61. Emergency
September had come. There were only about twenty-four hours left to send birthday greetings to his father, but Draco hadn't written him yet nor was he going to write now. He couldn't put a letter that was addressed to Lucius Malfoy, Inmate of Azkaban into a Muggle mailbox, could he?
He couldn't buy an owl, either. Even if he had Galleons and found a retailer, he wouldn't be allowed to. The Code of Conduct prohibited any purchase of living creatures with magical abilities. No exceptions were listed. Thinking of this, he realised at long last why his mother had bought an owl from Lisboa. She had a penfriend there – a former classmate who had married a wealthy Portuguese wizard.
He sighed. He had also failed to send his mother birthday greetings last December. The lack of an owl was a valid excuse in this case as well but not the true reason. The truth was that he had completely forgotten about her anniversary. Fever-ridden, he hadn't known what time of day it was, let alone what day of the month.
There hadn't been any communication between them since he had fled from Runcorn's cottage. Given that his mother did know he no longer had an owl and was therefore unable to initiate contact, there was only one explanation. She snubbed him. After months of waiting in vain for her owl he had become sure of that. Pointedly ignoring him had always been her favourite method of punishment. For a chance to explain himself and to appease her he depended entirely on her owl, but Lissy hadn't turned up once ever since last Yule.
And if the little screech owl came today to carry a letter to Azkaban, what would he say to his formerly idolised father? Father, I hope my lines will find you in health and sanity...
Engrossed in his gloomy thoughts, Draco set off for the baker's. He didn't pay attention to the couple of hens that strutted down the lane. He had already marched on for another thirty yards when he finally realised something was amiss: The hens had escaped, and Mr Penwith wasn't going to be happy about that.
Draco turned to chase them back in. Admittedly, he wasn't an expert at chicken care, and the silly birds downright panicked. Luckily, they ran where they were supposed to go despite their exaggerated show of wild wing-flapping and mad clucking. This was why he, for a short moment, felt confident to solve the problem on his own. Then, however, he saw that nearly all chickens were outside the enclosure. The reason for the mass breakout was easy to detect – the gate was ajar. Something – no, someone – prevented it from closing properly. Someone lay in an awkward position on the ground – and that person was none other than Mr Penwith!
Feeling a pang of terror, Draco rushed over to the motionless man and crouched down.
"Mr Penwith!" he cried. "Mr Penwith, answer me! Please!"
But there was no reaction. The old man just lay there and looked dead. Following impulse rather than acting consciously, Draco reached for the man's wrist. There was a pulse – faint and frighteningly erratic, but there.
Draco jumped to his feet and ran.
...
He had run like this before. Or maybe he hadn't. Whenever he had run, it had been different. Different reasons, different ends, different fears... He had run to get away from somewhere, from something, from somebody. Now he was running to reach a place.
He flung the door to the baker's open and yelled that Mr Penwith was very ill.
Except that all he got out was a strangled, inarticulate noise. Everybody turned to stare at him. Five people, six. There was almost always a queue now in the shop since one of the girls had gone on maternity leave. He fought for breath. His lungs burned.
"Mr Penwith," he panted. "Unconscious."
There was a change. The curiosity transmuted into attention.
"Mr Penwith is unconscious?" a plump, bald man in a grey cardigan asked.
Draco nodded, still panting.
"Has pulse. Faint... irg... irregular-"
The man – a villager; Draco had seen him before – whipped round and bellowed orders at the shop girl. Turning back to Draco, he asked, "Where is Mr Penwith now?"
"Chicken run," Draco wheezed. "Found... him... there."
The man gave a curt nod and hurried out of the shop before Draco had even finished his answer. The shop girl was holding a little plastic device – the sort that could make beeping noises – close to her face. For some strange reason, she explained the situation to that thing. She stated Mr Penwith's address twice and said something about possible heart failures or strokes. Everybody else watched her in silent approval.
Why wasn't anyone doing anything?
The memory rose so suddenly and with such brutal force, Draco slumped back against the wall. The intensity was crushing him. It wasn't just a memory; he was re-living the scene: No-one stirred, no-one lifted a finger, no-one said a single word to make things stop. No-one heard the pleading. On the contrary, there was laughter... spiteful, gleeful, malicious, revolting... And the snake, the huge, ghastly snake slithered along the table...
It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. What were you to do in the face of impending murder if you were a lone teenager among twenty adults? What were you to do if you were alone among twenty people who were either bloodthirsty or cowed? Or who simply didn't care? She had pleaded with Snape, the poor, deluded woman...
It wasn't fair; it wasn't fair at all... And was it his fault again? Things had always had a tendency to be his fault... He had been blamed for all the times he had lost. He had been blamed for all the times he had tried and failed. He had been blamed for all the times he hadn't tried... It wasn't fair if losing was your only option. It wasn't fair in the least if you didn't have the power to stop things from happening.
He didn't want to be put in situations that were beyond his control because that simply wasn't fair. He didn't have the guts to stand up to a crowd. Did he have the guts to stand up to anyone?
"Mr Penwith needs help!" he choked out.
Somebody made a shushing noise; the shop girl raised her free hand in a quelling gesture and continued talking to the effing plastic device.
"Why don't you-" he whispered. Why did he never succeed in anything?
"Yes, Doctor Polkinghorne went straight there. He went by car so he should be there already," the girl said, raising her voice slightly. After a short pause, she added, "Sure. Thanks. Bye."
She put the plastic thing down and looked at Draco.
"Relax. The paramedics are on their way, and Doctor Polkinghorne should already be there," she said with a smile that seemed completely out of place to Draco. "It was quite a lucky thing he happened to be a bit late today."
Draco stared at her. Something seemed stuck in his throat. For the first time in nearly two years, he felt like he actually could cry.
"Doctor Polkinghorne," the girl said, her smile waning. "The gentleman in the knitted jacket. He's a specialist from the Royal District Hospital; internal specialist I think. He'll know what to do. He has to deal with that sort of thing every day."
It slowly dawned on Draco that the fat, bald man in the grey cardigan was some sort of healer. He let out a ragged sigh. Maybe he hadn't failed for once. A healer had gone to see Mr Penwith...
"Are you all right, love?" the girl asked. She sounded concerned. The other people in the shop were eyeing him with open curiosity. "Oh well, I'm afraid I don't even know your real name, calling you 'the young artist' all the time. That's so silly-"
He jerked himself away from the wall and dashed outside. The woes of his soul threatened to spill over, and he couldn't bear with onlookers. No sooner had he slammed the door behind him than tears sprang up in his eyes. He couldn't help it. And he didn't want to, either.
He broke into a run to get away from the baker's, away from the village. As he continued uphill, a large car overtook him. The vehicle was painted green and yellow and had blue, flashing lights on the roof. It stopped in front of Mr Penwith's house. Three smaller cars were already there. One of them was a police car.
He slowed down. His vision was blurred with tears.
He didn't feel up to facing anyone at the moment. He wanted to know whether Mr Penwith would be all right, but he couldn't bring himself to go any nearer. Instead, he left the lane and walked across a stretch of grassland. He sat down beneath a rampant hazel bush, rested his back against the earthwork of the hedge, and allowed the sobs to work their way out.
...
62. Breakdown
In between bouts of silent crying, he caught glimpses of the proceedings at Mr Penwith's.
In time, men in green and yellow overalls lifted a stretcher into the large car. Draco supposed that the person on the stretcher was Mr Penwith. The men got into the car as well, the healer Doctor Polkinghorne and a lady Draco had never seen before got each into one of the smaller cars, and all three cars started moving.
Only the police car remained where it was.
Soon after, sounds of hysteric clucking drifted over to Draco. There were urgent shouts of Watch out! or triumphant cries of I've got one!
Draco was surprised that collecting stray animals of somebody who had fallen ill was a concern of the police. Aurors probably wouldn't bother with something like that...
He was grateful, though. It would have taken him till noon to chase the hens back where they belonged, not to mention the vicious cock.
After a while, things went quiet and the policemen drove off in their car. Draco hadn't quite stopped crying during the past half-hour, but he hadn't entirely given in, either, while there were people within hearing distance.
Now that he finally had his solitude, he let out a single, anguished cry. Then he sobbed without restraint. The sobs were violent and painful and shook his whole body. He sank down onto the grass. It just happened to him – the crying and sobbing and snivelling just happened to him.
It was always the same. Things happened... to him, around him.
He was never prepared for them.
Events came thick and fast.
Spinning out of control.
Time and again.
All these fucking delusions of grandeur...
...Tangled, caged, trapped.
...Helpless. Powerless. Hopeless.
...Failure.
...Blame.
Worsening matters instead of improving them.
Never able to steer, never able to veer.
No brake, none, neither front nor rear.
Fallacy. Injury. Misery.
Agony.
The sobs grew in intensity until they became jerks, causing his limbs to flail. Inside, his soul trashed about just as wildly. He let it happen. Pain and sorrow gushed forth in violent torrents, twisting and buffeting his inner self in their floods. He let it happen.
The convulsions eventually subsided, allowing the tears to flow more steadily. When the tears had petered out as well, he felt warm and weightless.
Cosy.
Drowsy...
...
The sun was high in the sky when he woke up. His stomach was churning.
He picked himself up and looked around.
There was nobody there.
He had lain in the shade of the rampant bush, which was probably lucky. He wouldn't have to cure sunburn. His clothing, however, was sullied with dirt and snot.
He quickly made his way over to the lodging house, went into the bathroom, stripped, and stuffed his shirt and his trousers into the washbasin. He let lukewarm water flow into the basin until it was full to the rim.
Then he took a shower to wash the muck off his face and body. He wished he could cleanse his stained soul just as easily.
Of course, his towel was in his room upstairs. He went there as he was – dripping wet and in the buff. There wasn't anyone else here, so what the hell.
He put on his dressing gown, grabbed the bottle of liquid soap and went back down to the bathroom.
...
He took his time doing the laundry.
While his hands worked, he wondered what had triggered the breakdown. He had lost the ability to cry so many months ago. For countless times ever since, he had wished he could cry again. Yet, he hadn't been able to.
So why now? What had changed?
The fit had been different from the ones he'd had in the past.
Oh yes, he had cried in former times – often, far more often than even his mother would have tolerated if she had noticed. He had always been careful to hide his breakdowns because Malfoys did not show weakness. The Ghost Girl had been the first person – if she counted for a person – to see him cry since he had been a toddler. To his surprise, her presence had been comforting rather than embarrassing. He couldn't have given a reason for this back then, but he knew now. She hadn't ridiculed him for crying. She hadn't even scolded him. On the contrary, she had encouraged him.
Go on, it helps. Don't hold back.
Up to that night in her bathroom, he had only ever been told that crying was wrong. Boys didn't do it, especially if they were Malfoys. But the Ghost Girl's argument had held truer with reality – crying did help. While it didn't solve any actual problems, it still served to dull the pain, both mentally and physically.
Tears are nature's very own painkilling potion.
Yes, they were. And that was why he had broken the Malfoys-don't-cry-rule countless times. There had been periods when he had tried to adhere to it and to develop into the man he was expected to be. The pent-up frustration had found other outlets but only temporarily. He had ended up crying nonetheless. You were bound to lose if you fought nature itself.
He had cried in protest as a child when he didn't understand the world. Later, he had cried out his anger – anger with himself or with others. He had given in to the urge to kick things, to trample an essay that got an A under his foot, to throw his Quidditch robes across the room. He had let out howls of rage and had broken down crying.
Sadly, the battle between the inborn desire and the instilled beliefs had hurled him into a vicious circle. Tears had soothed him, but he had also been ashamed of them. So, he had fought them, and his anger had built up even more until he hadn't been able to bear it any longer. And then, he had come down not just with tears but with a tantrum. And afterwards, he had berated and despised himself for his weakness and had sworn each time not to do it again. And he had broken every single one of these oaths.
He was weak, and that was a fact. He could as well succumb and have a good cry whenever he longed for one.
Who was there to deny him that?
He felt a bitter laugh bubbling up.
If his father ever caught him crying, there would be no limit to the ridicule he'd have to suffer. If his mother caught him, she'd definitely be disappointed. But she was disappointed in him already; it couldn't get much worse.
And as for all the others – Pansy, Zabini, Nott, Goyle, Snape – why should he still worry about what they thought? For all he cared, the whole lot of them could go kiss a dragon.
...
63. Ghost of Friendship
He put his wet garments on the clothesline.
The chickens were peacefully pecking food. If they took notice of him, they didn't show it. Thus, they emulated nicely the behaviour of his former acquaintances.
Had anybody ever seen him?
That wasn't very likely. He had not wanted anyone to look behind the carefully maintained facade. Revealing the vulnerability that lay behind would have been an unnecessary risk. It wasn't prudent to give others an advantage over you.
A few people had caught a glimpse, though. Pansy probably had done so and had promptly backed off. His mother had done so, and she hadn't liked what she had seen, either.
The Ghost Girl had been the only exception. She had provided a shoulder – the incorporeal image of a shoulder at any rate – for him to cry on. He hadn't been used to letting his guard down and hadn't even told her his true name. Thinking about it now hurt. What he'd had with her had been no more than the semblance of friendship, and even that had been based on deception.
If she had known who he really was, if she had known what kind of Mark was burnt into his forearm, she would have screamed the place down with righteous wrath.
He pulled his sleeve back a little to look at the emblem of his shame. Although faded, the Mark was still there – reddish and ugly against the skin. It would never go away entirely. This and the faint, barely visible scars on his chest were the only outward signs of all the damage that had been done inside.
He sat down on the slab of sloppily hewn stone that served as doorstep of the lodging house and got up again thirty seconds later to fetch a couple of handkerchiefs. Tears pricked his eyes again; maybe he should use a towel.
He had learned about the Ghost Girl's identity through one of his aunt's rants about the 'praiseworthy achievements' of the monster she worshipped. Myrtle Monaughan had died in 1943 when the monster had loosed a Basilisk upon the school.
The next time Myrtle had tried to comfort him, he had cried all the harder. Her being ignorant of him serving the very monster that was responsible for her death hadn't been the worst. Worse than that had been that his aunt had laced with guilt what up until then had been a source of comfort – a small one, but a dependable source of comfort nonetheless. The more he had lost outside the Ghost Girl's bathroom, the more he had cherished her company. But his thrice-accursed aunt had to go and mar it, tarnish it, spoil it...
Myrtle was a Mudblood. Of course she was. She had been murdered because of her blood status. And he had known all too well that he mustn't befriend such people, whether they were ghosts or not.
Worse still, however, had been recalling the opinions he had been putting forth in earlier times. The last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's only a matter of time before one of them is killed this time. I hope it will be Granger.
He had said that. Had he meant it?
Back in his second year at Hogwarts, he had been convinced that he meant it. But he hadn't known what he was talking about, not in the least.
People saying things like I'll kill you or I hope she just drops dead were mouthing words. People who proposed murder and actually meant it were not right in their heads. It was against nature to commit murder. Everybody who claimed otherwise was either completely ignorant, or deliberately lying, or mentally ill.
He had been ignorant, and horribly so.
At home, he had often heard how killing was a glorious, honourable deed, especially when done for a 'noble cause'. He had believed it like he had believed all his father's teachings.
The people his father had socialised with had generally talked the same way. Maybe his father had influenced them in their views; maybe they had shared his father's opinions all along and that was why Lucius Malfoy had sought their company. The Crabbes, the Goyles, the Rosiers, the Notts, the Yaxleys, the Averys, the Gamps – they all had at least one Death Eater in the family.
Draco remembered how they had reminisced at festive gatherings about their exploits. He remembered their contempt for people who didn't belong to respectable society, for anyone with no proper wizarding pride, and for blood-traitors and Muggle-loving fools who deserved to meet with a sticky end one day.
Crabbe's mother had sometimes put in a mildly chiding remark that had made the assembly laugh at her and call her a silly cow. His mother had protested the choice of words once in a while. Only Horatio Gamp had ever protested the choice of topic.
Please, Lucius, don't talk of bloodshed while the children are listening in.
You have a son, Horatio. You want him to become a man!
Honestly, he's eight!
So it is about time he learns what is rightful and proper.
He, Draco, had been good at learning. He had learned that pure-bloods belonged in charge, that blood traitors needed to be shown the error of their ways, and that Mudbloods didn't belong in the wizarding world at all. Of course, he had noticed how Granger was more apt at magic than he was, and it had enraged him. She was about ten times as clever as pure-blooded Crabbe, and by this she clearly undermined the foundations of wizarding society. Punishment for such behaviour was only just and proper.
He had learned that the death of a Mudblood was no loss but an improvement. If the misfits couldn't be driven off by other means, resorting to drastic measures was permitted.
He had never doubted the soundness of such concepts before he had wised up about the Ghost Girl's fate. And this first flicker of doubt had been brought about solely by chance – he had found the derelict bathroom by chance, and he had heard his aunt's tale by chance, and it had been a quirk of fate that he had found the room first and heard the tale later. And he had hated his aunt for taking even the illusion of a blessing from him.
However, he hadn't been able to see Myrtle Monaughan, the Mudblood. To him, she had remained the Ghost Girl. And of course, that had been another addition to his long list of failings, another proof of his lack of principles.
He was sobbing again.
Who decided what was wrong and what was rightful and proper? He had striven to adhere to the values he had been taught. What else could he have done?
He had been told to listen never and under no circumstances to anybody who had ideas different from his father's. These people were in the wrong because they had ideas different from his father's. He had been told that people who didn't belong to the circle of reputable pure-blood families had no right to voice an opinion because such people didn't belong to the circle of reputable pure-blood families. Why had he never realised this to be circular reasoning devoid of any logic?
Would he have listened to anyone pointing out that lack of logic?
Had anyone ever tried to get him to open his eyes? Had anyone ever made a conscious effort to drag him off the predestined path?
He couldn't recall any such occasion except for the exchange with Dumbledore on the tower.
...
64. To Live or to Die
Even in retrospect, it was difficult to decide whether the old wizard's offer had been sincere. If Dumbledore had indeed known about Draco's mission all along, why hadn't he stopped him earlier? Why had he leaned back and watched as if the yearlong struggle was an entertaining show?
You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley in the process. You are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived...
The foul, old bastard! Maybe Draco's 'increasing desperation' had been nothing but a good laugh to him, but wouldn't it have been a headmaster's duty to care for the life and safety of students like Katie Bell?
Draco blew his nose and wiped his eyes. He was beginning to feel drained, but he had to see this through. If he was honest, as honest as he had sworn to be, he had to admit that he couldn't say how accidentally murdering the girl would have affected him. When he had first heard of her mysterious accident, he had not right away realised his own involvement. Discovering the connection a while later hadn't stopped him from carrying on with what he was doing.
Why not?
Was there anything he could say for himself?
He could perhaps say that he, at that point of time, hadn't yet fully understood the meaning of death. Even less than that of accidental or natural death had he understood the meaning of murder. Realisation had come little by little. It had finally struck him with full force when Crabbe had died, and he himself had only escaped the inferno by the skin of his teeth.
And yes, he had been desperate. The mission had been going anything but well. Getting anywhere near Dumbledore without scores of other people around was far more difficult than he had initially thought. Mending the blasted cabinet required much more time and patience than expected. To make matters worse, Crabbe and Goyle's willingness to assist had been dwindling rapidly.
He suspected knowing about Katie Bell's mishap had nagged at him. It had probably been the sort of worry that lingered just beneath the threshold of consciousness. Incidentally, it had been the time when nights with very little or no sleep at all had started to outnumber those of proper repose. But in spite of all that, he had kept going. He had told himself that he was choosing his parents' lives over Dumbledore's. He had repeated this mantra for long, sleepless nights and countless hours wasted away with dull, uninteresting classes.
He had ordered the poisoned mead. It had never reached Dumbledore. Months had passed before anyone had drunk it, and he remembered his intense fear when he had learned about Weasley being in the hospital wing. But hadn't it been fear he might be discovered rather than fear that Weasley might actually die? Had he just hoped the git would survive because a student's death would make the investigations into the matter so much more thorough? He couldn't tell with certainty.
He had always hated Weasley, and the sentiment had always been reciprocated to the fullest. Where the mutual hatred stemmed from he had no idea. It had simply been there from day one.
The mere sight of Ronald Weasley had usually been enough to trigger irritation. Generally, the anger had been genuine. There had hardly been an act because upholding the Malfoy family honour required opposing and – whenever possible – humiliating the poverty-stricken Weasleys.
Why? What had made the prat so significant?
In hindsight, their fights seemed almost childish, the earlier ones at any rate. Somehow, the enmity had evolved and merged with the upcoming war. The two of them might have ended up actually fighting to the death. He shuddered at the mere thought.
Had he ever hated Ronald Weasley enough to wish him dead? In former times, he would probably have professed such desires without a second's hesitation. But people talking about killing in this way were mouthing words or venting frustration. Well yes, he had arrived at that conclusion already.
He leaned back against the doorframe and closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the scene on the tower.
Whatever else the old wizard had said that night, in one respect he had been right. Killing wasn't nearly as easy as those who had never attempted it believed. Before you could kill others, you had to kill some part of yourself.
And Draco had been trapped in an unsolvable conundrum. Whatever he would have done or have refused to do – the result would have been death.
He would have been responsible for the death of his parents if they had been murdered by way of punishment for his failing to carry out the monster's orders. He was indirectly responsible for Dumbledore's death. He had set the stage for Snape. The effing git could have killed the old headmaster at a million occasions; he had probably just waited for a big audience.
All things considered, he, Draco, hadn't made a choice there on that tower. Before the lure of We can hide your mother likewise had taken effect in his terror-addled brain, Snape had interfered.
Afterwards, Draco had been surprised to learn from his mother that there had indeed been an Unbreakable Vow obliging Snape to keep him safe and alive for the specified time. Before, he had thought Snape was lying, and he had seen two explanations for Snape trying to trick him into revealing details: Either the monster had sent Snape to test the novice's devotion – not to confide in anyone had been an explicit part of the orders – or Snape had been eager to ascend further in the hierarchy.
The latter still made sense today. Agreeing to an Unbreakable Vow had given Snape both an opportunity and the perfect excuse for rendering a service unto the monster that hadn't originally been meant for him but that would elevate him to a prominent position among the Death Eaters. If that had been Snape's plan, it had worked out nicely.
The double-dealing bastard had fooled everyone. Even Dumbledore had believed Snape was acting on his orders, that he had sent him to offer 'help' to the despairing would-be assassin.
Although Draco hadn't believed in it himself, he had thrown the idea of an Unbreakable Vow into the old wizard's face. He wasn't quite sure why. Maybe part of him had wanted it to be true because that would have been a tiny spark of hope. Or maybe he had thought he could hurt Dumbledore with such a statement.
Dumbledore had shrugged it off.
Like everybody else – Snape, his aunt and even his mother – the old wizard had said that Draco wouldn't be able to carry out what he had been ordered to do.
Well, they had been right. All the bragging in the past notwithstanding, he did never, ever want to kill.
Draco pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees. He hoped with all his heart that he would never come into a situation again where he was forced to decide who was allowed to live and who wasn't. He had amassed guilt and sorrow enough to last him a lifetime.
...
- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -
...
Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)