30. Going Back

The days grew rapidly shorter and also cooler. It rained a lot. He went for walks nonetheless because sitting in his broom closet of a room for the whole, long day was unbearable.

Welcome as the exercise was, his trousers got wet where the raincoat ended and so did his trainers. He found no method to dry them afterwards. The room was so dank, everything was just as clammy in the morning as it had been the night before. Opening the window only served to invite more humidity in.

Sitting in the Merry Fisherman until his clothes had sufficiently dried was no practicable alternative, either. He tried it once, and everything he had worn that night had reeked of cigarette smoke for the following day.

So, he took a warm shower when he got back and went straight to bed after that, but even the linen had started to feel slightly damp.

...

There came two days of storm. With the gale ripping at his clothes and the rain beating down on him like a club, Draco could barely make it to the baker's. Forced to stay in his room, he paced the space between door and window like a caged animal. Three steps hither, three steps thither – the whole room was a mere two feet longer than the bed!

He did press-ups and knee bends. He did any exercise that he remembered from long-gone hours of Quidditch training, any exercise that could be done in the limited space without smashing the windowpane or hurting his limbs at the walls or the locker.

On the third morning the storm had subsided, and he decided to leave. There was no point in tarrying any longer. The weather could turn worse again any moment.

Packing up was quickly done. He did not have many more possessions than when he had first arrived here. He took only the crayons and the small supply of pristine paper with him, his sketches he left behind. In the end, everything fitted into his rucksack and the largest plastic bag – the one that had originally belonged to the dressing gown. Plastic was waterproof, so anything wrapped into it should be safe.

He couldn't find Mr Penwith anywhere. So, he took one of the pictures, wrote a short note on the backside, and put it onto the racks in the hen house.

Then, he walked inland. Knowing the area quite well by now, he had reached the ferry before new bouts of rain drifted in from the sea.

...

The city was as noisy as it had been in summer. The cars rushed around unchecked, but the gale blew at least their exhausts away.

Finding the train station was easier than he had expected, and he got there without any stupid vehicle attempting to ram him. However, once he stood in the large reception hall, he realised that he had no plan that went beyond reaching this very place.

Did he really want to spend the winter at Great-aunt Lucrecia's? The prospect made him shudder.

Fortunately, the next train to the east wouldn't leave for another hour, so he sat down on a bench, placing his rucksack and the plastic bag at his feet.

Mulling his situation over, it occurred to him that he didn't know the way to Lucrecia Runcorn's cottage. He only remembered running in a roughly westward direction because the rising sun had dazzled him. He couldn't even tell for how long exactly he had run. Hoping he would be able to retrace his steps seemed ridiculous.

Leaving his complete lack of enthusiasm aside, this was just the perfect excuse for not going back today.

However, what he should do instead, he had no idea. He would probably have to go elsewhere; the Muggles might have laws against sleeping on benches at train stations. He had already spotted a couple of policemen prowling the area.

...

He still sat on the bench when the big clock above the entrance doors struck seven. He wasn't alone anymore, though. Within the last minutes, a crowd had gathered – more than twenty nervous young people of both sexes had put down their luggage right next to him. Their agitated chatter droned out the announcements of trains leaving and arriving.

He was about to quit the place and tried to wedge his bag out from under a heavy suitcase, when suddenly the mood changed. Everyone fell silent and listened to a man reading addresses off a list. He elaborated about prices per week or per month and added cryptic remarks like "ten minutes on foot to the campus" or "no Internet access."

No sooner had the man finished his recital than there was pandemonium. Everyone present – except Draco of course – seemed hell-bent on getting his attention.

The man yelled in an effort to make himself heard over the racket, "There are thirty-three beds for about twenty bums, so don't get your knickers in a twist! We'll start with Number six Albert Street. Two rooms. Girls only."

About ten girls jumped eagerly up and down, squealing and waving their arms. Two lucky ones got some sort of leaflet and hurried off. The next person to leave was the owner of the large suitcase that had lain on Draco's bag.

This seemed the ideal opportunity to get away from the commotion. Draco quickly stood, seized the bag and reached for the rucksack – only to realise that it had become entangled with somebody else's.

He tugged. Nothing happened.

The shouting around him went on with undiminished force. The voices rose even more when a quarrel about smoking restrictions broke out.

His frustration mounting, he tugged again and harder than before. His rucksack didn't come free, but the other one toppled over which caused the owner, a thickset, blonde boy not older than Draco, to notice. The boy bent down to fiddle with his rucksack, yelling simultaneously over his shoulder, "Here! I'm a non-smoker!"

"Yeah, but we need a third one," somebody Draco couldn't see yelled back.

"What about you?" the boy, still struggling with their baggage, asked Draco. "Do you smoke?"

"No!" Draco snapped.

"That's brilliant!" the boy exclaimed. He straightened up with his freed rucksack in one hand. Landing his other hand heavily on Draco's shoulder, he told the man with the list, "My good, old friend here is a non-smoker, too!"

The man gave Draco, who shook the stranger's hand off his shoulder, an appraising look.

"You agree?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course, he does!" the blonde boy declared loudly. Looking beseechingly at Draco, he added in a low voice, "It's less than half an hour on foot from here. I know the place; it's next to Hind Green. All right?"

Draco swallowed. Was the solution that simple?

"I can have a room?" he asked to make sure he wasn't mistaking the situation. "For tonight?"

"Sure. What did you think? Next month? Three rooms, three blokes. That's the deal. Shared bathroom, though. You can't expect en suite for that price. A quite reasonable one, if you ask me," the boy answered. "Okay, there're slanted walls, but what the heck? Internet access is far more important."

Draco hesitantly inclined his head.

"Is this a yes?" another boy, somewhat older but less tall and strapping than the rucksack owner, joined in. "Come on, mate, make your mind up before that idiot from Blackburn actually finds somebody who wants to share with him."

Draco nodded.

...

31. Manchester United vs. Arsenal

The three of them, Dwight, Marc, and Draco, left the train station together. It was already dark outside, but the streets were generously lit with artificial lights, some of them flashing madly.

They set off in a northward direction, but had walked less than thirty yards when his flat-mates-to-be suddenly stopped short. The burly one lashed out and jerked Draco back.

"Ey, you bloody moron!" he bawled. "It's red!"

The Muggle pointed to a red lamp that hung suspended almost directly above them.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled, regretting that he had got involved with those oafs. He had known them for ten minutes altogether, and he already disliked them thoroughly. He understood nothing of their Muggle gibberish about scoring off penalties and disallowing goals for offside.

The red light went out. Instead, a green one appeared, and the Muggles moved forward as if nothing had ever happened.

Tuning out their hogwash about biased refs and outrageously obvious dives, Draco looked about him and detected green and red lamps in many places. He noted how both pedestrians and cars heeded the signals: Red meant stop, and green meant go. It was so simple, so Muggle-like...

There were also yellow lamps, and it irked him a bit that he couldn't figure out what those indicated before the neighbourhood became significantly quieter. Here were no busy junctions, and the vehicles that moved did so slowly. Most cars stood with two wheels up on the pavement and were perfectly silent.

Terraced, three-storey buildings lined both sides of the street. A few hundred yards further to the north, houses were only two storeys high. The terraces were interrupted in irregular intervals by tiny patches of greenery.

"So, what do you think," Marc, the taller Muggle, nudged him the very moment that Draco had realised the street to be a cul-de-sac. "Will Manchester come out on top this season? The way he messed up in Saint-Etienne, Beckham will have to try his damnedest to get back into people's good books."

"I don't know," Draco answered very truthfully.

"What do you mean – you don't know?" the Muggle asked suspiciously. "You aren't supporting Arsenal, are you?"

"No, I don't think so," Draco said and, in an attempt to end the topic, added, "I'm not really familiar with this subject."

The shorter Muggle laughed out loud, the taller one gave him a wary look. "You haven't said a single word all way. What's up with you?" he asked. "What subject are you going to study, anyway?"

Despite having succeeded in changing the topic, Draco was at a loss again. He had no intention to study anything in the near future, but the Muggle's stance and tone of voice suggested that such an answer wouldn't go down well.

What on earth would Muggles be studying? They certainly had never heard of Arithmancy or Divination. Did they know what Herbology or Astronomy were?

"History," he said.

"Figures."

The expression on the Muggle's face reminded Draco of the look of sober derision McGonagall had always reserved for Slytherins in general and for him in particular. Without warning, an old anger flared up inside him, one he had almost forgotten during the past months. He was not going to take ridicule from some stupid Muggle, most certainly not. There were limits...

"What is wrong with studying History?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" the Muggle said, his lip curling.

"Why are you smirking, then?"

"I smirk? Fancy that... Tell me, do you wear that see-through raincoat of yours in bed?"

Draco whipped out his wand and, channelling all his fury into the curse, cast a Cruditas. Or so he thought for a split second. His half-outstretched arm quivered in midair, his palm itched where the wood of the handle should be.

He withdrew his hand, feeling embarrassed beyond description.

Simultaneously, he realised that he had no means to defend himself should the darn Muggle choose to attack him bodily. The git managed to look livid and confused at the same time. He seemed to have backed off a little, but he still stood too close for comfort.

"What was that?" the Muggle growled, advancing again. "Take-won-do or whatever they call that Asiatic combat technique?"

Draco felt a prickly feeling spreading out from his palm and speeding up his arm. His mind raced. Had he read something – anything – about the use of raw magic in the Code of Conduct? He couldn't recall. But even if using it were allowed, it would be no good. He was a mediocre wizard when he did have a wand, so hoping he could blast the athletic figure in front of him off his feet with a bout of unrefined magic was absurd.

With no other option left, he was about to run for it – rain and late hour be damned – when the other Muggle intervened.

"Is it really necessary to kick up a fight before we've even reached our digs? We're going to be stuck with each other, remember? Sharing a bathroom and stuff? So, get a grip! If Draco is playing for the other team... well, it's his business. I don't mind as long as he doesn't peep while I'm in the shower. Just let's settle this once and for all," he said, taking one step closer to Draco and facing him full on. "Are you? Are you playing for the other team?"

"What team?" Draco, both angry and scared, asked back. No part of this conversation made really sense to him. "Arsenal?"

The shorter Muggle doubled over with laughter. The other one growled something under his breath about being able to spot fairies a mile away and stomped off to the second last house to the left.

Muggles could see fairies? Utterly bemused, Draco mulled the stunning piece of information over. Even if they did, surely there wouldn't be any fairies about tonight given the unpleasant weather in general and the chilly drizzle in particular?

"You looked downright scary," Dwight said, still chuckling, "doing that war cry."

Draco shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but what was this all about?" he asked.

"I guess he's just scared it might rub off on him. That's silly, of course, but many people still think that way." Dwight shrugged. "Come on, let's check in."

Dwight went to the house, and Draco trailed along, telling himself that he should stop asking questions. The answers only added to his bewilderment.

...

32. Muggle Studies

The landlady was an agile, middle-aged woman, and their acquaintance started with the fuss she made about their wet and dirty shoes.

Draco was the only one who had slippers about him. This little detail – maybe combined with the mocking remarks he earned from Marc for owning slippers – endeared him to her right from the beginning.

There were formalities to be settled. Names, dates, and addresses had to be written into some book, and the landlady asked the rent for the first month in advance.

Draco pondered to negotiate a shorter stay but abandoned that idea when he heard the others haggle over a discount and fail completely. Perhaps another month's respite before he had to find a way back to Runcorn's cottage wasn't all that bad. The downside was that he would have to put up with two crazy Muggles.

...

He was still silently debating his situation when the landlady took them upstairs to a converted attic.

Marc and Dwight claimed rooms in a rush. Obviously, they didn't think it necessary to pay attention to the woman's many instructions. She elaborated about the purpose of three large, lockable baskets that lined the hall. For a reasonable fee, she would wash and iron any laundry put in there and return it within less than forty-eight hours.

The emphasis on how the price was a reasonable one seemed a bit suspicious, but since she was in all likelihood more skilled at cleaning garments than he was, Draco thought he might give her laundry service a try. His resolve was strengthened when he saw the bathroom. The room was tiled to the ceiling and sparkling clean, but the washbasin seemed fairly small. Neither his jacket nor his trousers would fit in completely.

Eventually, the landlady led him to the room at the far end of the hall.

"Well, this will be your refuge then," she said, turning the key. She removed it from the lock and handed it to him. "Your friends were eager to have the rooms that can get pretty hot in the evenings. Yours faces north-east, so don't worry."

"They aren't my friends," Draco said as they went in. "I've never met them before."

"I thought so. But I expect you to get along nevertheless. I can't have any fighting in here. That would scare the salesmen off. No loud music either, especially not after ten in the evening, and most importantly no girls. I'm sorry for that, really. You're young, I know, but the last thing I need is talk in the neighbourhood about me running some kind of bawdy house."

While she talked, Draco scanned the room. It was spacious by comparison. There were a wardrobe, a desk, an easy chair, and another chair that had, for some reason, five wheels. The bed stood to the right, flanked by two squat bookshelves, and the floor was covered with a plain, brownish carpet. Unfortunately, there was no fireplace.

Didn't Muggles heat their homes at all?

"You look a bit disappointed," she observed. "What's the matter, dear?"

"It's not very warm in here," he said.

Actually, it was cold. Damp clothes wouldn't dry any better than in his previous room.

"Well, turn the heat on," she said, smiling amiably. "But please, be sure to turn it down every time you leave the room for more than an hour."

"I'm afraid I don't..." he trailed off, stifling a heavy sigh. He didn't even know how to phrase the question. "What exactly do you expect me to do?"

"It's not that difficult. Come here," she said, beckoning him to the window. Beneath it, there was the same ugly piece of "decoration" that had been in his room at Mr Penwith's. The landlady pointed to a small cylindrical object that stuck out at one side. She spun the little widget so that three black slashes were to be seen instead of the initial single one.

"Three should be enough," she said, spinning the widget back and forth. More marks appeared – they were, in fact, Roman numbers. "It's not yet winter. Before leaving, you turn the heat down to the lowest setting. Like this. See?"

The lone dash was back.

"The point is saving energy," she went on, "and, needless to say, money. But don't turn the heating off altogether" – off was marked with a tiny dot – "because that would affect water circulation. Don't ask dear, I'm no plumber."

"Err... thanks," he managed.

"You're welcome. If you have more questions, feel free to come down and ask. There's a bell in the breakfast room, just ring. If I'm in, I'll hear. By the way, breakfast is between half past seven and nine. Don't be late."

Before she bid him good night, she repeated two times that he was always and under any circumstances to lock the front door and that smoking as well as the use of any other type of "drug" was strictly prohibited.

When she had left, Draco very cautiously touched the heating device. It was warm. It was far from burning his fingers, but it was warm...

In his mind's eye, he could see its counterpart in the room he had left this morning. The same small, cylindrical widget had been attached at the side, and he clearly remembered seeing the tiny black dot that meant off.

Again, it was so simple. So easy. So Muggle-like.

And so utterly stupid of him.

He knew nothing.

There were, for example, two items in the room that resembled lamps. One sat on the desk, the other one was fastened to the slanted wall above the bed.

He examined them. They both had little... well, thingamajigs that looked like the slightly bigger thingamajigs with which you could operate the light at the ceiling. He had used the bigger ones countless times both in his room and in the bathroom at Mr Penwith's. He had seen the landlady doing it tonight – on the stairs, in the hall, in the bathroom, and in this room here when they had first entered.

Whereas the thingamajig that clung to the wall next to the door worked as expected – light off, light on – operating the little ones attached to the lamp-like objects had no other effect than a faint clack.

Perhaps he was wrong and the objects weren't lamps at all. They had tails. These tails were made of plastic – no surprise here – and disappeared into the wall. More precisely, they disappeared into two plastic rectangles set into the wall. And the rectangles had thingamajigs, too. He took a deep breath and operated those – the lamp above the bed lit up, the one on the desk didn't. It took him less than two minutes to find the knack: The thingamajigs had to be worked in correct order; that was all.

Feeling strangely elated by having figured this out, he turned back to the heating device.

Spinning the little cylinder had no immediate effect on the temperature, but it affected the soft rushing noise inside the device. The higher the setting the more intense got the noise. The landlady had mentioned water – perhaps the device was something like a hot water boiler, only with the water being eternally caught in it because there was no tap.

However, to keep water hot for a long time without a proper fire, you needed really advanced magic. He wondered how the Muggles achieved it.

The question triggered a memory. Before he had to choose his N.E.W.T. subjects, his mother had taken him to a professional soothsayer in order to ask which subjects would most benefit his future.

Herbology will ensure the young man's happiness, the answer had been, History or Runes wouldn't go amiss, and Muggle Studies is an absolute must.

Fuming, his mother had refused to pay the bill.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

Author's notes:

(1) For everyone who felt as much at sea as Draco did

Marc refers to the FIFA World Cup of 1998. On June 30, England lost in the round of 16 to Argentina after a penalty shoot-out in St. Etienne, France. The press, in their lovely ways, blamed the disaster on David Beckham, who had been sent off during the game.

Manchester United won the British Premier League (est. 1992/93) in 1992/93, 1993/94, 1995/96, and 1996/97. In 1997/98, Arsenal won with Manchester being runner-up. Marc had his wish fulfilled, and Manchester won again in 1998/99 (plus another seven times since).

The Blackburn Rovers winning the season of 1994/95 could perhaps be the reason why Marc and Dwight don't want to share the flat with "that idiot from Blackburn".

(2) Thanks to Nooka and Athaeth for beta reading.