucrecia Runcorn's would provide him with more luxuries – for the moment. If she had her will, he might be out of her house and in Araminta Bulstrode's bed before the end of the year... He would not shake hands with that girl if he could help it, let alone touch any other part of her body.
...
He read the few lines from his mother over and over again, trying to discern what she had felt writing them. Had she been worried or disgruntled? Angry?
It was difficult without seeing her face and hearing her tone of voice. He wondered whether he had ever understood her sufficiently. Perhaps his many mistakes were partly due to his lack of perceptiveness.
The stub of pencil was still in his pocket. He turned his mother's note over and wrote on the back,
Mother,
I would like to entreat you not to worry.
He paused. He had to say something that would placate her, something that sounded reasonable enough to stall any plans of searching for him.
I'm in good health and well accommodated, he wrote, asking himself whether she would see straight through it. The statement was the peak of exaggeration unless he compared his current situation with being imprisoned in Azkaban.
He still couldn't tell why the Wizengamot had let him off. Lucrecia Runcorn had spoken of century-old laws that apparently allowed for a certain degree of mercy, but why a victorious party would consider using them in favour of the defeated was beyond him.
Then again, Potter's attitude had always been a bit of a mystery to him, and Dumbledore's disciples were all of the same sort somehow.
The owl, perched on the frame of the open window, hooted impatiently.
He shushed her and then continued, I came here to have some rest after the recent difficulties, and I intend to stay a while longer. I hope you will understand that revealing my current whereabouts in a letter would not be prudent.
Owls couldn't be followed but, for some inexplicable reason, they could be intercepted within a range of about one hundred yards around their destination. Maybe the alleged kindness of letting probationers use owls had nothing to do at all with generosity. Maybe the very idea was to provide the Aurors with a convenient means to snoop into people's privacy.
He re-read what he had written and signed.
Any attempt to explain matters further would be futile as long as he hadn't sorted out the tangle of failure and doubt, of contradictions and lies. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had tried to be a dutiful son, and that he needed a break before he would try again. Besides, even if he did elaborate, there was no guarantee his mother would see his point.
His parents hadn't believed him – in fact, they had hardly listened – when he had told them they might have more to fear from a triumph of the monster than from a victory of the other side. During the Yule holidays, he had sought out his parents separately to communicate his fears to them in private. It had been to no avail.
His mother had put his qualms down to a temporary depression caused by the split-up with Pansy. His father had been furious. He had given Draco a reprimand, essentially warning him that if the 'Dark Lord' detected a mere shadow of disloyalty, they'd be dead. He had completely failed to understand – or deliberately chosen to ignore – what Draco had told him. There was no need for any detectable disloyalty or shadow thereof; the monster did not need any reason whatsoever to give orders, nay, to give permission to dispose with certain members of the old families.
Needless to say, Draco hadn't been able to prove his point. It had been gut feeling. In retrospect, he could say his intuition had not been misleading. But no-one had listened to him. His parents had still believed at the end of the Easter holidays they could get back into the monster's good graces.
...
Before he fastened the parchment to the owl's leg, he reached for the pencil again and wrote a postscript.
P.S. I replaced the rucksack with two pillowcases.
D.
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