20. Settling In
No further owls arrived; no Ministry official or great-aunt came looking for him.
He treated himself to a pair of slippers. Because he didn't want his stock of valid money go low again, he went westward two days later in search for another village and another post office. It was a bright and breezy day, and he walked most of the distance on the beach thus not having to wear shoes and not getting blisters. The main purpose of the trip was to change money, but the long ramble had a welcome side effect – he was nicely tired by the time he returned.
Then there came a number of days when he couldn't go farther than the baker's due to storm and rain. He sat around in his room all day with absolutely nothing to do. There was nothing there to distract him for a single moment. At night, he got hardly an hour of sleep. He tossed and turned, trying in vain to silence the countless memories that were screaming for attention. He wasn't even able to dwell on a particular topic – his mind jumped from horror to horror, from failure to failure and from one humiliation to the next.
The frightening sleeping disorder was the reason for buying a translucent raincoat – translucent was definitely weird, yet less embarrassing than orange or yellow – and it was also the reason for buying, after several days of hesitation, a pair of trainers. He had never worn shoes that weren't custom-made, and the ones in question didn't even come from Turpin & Awl's Enticing Footwear but had been cobbled by some unknown Muggle instead.
However, they did their duty. Now, he roamed the hills whenever the weather was too wet and windy for roaming the beach.
Gradually, he settled into some sort of routine. He regularly ate breakfast at the baker's, and he had dinner at The Merry Fisherman as often as the weather permitted sitting on the terrace. Eating indoors was out of the question because the air in the pub was toxic with the fumes from the Muggles' ubiquitous smouldering sticks.
...
He asked the bakery girls about cleaning clothes and learned – in the course of the better part of an hour – that laundering was a lengthy process involving lots of lukewarm water and a special type of liquid soap to be purchased at the shop next door.
He thought it advisable to start his experiments with socks and underpants rather than with his only pair of trousers. The result was surprisingly good, but he hadn't thought of how to get his laundry dry without using spells. It always seemed the same – a minor detail overlooked in planning spoiled his whole effort.
Since it was a fine, clear day, the idea occurred to him to expose the wet clothes to the sunshine, hoping the warm rays would do the trick.
No sooner had he draped the first pair of socks on the fence of the chicken run than a gust of wind blow one sock away. It fell down inside the run. The hens darted towards it, pecked at it, and threw it around in the mud.
The fence was too high to jump over it, so Draco rushed to the gate, yanked it open, and ran to retrieve his sock. The chickens sort of panicked. They shot away in all directions, flapping their wings and clucking madly. Ignoring them, he snatched his sock out of a muddy puddle. When he turned back, Mr Penwith was there, flailing a broomstick at a couple of hens that tried to escape through the open gate. Clucking and screeching, the birds broke into a frenzied run. Their furious wing-flapping proved futile – their wings were too feeble to carry them actually up into the air. Abruptly, they changed direction and shot straight towards Draco, causing him to jump aside. But they decided on an evasive manoeuvre as well, one that brought them exactly to where his feet were coming back down to the ground. It was a matter of a split second – he couldn't stop, they didn't stop, and one of the hens collided with his shin. It darted off after the other bird, its indignant clucking sounding somewhat choked.
"What d'you think you're doing?" the Muggle yelled. "I'm too old for that! Or are you keen on chasing them back in?"
Draco – dripping wet laundry in one hand and mucky sock in the other – stammered an apology, simultaneously berating himself for stuttering in front of a Muggle and for his general lack of consideration.
The man actually listened, looking Draco up and down. He also spied the lone sock on the fence, and his initial anger lessened visibly.
"I see... forgot about the clothesline... my fault," he muttered. "I'm back in a jiffy. Just wait here."
He disappeared into his house and came back with a thin rope that had a number of plastic clothes pegs clamped to it. Muggles seemed exceedingly fond of the material, presumably because of its glaring colours.
He showed Draco two hooks, one protruding from the wall of the lodging house and the other one being attached to a tall, wooden pole next to the shrubbery, and gave instructions on how the rope was to be fastened to them.
"You do that. You put that clothes line up," he said. It was neither order nor plea but a simple statement. "It's much easier for you than for me, right? I'm not as young nowadays as I used to be. Thanks for obliging... And don't take the line down once your laundry is dry. There will be more lodgers soon and they'll need something to dry their bathing costumes."
...
There were other lodgers soon. They usually arrived late in the afternoon or early in the evening. When Draco left for the baker's the next morning, most of them seemed still fast asleep, but they were gone by the time he returned.
By and large, they were no nuisance. They greeted Draco when they happened to meet him in the hall. Those trying to strike up further conversation he quickly discouraged by being unforthcoming. He only made the occasional exception for people who spoke with a broad, foreign accent and approached him for advice rather than for idle chatter. He was polite when he told them that he did not know the answers to their questions.
The best method to avoid unnecessary Muggle contact was spending time outdoors. There were Muggles on the beach, too, and their number increased as the high season drew nearer, but they were minding their own business, and Draco chose to ignore them in turn.
He walked for several hours every day. In the morning he went to the promontory to the west and in the afternoon eastward well beyond Maiden's Cliff, the place where he had once slept. The exercise did not only help him to get a few hours of genuine sleep every night but also made daytime more bearable. His memories were tamer while he moved in a steady pace. He could focus. Why this worked he wasn't sure but he intended to make use of it.
Whether he was roaming the hills or the beach, he assembled questions. Collecting questions seemed a reasonable first step. He was resolved to answer them later, as a second step, as truthfully as he would have done under the influence of Veritaserum.
However, even Veritaserum could only bring out truths you already knew. The potion was useless wherever you were unsure as to what was true and what wasn't. And doubts had grown within him during the last year like weeds in a neglected flowerbed.
...
21. Pansy
Sometimes the Muggles hogged the bathroom. It didn't affect him as long as they were female lodgers because they had their separate bathroom. Besides, girls – or older women – always came in twos or threes, kept mostly to themselves, and didn't invite him to have a drink or "smoke" with them.
Getting up early usually gave him an advantage since most Muggle lodgers liked to sleep in. Unfortunately, the trick didn't always work. One day at half past six in the morning, Draco walked in on a bearded Muggle wearing nothing but a huge grin.
"Don't mind me," the man smirked. "I'm almost done here."
Draco was about to retreat without a word when the man threw the plastic hanging of the shower cubicle aside to collect a bottle of shampoo. A puff of warm, moist air wafted out.
"The water is warm?" Draco exclaimed before he could stop himself from betraying excitement.
"Yep," the Muggle said casually. "The fuse had blown. I told Mr Penwith, and he gave me a new one so I could replace it."
Draco nodded, trying to hide his bewilderment. He knew the meaning of all individual words including yep, but the presented combination thereof made no sense.
The man had gathered his stuff and treated Draco to another toothy grin.
"Have a nice day," he said and left, a bluish towel nonchalantly slung around his hips.
"And you," Draco answered distractedly.
Resolving not to worry unduly about "blown fuses", he shed his dressing gown and stepped into the shower cubicle. He luxuriated in the warm water for almost half an hour.
...
His good mood didn't last long. The warm shower had brought back the memory of Daphne Greengrass climbing into a bathtub, which in turn led straight to the memory of Pansy giving him the push.
She had been so cold and indifferent when she had told him he should not consider her his girlfriend any longer. To him, her move had come completely out of the blue.
Had it been looming? Had there been signs he had overlooked because his focus had been on anticipating the Carrows' next iniquity?
Pansy had quickly got on the right side of the Carrows; he hadn't. There hadn't even been a point in trying – they had made up their minds about him on the Astronomy Tower.
Had their scorn driven a wedge between him and the girl?
He had been so sure of her. He had so believed she liked him.
He was sure he had liked her. The reason why was a bit hazy till today, though. There was nothing obvious to see – Pansy was neither exceptionally pretty nor exceptionally amiable. Quite to the contrary, she could be a real pain in the neck. And yet, he had liked being with her.
There had been that big, beaming smile when he had asked her to the Yule Ball. Her enthusiastic reaction had floored him, and he had altogether forgotten his next, well-rehearsed sentence. But that hadn't mattered – Pansy had been absolutely happy. She had rushed off to tell the other girls the good news.
Had that already been the first warning? If so, he hadn't seen it. He had just been relieved that asking her went so well. Most of the girls from his mother's list had already been invited by older boys, and his only other options would have been Millicent or a sixth-year girl he had never talked to before and who was four inches taller than him. He had decided on Pansy because he had thought her to be less silly and capricious than some other girls. She dressed neatly, didn't giggle the whole day, and her table manners were well up to standard. Most of all, she had shown interest in him after he had been attacked by that blasted Hippogriff.
Or so he had thought.
Had her affection for him only ever existed in his imagination?
He hadn't questioned her ready consent, not really. He had been convinced he deserved what she offered him.
It had been an icy morning in February, shortly after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, when she had allowed him for the first time to unbutton her blouse and to touch what was beneath. Exciting was too colourless a word to describe that moment. A thrill had shot from the tips of his fingers through his entire body, producing a physical warmth of hitherto unknown intensity and, needless to say, an instantaneous, irrepressible reaction of his membrum virile.
He had interpreted her behaviour as tentative eagerness. Had it all been a sham?
She used to caress his neck or shoulders. She had often combed his hair with her fingers – something he could endure for hours. Her tongue – sharp as a knife in a figurative sense – had been smooth and welcoming when they had kissed. He remembered how her hand had sneaked between his thighs, and that he had felt at once proud and embarrassed when she had found what she had been searching for.
Had she, already at the age of fifteen, been cunning and manipulative enough to provide exactly what would ignite his fantasies? He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. It had felt so good. So... promising.
He reminded himself that not wanting to believe unpleasant facts didn't change them in the least. They would remain just as ugly and undesirable as they were.
However, he could not tell what had been genuine on Pansy's part and what had been pretence. It was difficult enough to tell how much had been genuine on his part. He thought it had been a lot, although most of it seemed to elude verbalisation. How were physical urges and fuzzy emotions to be put into words?
Pansy hadn't talked about feelings, either. They had discussed homework, traduced Gryffindors – composing the Quidditch song had been real fun – or Hufflepuffs, and competed for witty remarks about Dumbass D'Ore and Minna McGoggleall. He had studiously avoided the trickier topics and been grateful that Pansy seemed to play along. Whenever he had felt unsure of himself – in other words, quite often – he had resorted to non-committal, decorous talk.
At the Yule Ball, he had complimented her about her dress. He had danced with her, thanking her afterwards with a minute bow for each dance. He had politely shown her back to her seat when she had wanted a break. He had fetched drinks and paid her more compliments. That night, he had executed all the formal gallantry his mother had instilled into him. Pansy had been impressed and had told him so. He had felt flattered, and she had revelled in the other girls' envy.
That night, he had thought he had come near the level of perfection he had always craved. The Yule night of 1994 had stood out as a beacon for a long time afterwards.
The event itself had been over all too soon, but it had let to more.
Both his and her parents had been informed about their relationship and had approved of it in a general way. Of course, his mother – telling his father had been the most unthinkable thing in the world – had not known about him indulging in unchaste activities with Pansy. Had Mrs Parkinson heard of such details? Had she encouraged or even instructed her daughter to play on his hopes?
Three or four years ago, Mrs Parkinson might have considered him a good catch for her daughter. There had been the wealth and the immaculate bloodline, the big manor and the high repute. He had always known that such things mattered a great deal, but he hadn't been aware before Great-aunt Lucrecia had told him so that they were the only things that mattered when it came to selecting a spouse. By now, all of his family's wealth was gone, but the reputation had become tarnished long ago. The Carrows had made sure that nobody failed to notice the Malfoys' fall from grace. So, Mrs Parkinson might have had advised her daughter to back off. And Pansy, because all she had ever been interested in had been showing him off, had dropped him once he had outlived his usefulness.
But that was all speculation. He had no proof.
Maybe the question why Pansy had left him wasn't the most important one on his list, but it was knotty all the same.
Questions starting with why or how were difficult as a rule, much more difficult than those beginning with who, where, or when.
...
22. The Barbecue Party
He returned late, still dwelling on his failed relationship with Pansy. The open place between the lodging house, Mr Penwith's and the hen house was crowded with strangers. Draco counted five girls and eight young men gathered round a crude, but large charcoal grill. Next to it, Mr Penwith was seated on a makeshift contraption that loosely resembled a chair. Several people busied themselves with roasting sausages and chops.
Some rugs were spread out on the ground; a nearby table was laden with flat loaves, diverse vegetables, and cardboard boxes. A bit further off, between the chicken run and the shrubbery, three small tents had been set up.
Draco hadn't stopped to survey the scene; he had merely slowed in his pace. Yet, before he had reached the door, two of the girls approached him and suggested in awfully broken English that he should join their party. He had already eaten a generous serving of fish pie at The Merry Fisherman, so the promises of good and plentiful food didn't much appeal to him. But the prospect of a little diversion was tempting.
He sat down on one of the rugs; someone handed him a plastic cup filled with a dubious, pinkish liquid. He took a tiny sip. The stuff tasted strongly of sugar and alcohol, and he decided not to drink it. He twiddled the little cup in his fingers until the cook forced a barbecued sausage on him. He accepted the sausage and put the cup aside, taking care it toppled over when no-one was looking.
He listened to the conversation that took place around him. Apparently, the assembled people – the girls came from somewhere in Eastern Europe and the men from either Belgium or Manchester – were trying to get acquainted with each other. The conversation revolved around their various home countries, jobs, and plans for the future. When somebody asked him, he said that he was from Wiltshire, had left school some weeks ago, and was now trying to make up his mind as to what he would do with the rest of his life. Although there were no actual lies in his answer, it concealed the truth nicely. The audience was pleased, though, and proceeded to interview a skinny, blonde girl.
The night wore on. At some point, he was given another cup of pink beverage, and because the salty sausage had made him thirsty, he drank. He felt none the worse for it, except perhaps a little drowsy. He even agreed to two or three refills.
One of the Belgians brought out a guitar. He played and sang, and Draco silently conceded that the man was good at it. Sometimes others joined in for a few repeated lyrics, or they hummed along.
Draco didn't. He was sure he had heard none of the songs before. They were Muggle songs, after all. Besides, he couldn't sing. He hadn't been taught; his parents had considered singing a useless skill.
On the other hand, his mother had insisted that he took dancing lessons. At eight or nine years old, he had started to learn the appropriate steps for various traditional tunes like minuet, waltz, wiz-step, slow polka, and the Magic Whirl. He had danced with Pansy, but only that one night. There had never again been an opportunity for it...
While his mind had been wandering, the space between him and the slim, blonde girl had somehow vanished. He moved as few inches to the side to bring some distance back between them. In no time at all, she had come close again. Puzzled, he edged further away, but she followed. All of a sudden, her head touched his upper arm. He thought for a moment she had fallen asleep. Then he felt her hand stroking his thigh.
He pulled away so abruptly that he caused her to slam face-first onto the rug. He was on his feet before she had struggled back into a sitting position. The sudden commotion drew the crowd's attention; the musician stopped playing.
The girl said something in her language, and promptly, anger flared up on the other girls' faces.
He felt nauseous.
"I did nothing to-" he broke off; everything was spinning around him. Staggering, he made for the bathroom.
He reached the washbasin in the nick of time.
He knew effing well the sickness wasn't due to a sassy Muggle touching him. He had thrown up just as violently after Zabini and he had emptied the bottle of firewhiskey they had bought at The Hog's Head and smuggled in. He had felt shit for the entire next day.
But he wanted to blame her. The filthy Muggle slut, how dare she!
He was rinsing his mouth with water from the tap when the door opened. This blasted door having no lock became more unbearable with each day... There was no-one more inept than the bunch of brainless Muggles who had knock together this house!
"Get out," he snapped.
"Are you all right?" the intruder asked.
Draco splashed cool water into his face.
"Do I look all right?" he muttered.
"No, not really," the intruder observed. "There is more alcohol in these ready-made mix drinks than anyone suspects. How many did you have?"
"Three," Draco said. "Four."
"Then there's no serious danger; you'll survive. But you had better go to bed now."
Draco slowly straightened up to face the man. The guy looked somewhat sympathetic.
"The girls are furious. I don't know what that wicked little skirt told them," the man said, grimacing. "But the blokes from Brussels watched what actually happened. Sometimes I wonder how it is that men are expected to take no for an answer, whereas women can do as they please and get away with it."
Draco made no reply. The nausea hadn't yet entirely abated.
"I guess it's probably feminism taking over after five millennia of patriarchy," the man grinned. "Good night."
...
Draco woke, his heart beating hard and fast, from a vivid dream. It hadn't been one of his usual nightmares. In fact, it had been as different from those as it could possibly be.
Once he had rather enjoyed having such dreams. They had become fewer and fewer until they had stopped altogether several months ago.
They used to be about Pansy. This night's one had been about her too – in a sense.
He had met the cheeky girl from last night on the beach. She had worn the standard beach attire of Muggle women – a bra and tiny knickers in loud colours. He had stood close to her, much too close. Skin had touched skin. There had been music, he had taken her hand into his and had placed the other one on her shoulder, her naked shoulder. They had danced, the sand under his feet had been smooth and warm, his hand had slipped ever so slightly downwards, the face of the stranger had merged into Pansy's, he had pulled her closer against his bare belly and had bent down to kiss her, and a rain had come down as hot as water in a shower...
Well, the rain had come down precisely in one place. In former times a flick of his wand would have been enough to clear away the mess. He wasn't sure what to do here and now. He rather did not want anybody walking in on him while he did this sort of laundry. Unfortunately, the place was packed with people; he could hear them wander into the house, or out of it, every other five minutes. Eight men – they probably had to queue up for the bathroom.
He lay awake, the afterglow of his dream long gone.
Pansy had left him.
Maybe the break-up was his fault after all. He knew he had neglected her, spending every minute he could spare on repairing the old Vanishing Cabinet. Of course, he had explained to her how important his mission was and how it would boost his position once it was completed. He had thought she understood. And maybe she had. Maybe she had understood a lot better than he had at that point of time.
In a sense, he had lied to Pansy the same way he had lied to everyone else, himself included. Perhaps he had fooled her in the beginning, but probably not for too long. She might very quickly have become able to see right behind his facade. And he didn't think that she had particularly liked what she had spotted there.
...
He waited until all lodgers had left. It was an hour to noon when he went down to the bathroom to wash the evidence of his dream out of his pyjamas. While he let them soak in lukewarm water, he studied his thin, unshaven face in the mirror.
He was such a loser.
to be continued...
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