71. Conclusion
When he had exhausted himself sufficiently, he sat down on the bench under the old oak tree. The early afternoon sun was warm, gossamer threads were floating through the air, and the ever-present noise of cars rushing around the city was a low hum in the distance.
He had hit the ground. This was, in essence, the analysis of his situation.
Nine months ago, he'd had a fever-induced vision about flying a broomstick without brake and handle. Other than with his usual nightmares in which he re-lived horrors he had experienced in real life, there had been an allegorical quality to this dream. Mrs Bates had woken him before it had taken a turn towards prophecy, and pain and infirmity had dissipated the memory quickly. But now, all of a sudden, he recalled every detail. The images were back – vivid, compelling, and orderly as a series of sketches.
He closed his eyes and replayed them.
The broomstick accelerated. The landscape streaked past below him. People ran away, screaming. He narrowly avoided an advertising panel, slipping off the seat in the process. His robes became entangled in the tail twigs; he was dragged along, and the broom still kept accelerating.
He didn't need years of Divination classes to determine what the various aspects of that dream symbolised and what the dream meant as a whole. It lacked the conclusion, but the two most likely ones weren't too hard to guess. One option was being dragged on by the unmanageable broom until he hit an obstacle hard enough to crack his skull. The other one was struggling out of the metaphorical robes.
He closed his eyes again and tried to translate the second option into images that were consistent with the original dream: He struggled out of the robes and plummeted to the ground. He was dazed after the crash, but alive. His right hand was broken, though. There was nobody there to help him because he had left the yelling crowd behind long ago. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he clambered to his feet and staggered around in search of his broom. He had to find and mend it so he could mount it again. But he was on alien territory. His foot caught at obstacles with nearly every step he took. It was merely a matter of time before he stumbled over a strange contraption of unknown purpose and slammed face-first into the pavement. The pavement was made of books. When he looked up, six-feet-high digits were parading up and down. They smirked and stuck their tongues out at him. They were Phone Numbers.
He shook himself bodily to get rid of the ludicrous mental picture. He left the bench and strolled through the park – leisurely this time; he needed to think.
He had been flung out of his world and into another, one where he couldn't fly but had to walk on foot. Wouldn't it be prudent to explore the unfamiliar grounds rather than to toddle on like a blindfolded fool? Wouldn't it actually be a very good idea to learn what every sixteen-year-old Muggle knew? Such knowledge might help him to better blend in with the crowd and to avoid trouble that arose from stupid mistakes like, for instance, not paying the fee for using a library.
Mrs Highbury had found him out. It had probably been a bit naive of him to believe he could dwell in a community for five whole years without anyone ever asking him who he was and where he came from or what he was up to.
He wondered what the head librarian took him for. How did she fit him into her world? He had better behave in a way that made it easy for her to think he did belong in it. The most sensible course of action would therefore be to start studying right away even though he did not need any G.E.S.C.s or G.S.C.E.s or whatever the Muggle equivalent of O.W.L.s was called. Refusing or delaying would only bring him again into situations where he was forced to explain himself.
He had time on his hands – he was stuck in the non-wizarding world for another four years – so why not use that time for learning? He could pick subjects that promised valuable knowledge and drop anything that turned out to be utter rubbish. There was no hurt in sitting a few exams, especially if one was under no obligation of passing them. Was there any argument against studying for Ordinary Muggle Levels other than the fact that his mother would thoroughly disapprove? She wasn't here; she didn't know the first thing about this world. He was the one who had to muddle through. So, he should be allowed to take the measures he saw fit. He didn't have to tell her. He certainly wouldn't.
Deep in thought, he walked to the far end of the park, turned, and walked back to the bench. Then he did another round and another one after that.
He hoped to gain an additional benefit from immersing himself in actual studies. Learning – regular, dedicated learning – would most likely occupy his mind far better than sketching or swimming did. Having an effective distraction from all his old woes would be a good thing indeed.
...
He went to the library the next morning with the firm resolve to ask Mrs Highbury how he should go about studying for G.S.E.C.s. Unfortunately, she was neither in her office, nor could he spot her anywhere else.
He was about to retreat to his favourite reading corner when Jeffrey Oldfield called after him, "Oi, Draco, wait up! The boss told me to give you something."
"Good morning, Jeffrey," Draco said politely.
He stepped closer, feeling a bit of apprehension. Hadn't Mrs Highbury said that Jeffrey wasn't to know about him having no permit?
"Morning, partner," Jeffrey grinned and handed Draco not any sort of paper but a key. It wasn't the one to the filing cabinet. "You are to go there she said. I couldn't help noticing that you two talked for quite some time yesterday. Is something up?"
"Yes, we talked," Draco said, confirming the fact without giving anything away. "But not about this room. Number 307?" he added after glancing at the key fob.
"Yep, one of the little seminar rooms on the third floor. Usually booked by work groups. What's going on? Are you preparing a presentation of the translated letters?"
"No, not that I'm aware of." Draco felt at a complete loss. "Maybe I'll go and check?"
"Yes, do that. And I'd like to know-" Jeffrey trailed off, steering his wheelchair around by about ninety degrees. This way, he had a better view of a girl standing on the other side of the counter and flaunting her artificially blonde mane.
"How can I be of service, honey?" he called over to her.
Draco didn't waste the chance of nipping out of the staff area while Jeffrey's eyes and attention were diverted.
...
The room was dark; it had no windows. Finding the piece of plastic that caused the light to come on was no big deal, though. Draco wasn't quite as clueless about Muggle things as he once had been. Along with the light, the soft humming set in that could be heard almost everywhere in the library. Regarding that noise however, he had to admit that he was completely clueless in respect of both its source and its purpose.
The room wasn't big – about twelve feet in width and around fifteen in length. All chairs had been pushed against the far wall. The tables were arranged in the shape of a U and laden with books.
He picked one up at random. It had a snow-covered Volcano printed on the cover. Inside, there were lots of diagrams and motionless pictures. The chapters had titles like Why Do Tectonic Plates Move or How Earthquakes Can Be Predicted. He put it aside, reached for the next one – and gasped.
There were the wires carrying electricity, the little houses with the yellow-and-black warning signs, the light bulbs – there were pictures and sketches of all sorts of Muggle equipment! He spotted the word fuse and sat down to read.
Basically, a fuse was a fine strip of metal housed by material that had to be non-combustible as well as non-conducting. Its purpose was to protect an electric circuit. Draco was about to figure out what to do with the complicated-looking formula that was given when Mrs Highbury walked in.
...
72. Confession
"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist the temptation," the head librarian said brightly. "Good morning, Mr Malfoy."
"Good morning, Mrs Highbury," Draco said, rising. "Jeffrey Oldfield told me to come here."
"Quite right." She walked up to him and peered curiously at the book in his hands. "Physics? You are full of surprises, Mr Malfoy. I hadn't seen you as the engineering type. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"
"I'm not sure I understand your question," he said carefully.
"Well, you said you never sat your exams. That would have to be the ones for your GCSEs, right? This suggests you left school at about the age of sixteen. How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Nineteen. I turned nineteen on June 5."
"Very well. I know you've been coming regularly to my library since January. You disappeared over the summer and returned as a good student should exactly at the start of term. That aside, there are two and a half years missing. I admit that I have difficulty seeing a plausible explanation as to what you did during this time. I can only speculate. Were you perhaps ill, severely ill?"
He had shaken his head before he realised that having suffered from a long and serious disease might be an acceptable excuse in her eyes. However, saying so would not only mean telling more lies but also inventing them on the spot. He shook his head again.
"Then what did you do?" She fixed him with a piercing look. "Forgive me for being blunt, Mr Malfoy, but I'd like to know whom and what I'm dealing with. Did you, by any chance, serve time in a Young Offender Institution?"
Gobsmacked, he opened his mouth and closed it again. Embarrassment burnt in his cheeks; his heart beat with double speed. How much did she know? How could she possibly know anything?
"Was that a yes?" she asked sharply.
There was no use in denying. She'd know anyway. She already did.
"No," he brought out. "I got a suspended sentence. I'm on probation."
"What for?"
"I mustn't tell you," he said hoarsely.
"Oh, don't give me that!" Mrs Highbury took half a step backwards. She moved only a few inches away from him, but the distance between them suddenly seemed to stretch for miles and miles. "You must have done something to land yourself on probation. Come on, what was it?"
"I mustn't tell you," he repeated, barely keeping his voice steady. "Can we please drop that topic, Ma'am?"
"No, we most certainly cannot! I'm still willing to help, Mr Malfoy, and you wouldn't even be the first young man who I have helped after he had come into conflict with the law. But I need to know what I'm faced with! So, you will either tell me – here and now – what you did or else you will walk out of this room and out of this library and you won't come back."
He put the book down gingerly. The only clear thought in his head was that he had run into another dead end.
He backed off slowly, chancing a glance at the woman. She stood there – slim and almost a foot shorter than he was, but every inch of her radiated resolve and determination. Pleading wouldn't help. Lying was no option. And spilling the beans wasn't one, either.
He turned and did as he had been ordered – he walked away. It was always the same. No matter what he did or what he tried to do, he'd wind up losing. On the other hand, did he still have anything left to lose? He slowed to a halt.
"I joined," he said, looking at the door without seeing it. The blood pounding in his ears was so loud it muffled his own voice. "Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I joined... a group of people. A group of people who... engaged in certain activities... activities considered... unlawful."
"No offence, Mr Malfoy," – Startled, he spun round. She stood directly before him; the carpet must have swallowed her footfall. – "but I can't picture you in a youth gang."
"No, I was the only youth, at least at that point in time. The others were around my father's age, or older. He was in prison, and it was my duty to take his place and represent the family. I was pr-"
"Represent the family?" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "What kind of 'group of people' are you talking about? The Mafia?"
He didn't know what to reply. Did the Muggles have their own variety of Death Eaters?
"Your father and his, well, accomplices – what goals did they have?" she pressed on. "What did they want?"
"They wanted to rule the country," he said. It had been as simple as that.
She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, all the while appraising him.
"If you'd said tiptoeing around the tax laws or smuggling antiques, but no..." She shook her head, sighing. "At least, I'm beginning to see why you are to keep quiet. The masterminds behind political conspiracies will hardly be commoners, won't they? And although hushing up such affairs is a scandal in itself, I will not pry any further into the matter. I don't have to make things more complicated for you than they already are."
He had no idea what she thought she knew.
"Thank you," he muttered, unable to think of any other reply.
"That's alright. So tell me, what are the conditions of your probation?"
"I'll have to serve two years and seven months in prison if I break the rules laid down in a Code of Conduct." He paused. What phrases were safe to use? "I'm forbidden to engage in political activities, I have to stay away from specified things... I'm also not to talk about certain things or events..."
"Well, yes," she said with the merest hint of disapproval. "But isn't there anything about completing your education? Or didn't at least your probation officer suggest taking steps in that direction?"
Draco had never heard of a probation officer, and he thought it wisest not to mention that.
"No," he said curtly.
"That's outrageous, there is no other word for it. If I were in their place, I'd be ashamed. You were thrown off path at the age of sixteen. You left school before you ever sat an exam. And they don't think that would deserve mending? How are you to sustain yourself and lead a clean life if nobody is going to employ you because you have no qualifications at all? Maybe you can get by for a while doing odd jobs. But temporary, poorly paid jobs won't suffice if you want to have a family and raise children. You can tell your probation officer when you meet him or her next time... Well, no, do say nothing. It wouldn't do you any good."
He gave a vague nod. He had to get her off this. This woman had it in her to go to whatever authorities were concerned and complain about a certain young man being neglected and not given some kind of mentor who was obliged to help sort out the mess into which said young man had got himself.
"You assured me it wasn't yet too late for studying," he said. "I'd like to start right away. What do I begin with?"
To his surprise, she ignored the question.
"Why didn't your family insist on you going back to school after the big, grand scheme you got involved with failed?" she asked instead. "It did fail, didn't it? Otherwise, you wouldn't have been tried."
"My parents have very strong opinions about what is acceptable and what isn't," he said. "They do not know that I'm here, and I would like to keep it that way because they'd never approve. I came here because I need a respite. And please, Mrs Highbury, can we drop the topic now?"
"You ran away from home?"
"Not from home exactly. We were liable to paying reparations so the bailiffs confiscated the whole estate along with nearly every other possession. My mother and I moved in with an elderly relative, but I couldn't stand it there..." He trailed off. How much more did he have to tell her before she would leave him be?
"Maybe we should stop looking backwards and focus on the future instead," Mrs Highbury said to his immense relief. "I made some inquiries. There are currently no full-time courses for adults due to cutbacks. I will not comment on that because I'll only get all worked up about it. Instead of proper courses, some newfangled consulting sessions will start in February. You'll have to attend them in order to have your practical skills assessed. Until then, you can make good use of your time and revise. Read as much as you think necessary. Ask. I'll stand ready to help with such subjects I'm well versed in, namely English Language and Literature, but also Accounting, Business, and maybe Classics. I think Jeff can help you with ICT. As for Science – if need be, you can try to find a tutor among the engineering students."
She looked at him for a response.
"Yes," he said slowly. "What are the most important subjects?"
"Maths and English are obligatory. The same goes for Science. ICT and a modern foreign language are highly recommended. I assume you'll choose French. Considering your expertise, you could probably sit a GCSE exam half an hour from now and pass with flying colours. All other subjects are more or less optional. It depends on what you wish to do later. If you are indeed interested in History, you'll need a grade there and most likely one in Latin as well. By and large, you can choose whatever you want. What I put here" – she gestured to the books – "covers all subjects for which there will be consulting sessions next spring. You'll find the essential textbooks as well as a choice selection of additional books for background reading."
She told him that he would have almost all day to sift through the stacks. She would come back at 6 p.m. because the room was booked for the evening and had to be tidied up before the scheduled work group arrived.
She asked his address before she left, telling him it had to appear on his library card. He gave her that of Hind Green Close. He omitted the postcode since he still didn't know it, but that didn't seem to bother her.
...
73. Consolation
He left a mere couple of minutes after her. Agitated as was, he couldn't bring himself to sit down and look through books.
Jogging in Hind Green, he recaptured what he had told the woman. He didn't recall using any word or phrase that belonged to the wizarding world and there alone, so maybe there was no harm done.
All in all, she had only seen the tip of the dragon's tail. She did know, however, that he was a convict, and he knew, deep down, that he didn't really mind her knowing. On the contrary, he wished the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy didn't exist, and he'd be allowed to tell her more.
Just a day ago, he had believed he could struggle out of the metaphorical robes that tied him to an unmanageable broomstick. Well, he had fooled himself once again. All he could actually do was tear the fabric, thus separating him from the broom. But shedding the robes altogether was impossible. Their torn remnants would cling to him for all his life and slow him down like leg fetters.
He had to trudge on nevertheless. What other option did he have?
...
When he returned to the library, it was well after lunch. There wasn't enough time left to sort through more than one hundred books.
He wrote a list instead. He noted down authors and titles for future reference, and then he went to return the books to the places where they belonged. The codes on their spines made it an easy task. To spare himself the necessity of lengthy searches later on, he added to his list notes about floor, room, and shelf number for each book.
He made good progress and was about to fetch the last remaining books – six large, slightly battered hardbacks – from room number 307 when Mrs Highbury came in with an empty book trolley.
"Goodness, where are the books?" she cried in surprise.
"I've put them back because it was getting late," Draco said.
"You put them back? Where to?" she cried in disbelief. "Who told you to do that? Oh, honestly... Let's hope you'll find them again!"
"I think I will," he said, rather confused by her behaviour. "I took notes."
She snatched the list out of his hand. Scanning it, her expression changed from anger to relief and then to utter incredulity.
"If your list is correct..." She didn't finish the sentence but asked, "Have you worked in a library before?"
"No, I haven't," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you."
"I'm not annoyed. I'm stunned. More often than not, it takes people days and days to completely understand our classification system although they had it thoroughly explained to them. And you? You just go and do it. You are a conundrum, Mr Malfoy."
He put the books he was holding on the trolley and arranged them into an accurate stack. He bowed his head and kept his mouth firmly shut. He couldn't risk blurting out anything that had to be concealed from her.
"I would like to tell you why I am like I am – if I knew it myself and were allowed to talk," he said at long last. "I would like to tell you what I did and what I failed to do."
He paused, absently caressing the spine of "Short Introduction to Inorganic Chemistry" with his forefinger. Jory would have listened. That evening in Trethwyn, Jory would have sat down with him on the doorstep of the lodging house and heard him out. Being the Muggle equivalent of an Auror, the man was probably learned when it came to dealing with crimes and punishments.
Maybe he could say raging inferno instead of Fiendfyre and weapon instead of wand, Draco mused. Maybe he could mention poisoned mead. Maybe he could say I tried to fling the headmaster of my school over the ramparts of an eighty-foot tower. Maybe he could even bring himself to say Lord of Evil instead of monster and call the Death Eaters the tyrant's sworn followers. Maybe he could make a confession of sorts. But how much use, if any, would it be?
Mrs Highbury was an educated woman, yet even she would never comprehend what it meant to be a Slytherin and a pure-blood...
"Perhaps I do understand," she said softly.
He straightened up.
"How so?" he croaked. The untold words burned in his throat.
"I pieced the scraps of information together and filled the gaps with guess work. Feel free to correct me where I err," she said. "At the age of sixteen, you entered a grown men's game. I do not know whether you were hesitant and apprehensive about it, or whether you felt proud because of the supposed great honour. Maybe it doesn't matter. I imagine the game turned out to be too big for you, perhaps ten times too big. You lost your innocence in the process, your social status and, most likely, quite a few illusions."
He swallowed. His eyes stung.
"There is one flaw, though," she continued. "I can only see the spider's web in which you got caught. The spider itself is absent, somehow."
"-xcuse me."
He turned away, fumbling for his handkerchief. He twiddled with the little piece of cloth, allowing himself time to overcome the weakness that was about to spill over.
Mrs Highbury had wrapped up years of turmoil and torment in a few sentences. How could she be so astute? This was so strange – she knew nothing about the world he came from and yet, she was even aware that the most important piece of information was lacking.
And she had provided him with a strikingly fitting metaphor.
"The spider" – he whispered because he didn't trust his voice – "is what I must not reveal to you."
There was silence after he had said that, and it lasted for several long minutes. He had half turned around, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her.
Finally, Mrs Highbury took the books from the trolley and shoved the whole stack into his hands.
"As you obviously know your way around, would you please return them to their shelves for me, Mr Malfoy?" she asked. "You'd save me a bit of time. There is a pile of paperwork waiting for me on my desk."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Thanks. And take care of your library card." She tucked a small, greenish piece of cardboard into the topmost book. Then she gave Draco a thoughtful look. "And focus on the future if you wish to have one."
...
That night, he lay awake. The boisterous twins who occupied the two other rooms were quiet for once. Usually, Mrs Bates had to come upstairs every other hour to tell them off. They were second cousins of hers and currently taking vocational training at a nearby plumber's workshop. According to her, they were sixteen, but they behaved as if they were twelve.
A few days ago, the bathroom had been in a grievous state. Draco had knocked at the door from where the noise – so-called music – came. He had simply told the annoying brats that they were to instantly clean up the mess they'd created and that he wouldn't tell them twice. They had looked mutinous but hadn't dared to refuse. They hadn't even said anything in protest. They knew very well they'd only earn themselves another reprimand if they ran to Auntie Angie with a complaint. They weren't stupid despite their childish behaviour. They probably had scores of G.C.S.E.s.
G.C.S.E.s... He, a pure-blooded wizard of supreme descent, was going to study for Muggle O.W.L.s. He tried to find the idea preposterous but failed. Maybe he was indeed well advised to take the endeavour seriously. Despite everything he had revealed to her during the last two days, Mrs Highbury still proposed to help him. Why? He did wish to secure her goodwill towards him, but he wasn't at all sure as to what her underlying motives were. What was her gain in the matter?
He didn't know, and that was why he had to be doubly careful.
...
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Author's note:
Many thanks to Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh for beta reading and to Nooka for advice about libraries. :)