40. Frenzy
Lucrecia Runcorn could Apparate.
Lucrecia Runcorn had a wand.
If she caught him, he'd be done for. She could stun him. She could bind him. She could drag him back to her house. She could confine him magically to the cottage, to his room, to his bed. Once she decided to imprison him and to let him not go before he agreed to marry the stupidest, ugliest spinster in Britain, there'd be no stopping her. His mother wouldn't be able to do anything for him aside from wringing her hands and begging and pleading.
Fear propelled him down the hedged-in lane. The icy air stung his lungs. It was only a matter of time before Runcorn, the malicious old bat, would figure out that he had brought the truffles in person. He ran on as fast as his body would let him, covering the two miles to the broader lane in less than ten minutes. He was still dreadfully slow compared to someone who could cross this distance with the help of magic and, therefore, in a fraction of a second.
Reaching the broader lane, he turned eastward as instinct told him he mustn't rush to his hideout directly. The little room with a slanted wall was all he had. Losing his refuge would be the end of him. He had never truly understood his situation before – he was defenceless in a world where everybody above the age of eleven wielded a wand.
It was not yet dawn, but somebody might see him, and Runcorn had every means to make Muggles – helpless as they were – talk. He raced on. His lungs hurt so badly he could barely draw breath. The pain drove tears to his eyes. After another five hundred yards, he had to retch. Crouching in the ditch that ran alongside the lane, he brought up a bit of bitter slime from his empty stomach.
He struggled back to the lane, still feeling sick, but he had no time to waste.
When he reached the asphalt road, he couldn't run anymore. Panting, he stumbled on.
A Muggle car, a really large one, overtook him. Draco took it as a sign of his hysteria that he welcomed its presence. The big car slowed and rolled to a halt only a few yards ahead of him. About three feet above the ground, a door opened, and the driver called, "Want a ride, partner?"
Draco's hammering heart lurched for a moment.
All at once, his brain was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. However, the one screaming that desperate situations justified desperate measures trounced all the others. He chose the ghastly Muggle vehicle over Lucrecia Runcorn's wrath.
...
"Where to this early in the morning?" the driver asked. He was almost shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the huge car.
"London," Draco said. It was the only name that came to his mind.
The driver said he wasn't going there today but he would drop him off in some town or other. Draco didn't really listen; he was preoccupied with not being sick again. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, but the car swerved and juddered and the air in the tiny cabin reeked of something similar to lamp oil.
The driver grabbed a little package that lay next to the front window and held it out to Draco.
"Ciggy?" he asked.
"No!" Draco cried out. Utterly appalled, he looked away from the white sticks with yellow ends that protruded from the package.
"Wise of you," the driver observed, flipping the package back to its previous place. "You look a bit pallid. Something wrong?"
"I... didn't get much sleep last night."
"Been on a binge, eh?"
Why was it that he felt completely at sea every time a Muggle tried to strike up an informal conversation? He muddled through moderately well as long the interaction followed certain rules like, for instance, when he was buying something at a regular shop. But everything that went beyond turned eventually into a guessing game.
"I paid my mother a visit," he said at last. "Somehow, things went disastrous."
"Tell me about it!" the driver groaned. "As soon as I set foot in my mother's kitchen, she starts nagging: When will you get married? You're already thirty-five, mind you, and I'm turning sixty next year. I want to see grandchildren while I'm still alive..."
"Don't you want children?" Draco asked – not because he was interested, but to keep the man talking. The more the Muggle babbled the less Draco would have to say.
The strategy worked: by the time they separated, Draco knew the history of the man's family back to the times of Hengist – or he would have known if he had cared to listen.
"Thank you," Draco said, jumping down onto the pavement.
"Any time." The driver grinned and waved.
Draco raised his arm for a moment. He was grateful the man had helped him to get away. Yet, at the same time, he silently vowed not to climb into such a vehicle ever again.
...
He searched for a train station. All the while, the slightest noise or movement made him look back over his shoulder. He kept telling himself that Runcorn's chances of discovering him here were one to a million – he performed no magic, he had nothing magical about him that could be detected, and he had never been in this town before so there was no reason for her to conclude he'd prefer it to others. But all the rational arguments didn't help. He couldn't stop himself from checking every ten seconds whether she had crept up behind him.
He found the train station to learn that, due to the holidays, only two trains were going in a roughly southwestern direction. One had left already, the other one was scheduled for three in the afternoon.
There was a pub. It was a dingy, dimly-lit place, but it was warm. He ordered tea and breakfast; both were horrible. Without his months of experience with Muggle cuisine, he would have fallen right in with his mother's opinion of Muggle food being unwholesome, if not downright poisonous. He was almost sure now that she would feed the truffles to the owl.
...
He had to change trains after only a few miles. Unfortunately, the second one didn't take him very far, either. He asked a Muggle in uniform who told him the next train would leave the following morning at five.
That was just his luck – he was stuck at a tiny and draughty station for a whole night. The place was run down; the toilets looked as if some idiot had cast a Reurgitatus on them. He searched for an inn to stay at but couldn't find one.
In the end, he opted for walking. Moving was better than having to wait around in the biting cold. And cold he was. His fur hat, the fur-lined cloak, long-shafted boots, and comfortable pullovers still lay in his trunk. Oh yes, this journey was going to make a fine new entry in the already long list of his failings...
Following the tracks, he plodded through the falling snow. He didn't make much progress, but he was too tired to care. The night wore on slowly – as slowly as he slogged along the iron rails.
...
He had been hearing the noise for more than a minute. It grew steadily louder. The throbbing of the ground beneath his feet became more and more intense, but his brain took its time to catch on. He jumped aside in what probably was the last second. The train sped past him and disappeared into the darkness.
Needless to say, when he finally reached the station, the train had gone long ago. Yet again, he had to wait, and this time he slumped down on the nearest bench.
After a while he got up and trudged over to an open window where food was sold. He bought himself two plastic cups of black coffee. The hot, bitter brew revived him enough to struggle through the rest of the journey.
Eventually, he did arrive at Hind Green Close. How he had made it there, he couldn't tell.
He unlocked the door, congratulating himself on having kept the keys. There was silence inside the house. Perhaps it was late. He wasn't sure as to what time of day it was. He wasn't even too sure how many days he had been away.
He dragged himself up to the converted attic. In his room, he slipped off the rucksack and the parka and let them lie where they fell on the floor. With one last effort, he got rid of the soggy trainers and the trousers. Then he collapsed onto his bed.
...
41. Crash
He woke with a headache. He was thirsty. His stomach churned.
The hands of the Muggle clock on the wall showed 6 o'clock.
He got up and shuffled to the window. A glance at the stars told him it was six in the morning. Breakfast would be soon.
He set the heating device to the highest level because he felt cold.
The note he had left for the landlady lay on the desk, untouched. He crumpled it profusely and dropped it into the waste-parchment basked.
He picked the trousers up from the floor. They were caked in dried mud for the first five inches above the seam. The trainers didn't look any better. He didn't recall where and when he had got that dirty. He deposited the trousers in the laundry basket assigned to him. After a moment's hesitation, he put all other clothes he had worn during the awful journey there as well.
He took a shower, changed into clean clothing, and went downstairs for breakfast.
The breakfast room was as cold and empty as it had been a few days earlier. The box of orange juice sat precisely where he had left it. Its contents gave off an unpleasant smell.
He rung the bell two times, but it was to no avail.
Sighing, he filled a bowl with cornflakes. He munched a few but realised that he really needed some liquid to wash them down. He could think of nothing other than water from the tap.
He went back upstairs, and his legs hurt as he did so. The headache had gone worse. He poured water over the cornflakes. The result was a pap that tasted slightly of cardboard, if of anything at all.
He ate nonetheless and downed a whole bowl of water afterwards. Going to the bathroom in order to fetch that water was a strenuous trip. His limbs protested every step.
He put the empty bowl gingerly on the bedside table and lowered himself onto the bed. Cautiously, he stretched out. Even that hurt.
He felt cold. The covers seemed too thin. Hadn't he turned the heating up?
He attempted to curl up for comfort, but the movement instantaneously caused him more pain.
What was wrong?
His mouth felt dry. Hadn't he just drunk?
There was a flash of memory of him sitting in wintry weather on a bench, tasting truffles. They had been pretty good, hadn't they?
...
He was flying a broomstick. The landscape was streaking away in a steady pace deep down below him. Or perhaps it lay not so deep down since he could make out a lot of details. There were multicoloured peacocks strutting around, and there were also irises of any colour of the rainbow. The birds paled and the flowers bloated as he picked up speed. Both plants and animals exploded into vibrant sparks that whizzed past him. He was going fast now, really fast. The wind made rushing sounds in his ears. The landscape became slightly blurred, the details indiscernible. It was fun to race a broomstick at such a low altitude. He heard people scream at him, but he didn't understand a word. He was going too fast. The onlookers nevertheless kept screaming; perhaps they were cheering him on. They got wilder the faster he flew. It was kind of funny, was it not? There was no Quidditch pitch beneath, though. In fact, he had no idea where he was or where to he was heading. He only knew that he had descended too low – he was flying straight through a crowd. He didn't recognise anybody. The faces were no more than blurs, flying by at dizzying speed. People ducked and ran for cover. It was only then that he discovered that the broom had no handle. His hands were holding fast to empty air. That scared him; such a thing was unheard off. He couldn't steer; he narrowly missed the heads of two people dressed in Gryffindor robes. They got caught in the violent suction caused by the awfully high velocity, and stumbled, and tripped, and fell, and lay sprawled across the lawn. In sudden panic, he willed the broom upwards. It rose indeed. Could he steer by mere willpower? Obviously, he couldn't – there was a huge wall straight ahead of him, but the broom wouldn't swerve no matter how desperately he wished it to do so. There was no brake either. The wall grew in size and sprouted something that looked like a Muggle-made, over-large advertisement, which featured an old, bearded wizard with sparkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles. A time will come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy – the words flashed on and off in the placard, and Draco kept racing towards them at ever-increasing speed. Terror gripped him – he couldn't steer, he couldn't slow down, there was no avoiding this massive wall. He jumped off the broom at the very last second, hoping against hope the fall wouldn't be too hard. The sudden movement caused the broom to change direction. Instead of crashing headlong into the wall, he scraped along its surface. He felt his skin break; the scratches seemed to be all over his body. He didn't fall, though. His robes had become entangled in the tail twigs of the broom. And the bloody thing kept going. It even accelerated. He couldn't see where he was dragged to; he was blinded with pain. He kept bumping into things – treetops, lampposts, or, perhaps, not things at all but people. He couldn't tell. There was screaming again. People screamed his name. He wished they wouldn't. It hurt. Everything hurt – his limps, his chest, his head.
"Mr Malfoy?"
Everything hurt. There was agonising pain in his legs and arms, he hardly could breathe – he must have broken every bone in his body. Worst of all was the fierce, pounding pain in his head. It just fell short of a Cruciatus. He lay on something tolerably soft, though. Something had broken his fall...
"Mr Malfoy?"
He opened his mouth to tell them to shut up. All he got out was an inarticulate croak.
"Mr Malfoy, are you awake?"
He made the effort of opening his eyes.
In the glaring light, there stood the landlady.
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Author's notes:
(1) Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.
(2) Waterysilver created another great illustration for this story. If you wish to view it, please go to deviantart (dot) com and search for waterysilver or "Burning the Past – Exile".