38. Another Mistake
His mother was waiting at the back door. She pulled him into the house and – indicating with gestures to keep quiet – rushed him to her room.
"I am glad that worked smoothly," she said once the door was closed behind them. "Lucrecia is a very light sleeper."
"Good morning, Mother," he said, slightly taken aback by this kind of greeting.
"Good morning, Draco," she said, ushering him further into the overstuffed room. "My new owl is lamentably slow. I would have been surprised had she made it in time."
"Did Lissy bring a letter from Father?" he asked. "How is he?"
"The owl's name is Lisboa," his mother corrected him. "Considering the circumstances, your father is tolerably well. The Wizengamot decided not to re-instate the Dementor guards. Without doubt, Azkaban is still a dreadful place – the cells are draughty, food is scanty, and the inmates have to suffer the guards' unpredictable whims – but one doesn't have to fear for their life and sanity anymore."
After all the unrest he had gone through, this was good news. Indeed, it was an unexpected relief and a promising start for the day. Maybe things were going to be fine after all.
His mother glanced curiously at him.
"I would like to have the necklace back," she said.
Under his mother's intent gaze, he searched his pockets for the rather simple piece of jewellery.
"Here you are," he said, holding the little golden thing out to her. "Why did you send it to me in the first place?"
"Why?" she said, taking it. "Lucrecia has scores of magical safeguards around the house; any trespasser who comes within fifty yards sets the alarm off. She lent me the necklace so I can go for walks once in a while – it is enchanted to grant the bearer free passage."
"Enchanted?" he breathed. His mind whirling, he watched her clasping the delicate chain around her neck. Enchanted objects were prohibited by the Code of Conduct. He had slipped it into his pocket without thinking... his mother was wearing it! "Aren't you afraid anyone will notice?"
"Who should? Trust me, our sorry excuse for a minister and his underlings have other matters to attend to than a modest witch's jewellery. Even if they came snooping and saw it by chance, they wouldn't be any the wiser. It looks plain and inconspicuous enough. Why would they suspect anything?"
He swallowed his answer. Who was he to lecture his mother about prudence?
"Tell me," she continued, "what in Merlin's name is the garment you are wearing?"
"Camouflage," he said with a quick-wittedness that surprised even him. His cheerful mood still lingered, and he was wonderfully wide awake despite the long, taxing day he'd had. "I must not draw attention."
"Well, I suppose," she said sternly. "Deprived of all magical means, one is forced to cross Muggle territory to get here."
"That's right," he said softly. Her demeanour had changed, and the way she scrutinised his apparel made him decidedly uncomfortable. To keep the conversation on a safe course, he said, "I wish you Good Yule, Mother."
"Thank you. Good Yule to you, too, Draco."
She was all formal politeness now, and he felt his cheeriness drain away. Her next question was not at all unexpected.
"Where have you been, Draco? Where have you been for more than six months?"
"I've brought you a present," he said, well knowing that it was too weak an attempt to change the topic. Nonetheless, he took the glittering parcel out and proffered it to his mother.
She accepted it, but with visible hesitation.
"What is this?" she asked suspiciously, weighing it in her hand. "It seems much too light to be silver or another type of metal."
"Truffles," he said.
"From Belgium?" she asked. Neither her voice nor her posture betrayed surprise or excitement. "How did you get them?"
"No, not from Belgium," he admitted, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
She unwrapped the parcel and frowned.
Try them, he pleaded silently as she opened the lid. Try them, they're good.
She sniffed the truffles with caution and then tossed the box aside, disgusted.
"They're Muggle-made," she informed him. "Wherever you got them, they hoodwinked you. Proper truffles have tiny runes carved into the surface, so you can tell the confectioner."
He didn't know what to reply. Disappointment – utter, thorough disappointment – clawed at his insides. Why, oh, why did everything he did go wrong?
"Draco?"
Then again, what had he expected? Buying Muggle sweets for his mother – what a preposterous idea! What a faux pas! He would have fared better to come here with empty hands.
All of a sudden, he longed to be back in his little hidey-hole, his little safe haven with a slanted wall, always warm and with plentiful food every morning. The place was hours and hours away – three hours of walking and another three or so of train ride. What on earth had possessed him to leave? He didn't know anymore.
"You are right," he said, bitterness lacing his voice. "I'm an idiot."
"I truly wonder whence your credulity comes. Father and I taught you to be constantly on the alert. Your enemies won't sleep, Draco. They will strike as soon as they spy a weakness."
She paused, and he knew this to be the moment where he was required to say, "Yes, Mother." Habit wasn't easy to overcome, and he didn't even try. But he was surprised to hear the unfamiliar note of defiance in his voice.
"At least you are back. But your behaviour is inexcusable. What demon got into you to disappear without a single word, to sneak away in the wee hours like a thief? Lucrecia contacted everybody we could possibly think of – the Parkinsons, Glenda Goyle, Mrs Nott, the Greengrasses, the Selwyns, even Blaise Zabini – he has his own flat now – and his mother, the parents of your other classmates, every old acquaintance who is not in Azkaban. Where on earth have you been?"
It wasn't the telling-off in general; it was the list of names that made him want to refuse.
"I cannot answer that question, Mother," he said, putting every effort into sounding resolute. The outcome wasn't too bad. Even so, he needed all the strength he could muster to keep himself from cringing under her appraising look.
"It is a girl? Am I right?"
He gasped.
"I have been suspecting a secret romance for some time now. There seems no other explanation than that some girl fancies you enough to grant you shelter. Who is she?"
"Mother, no-"
"Who is she?" she demanded, advancing one step. "Answer me!"
He was at a loss. Lying in order to gain an advantage was perfectly appropriate behaviour as he had been taught by the very woman standing before him. Lying to her, however, had always been exempt from this rule.
"Not a pure-blood, I suppose," she went on when he didn't open his mouth. "It's a disappointment, but not exactly a surprise. Your chances of making a respectable pure-blood marriage have dwindled down further ever since one of the Weasley progeny found it necessary to natter in the Prophet about your unfortunate encounter with that Swiss Auror-"
"Stop that, Mother, please..."
"You will have to face the truth, Draco. Wishful thinking will not improve matters."
"What makes you so convinced there is a girl?" he asked, wondering why she accused him of wishful thinking.
"Who else would house you? You have no money and a reputation that is damaged almost beyond repair, especially ever since the Daily Prophet printed that defamatory article. I cannot imagine anyone taking you in except a witch who is completely besotted with you. If she is a half-blood and the wizarding part of her ancestry is respectable, there might be a way, Draco." A hint of hope coloured her voice. "Even Lucrecia will have to acknowledge reality in the end."
He shook his head. No-one in this family, him included, seemed to be particularly good at acknowledging reality. He also saw full well how futile any argument would be. He was not used to opposing his mother; she was not used to listening.
He decided to give her what she wanted to hear.
"Such a girl, if she existed, would be the solution to a number of problems," he said.
She advanced another half-step, appraising him.
"I hope your reluctance to reveal a name is due to misunderstood chivalry."
"Chivalry, yes," he said, trying to humour her. If she was happy with the illusion that he had a girlfriend, he wasn't going to destroy it.
"Draco, tell me you are not with some forty-five-year-old, married witch who pays the rent for your lodgings in exchange for... well, certain favours..." she trailed off.
He stared at her, taking in her aristocratic features, her immaculate attire, and her long, blond hair that was flawlessly done despite the early hour. He stared at her, allowing himself the time necessary to catalogue the implications of her words. Providing sexual services in exchange for payment – was that the picture of him she harboured in her heart of hearts?
There was the tiniest of snorts before she said, "Maybe it is just as well that you do not speak in your defence. It grieves me to admit it, but it will seem Lucrecia was right when she observed that you had gone somewhat out of hand."
"Mother, please, I haven't been with-"
"Be quiet," she cut across him. "Since you are apparently unable to bring honour to the family, I'll expect you to refrain at least from bringing further disgrace to our name!"
"Mother please, there is no forty-five-year-old witch! What are you talking about?"
"Very well," she said. There wasn't the smallest trace of relief in her voice.
What did she expect him to say?
What did she expect him to do?
What kind of person did she expect him to be?
Whatever it was, he wouldn't be able to live up to it. He had never felt this as clearly as he did at this moment.
"Mother, I cannot be the perfect son you wish to have," he said with more firmness than he had thought possible. "Why can't you accept me the way I am?"
...
39. Pride is for Those Who Can Afford It
"You are already more self-indulgent than can be tolerated," his mother said sternly. "I have to be reasonable."
"Isn't it reasonable when I acknowledge my limitations?"
"Do not give me such nonsense. Of course, it will be hard work to rebuild not only our fortune, but also our reputation as a notable family. And I expect you to do your share instead of seeking the easy way out."
He shook his head. If there was any way at all to get out of this mess, it certainly wasn't an easy one.
"I'm afraid I cannot live up to your expectations, Mother. I never did, and I never will. I am weak. I am a second rate wizard even when I do hold a wand. That is the truth and no wishful thinking will change it. I have fooled myself for years into believing otherwise, and worse, I have fooled myself into believing others would be fooled into believing otherwise. I'm not going back on that track, no matter what."
The expression on her face became almost sympathetic.
"You must not allow the unfair treatment we have suffered to bring you down. I am sure Shacklebolt's mob would be jubilant could they see you that downcast." She spoke slowly and with the air of somebody explaining a complex subject to a small child. "Draco, hold your head high. We are pure-bloods of the noblest descent! We are not subdued so easily. We will be back. It may take time, but we will be back."
Back where? Back to where he had to cope with the assaults of his enemies and the ridicule from his "friends"? Back to where he was bound to meet disdain wherever he would look?
"I'm glad it's over, Mother. I do not want to be back."
She inhaled sharply. "That attitude is not acceptable."
He felt wretched. He was a constant disappointment to her, he had been one, he was one, and he always would be one, no matter how hard he tried.
"Mother... I'm not cut out for fighting." He'd only lose, and each time would make things worse – for him and for her. "Please, let me stop-"
"Don't be absurd, Draco. Of course, fights are out of the question under the circumstances. Now is a time for careful planning, for getting in touch again with old acquaintances, especially ones that may prove themselves useful in the future, and for establishing new connections wherever possible. The Selwyns will be here tonight. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with their daughters, Ignavia and Inutilia."
He wasn't particularly good in this area, either. His only real talent was to muck things up. She'd probably have a much better chance of gaining her desired status and repute without him slowing her down. He didn't know what he wanted anyway, except being left alone for a while longer.
"Give me at least some more time to rally," he pleaded.
"That might be a good idea indeed," she said. "Skip breakfast. I will bring a snack to your room, and you will change into clothes that are fit to be seen by Lucrecia. I'll inform her later that you will be here for lunch."
His heartbeat accelerated to twice its normal rate. He felt hot and also slightly dizzy. He knew he wasn't going to stay for lunch. Nor would he stay for breakfast, either. All at once, he saw with a shocking clarity that he couldn't stay at all. He reached for the rucksack that lay by his feet.
"I don't feel like meeting Great-aunt Lucrecia," he said, retreating a step. His heart was hammering.
"I wish you had at least a modicum of Black in you," she said, shaking her head to cover her exasperation.
The irony calmed him a little. For the most part of his life, any statement conveying even by mere implication that he was taking after his father would have made him proud and happy. And here he stood, his heart's dearest desire held against him.
Following a sudden impulse, he asked, "Do you remember my paternal grandfather?"
"Abraxas? Well, yes," she said impatiently. "What of him?"
"What kind of person was he?"
"He was eccentric."
Despite the situation – or, perhaps, because of it – he noted the undertone.
"Eccentric as in 'slightly unhinged but amiable old fellow'?" he inquired.
"Eccentric as in 'crazy old fool'," she retorted. "Why are you asking questions about Abraxas Malfoy?"
"Because you're the only one around who can answer them. I was very young when he died," he said. He had never heard a satisfying account of his grandfather's death, not till this day. "Where did he catch dragon pox?"
"Anywhere. How should I know? He had a habit of sneaking away, and he never deemed it necessary to inform your father or me as to where he went. Sometimes he was back within an hour; sometimes he was gone for days. His antics were a constant source of irritation for us, especially for your father." She paused and inclined her head as if listening intently.
He strained his ears but heard nothing.
"Enough of this," she said quietly. "You have more important things to think about."
"I think knowing about my ancestry is important for me," he said with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. He needed answers; he was sick of stumbling through his life like a blindfolded moron.
"Abraxas is ancestry you could do very well without," she said sourly.
He was stunned.
"Why?" he managed.
"Draco, I cannot help but wonder whence your sudden interest in Abraxas Malfoy comes, and I strongly advise you to refrain from further enquiries concerning him. If you are looking for a new role model, I'll suggest you consider my fath-"
A door clapped.
Startled, he tightened the grip on his rucksack.
"Compose yourself," his mother hissed. "And take that offensive jacket off. I will stall her for a moment."
No, he thought. Clutching his rucksack to his body, he wheeled round and made for the window. He had it open by the time Lucrecia Runcorn called, "Narcissa, are you already up and about?"
The owl, that had sat in the elm tree, swooped in just as his mother confirmed her being out of bed.
Swinging the rucksack onto his back, Draco knocked the candle-holder off the bedside table. The flame went out as it fell, but it hit the floor with a clatter loud enough to be heard in the hall outside. His mother's urgent whispers were drowned out by Lissy's bewildered hooting.
"Whom are you talking to?" the Great-aunt asked sharply. She seemed nearer now.
"Oh... the owl is back," his mother answered while he climbed through the window. "Draco sent a gift."
"Did he indeed? He's such a fine and thoughtful son..." the Great-aunt scoffed. "Are you decent, Narcissa?"
"Not quite yet. Just a second!" his mother said loudly in the direction of the door. She turned and rushed towards the window; he was already outside.
"Draco, no-"
"I'm sorry, Mother. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to disappoint you," he said desperately. "But I can't stay... Forgive me..."
An angry complaint about being kept waiting came from the door.
He ducked out of sight, catching one last glimpse of his mother's stern face.
"Draco, come back!" Her whisper was barely audible.
"Do not worry," he told the closing window. "I'll be fine..."
Hoping against hope that the trellis was sturdy enough, he climbed down.
And then, he ran.
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to be continued...
...
Author's note:
Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.