50. Facing the Facts
The conversation with the librarian had sent his mind reeling. He resisted the temptation to dwell on her remarks about dragons and all-powerful, magical spells. He had to answer the question of whether he was as blameless as she had been willing to believe.
He honestly had not known about the Carrows teaching Crabbe a spell as hazardous as the Hellfire Curse. But he should have. At least, he should have suspected it. He had underestimated the scope of their irresponsibility despite prior evidence.
He had also misjudged Crabbe and Goyle.
No sooner had they left the Great Hall together than Draco had lost control. When he had whispered to them about his plan to stay inside the building, Goyle had straight off jumped to conclusions.
Going to catch Potter single-handedly, are you?
There had been a glint in Goyle's eye that Draco had never seen before.
Isn't that task a wee bit too big for you, Draco? But don't worry. We will assist you. We've always been your loyal assistants, haven't we?
Draco had tried to argue, but the mocking in Goyle's retorts had become more pronounced by the second. So, Draco had cast Disillusionment Charms on all three of them lest their dawdling raise suspicion. Instead of seeking refuge where neither side would come looking for him – in McGonagall's office for example – he had found himself seeking Potter.
The castle had been in turmoil. The hordes of people hastening hither and thither had slowed them down. Even Crabbe had understood that he couldn't risk anybody bumping into him by accident. So they had moved stealthily up and down stairs and along hallways, wands in hand. Goyle had taken care they stayed – literally – in touch. If Draco had ever believed Goyle to be as dim as Crabbe, he had been very much mistaken. Goyle had copied homework from him mostly because he had preferred lazing around when he should have been studying.
Several times they had spotted Potter sprinting through the crowd but had always lost sight of him quickly. The one time they had come within wand-range, Potter had been reunited with his cronies. Goyle, swifter than Draco could react, had aimed a spell at the Golden Trio, and Crabbe, eager to outshine his companion, had tried the same while simultaneously nudging Goyle's wand arm aside. Somehow, both spells had merged and shot straight through the ceiling, causing an explosion on the floor above. What each of them had been trying to cast Draco hadn't had the faintest idea. He should have realised there and then that his classmates had become a danger to friend and foe alike. But he hadn't.
The Golden Trio had vanished again. Goyle, however, had picked up something from their conversation about an object hidden in the Room of Requirement. He had dragged Draco along, holding his upper arm in an iron-like grip.
Come on, Malfoy. What are you waiting for? A written invitation?
Draco had not wanted to confront Potter, not in the least. A few weeks earlier, before the Easter holidays, he might have hoped for the girl to solve the situation thanks to her quick thinking. Or he might have hoped for Weasley to Stun them – without wasting time on any thinking whatsoever – and be done with. But after what had happened at the manor, after what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to the girl and how Weasley had reacted to it, nothing so merciful was going to happen.
He had seen no way out. That was all the more devastating as he could now, twelve months too late, see just how easy it would have been to stop his former classmates...
Upon reaching the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, Goyle had insisted on lifting the Disillusionment Charms. Why, Draco hadn't been able to fathom. Both Goyle and Crabbe had answered his desperate attempts to talk some sense into them with pointing their wands at his chest.
Surely, Malfoy, you disappoint. Opening the Room of Hidden Things should be a piece of cake for you.
He had succumbed. He had opened the room, and Crabbe and Goyle had rushed in ahead of him. For several long seconds, their backs had been in front of him, visible again and unprotected, thus providing him with a neat, almost fail-safe chance to stop them.
Why hadn't he simply placed them under an Imperius and commanded them to walk to a hiding place of his choice? He could have done it; he had been able to cast effective Imperiuses with his mother's wand. But the idea hadn't struck him, not back then when it would have made all the difference.
Instead, he had foolishly soothed himself with the thought that the Room of Hidden Things was large enough to get lost in, and that they might search the endless aisles for an hour without coming across Potter. Of course, there had been no such luck. Goyle had spotted Potter in a jiffy. And just to make matters worse, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor had been on his own.
Like before, at the manor, Draco had seen the only option in playing for time. He had started a petty argument about wands, and Potter, waiting for Granger and Weasley to show up, thankfully had played along.
But things had got out of hand and horribly so. His memory was slightly blurred from the point on when he had bodily wrestled with Crabbe. A jet of scarlet light, a Stunner most likely, had narrowly missed their heads. Crabbe had thrown him off and started to cast Killing Curses. Horrified, Draco had finally made an attempt to stop the amok-running idiot. He had been about to Stun Crabbe – without thinking, just acting on impulse – when Crabbe had swung round like an oversized club, knocking the wand away and leaving Draco with no means other than to scream.
Don'tkillhim, don'tkillhim, don'tkillhim, DON'T KILL HIM!
One of the Gryffindors had knocked out Goyle, Draco hadn't had a wand anymore, and Crabbe had loosed hell upon them. The rest had been agony of death. He had tried to keep the unconscious Goyle out of range of the flames; Crabbe had vanished somewhere in the roaring inferno.
...
He opened the door to the would-be balcony. Flower-scented air flowed into his room. Denial was futile: The little room with a slanted wall was his home for the time being. There was no other place he could call that.
Sighing, he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the heating device.
The friendly librarian was wrong. He could have done something to save Crabbe. He just hadn't seen the option, hadn't seized his chance. He had acted too late, and it had been to no avail.
He sat down heavily on the five-wheeled chair.
Vincent Crabbe was dead.
Blaming the poor sod for his own death would be downright hypocritical.
Drunk with the prospect of being greatly rewarded, Crabbe had been hell-bent not only on bringing Potter down but also on outperforming Goyle in the process.
No, Draco couldn't blame him. He had been hardly any better when he had actually been proud of being given a mission by the monster that he had still called a "lord" at that point of time. He had probably been scared right from the start, but he had indeed believed the sheer magnitude of the mission to be an indication of the esteem bestowed on him.
The opposite had been true: The task of killing Dumbledore had been given to him to see him fail. The death of the son had been the intended punishment for the father.
If he had not seen what was going on until it was too late, how could he expect Crabbe with his limited brain capacity to catch on? They had fallen for the same lies and the same illusions.
The difference was that Vincent Crabbe had paid with his life for his errors. Draco doubted anyone had found an identifiable body for Mrs Crabbe to bury her son properly.
He took out the fountain pen and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. He had to tell Crabbe's mother he was sorry.
...
51. Early Spring Bank Holiday
When he read the letter over in the morning, his writing struck him as being far from polished. Yet, it said exactly what he had felt last night.
After a short moment of pondering, he decided against a rewrite. Ludmilla Crabbe, much to his mother's discontent, was a plainspoken person herself. She always blurted out without restraint what she thought or felt. He had never seen her taking offence in somebody else doing the same.
He folded the paper carefully, put it into his shirt pocket, and went downstairs.
...
"You're ten minutes late, Mr Malfoy," Mrs Bates said jokingly. The sunlit breakfast room was empty except for the two of them. "You didn't sleep in by any chance, did you?"
"I slept well. Thank you for asking," he replied with the ease that stemmed from perfectly automated manners. "And how are you this morning, Mrs Bates?"
"Fine. Scrambled eggs?"
"Yes, please."
While she spooned eggs onto a plate, he said, "I'd like to ask you a question."
"Well then, out with it!"
"How do I go about sending a letter?"
"Where would there be a problem with sending a letter?" she asked, handing him the plate.
"I'm not sure whether writing 'Mrs Ludmilla Crabbe, The Elmhouse' will be enough for the mail servants to find the addressee."
She laughed.
"I'm afraid not. You'll need a postcode. That's it, right? You don't know the postcode?"
"I don't know the postcode," he agreed. He didn't even know what a postcode was. He remembered giving her a random combination of letters and numerals based on the ones Dwight and Marc had stated upon their arrival here.
"Well, ask at the post office then. There is one just over in Queens Street. If you know the rest of the address, I'm sure they will be able to help you."
He knew about the post office in Queens Street. He had been to all post offices in town. It simply hadn't occurred to him that their main purpose wasn't to change money. He thanked her, reciprocating her smile, and sat down to eat.
...
On his way to the post office, he contemplated contacting his mother via Muggle mail as well. He wanted answers, but the letter to her still lay where he had put it more than two months ago.
Then again, chances for the mail servants to find Runcorn's cottage were probably nil. Apart from that, his mother would be reluctant to even touch what would seem to her a dubious object of Muggle origin. She was more likely to fetch a smouldering log from the kitchen and set fire to it.
Maybe he could circumvent these obstacles by sending the letter to somebody else by means of Muggle mail and asking them to forward it. But – aside from the problem of not knowing the correct addresses – who would do him this kind of favour? He couldn't think of anyone.
Asking Mrs Crabbe was completely out of the question. It would degrade the letter to her to a mere pretext. Anyway, how was she going to react to a letter transported by Muggle mail?
He hoped she wouldn't mind too much. To her, Muggles were an entertaining curiosity. He remembered her referring to them often as 'cute, little monkeys'.
The mail servants should be able to deliver the letter. Elmhouse was situated only three hundred yards outside a small Muggle village and fully visible. The Crabbes had never bothered with intricate wards – the distinct habits of the family combined with Mr Crabbe's quick temper had always sufficed to make the villagers keep their distance.
...
The post office in Queens Street was closed.
He was a bit puzzled by that, but he didn't mind walking on to North Gate Road. The streets were unusually quiet for a weekday, and he liked walking anyway.
At the office building in North Gate Road, they had a sign up saying they wished their customers a nice Early Spring Bank Holiday and would be back in service the next day.
Early Spring Bank Holiday?
Draco had never heard of it. Beltane, or Walpurgis as some people called it, had been last Friday. It wasn't much celebrated in the wizarding world these days, but in former times witches had observed secret fertility rituals that no male had ever been allowed to attend.
Whatever rituals the Muggles observed today, all their post offices were closed. The letter would have to wait.
Mulling that over, Draco became suddenly aware of the date – May 3rd. He had no idea what made that particular date meaningful to Muggles, but he knew all too well what significance it had for him.
His feet almost started moving before he had resolved that the best way – maybe the only way at all – to spend this day was taking a very long walk.
...
So there was, for the thousandth time, the question of what he had told the Aurors. Could it really have been that much, considering how little he knew?
Their faces had been anything but pleased when he had regained consciousness. They hadn't simply shown weariness caused by a long questioning that had yielded disappointing results. They had looked dismayed. What on Earth could he have said that had made the winning party uncomfortable?
He didn't have the faintest clue.
Had he told them how Crabbe had died? Had he spoken about his subsequent row with Goyle?
The Golden Trio had disappeared. Goyle had come round and demanded to hear what had happened. Draco had given him a short but true account, and Goyle had hit the roof.
You allowed that Mudblood scum to touch me?
Draco had tried to reason with him. However, pointing out the fact that he was only still alive because the Gryffindors had saved him had driven Goyle even madder.
Crabbe tried to bring Potter down with him! He's a hero! He will be honoured! He died for a noble cause, but you lily-livered wimp let them escape! You should have made sure that they died too! But no, you... you useless, stuck-up piece of muck can't be arsed...
Goyle had abruptly ended his rant to enquire about his wand. Draco, with more coldness than he had thought possible under the circumstances, had replied, You allowed that Mudblood scum to disarm you.
Goyle, seething with rage, had hit him with a burst of raw magic. Its force had thrown Draco against the opposite wall. Dazed, he had slid downwards. Goyle had towered over him, and his eyes had shown the same beastly greed as Greyback's. Draco had seen ruthlessness and wanton brutality all year long, but to see it in someone his age, someone he had once considered a friend had scared him to no end.
Goyle had spat into his face.
I hope I'll never see your ugly mug again.
Goyle had left then, and Draco had muttered to his retreating back, Likewise.
Did Aurors listen to such tales?
...
52. A Close Call
He was so immersed in his thoughts that he barely noted how he left the outskirts of the city behind. Soon, the farmland was replaced with pastures. There were sheep and the occasional lone horse for a while. Then there were only heather and low bushes.
...
Perhaps the Aurors had simply rattled off a list of names, hoping their drugged prisoner would divulge a tiny speck of information here and there.
- Is John Borgin a Death Eater?
- I do not know.
- Is Belvina Borgin a Death Eater?
- I do not know.
- Is Siegfried Bagman still an active Death Eater?
- I was told he was. I never saw him at the meetings, though.
- Is Miles Bletchley a Death Eater?
- I do not know.
- Is John Bole a Death Eater?
- Yes, he is.
- Ah, here we go! If you were to find him today, where would you look?
- I would ask his fiancée, Thalassa Harper.
If Bole or others had been captured and imprisoned because of his lack of vigilance, they would blame him for it for the rest of their lives. And didn't they have a right to do so? Would he, being in their place, think differently? Would he not call Draco Malfoy a failure?
In fact, it didn't matter whether he had actually betrayed anyone. The possibility that he might have given information to the Aurors was more than enough for the ones like Bole to scorn him for all the rest of his life.
He was cold. When he looked around, he found the landscape shrouded in mist. The bleakness of the scene mirrored his state of mind perfectly. Once, spring had been his favourite season. Now, all the cheerfulness was gone.
A few steps later, the fog had become so thick he hardly could see ten yards ahead.
He stopped short. There was the same impenetrable fog in every direction. The mists seemed to swirl in the most eerie fashion. All of a sudden, he wasn't even sure anymore whence he had come.
He turned and made a few, tentative steps into the direction he thought to be the one back to the city. There was nothing familiar on either side of the footpath that seemed hardly more than a deer-trail. Then again, he hadn't paid attention before. Even without the fog he wouldn't know whether or not he had passed by a specific part of vegetation earlier.
He was lost.
Panic rose. Wherever he went now, he wouldn't be able to keep his bearing – not without a Point-Me charm. He had never seen fog to be as dense as the one that surrounded him here.
He actually jumped when he heard a noise. A dry twig broke under his foot.
"Cornfoot, is that you?" somebody called.
The voice was muffled by the fog and hard to locate. Nevertheless, Draco let out a shuddering breath. There were people here; it was going to be all right...
"I'm over here," another muffled voice answered from farther off.
"There was something more to the left. Is somebody else here?"
"The others went north of us. It's probably just a hedgehog."
"It sounded like footfall."
Draco was about to call out in order to announce his presence when he heard one of the men say, "Come off it, Poke. I cast Repello Muggletum at every three yards."
Draco's breath caught in his throat. They were wizards! He tried to edge away without making a sound.
"Who's talking about Muggles?"
"Honestly, the Prophet has been printing the warning on a daily basis. Don't you think that's enough to keep folks from coming here for a picnic?"
"Yeah, but there's always idiots who think they might get famous catching a stray dragon single-handedly."
A dragon! Draco suppressed a yelp. He had to get away, and quickly!
"We had better make sure," insisted the first speaker. "Shacklebolt will go spare if the beast barbecues some would-be hero."
"Okay, you win," the other one conceded gruffly. "I'll lift the fog. But just for a sec."
Draco threw himself down behind the nearest bush. The thing had thorns; he injured his hand. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his good hand onto the wound and waited for the pain to subside.
"And? Happy now?" asked an impatient voice nearby.
"Didn't you hear that right now?"
"Yes, I did hear that. But do you see anybody? It's animals like I told you."
"Well, maybe..."
There was movement and Draco pressed himself more firmly to the ground.
"Get a move on, Poke. We need to find the lair. Charlie Weasley says the beast is in rut. It has already caused disease to spread among the cattle of the Muggles, and that's just the start. Look, the closest Muggle dwelling is right over there. That's a mere two miles, two and a half at the utmost." – Draco caught a glimpse of a robed figure pointing at something he couldn't see from where he lay. He memorised the direction, though. "I'll put the shield back in place. It doesn't do for Muggles to spot a Welsh Green. Expecto Prohibentem!"
The swirling fog reappeared.
Draco didn't dare move. He listened intently to the retreating voices. When everything seemed quiet, he got up and fled.
At first, he hardly saw where he was heading. He stumbled more than he ran, and once he almost fell into a tangle of brambles. After about a hundred yards, the fog became thinner. He sprinted across the moorland. Heather crushed under his feet. He sped past sheep and grazing horses and raced downhill until he reached a farmhouse with a cream-coloured bowl attached to the roof.
There, he slowed to a walking pace.
He was out of breath. He felt nauseous. His palm hurt where the skin was torn. But all in all, he had been incredibly lucky. If he had happened upon that dragon without having a wand to cast Protego or at least a Conjunctivitis Curse, he would have been a goner. Coming across a Weasley without having a wand would already have been bad enough.
He needed to be more careful. Muggle Repelling Charms wouldn't keep him off dangerous grounds. In fact, any place that had to do with magic and wizardry was potentially dangerous to him. He was as defenceless as a five-year-old child, and there was no Dobby to Apparate him away at the first sign of trouble.
He really had to be more watchful, especially in unexplored areas. He had to make sure to always have something in sight that clearly indicated Muggle territory – odd bowls sitting on roofs, cars and the lights that regulated their movements, tiny red huts with TELEPHONE written above the entrance, small signs warning against being struck down by lightning and larger placards advertising low-priced goods, or the unsightly ropes that hung suspended between tower-like structures made of iron or between wooden posts and houses.
...
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to be continued
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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)