42. Catharsis
The landlady drifted in and out of focus.
She wrapped wet towels around his legs. He couldn't muster the strength to object.
She made him swallow white pebbles, claiming they would relieve fevers. Eating pebbles seemed a downright crazy, Mugglish idea. Yet again, he couldn't bring himself to protest. Besides, Bezoars were some kind of pebble, too...
Bezoars...
He wasn't poisoned, was he? He had eaten that foul food... When had that been? How slowly did Muggle poison work?
Please not...
He was seized by shivering fits. He couldn't remember to have ever felt as ill as he did now. At the first sign of a cold, you took a dose of Hipworth's Pepperup Potion. Maybe another one the next day if you had a bad cold. What the landlady served him was no potion but a primitive infusion of herbs.
When he awoke from a fitful sleep, she was there again. She had him eat more pebbles and commanded him to sleep until she would return. He didn't argue.
...
She did return at some point and brought him breakfast: porridge and fruit salad. He ignored the food and reached for the cup of hot infusion. He made out anise, thyme, fennel, and ribwort. Being able to identify the ingredients reassured him – his brain still worked.
"Do you feel a bit better?" she asked when he put down the cup.
"No, but thanks for asking," he said hoarsely. All his muscles ached, the headache wasn't gone, and his shirt was wet with sweat and clung to his body.
"You've got a full-blown flu," she told him. "Why are you here, anyway? Didn't you say something about seeing your parents?"
He sighed. Why had she to remind him? He already felt miserable enough.
"I'd rather you didn't ask."
She said nothing to this, but he thought the expression on her face was somewhat sympathetic. She offered him another one of the white, pebble-like things.
He inspected it carefully. It looked definitely fashioned and man-made.
"What exactly is this?" he asked.
"It's just Paracetamol," she said. "There is no direct cure for flu. You can relieve the fever, but apart from that, you'll have to sleep it off."
Sleep sounded like a good idea.
...
She brought him some beef tea – it tasted chiefly of lovage – for lunch and a small bowl of stew for dinner. He ate little. Eating was a real effort, and he wasn't hungry anyway. Going to the loo was a big effort, too. It was as exhausting as two hours of jogging. These difficulties notwithstanding, the landlady insisted that he drank plenty of her herbal infusion. She took care that there was always a bottle of it on his bedside table. That bottle was special: It was made of plastic, had a nifty screw top that could be used as a drinking vessel, and kept the liquid hot for hours.
The landlady brought him breakfast again the next morning. Additionally, she brought a plastic box that contained two sandwiches, which he was to eat for lunch.
She launched into a lengthy speech about letting rooms being less profitable than initially assumed and mortgages that needed amortising.
He didn't quite grasp the import of all this but nodded for the sake of politeness.
"That's why I took up a part-time job at the tax consultant's over in Queens Street," she ended her discourse. "I'll be back by late afternoon."
...
Several days went by.
He slept more in twenty-four hours than he usually did in half a week.
Only once, he woke in the middle of the night, and that was due to the racket going on outside. The sky was full of fireworks. So there was something else Muggles could imitate. He wasn't too impressed and went back to bed.
The following morning, the tray holding his breakfast sat on the desk. The lunch box and the bottle-that-wondrously-kept-liquids-hot stood next to it. A card that featured a horseshoe surrounded by four-leaf clover and a printing of "Happy New Year" was propped up against the bottle. The porridge had gone cold.
He almost couldn't believe he had slept in, but it was indeed nearly eight o'clock.
He sat down and ate the fruit salad and a small helping of cream cake. He did feel better although not yet well. The fever had subsided, but the physical weakness still prevented him from staying up for longer than about an hour.
However, he could focus for the first time in days, and he used the regained ability to recapture the details of his journey.
He soon decided that the technical trivia – where and how often he had changed trains, whether the temperature had been below freezing or just above – didn't matter much. What mattered was the conclusion: for the time being, he could not pay another visit at Runcorn's cottage. Venturing back into the wizarding world before he was allowed to use a wand again would be exceedingly reckless. He had no defences whatsoever against the ill will of anyone he might meet – from Lucrecia Runcorn to bloody Potter, from former classmates to the current Minister. If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit his powers had always been limited. It was exactly as he had told his mother – he was mediocre. He was neither brilliant nor a complete numskull, just a young run-of-the-mill wizard. That was the truth, and he had to face it.
What was worse, he had no-one he could rely on. There were neither friends nor relatives who would stand up for him. His mother might try, but she was every bit as helpless as he was. There was nothing left of what once had been or, at any rate, what once had looked as if it were grand and imposing. For most of his life, both his weapon and his shield had been starting sentences with, "My father will..." This very obviously didn't work anymore and it never would again.
So if he couldn't go back to wizarding Britain before the remaining four years and five months of his probation were up, what options did he have?
He could stay here. That seemed the simplest and also the most sensible course of action. Yes, he would stay here, provided he could afford it.
He got up and took the rucksack down from the wardrobe. The landlady must have put it there because he dimly remembered dropping it to the floor. A quick glance around told him that she had tided up – everything, including his trainers, was clean. A stack of neatly folded laundry was placed on the easy chair.
He sat down at the desk and counted his grandfather's money. He was astonished when he wrote the final figure down on a fresh sheet of paper.
This is for you, Draco, for a rainy day... Don't tell anybody, but remember. A time might come when you'll need it.
Had Abraxas Malfoy been a seer? What had compelled him to collect Muggle money? And where had he acquired so much of it?
And what, exactly, had his mother implied by saying Grandfather Abraxas was an ancestor he could do very well without? Considering that the essential bit of information often went unspoken with his mother, her statement was extremely intriguing.
To his surprise, he found her statement also annoying. The way things were, his late grandfather's incredible foresight combined with his goodwill towards him, Draco, was all that prevented him from leading the kind of life his mother envisioned for him. There was probably a subtle difference between sleeping with a hypothetical forty-five-year old witch in exchange for money that paid the rent and sleeping with Araminta Bulstrode in exchange for a large dowry, but he didn't feel like delving into that subject.
Instead, he did a rough estimation of his expenses during the past months, calculated his spending per day, and did on this basis a prognosis for the future.
If he maintained his current rate of spending, the money would well last him for the entire time of his probation. It would last even longer if he refrained from wasting it on confections nobody would ever eat.
...
43. A New Set of Questions
He put the money back at its old place at the bottom of the wardrobe while an entirely new set of questions occupied his mind.
Shouldn't he share this supply with his mother? Shouldn't he invite her here?
Taking the way she had reacted to the truffles as an indication, she would probably rather give up the use of her left arm than live in a Muggle environment.
But wasn't it his duty as a son to support her in times of hardship?
The simplest thing might be to send her one half of the money the next time Lissy came here. Of course, he would have to add a letter in which he explained to his mother how she was to go about changing the old banknotes into valid ones.
However, the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she would throw the 'filthy Muggle junk' right away into the fireplace. Maybe he should send the letter first. He could describe everything in detail, and she would have time to warm to the idea of using Muggle money.
Then again, would she ever warm to such an idea? He couldn't imagine it.
From what he had seen, she wasn't intimidated by the fact that everybody with a wand could harm her. She had given the impression of someone who was in full control. She had behaved like she felt superior to most other people, Ministry clerks included. In other words, she had been her usual self.
It occurred to him that he hadn't even asked how she was. Did she get along with Lucrecia Runcorn?
It appeared that she did. Perhaps she was in considerable less danger than he was.
Both his mother and Runcorn distinguished carefully between people who mattered and those who didn't. Runcorn would defend his mother against the latter – always and without a second's hesitation. She would do that on principle. Members of the old families, however, would probably think twice before they picked a fight with Runcorn. So, his mother enjoyed an amount of protection he didn't have, and magical safeguards around the house weren't the main point of it.
He was tired from all that ruminating and went back to bed.
But the problem wasn't solved. She was still his mother. Could he just disappear from her life for five whole years without explanation? Perhaps he should write a letter in which he detailed the reasons for his decision. Dwelling on that thought, he eventually dozed off.
...
He woke about an hour later. With nothing else to do, he resolved to set to work on the letter right away. He sharpened a black crayon, took a fresh sheet of paper, and wrote,
Mother,
Please allow me to give you a detailed account of how and why I came to make a certain decision. Arriving at said decision was a lengthy process. I am afraid I acted on mere instinct in the beginning.
At that point, the crayon had become too blunt to continue. He put it down and frowned at the untidy scrawl he had produced. This was far from the neat handwriting his mother had trained him to use. If already the look of the letter was bound to offend her, how could she possibly be inclined to take the content kindly?
He needed a quill.
He crossed the lines out and wrote,
- quill
- ink, black or blue
- parchment
Since he was going to stay here, he also needed to buy a few essentials.
- boots, (What kind of leather do Muggles use?)
- polo-neck pullover
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter, please," he called, raising from the chair and straightening his dressing gown.
"Oh, you are out of bed. That's good to see!" the landlady beamed. "Good evening, Mr Malfoy, and a Happy New Year."
"Thank you, Mrs Bates. Happy New Year to you, too," he said in polite tones. "I take it today is January the first?"
"Why, yes. You lost track, did you?" she said, swapping the tray that held the remnants of his breakfast for one that held dinner. "You look a lot better I have to say. Do you think you're strong enough to stay up for a while? You could take a shower while I change the linen of your bed."
"Why do you act like a house-elf?"
The word was out before he could stop himself. He was such a blundering idiot!
"Well," she said slowly. Her expression lingered halfway between friendly and bemused. "I'm afraid I do not know what exactly a house-elf is."
"A servant," he said, feeling the embarrassment heating his cheeks. She had provided medicine, had brought him three meals a day, and had tidied up his bed while he was in the bathroom, and it wasn't as if he had ordered her to do any of this. In fact, he hadn't even asked for help. "All you did for me... voluntarily... during the last days... I mean-"
She took pity on him and interrupted his inane stammer.
"That is all right, dear. Everybody would have done that," she said, sounding so utterly convinced that he couldn't help feeling awed. "Look, there isn't anyone else here at the moment. Mr Wang has gone to visit friends of his in Edinburgh. He won't be back before term starts, and you couldn't have managed alone with that high fever."
"Thanks," he mumbled. He felt very much at a loss.
"You're welcome," she smiled. "I didn't have any other lodgers over the holidays so making a bit of time for you wasn't a big problem. Actually, I had thought there'd be nobody here at all. If it hadn't been for the muddy footprints you left all over the house, I might not even have found you."
"I'm sorry," he said, speaking not much louder than before.
"Don't worry. I'm not angry. I know you usually mind the house rules. That's why I guessed almost right away that there was something wrong with you."
"Well, yes..." He trailed off. He didn't know how to handle the situation. Would anybody ever render a service – on request or otherwise – and expect no recompense for it? "You will expect payment I suppose?"
To his astonishment, she blushed.
"Well, no, that wouldn't be right," she said. "I can't charge you full board for the morsels you ate. I don't mind getting handsome tips from the businessmen. I'd be lying to say that. But you're a student, and by the look of it, your parents don't pamper you with money."
Her words made him flinch. He definitely did not wish to discuss his parents with her.
"We shouldn't embarrass each other any more," she went on hastily. "Two salesmen are scheduled to arrive tonight at eleven. That means there will be regular breakfast tomorrow morning. You can come downstairs if you feel up to it. I guess the dining hall at the university will be open again from tomorrow as well. There are always the professors and the staff. They have to eat somewhere, haven't they? But promise me not to go much further than that. A leisurely walk to the university may be all right, but more might be overdoing it."
"I guess," he said to cover his confusion. Of course, she was talking under the assumption that he was a student of some sort. Apparently, she connected him with the cluster of buildings that were labelled "university". Most of them were huge, grey slabs of concrete or seemed to consist entirely of glass without being greenhouses. He had avoided the area so far.
"Eat your dinner before it goes cold," she said kindly. "By the way, I'm sorry for this morning. I couldn't bring myself to wake you, but I had an invite to a New Year's brunch, and I didn't want to be late, either."
...
Later, when she had left after changing the linen, he added another item to his shopping list, gift for Mrs Bates.
...
44. Discoveries
The dining hall Mrs Bates had spoken of was huge. A year ago, Draco wouldn't have thought it possible that Muggles should be able to construct something bigger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Then again, a year ago he would have thought many a thing to be impossible.
The majority of people frequenting the dining hall were in their twenties. Some were older and some seemed about Draco's age. His presence there didn't draw any unwelcome attention. Infrequently, he happened upon Dwight. They nodded at each other by way of greeting, but they never spoke.
The glaring Mugglishness of the building notwithstanding, Draco liked the dining hall right from the start. It was only about a ten minutes' walk away from his lodgings, smoking was prohibited, and he could get an acceptable dinner complete with starters and afters for a mere five pounds. Admittedly, afters meant simply an apple most times, but he liked apples. They were good for your health – An apple a day keeps the healer away was one of the old adages that Pansy had been rather fond of quoting – and he had become very protective of his not yet fully restored health. He sought shelter as soon as it started to drizzle.
...
He went shopping. He bought proper boots, a pullover, a pair of gloves, a woollen scarf and a hat. Since he couldn't find a shop selling fur hats, he contented himself with a knitted one. Both scarf and hat harmonised well with the soft brown colour of his parka. He looked less ridiculous wearing them than he had feared.
He also bought five truffles of different flavours at the confectioner's. He said he'd like them gift-wrapped. The shop assistant – another, much friendlier woman than last time – didn't argue but showed him several rolls of patterned paper to choose from. He selected something blue-and-white that reminded him of a summer sky.
Mrs Bates was stunned beyond words when he handed her the small present. It was quite early in the morning, and they were alone in the breakfast room. This left him with the necessity to explain himself, but he did not know how. He had neither questioned nor justified his plan to buy a gift for his landlady; he had just followed through with it.
He felt indebted to her. He very well knew that feeling indebted to Muggles was an inappropriate sentiment. He should think that way, and he probably did think that way. Yet, he didn't feel that way. It was indeed very vexing.
"Take it, please," he said after an awfully long moment of embarrassed silence. His mother didn't know about this. She wouldn't learn about it, either – so why couldn't he just do what he wanted to do?
Why could he never do anything with a clear conscience?
Why did he always have to explain himself? Why was he always forced to justify every spontaneous emotion?
Why couldn't he just be?
"I'm afraid I was acting on impulse buying sweets for you. I know they are no adequate repayment for your services," he went on. "Consider them a gesture."
"Thanks," she said, still flabbergasted.
A group of businessmen in dark three-piece suits filed into the room at this very instant, diverting Mrs Bates's attention and thus saving Draco from further conversation. Without having eaten, he left for a calming walk in the park.
The next morning, Mrs Bates greeted him exactly as amiably as she always had. He relaxed. Her going back to normal indicated that at least she didn't think he had done something wrong.
...
Later that day when he was on his way back from the dining hall, a sudden downpour chased him into a hitherto ignored concrete building situated in the university area. While he waited in the lobby for the rain to stop, he watched people stuffing their coats and bags into lockers.
He stood there until a bunch of girls mistook his idle curiosity as a plea for help. They demanded a coin of him and told him to hand his parka over. Since he was an intruder and outnumbered five to one, he didn't think it prudent to argue. So, he watched as his carefully folded parka was placed inside a locker and the coin slipped into a small slit. One of the girls closed the door and, giggling rather than smiling, let him take the key. Another one said something about always being glad to help freshers.
"Thanks a lot," he said wryly.
The girls giggled some more and walked off.
The rain still fell in torrents. Acting once more on impulse, Draco slipped the key into a pocket. Instead of waiting around he could as well have a stroll – a cautious one – around the building.
It turned out to be a library. There were three storeys of rooms piled high with Muggle books. Little white signs featuring a crossed-out cigarette were nailed to every other shelf. Here and there, Draco detected reading corners furnished with chairs and desks. The latter were occasionally equipped with contraptions that very distantly resembled Foe-Glasses. Nearby signs read, Internet Terminal.
Apart from the Terminals – the word had a somewhat sinister ring to it – he found the place quite nice. The rooms were moderately heated and well lit. Thick carpets dampened the footfall, and anyone who talked did so in hushed tones. A faint, but omnipresent humming added to the general effect of peace and tranquillity.
...
The library was open from eight in the morning till one hour to midnight. It was perfect for spending whole days in comfortable quietness. Nobody took really notice of his being there. Only upon leaving, he had to talk to one of the library assistants because they always asked him politely whether he wished to check out any books. He invariably answered in the negative, and they let him go.
Since he still felt too weak for long walks, he spent indeed more time in that newly discovered library than anywhere else. Luckily, he didn't need any straining exercise in order to be able to sleep at night. In that respect, the illness had worked wonders.
So, he sat in his favourite reading corner, a random book open at a random page placed on the desk for appearance's sake, and composed the letter to his mother.
He used a fountain pen. After unsuccessful inquiries at nearly ten shops, he had grudgingly accepted that Muggles did neither sell nor use quills. Most of them didn't even know what proper quills were. An elderly shop owner had finally talked him into buying the fountain pen. He had demonstrated to Draco how to handle it and how to replace emptied ink cartridges with new ones. Fountain pens weren't dipped into ink vessels. Instead, the ink came in a steady flow from the cartridge inside. It wasn't all that bad once you got used to it.
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Author's notes:
Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.