53. A Chance Meeting
The Early Spring Bank Holiday had prevented him from making a mistake. Posting the letter in Queens Street or North Gate Road would have violated a basic safety regulation that he had laid down for himself: Don't use the same post office twice.
There was also no knowing whether Muggle mail could be backtracked to the sender. He suspected that there were a few Ministry people with a certain insight into the proceedings because their duty comprised communicating with Muggles whose children had been accepted at Hogwarts.
Therefore, Draco resolved to post the letter elsewhere, preferably in a town several hundred miles away. Going northward seemed the best option, and he made sure there was a train going back the same day because he didn't want to repeat the awful odyssey from last December.
...
The city was big and ugly. Cars clogged the streets. Rain was pouring down in torrents, and he had forgotten to bring his raincoat.
Fortunately, the red and green lights worked the way he had learned it, and he found a post office quickly. The clerk wasn't particularly eager to be of assistance, though. She grew more and more impatient as he gave an accurate description of the Crabbes' house. Only when he mentioned the name of the tiny village that was situated nearby, she consented to tell him the postcode.
Regrettably, this wasn't the end of their interaction. According to the stubborn clerk, a stamp and an envelope were necessary to send a letter. She sold him the so-called stamp – a little, sticky picture showing the same lady whose portrait was on the banknotes – but refused to sell him the single envelope he needed. Instead, she made him buy an entire package of them.
When the letter was finally inside the envelope, the stamp glued to it, and the address written properly, the annoying woman was still not pleased. She insisted on him putting his own address on the envelope as well.
At this point, Draco was thoroughly fed up with the matter. He scribbled his former address in Wiltshire on the back of the envelope and added a postcode that was pure fantasy.
She scowled at his writing. Fury plainly written on her face, she crossed the postcode out and tossed the letter back to him.
"Think that is funny, do you?" she hissed.
For a moment, he was stumped. Then anger flared up. Not trusting himself with any reply whatsoever, he snatched the letter from the counter and stormed off. On his way out, he all but ran down a man who was distracted by answering questions that a little plastic thing in his hand asked him.
The man cried out angrily; Draco rushed on without a word.
What was it with these plastic boxes, anyway? Draco had witnessed before how the little devices actively sought attention by emitting beeping noises whereupon their owners would take them out and start talking to them. Nobody besides him seemed to consider that an eccentric habit.
...
The rain hadn't lessened a tad. Draco ran back to the train station where he paced the reception hall like a caged animal. He needed to walk in order to calm down and to collect his thoughts, but outside, he would be soaked through in no time at all, and in here, he was drawing attention to himself. Why did he have to mess up everything?
The mail clerk being a short-tempered, utterly unpleasant old bat was one thing. The worse trouble was that the blasted woman would remember him. Nobody would have to force information out of her by means of spells or potions; she would volunteer it: Insufferable youngster? Blonde? Yes, he was here. Yes, yes, Draco Malfoy. Tried to send a letter to one Ludmilla Crabbe. That was on May 4...
The only soothing aspect about the whole affair was that the incident had taken place in a different town rather than at the post office in Queens Street.
He jumped in alarm when he suddenly heard his name being called. They couldn't already be coming after him, could they?
Instead of Aurors, a chubby girl walked up to him. She had very short, brown hair and was dressed like the female employees of bank houses. She was in her early twenties, and he had seen her before.
"Hi, Draco!" she beamed. "Fancy meeting you here!"
"Err... hello," he said and swallowed.
Her smile faltered.
"Don't you remember?" she asked. "Ole Penwith's Owl Lodge?"
"Yes, I do. How are you" – he paused to recall her name – "Trish?"
"Fine," she said. "Or not so fine. But that's another story. What are you doing here?"
"I'm trying to send a letter," he said. Sticking with the truth was probably better than to ad-lib any tales.
"Oh, there's a postbox right in front of the entrance," she said, pointing with her wet umbrella to the two large doors that opened obediently whenever somebody approached them.
"Right, thanks," he said.
While he wondered whether it would seem odd if he asked for further details, she spoke again, "Why did you never phone me? I gave you my number. Did you lose your sketchpad or something?"
Remembering how he had tried in vain to figure out the meaning of the numerals she had written on his sketchpad, he said, "I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do."
"Now, what lame an excuse is that?" she exclaimed. "I gave you my phone number and told you to ring me up. What's there not to understand?"
She had told him to do this mysterious 'ringing up' when he was back in Wiltshire. Technically, he had been there for a few hours, but he was sure that he hadn't thought of her that night. In fact, he hadn't thought of her at all since last autumn.
She looked him up and down with narrowed eyes.
"Okay, let me guess. You've got a girlfriend. Right? Is that it?" she said. "I should have known. Pretty boys are always taken. That's just my luck. I'm either too fat, or too plain, or too unsophisticated. That stuck-up, old crow! I travel all these miles, I'm wearing my best clothes," – she indicated the two-piece-suit – "and you know what she tells me? 'Your qualification may be adequate but your appearance is not, young lady. Our clientele expect a sophisticated, urban flair and, naturally, we strive to provide it.' What does that snob think? That I buy from Dior? Without having a job? Oh, I could have kicked her!"
Draco stared at her. Her wrath made her somehow glow from within.
"I'm sorry," he said tentatively. "I'm afraid I can't quite follow you."
"What?" She shot him a heated look, but settled down in some measure. "Oh well, of course, it's perfectly all right for you to have a girlfriend. Sorry for yelling at you. We've known each other for altogether ten minutes perhaps, and it's not as if you had promised me anything. I'm just so upset! I didn't get that job because I'm an unsophisticated country bumpkin, and my looks would offend the posh guests! And she had the cheek to tell me that to my face! You should have seen her! She didn't just wear make-up; her face was positively caked with paint."
"Who, exactly, are you talking about?
"The personnel manager of the hotel." She heaved a sigh. "I came here for a job interview."
"I see," he said. He suddenly did understand. He knew how it felt to fail despite your best efforts.
"Yeah. When I saw you, I thought the day might not be entirely wasted after all. Well, never mind," she said, shrugging. "I need to get going or else the train will leave without me. That would definitely be the icing on the cake."
"Have a safe journey," he said. "And thanks for telling me about the postbox."
"You're welcome." A weak smile appeared on her face as she turned to leave. "It's all red and tall – you can't miss it. Bye, Draco! Take care!"
He watched her disappear into the crowd. There were not many people who called him by his given name. She did as if this was a matter of course.
...
The postbox was indeed easy to find. In fact, he had seen such red cylindrical objects in many places. He had also seen people pushing paper in, but he hadn't given their activities any thought.
He let the letter drop inside and wondered what would happen now – not so much how Mrs Crabbe would react, but how the letter would be transported to her. Did the many red cylinders form some sort of Muggle Floo Network? Did they suck in letters and spill them out again at their destination? If so, what was the actual task of mail servants?
After living nearly a year in this world, he still knew next to nothing.
On the other hand, compared to what he once had known about Muggles, his knowledge was huge.
...
54. The Merchant of Constantinople
Ever since he had been a toddler, Draco had heard that Muggles had a limited grasp of reality, couldn't perform magic and were, by and large, pretty useless. His parents had never provided solid facts to verify that conviction, but that hadn't bothered him in the least. He had simply made their opinion his own – as usual. At Hogwarts, he had scorned everybody who had merely considered the option of taking Muggle Studies.
She-Carrow had made the subject compulsory for everyone, but her lessons had hardly warranted the label "studies". She had delivered the same speech of heartfelt hatred every week until the biggest numbskull could recite it back and forth.
Muggles are an inferior breed. They can speak but most of the time, they spout nothing but nonsense. Their mental capacity doesn't even reach that of a house-elf...
Draco hadn't wasted a thought on her words beyond making sure he could always repeat them without flaw. Not infuriating her had been vitally important; the subject matter itself had been completely irrelevant.
No, Muggles had never been of any interest to him. Neither had he truly hated them nor had he been the least bit curious about them. They simply hadn't belonged to his world.
Even the soothsayer's prediction had failed to make him think twice. Instead of reminding himself that prophecies often proved true in a most unexpected way, he had listened to his mother, who had accused the old witch of being a brazen fraud. He would never have doubted his mother's judgement in such matters – obviously, another mistake on his part.
...
So here he stood in the entrance hall of the library and was resolved to learn what was necessary to muddle through everyday Muggle life without stirring up suspicion or causing ill feeling towards his person. The events of the last days had shown him that his ignorance of even the most basic customs and regulations were an inexhaustible source for complications.
He scanned the large information panel: Automotive Engineering, Civil Engineering, Coastal Engineering, Electrical Engineering, Electronic Engineering, and a dozen of other "engineerings". Whatever they were, the names didn't sound helpful to Draco. He skipped to the second floor: Marine Engineering, Marine Science, Maritime Science, Nautical Science, Oceanography... Biosciences, Environmental Science, Ecology, Geology... Computer Science, Computer Technology, Internet Technology...
It went on like this. What on earth were "software development" or "digital media"?
He gave up on the directory and walked to his favourite reading corner. There, he took a random book from the shelf and inspected it. It dealt with numbers, especially prime numbers.
To his surprise, the Muggles knew about the renowned Greek Arithmancer Eratosthenes of Cyrene and his method of sieving out prime numbers.
The next surprise was a footnote, stating that there was no scientific basis for the widespread believe of 13 being an unlucky number. Draco wholeheartedly agreed. 13 was rarely an omen, and in the few cases where it could be considered one, the implications weren't very grave.
Further references to the magical properties of prime numbers were not made, and phone numbers or postcodes weren't mentioned at all. He put the book back.
The whole shelf as well as the adjacent ones seemed dedicated to Arithmancy, or more exactly, to sundry Muggle versions thereof.
Elsewhere, he found books about the construction of houses or bridges, of furniture, ships, and all sorts of dubious machinery. There were thousands of them.
Other books appeared to be full of gibberish:
Var .. i : integer;
Begin
... clrscr;
... i := 0;
... for i := 0 to 15 do Begin
... i := i + 1;
... writeln ('result =', i);
... End;
End.
Now, what was anyone to make of that?
However, explaining such writings away as clear proof of Mugglish inanity seemed just the tiniest bit too easy. Who said this wasn't a secret language known only to well-chosen insiders? Draco could see the benefits: You could put restricted information openly on the shelves because people who were not supposed to learn anything from the books in question could read them as long as they pleased but be still none the wiser.
After a while, he came across a section of grammar books and dictionaries. There was also a small selection of books written in foreign languages. He picked a French one and read a few lines. His French was rusty but, sitting down, he read on to find out how well versed he still was in this language.
Slowly but steadily, his skill returned. He read carefully, and he took notes as it had always been his habit when perusing textbooks or other worthwhile books.
He was indeed mildly intrigued by the report about a journey undertaken by a Constantinopolitan named Kéraban. The man was a merchant and dealt in tobacco.
Tobacco was an ingredient used in a few select potions with poisonous effects. However, the text focussed on neither potions nor tobacco. The main concern seemed to be the wedding of Kéraban's nephew to the young heiress Amasia. Said girl had to get married before she turned seventeen, or else she would not inherit an apparently large sum of Turkish money.
Draco had doubts whether this was legal, but he had to allow that the only Muggle law he knew for certain was the one about not sleeping on the beach. Also, Turkey was a far-away country. The laws there might differ from British ones.
...
Draco returned day after day to read on but didn't truly realise that he had set himself a task before he was nearly halfway through the book. His progress was rather sluggish at the beginning. By and by, however, he had to consult dictionary and grammar books less often. Already at breakfast, he dwelt on the subtleties of French grammar, and when he went jogging in Hind Green late in the evening, he mulled over the events about which he had read during the day.
The report took several dramatic turns as another man – of allegedly noble descent – kidnapped the bride in order to force her to marry him. Whereas Kéraban's nephew seemed to have genuine feelings for Amasia, the kidnapper's sole motivation was the wealth. The concept of marrying for money sounded uncomfortably familiar to Draco, and the same went for Kéraban's firm resolve to adhere to tradition no matter how outrageously high the cost might be.
He kept on reading nonetheless, and when he closed the book for the last time he did so in an oddly content mood. There were two sources for the unusual sentiment: The conclusion – Amasia married Kéraban's nephew rather than the aristocrat who didn't care a jot for her well-being – and the fact that he had managed to read an entire book in French. His mother would be proud of him.
Or not.
Getting an admonition for wasting time on Muggle rubbish was more likely. He pushed the thought aside and went to have a look at the other French books on the shelf.
There was one advertising the sights of Paris. Several books dealt with sundry wars – he didn't even touch them – and one was about exploring the seas and searching for hitherto unknown animals. The author had added scores of pictures. It was a pity none of them moved. Seeing all these bizarre creatures swim back and forth would have been entertaining.
...
When Draco went home that evening, he looked for the first time consciously at the letter displayed in a small glass case that sat on the counter at the exit.
It was written in French.
...
55. "Qui Peut Traduire Cette Lettre?"
Essentially, the writer of the letter promised the recipient to accommodate a mutual friend while said friend stayed in Paris to visit an exhibition. This was preceded by detailed inquiries after the recipient's well-being as well as after the health of diverse family members and followed up by another lengthy sequence of polite phrases.
That was all. There was nothing particularly exciting about that letter.
He scrutinized the lines, trying to decide whether the writer had used a goose-quill or a swan-quill when he suddenly had the creepy feeling of being watched.
He turned around and found himself face to face with one of the librarians.
He took half a step backwards.
She smiled.
"Hi there," she said. "You looked pretty absorbed right now. Could you figure anything out?"
"Err... yes," he said, somewhat taken aback.
"You did? What is the letter about?"
He told her. While he spoke, her smile gradually vanished and made room for an expression of astonishment.
"I'm impressed," she said.
"Thanks," he said softly.
"I've been looking for someone with your skills for weeks."
He gave a curt nod, wondering how he could end this conversation without annoying her. She was, according to the badge on her cream-coloured linen jacked, the head librarian.
"Would you be interested in earning a few pounds?" she asked, pointing to a piece of white cardboard placed next to the encased letter. The question Qui Peut Traduire Cette Lettre? was carefully printed on it.
"I'm sorry. I do not understand," he said firmly. He wasn't sure at all where this was going.
"Well, I'm not able to make extra expenses for the translations" – she paused, apparently thinking something over – "but I can pay you the same way as other part-timers. Perhaps four hours a week? Or two if you are too busy revising for the exams? What do you say?"
He was at a loss for words. She was offering him a job – that much was obvious. But why? What was she taking him for?
"I am aware that translating hand-written letters is not the same as tidying up shelves or running errands, but unfortunately, I can't offer more," the head librarian went on. "I have to balance the budget."
He shook his head and took another half-step backwards.
He had enough money to cover his daily expenses. Why would he want to work for her?
"Well, it was worth a try," she sighed. "After all, you're the first person who apparently can read such writing without difficulty. I need somebody who can discern the scribble and is good at French. For a moment, I thought I had found in you the perfect candidate for the job. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."
She turned away.
He stared at her retreating back.
Malfoys didn't work for other people.
Generations of Malfoys had led a life of ease and leisure. Even though the wealth had been taken away, the thought he might have to earn his living one day hadn't yet occurred to Draco. His focus had been on sorting out his past instead of imagining future scenarios in which he was brewing potions in the backroom of an apothecary's.
Besides, he had salvaged one last treasure from the wreckage of the Malfoy fortune – a rucksack full of British pounds. The Muggle money would sustain him for the time being.
Immersed in his thoughts, he walked down the stairs and out of the building.
Taking up a paid job... The idea stunned him. Were there other methods of getting your hands on money?
His father had occasionally bought a valuable book, piece of jewellery, or other heirloom off someone who was in financial difficulties and had sold it later for twice, or trice, or tenfold the sum to somebody else. His mother had disliked such activities, but she had never openly argued against them.
There was little doubt about how his mother proposed to restore the family to the former social status and what kind of contribution she expected of him. In her opinion, taking a job – any job no matter how well paid or reputed – would bring further shame to the family whereas marrying a revolting but wealthy pure-blooded witch would be perfectly fine.
All of a sudden, anger rose, and its intensity made him cry out in frustration. Unable to contain himself, he swung his foot with full force at an empty milk container that happened to lie by the wayside. It lifted off the ground and soared through the air in a long, smooth arc. Narrowly avoiding a wastebasket, it landed about fifty yards from where he stood on the other side of the lawn.
There were cheers.
And catcalls as well.
Horrified, Draco looked about. He was surrounded by people who looked at him with blatant glee. His first impulse was to run, but every route was blocked by the crowd.
"Bad case of exam nerves, eh?" a gangly man well in his thirties grinned. Laughter and a chorus of sniggers followed his words.
"Shut it," Draco growled, feeling the embarrassment burning in his cheeks. Fury plus humiliation was a dangerous mixture. More often than not, it had made him lash out at people, insult them, hurt them. Whereas in former times the choking emotions had built up slowly, they now erupted like molten rock from a volcano.
He was aware of the muttering around him but couldn't really catch on. He felt his heart beat at twice its normal rate; his vision was blurred at the edges. Everything looked slightly unreal.
And his wrath was still mounting. It was transforming, too. A prickly feeling spread out from his right palm and sped up his arm. It seeped into his chest, into his whole body – all in a matter of seconds. Finding no outlet, the surge of raw magic converged and shot back down his wand arm.
He'd never leave the cell in Azkaban again if he attacked any of the blasted Muggles – the thought cut through at the very last moment. With a supreme effort, he forced the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist – an act of bravery he'd never have expected himself capable of. He knew before his nails dug into the flesh that it was too late to change his mind. The wave of fear found no time to wash over him before the unrefined curse left his fingertips, assaulting the only human being within reach. Searing pain rushed up his arm, travelled past throat and heart and turned his stomach into a knot of unspeakable pain.
He wanted to scream, but couldn't. There was darkness and complete silence. His heart didn't beat; all his body functions seemed to have stopped. There was only the agony in the middle of his belly.
And then it was gone. The pain didn't fade; it ended abruptly. There wasn't even a noticeable after effect.
He took a deep breath, thankful beyond measure that he still could breathe. There was nothing as unpredictable in its effects as a flare-up of raw magic.
"You all right?" the gangly man asked, looking slightly worried.
"Mind your own business," Draco snapped, relieved at how normal his voice sounded.
He turned and started to walk away, and the crowd actually parted to let him go.
He might have done unimaginable things to himself, he thought with a shudder. Perhaps he should count himself lucky that his natural magic was somewhat limited. He had never been able to bring off spectacular hexes that required power rather than skill.
What had triggered the outburst, anyway? By and large, the exchange with the librarian hadn't been much more awkward than unexpected interactions with Muggles usually were. Somehow, his reaction seemed vastly out of proportion.
He went to Hind Green where he kept jogging until he was too exhausted to feel upset about anything.
...
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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)