65. Out of the Blue
He went to wash the snot-soaked towel.
He made haste to put it on the clothesline before the sun sank too low. It was September; the days were getting shorter.
He also took the trousers and the shirt down, turned them inside out, and put them up again. Experience had taught him to do that; the method sped up the drying process. The moment he clamped the last clothes peg back in place, Lissy alighted on the wooden pole that supported the clothesline.
...
Feeling regret and relief at the same time, Draco removed the parchment from the owl's leg. If she was to fly on to Azkaban, it was probably too late. He doubted the guards would hand belated birthday greetings to prisoners. But then, he was less sure than he had been in the morning whether he actually wished to write his father. Perhaps he should indeed send, without accompanying commentary, a sketch that showed the fire in the Room of Requirement.
However, the small roll didn't contain a fresh piece of parchment bearing the Malfoy crest like last year, and the note his mother had written was unusually long.
Draco,
I must insist that you return home at once lest you sully the family name even further.
He gasped and sat down on the doorstep. How on earth had she found out about him taking up the job in the library?
While shopping in Diagon Alley, Great-aunt Lucrecia happened upon Ludmilla Crabbe. The ensuing conversation about an apparently lengthy letter you wrote to Crabbe upset her extremely.
Draco, what have you possibly been thinking? A formal note of condolence might have been in order seeing as we once socialised with that family. But what did you write that made the silly witch rave about you 'feeling genuinely sorry about her son's death' or you 'having really poured out your heart to her'?
Draco, need I to remind you that showing sentiments like regret should be limited to very special occasions? I do not see what would warrant a long letter dripping with emotion. Anybody save simple-minded Ludmilla Crabbe might find in such a piece of writing enough material for embarrassing our family, if not for plain blackmail.
If common sense did not stop you from sending that letter, being currently not in possession of an owl should have done so. Instead, you debased yourself by using Muggle services.
The words hit him like an actual, physical slap. He forced himself to read on nonetheless.
Ludmilla Crabbe – following your disgraceful example – tried repeatedly to use a dubious Muggle contraption called 'postbox' for sending a reply, which was, however, brought back to her house each time. Of course, Great-aunt Lucrecia advised her to desist from such antics.
Draco, you will quit your infantile behaviour and return home immediately. You are in dire need of supervision. It is high time you saw reason-
He was to see reason? He most certainly did! What was more, he had seen where the absence of reason led. His mother was the one who didn't see... who refused to see... she didn't understand... she never would... she hadn't seen the fire... she hadn't been encircled by raging flames that lunged at her... she hadn't felt the heat, hadn't breathed in soot...
He crumpled the parchment and tossed it away. Tears were welling up again.
She'd only ever tell him to get a grip... she'd tell him Malfoys didn't show weakness, and Blacks much less... she'd tell him Malfoys didn't pour their heart out... Malfoys didn't feel sorry... they might express regret if that suited their purposes, but they didn't feel it...
He sat there, sobbing and sniffling again. He couldn't help it. The anguish of years wanted out, and his mother's letter had added a cartload of fresh grief.
...
When he put the soggy hankies down at long last, the sun had disappeared round the edge of Mr Penwith's house.
He watched the wind playing with the crumpled-up parchment.
His mother would always give him reliable and to-the-point advice on how to behave in polite society. Polite society meant people who judged the scope of your intelligence on the basis of whether you knew which fork was for which part of a 5-course-meal. Such regulations were purely a matter of convention; there was no necessity or inherent logic to them. Scooping food into your mouth with a spoon would serve the main purpose well enough.
Knowledge about refined cutlery might help you to master life when using a wrong fork was indeed the most horrible disaster you could possibly encounter. But his life lay in shambles. He had to rebuild it, and in order to make its foundation firm and solid he had to sort out problems like Is there ultimate truth or will truth always be a matter of perspective?
All of a sudden, he knew with painful clarity how his mother would react to that question. She would say – without pausing for a single moment to consider her reply – The perspective as taken by the old families is the right one.
He heaved a sigh.
He wouldn't get answers to any of the questions he had so carefully listed. The pages lay in the locker in Hind Green Close, but that wasn't the point. His mother would not understand why these questions mattered to him, why he craved answers. At best, he would get away with a reprimand for having wasted his time on puerile pursuits.
There was a terrible feel of irreversibility about what he had to do now. His mother ordered him to return to Runcorn's house, but he couldn't and he wouldn't obey.
He mustn't. Neither his mother nor Runcorn would suffer him to ask questions or voice doubts. They would insist that he adhered to the time-hallowed beliefs whether he actually believed in them or not. Whereas his mother could only show her disappointment in him with words, Runcorn had every means to force him into submission. He was sure the hateful old bat knew how to cast Lingering Hexes and to brew mind-paralysing potions. She would break him in no time at all. He wasn't strong; he hadn't it in him to stand up to people like her. And without a wand, he couldn't even defend himself against a simple Jelly-Legs-Jinx.
What hurt, what really hurt, was the fact that he had to let go. He had to let go of a hope he had entertained for the past months – the hope that he could see his mother still as the reliable source of advice and reassurance she had been for him in the past or that he would be able to see her this way in the future.
He felt tired.
When suddenly a policeman appeared in front of him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
...
66. Jory Penhaligon
"Good evening, Mr Malfoy. It's Mr Malfoy, isn't-" the man broke off, gaping at Draco. "Boy, that's not because of old Gorran Penwith, is it?"
Draco didn't avert his face. He had cried, and he knew he looked it. So what?
"My mother wrote a letter," he said and pointed to the crumpled-up parchment that the wind rolled around on the sandy patch between the chicken run and the shrubbery.
"Bad news?"
"Bad yes. News no."
The policeman watched the rolling ball of parchment for a moment; Draco regarded the man. He knew him by sight. He was the older one of the two who had found him sleeping on the beach last summer. How had he got here? Draco hadn't heard a car approaching.
The man turned back to Draco.
"Looks like things are a bit strained between your mother and you."
"Well, she is my mother... She's the only one I could rely on during..." he trailed off. The man in front of him mustn't learn that there had been war in the wizarding world. The man mustn't even learn that there was such a thing as a wizarding world. Draco took a deep breath before he continued. He didn't care how much that sounded like a sigh. "She isn't used to questions. She only knows answers. From what I can see, her answers work for her. But they don't work for me. Not anymore. That's the trouble."
"Sounds complicated," the man observed.
"It is. I cannot be who I am without totally disappointing her, and I cannot meet her expectations without leaving behind what is, essentially, me." His own, true self – how much was left in him of the carefree, five-year-old child closing a black suitcase filled with 'little pictures' in his grandfather's study? "I've no idea how to get out of that dilemma," he added.
"Well," the man said, scratching his neck. "I'm certainly not one for advocating teenage rebellion. I'm a father myself, and my girls are both in what people call the 'difficult age'. However... living a lie will never work. Not in the long run, anyway. You'll suffer and in turn, you'll make others suffer. You'll grow bitter and spiteful. I've seen that happen. In the end, people will be all too happy to avoid your company. And your parents will be more disappointed than they can imagine now."
Spiteful and hurting others, not appreciated as company – what the man predicted for the future did wrap up Draco's past nicely.
"I don't want to live a lie," he said.
He was so tired of lying. If he had really poured out his heart to Mrs Crabbe, it shouldn't feel so heavy anymore. The man here looked as if he was willing to listen for the whole evening, but discussing Fiendfyre and Unforgivable Curses or old traditions and blood purity with him would violate the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
"Do you happen to know how Mr Penwith is?" Draco asked to prevent himself from spilling secrets. He also got up because it seemed politer to stand when talking to somebody wearing the insignia of his office. He wondered what the writing and the chevrons on the man's epaulettes meant.
"Sure I know. I'm coming straight from the hospital," the man answered. "He's going to be all right. I talked to Doctor Polkinghorne again, and he confirmed what he'd already told me this morning – he got here in time. It was lucky you found Gorran so quickly and ran for help while there was still a good chance. In other words, you saved his life, young man."
"You think I did... this right?" Draco asked, stunned.
"I don't think so, I know. The baker's was the surest thing. The telephone box is about two hundred yards further off, and trying houses at random would probably have been a waste of time. How were you to know where there was somebody at home and where not? Well, and Gorran himself keeps the telephone in the bedroom. Before you might have found it there, you could have run to the baker's twice, fit young man that you are."
Draco didn't know what to reply. He had made none of these deliberations. As usual, he had been too agitated to think properly. In fact, he was glad he had plunged into action and not thought at all. If he had started thinking, the instilled scruples might have got into the way. He knew neither of his parents would approve of his performance. His mother would have hysterics if she was given to displaying emotions, and his father would sneer and conclude that his son had finally lost it. The vast majority of the British wizarding population would simply refuse to believe it: Malfoy ran to save some old Muggle? Ha, ha, pull the other one!
He told himself he shouldn't care what they thought or said. Getting help had been the right thing to do. It had been the only thing to do. How did anyone dare saying otherwise? Why had there always to be conflicting principles?
"Well, I meant to ask you," the policeman interrupted Draco's musings, "what your plans were for staying here this year?"
Draco swallowed. Had he to leave now that the proprietor was away?
"Why do you want to know that?" he asked quietly.
"Because I thought you could let the chickens out in the morning while you're still here. That would save me a detour."
Draco opened his mouth and closed it again without having said a word.
"What's wrong?" the man asked.
"I'm not sure. I might be a bit confused."
"Why's that?"
"Well," Draco said slowly, searching for a reply. It was always the same – as soon as a conversation didn't follow a routine pattern, he felt completely at sea. "I didn't know it was the concern of the police to look after chickens."
For half a second, the man looked taken aback. Then he laughed.
"I'm not on duty," he declared, still chuckling. "Okay, let's start afresh: I'm Jory Penhaligon. I live right down the lane, in the house second next to The Merry Fisherman. Gorran Penwith is my godfather."
"Draco Malfoy. Pleased to meet you, Mr Penhaligon."
"Please, call me Jory. It's Sergeant Penhaligon if protocol needs to be observed, but as I've said, I'm not on duty. Do ignore the uniform; I just wanted to get here quickly. So, what about the chickens?"
"I'm afraid they always kind of panic when I go near them."
"You're probably moving too fast. That can be helped: Just pretend you're a chicken yourself. Look."
Jory Penhaligon raised one leg, pushed it forward and set it down again. He repeated the procedure with the other leg, then with the first one again, and so on. He moved his arms as if he were ruffling feathers and made abrupt movements with his head. He looked exceedingly silly. Draco bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.
"See? It's perfectly easy," the man said, quitting his performance. "And for how long will you still be here?"
"I'm planning to leave on September 12."
"Jolly good. Come on, I'll show you what you have to do."
They went to the hen house where Jory – addressing a man well in his forties with his given name felt odd – explained the mechanism of a miniature door that was specially designed for the birds. Draco learned that chickens usually wanted out quite early in the morning. Six o'clock would be fine. Jory also demonstrated how to measure an appropriate amount of food with an old pot and how to scatter the assorted grain throughout the chicken run. According to Jory, chickens were supposed to search for their food. Finding everything heaped up in one spot was bad for their health.
About to leave, Jory held out his hand.
"Well then, see you tomorrow, Draco."
Draco shook the offered hand, feeling strange. If he weren't Draco Malfoy, the disgraced wizard, but Draco, the slightly eccentric sketch-doer that Jory probably saw in him, this would be so perfectly easy, so perfectly normal. But it wasn't.
Why hadn't the Aurors wiped his mind blank and given him simple, ordinary memories that would allow him to fit in somewhere?
...
67. Turning Point
Draco stopped himself from calling after the man and asking him whether there was such a thing as absolute truth or whether everyone had their own private truth along with their own private answers.
Instead, he went to his room where he sorted through his Fiendfyre sketches. He selected the one that looked the most terrifying and wrote on the back,
Mother,
Look at the picture and see where I was and where I don't want to be ever again. This is my truth; this is the one thing I know for sure.
I am resolved to stay away from all potentially dangerous places as long as I am deprived of the means to defend myself. Call me weak and cowardly if you must. Censure won't change my mind.
Draco
He rolled the paper up without reading it over.
Lissy had been patiently sitting on the windowsill. For a brief moment, he gave in to the desire to caress her. She let him do it.
"Don't betray me," he whispered as he fastened the letter to her leg. For yet another time today, he felt close to tears. "Don't lead them here."
She hooted softly, as if to reassure him. Before she disappeared into the darkening sky, she performed several wide loops and zigzags. His expertise at owl communication was very limited, but he hoped the pattern meant something along the line of Don't worry.
...
The owl didn't come back with a Howler. Runcorn didn't come with a drawn wand to force him down on his knees.
Nothing bad happened.
On the contrary, the friendliness of the villagers was more pronounced than before. The bakery girl treated him as if he were a former classmate or distant relative of hers rather than a customer. The woman from the tourist office – he met her by chance in the village square just outside the baker's – praised him for his swiftness in getting help.
Although he found the subtle change in the atmosphere oddly appealing, it made him also uneasy because his safety depended mainly on going unnoticed.
However, the attention of the villagers was a small worry compared to the ominous feeling he had about having openly disobeyed his mother. No matter how convinced he was that staying away was a hundred times better for him than slinking back to Runcorn's, his mother wouldn't see things the same way. One day, he would have to face the consequences.
He tried to suppress such thoughts by redoubling the amount of physical exercises. His altered daily routine helped a bit, too. He got up at sunrise and let the chickens out. He fed them before he went to the baker's and checked on them around lunchtime.
Jory stopped by every evening. He kept Draco posted about Mr Penwith's recovery, collected the eggs, and made sure all chickens were in the henhouse before nightfall.
Jory was also there on the morning Draco was about to leave. While Draco was busy stripping his bed of the linen as Jory had told him to do, he could hear the man rummaging around in the house. When Draco – carrying his rucksack and the bed sheets – came downstairs, Jory just emerged from the room that bore the No Admittance-sign. He announced that everything was in proper order, took the bed sheets from Draco and tucked them into a large plastic bag. Then he asked for Draco's keys. They went outside, and Jory locked the door.
"Well, I hope I'll see you next summer," he said upon parting. "Take care, Draco."
"Give my regards to Mr Penwith," Draco replied. He had difficulty speaking; his throat felt uncomfortably tight.
"Sure. My pleasure."
With that, Jory closed in on him, and Draco prepared himself for another handshake.
Yet, a handshake never came. Jory pulled him into a hug. It was a brief one, a very brief one, lasting about one second. Strictly seen, it wasn't even a hug: Jory simply put his arm around Draco's shoulders, pulled him somewhat closer, and let go a heartbeat later. That was all that actually happened, but the effect was that of an earthquake. Draco felt shaken to the core. Why the gesture got to him like that, he couldn't explain, and it took him all the way to the ferry to calm down. It seemed that he had become vulnerable in a new and entirely unexpected way.
To his surprise, he relaxed once he was back in the city. Walking down the noisy streets, past the library building, and finally up to Hind Green Close had a curious resemblance to coming home. The feeling puzzled him. But he didn't search for its origin. Being simply content with having it seemed easier.
Mrs Bates greeted him with a warm smile and a torrent of chatter.
The air in his room smelled of apples. A bowl of early ripe fruit sat on a brown-and-white napkin in the middle of the desk. This was the third surprise for Draco at that day. He hadn't expected a welcome gift.
...
In the library, things were unchanged. Nobody asked him questions that went beyond Did you have a nice summer, Mr Malfoy?
He resumed his work where he had left off a good two months ago. Jeffrey let him have the keys to the filing cabinet without fuss. He never remarked on Draco's practice of reading ten or twelve letters before translating one. In turn, Draco ignored Jeffrey's habit of dividing his time equally between flirting with girls and doing actual work.
Mrs Highbury hardly left her office, a little cubicle that was separated from the staff area by wall-sized windows. Draco heard talk about her being very busy devising protections against an impending plague of insects.
The problem appeared to be a serious one. Somebody had glued warning notes to the lockers in the entrance hall. They read Beware of the Millennium Bug and depicted a creature that looked like a cockroach with fangs. Draco wasn't particularly familiar with non-magical insects. So, he relied on what he picked up from the debates around him. The bugs were feared to damage computers, and that was why he didn't get too concerned about the matter. He had nothing to do with the foe-glass-like things. He merely wondered whether the insects would crawl in through the many little holes at the backside of the devices and eat the innards.
...
Then, at the end of September, there came a truly golden morning. The air was crisp and cold. The leaves on the trees had started to turn red and yellow, and the sky showed a shade of deep blue as it could only do in autumn.
He dallied on his way to the library in order to absorb the amazing beauty. In his heart of hearts he knew no sketch of his would ever do justice to the splendour that nature displayed on a day like this one, and that knowledge filled him with sadness. Even things he liked to do, he couldn't do to perfection.
Mrs Highbury intercepted him on the stairs.
He hadn't seen her looking that stern before.
"If you would follow me to my office, Mr Malfoy," was all she said, but instinct told him that he was out of favour.
...
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to be continued
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Author's notes:
(1) Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)
(2) The Millennium Bug is also known as the Year 2000 problem. A great deal of computer software used only two digits for indicating the year (e.g. 99 instead of 1999) and had to be upgraded before 1st January 2000.