56. Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor and the Neolithic
He avoided the library and its immediate surroundings for several days.
He jogged in the park, or he strolled along the pedestrian precinct where he checked the shop windows for a suitable replacement for the grievously frayed jacked he had worn all last summer, the better part of the autumn, and this spring ever since the weather had become too warm for the parka. He took his time comparing the displayed pieces of clothing to what men wore in the streets before he made his decision.
For the first time in his life, he went to a barber's. However slowly his hair grew, after more than a year without Tribbs's meticulous attention he needed a haircut. The barber, a dark, thickset fellow with a strong accent, suggested all sorts of fancy hairstyles, but Draco insisted on a plain one – shoulder-length and middle parting. A plain appearance made going unnoticed easier.
...
Being busy with shopping and having his hair cut helped him to regain a state of moderate tranquillity. Wistfully, he recalled how content he had felt upon finishing the book and how quickly and completely the good mood had been destroyed. It took so little these days to throw him off balance.
Then again, he had always been prone to edginess. In former times, he had only been better at hiding it. He had also been quicker at soothing himself. When his father's blunt, ready-made answers hadn't sufficed, he had resorted to his mother's subtler views of the world.
But she had erred, too. Less often than his father and probably less severe, but erred she had.
History wouldn't go amiss, and Muggle Studies is an absolute must...
Knowing when a holiday took place wouldn't harm, for example. Knowing more about postboxes or heating devices wouldn't be a bad thing, either. Maybe he should figure out what "phone numbers" actually were because more knowledge meant fewer unpleasant surprises.
...
At length, he mustered the courage to go back to the library. Of course, he wouldn't find books with titles like How to Steer Clear of Trouble While Hiding Out in Muggle Communities or The Essential Guide to Muggle Customs. Some Muggle equivalent to Hogwarts: A History might be a good start.
He found the history section and browsed the books, determinedly ignoring everything with the word war on the spine. He finally sat down with a thick volume called English History from the Neolithic to the Present.
The Neolithic had been the period of domestication of both animals and plants. Five thousand years ago, the Britons had been farmers and artisans. Apparently, they had led peaceful lives. They had bred cattle and built wooden tracks across the land. They had mined for flint and had made axes and pottery. Stonehenge was mentioned, and the Author guessed correctly that it had been more than just observatory and calendar. What this "more" was, however, the man couldn't tell. Of course he couldn't.
The Neolithic was followed by Bronze Age and that, in turn, by Iron Age. By then, the Britons had mined for metals – copper, tin, and even gold – and had learned how to use them.
Two thousand years ago, things had changed. The Romans had come and ruled the country for four centuries. Later, other tribes had invaded the island – Angles, Saxons, Friesians, Jutes, Danes, and finally, the Normans. There was an ever-increasing number of battles and raids. There were bloodshed and destruction...
Draco skipped the pages, but it didn't get any better. Eventually, he gave up and jumped straight to the last chapter, the one he supposed to be about the present. The book had been written in 1953, though, and ended with the coronation of a new queen. Her name was Elizabeth II and she reigned over many countries, including such exotic places as Barbados.
Draco took a banknote out and compared the lady depicted on it with the – unmoving – pictures of the coronation ceremony. The woman was the same, if visibly older.
With a sigh, he put the book back on the shelf. He'd spent the whole day reading, but what had he learned that would help him master everyday Muggle life?
...
He regretted his refusal to translate the French letters. Letters were real-life stuff – he had passed up a perfectly good chance to get some first-hand insight into Muggle affairs. While he ate at the dining hall, he pondered whether to apply for the job or not.
Had Malfoys ever worked for payment? He wasn't entirely sure, but he knew that they had stooped much lower. They had served. Even worse, he had been proud to serve. In the beginning, he had been genuinely proud to be a part of this grand, big scheme.
In truth, there had been nothing magnificent about it. His father and he had served an evil monster – without any payment whatsoever, without any reward whatsoever, only for the chance of not being slaughtered on the spot. He couldn't possibly sink any lower by translating letters.
Payment wasn't the objective, anyway. His aim was to gather useful information. His mother should be able to see the distinction. Then again, why should he tell her in the first place? She didn't need to learn about him taking up paid work.
He absently watched the commotion that ensued at the neighbouring table as a girl spilled a whole glass of brown liquid onto her blouse. With a high-pitched shriek, she jumped up. Once she stood, she started to giggle, and all her friends joined in. Then, never entirely ceasing to giggle, the girls made some altogether pointless attempts to undo the damage.
He gazed at them, thinking they should allow the blouse to soak in lukewarm water for a while since they couldn't use Tergeo, a nifty spell to deal with such mishaps.
The girls soon left the dining hall, and he went back to brooding over the question of how to approach the head librarian. Should he apologise? Perhaps not; he hadn't done anything wrong. But could he just walk up to her and ask without preliminaries to be given the job? Was this good manners?
...
In the early morning hours, he woke from an exciting dream.
He had dreamt about the girl who had spilled her drink. In his dream, he had seen what he had only sub-consciously perceived while awake – how her blouse had clung most peculiarly to her torso, and that she had worn nothing beneath that wet blouse.
In short, the wetness had begot more wetness. He didn't mind, not at all. It had been so long since he'd had this kind of dream. Save for the one about dancing with Pansy on the beach, there had been none in nearly two years.
...
57. Getting a Job
"Mrs Highbury?"
He had waited the whole morning for the head librarian to appear. She looked strained and busy; her only response was one raised eyebrow. Although he wasn't sure whether plunging on was a good idea, he did. He had made up his mind to ask for the job, and he had to do it now before the resolve left him.
"My apologies for disturbing you, Mrs Highbury," he said. "You were looking for somebody who is able to translate French letters. Is the job still available?"
Instantly, her face lit up.
"You want to give them a try?" she said enthusiastically, putting down the papers she had been shuffling. "We talked about these letters the other week, didn't we? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I forgot your name."
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
"Mr Malfoy, right." She smiled. "Does that sound slightly French? Do you happen to have French relatives?"
His father had always dismissed speculations about a Norman origin of his name as pure nonsense. However, seen in the light of what he had read the previous day, such an interpretation couldn't be ruled out.
"I'm not sure. My ancestor Pavo was born near Chichester on March 1, 1102. He was the second son of one Guiot. Apart from the year of his death, 1107, I know nothing about Guiot. It was the time of Norman reign, but that alone doesn't yet prove Norman roots."
He fell silent because her eyes grew wider with every word he spoke. She said nothing, but continued to appraise him.
He swallowed.
"Is my family background relevant for the job?" he asked tentatively. He couldn't tell her much more without violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
She rallied.
"No, of course not. It's just that I've never met somebody before who knew his lineage a thousand years back. Please, do come in," she said, ushering him into the area reserved for the staff. Her smile was back. "So, let me guess what you are studying. History? Mediaeval History?"
"History can be kind of interesting, yes," he muttered. It was his customary lie, but he was treading on thin ice here. He knew neither the name of the History professor nor where the classroom was. At best, he could say a sentence or two about the Bronze Age.
"The letters should delight you, then," she already went on, while she hastily cleared dirty cups, sundry stacks of brochures, and various, small objects of unknown purpose off a desk. "You can sit here while you copy the letters, Mr Malfoy. Cora is on maternity leave until January."
"Thank you," he said, inclining his head.
"That's alright. So, let's have a look at the letters, shall we?"
She led him to a huge filing cabinet nearby, simultaneously explaining about a late professor who had bequeathed a vast collection of books to the university.
"Naturally, the task of cataloguing fell to my staff and me. In addition to the books – precious first editions and signed copies included – we got two large boxes filled with letters. Most of them are too old to be the late professor's own correspondence."
She took three letters out of the cabinet and handed them to Draco. Each one was enclosed in thin, translucent plastic. The material felt smooth and flexible to his fingers.
"I would ask you not to remove them from their protection," she continued. "We don't yet know whether they are valuable and of scientific interest. In order to find out we need to read them, which is where the trouble starts: They are old; in some cases, the paper is on the verge of disintegrating. They are hand-written, and about three quarters of them are in French. I put my little advertisement up in early March but so far, few people have tried their hand on them. Those who did gave up soon, complaining about illegibility and old fashioned language."
Draco glanced at the letters. The handwriting was perfectly tidy, and the language in the one he had read the week before hadn't struck him as anything out of the ordinary. It had been the same French he had read in the book about the tobacco merchant and, essentially, the same French he had learned from his mother.
"I didn't see such difficulties," he said.
"All the better, Mr Malfoy," she beamed. "Well, I want you to make a word-for-word copy of each letter first. This way, we can return the originals to the safety of the filing cabinet, and you can take all the time you need for the translations. That is to say, 'all the time you need' is a bit of an exaggeration. I can pay you for a maximum of five hours a week. I'm sorry for that. We're nearing the end of the term, and the budget is tight."
Talking about money had wiped the jovial smile off her face. She looked almost worried now.
"It's alright," he said. "The money isn't the point."
"Fancy that," she said, frowning, "a student who doesn't need money."
"Maybe I said that wrong. I meant to say that I'm interested in the letters themselves. I think they'll be worth reading. Letters are real-life stuff, and I'm looking for answers... about customs and etiquette... " He was babbling, and he knew it. To his astonishment, her smile was back. "Does that make sense to you?"
"Of course, it does," she replied. Her smile had become an actual grin. "Mr Malfoy, if you read more of these letters than you translate in the end, I won't mind. It shall be far from me to admonish a student for studying."
"Err..." He could sense a breathtaking amount of genuine goodwill in her, a goodwill that went even beyond the spoken words. A distinct warmth rose up the sides of his neck and further to his cheeks.
"Don't worry," she said kindly. "I mean it."
"Thanks," he said, not knowing what else to reply.
"You're welcome. If truth be told, I never quite believed those few pounds would make much of a bait. The chance of getting authentic facts is probably a better incentive. History books hail the exploits of famous personalities, but they usually ignore the daily toil of millions of ordinary people. I hope you will find what you're looking for," she said. "Well then, the question of payment aside, I suppose you'll prefer to work at your leisure?"
"I haven't-" he started and stopped short. It would seem odd if he said he hadn't any other responsibilities. She certainly expected him to attend classes and, at this time of the year, sit exams. "I can be here at eight in the morning."
"Right. Come with me, please, I'll introduce you to Jeff Oldfield. He has a key for the filing cabinet. I can't be around all the time, but I'm sure he will be happy to help you with any problems or questions."
Jeffrey Oldfield was a podgy man of indeterminable age and rolled around in a wheelchair. He shook hands with Draco and suggested straight away going on first name terms with each other.
Draco, intent on behaving inconspicuously, agreed.
Before she left, Mrs Highbury spoke about arranging for a "personal computer account" and a permanent password for Draco. However, since the instructions were for Jeffrey and not for him, Draco didn't worry about them.
He sat down at the desk assigned to him and started to copy letters.
...
All in all, Draco became quickly accustomed to his new occupation.
He arrived at the library at eight in the morning, read several letters, copied the most interesting ones, returned the originals to the cabinet, and gave the key back to Jeffrey. Then, fetching grammar books and a dictionary on the way, he went with the copies to his favourite reading corner and set to work.
The content of the letters varied widely. Some were strictly about personal matters. Once he found what could only be called a love letter. The letters dealing with the use of either steam-power or electricity were the most instructive ones. Although each letter delivered only a snippet of knowledge, Draco hoped he would eventually find out how the electric bulb that illuminated his desk actually worked.
He collected the transcripts and his translations in a folder together with an index that listed the main topics.
To keep his good standing with the head librarian, he made for her second copies of a number of letters as well as copies of the English versions. She always seemed to be very pleased with his work. Once a week, she handed him an envelope containing twenty pounds and had him receipt the payment.
A month went by. The library staff accepted Draco's presence without ado. They answered his greeting in a friendly manner, made the occasionally remark about the weather or other insignificant things, but never bothered him with attempts at serious conversation.
Exchanges with Jeffrey were usually brief and to the purpose. Most times, the man simply let Draco have the key to the filing cabinet and went back to chatting up patrons or library assistants, provided they were female. Apparently, Jeffrey was slapdash about his duties in a general way. He kept forgetting about arranging for the password and the mysterious account. He apologised to Draco for his negligence for the first few days, then he didn't mention the matter anymore. Draco, not knowing what he would need a password for, likewise left the topic alone.
Only once Draco got involved with the staff on a slightly more personal level. Mrs Smith, the elderly librarian who had seen one of the Fiendfyre sketches a few weeks earlier, brought home-baked cake with her. She invited her colleagues to share it and insisted on Draco attending the gathering as well. He obeyed and sat with the others, eating a slice of scrumptious cake and listening to a totally incomprehensible debate about kitchen tools. At least, he imagined "microwave ovens" to be some sort of kitchen equipment.
Apart from that event, nothing interrupted his daily routine until he tried to pay Mrs Bates the rent for July.
...
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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)