80. The Merry Fisherman
It was the busiest hour of the evening when he arrived at The Merry Fisherman. Every table on the terrace was occupied. There were a lot of people inside the pub as well, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Trying his best to ignore the stink, Draco joined the queue at the counter.
Mr Gill, while drawing beer, smiled at him in recognition.
"Welcome back," the short, plump man said when Draco had moved up the queue. "It's a bit crammed tonight I'm afraid. I recommend the fish pie. The steak and kidney is also great."
"Mr Gill-"
"Apple juice?" the man asked, already reaching for the bottle. "You don't like beer if I remember correctly."
"Mr Gill, I'd like to stay for the night," Draco said, putting the form he had got in the tourist office on the counter.
"Oh, right," Mr Gill said, slightly flustered. He pushed the paper back to Draco, simultaneously calling over his shoulder to someone in the kitchen, "Eva, a lodger!"
He turned back to Draco and said, "Well, we can have a little chat later. My wife will show you to your room. Just wait in the hall."
But Mrs Gill already appeared, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth. There was a brief, wordless exchange – a look, a gesture, a nod – between her and her husband. Then Mr Gill turned to the next patron, and Mrs Gill ushered Draco out into the hall.
"It's good seeing you again, Mr Malfoy," she said. "It's Mr Malfoy, right?"
"Yes, it is. Good evening, Mrs Gill."
"So, how long do you want to stay?"
"I haven't decided yet. I was planning to stay at Mr Penwith's, but since that obviously won't be possible... " He trailed off. When, for Merlin's sake, had the phrase too expensive for me taken root in his thinking?
"Yes, sad story," she said. "You know what? Tell me tomorrow how long you wish to stay. I'll just show you to your room, all right?"
"Yes, I-" He stopped again in mid-sentence. A neatly framed picture hanging on the wall right behind Mrs Gill had caught his eye.
Mrs Gill followed his gaze.
"Yes, we thought so, but we weren't entirely sure," she said. "We didn't find any signature."
Draco couldn't help but gape. Both sides of the hall were lined with framed pictures – there were Maiden's Cliff, the promontory, The Merry Fisherman seen from various angles, the village square, and many more. He was standing in a gallery of his own sketches!
"How did you get them?" he managed at last.
"Jory found them. Before Jenna – late Mr Penwith's daughter – sold the house, he went through Gorran's things. It's not as if Gorran Penwith ever owned anything of great value, but Jory wanted a few keepsakes. He found some old photographs and some other stuff – and, well, a pile of lovely pictures showing the neighbourhood. We thought them way too pretty to throw them away. And now that we know they're yours and also how your name is properly spelled" – she glanced at the booking form he had handed her – we'll put your name here. Don't worry."
"No, you can't do that!" he cried, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice.
"Why not?" she asked, taken aback. "You look all upset, Mr Malfoy. What's wrong?"
"I'm not upset," he declared curtly. He couldn't risk his name being discovered by any witch or wizard who came here by chance, no matter how small that possibility was. "I merely don't want you to put my name here."
"Why not?"
"They aren't real works of art. They're only rough drafts. I did them because I wanted to see whether I could do them." He saw the look on her face change from bewilderment to disapproval. "That doesn't make any sense to you, does it?"
"Not really, no," she admitted. "I thought they were lovely pictures."
"Well, you can keep them if you like. But promise me not to tell anyone that I did them."
"I won't if that makes you happy," she conceded reluctantly. "But I really don't see why. They are nice pictures."
"That's not the point. It's just" – he paused as finally an idea struck him. Sometime in the course of the last nine months, he had read about artists using pseudonyms. – "It's just that painters don't use their plain names. They work under professional names."
"I see," she said, and her face lit up by some degree. "And what's yours?"
"Paul Williams," he said, combining two random names. "And Mrs Gill, don't put up anything that's not connected to Trethwyn in some way or other, especially do not put up pictures that show mythical creatures. It wouldn't be good if certain people found out about me sketching such beasts."
"Er..." she said. "I don't think I have seen any fairy-tale beasts, only sheep and seagulls."
"Good." He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Whoever had retrieved the sketches from the bin – Mr Penwith or Jory – had luckily ignored the ones that depicted the fire in the Room Of Requirement. "Sheep and seagulls are fine."
"That's settled, then?" Mrs Gill asked, her patience starting to wear thin. "Care to see your room now?"
He nodded, and she led the way upstairs.
The room was narrow and stuffy. The heating device beneath the window had a silvery coat of paint. The window opened to the backyard, and all Draco could see from there were a chalked wall and a thatched roof. Instead of smells of thyme and boxwood, cigarette smoke drifted in.
...
He spent most of his time outdoors. Walking to the promontory in the West and to Maiden's Cliff in the East, he reacquainted himself with the area. The landscape was as wide and windswept as he remembered it. The air tasted as fresh and salty as it had the previous years. Strolling along the beach was as pleasant as it had been. And yet, there was a difference. Mr Penwith's place – the buildings, the chicken run, and the neglected garden full of rose hips, sage and thyme – was gone. What was left was a carefully framed sketch hanging in a corner of The Merry Fisherman. And Mr Penwith was buried somewhere in Scotland.
Draco went to watch the proceedings at the construction site. Sitting across the small stretch of grassland in the shade of the rampant hazel bush, he sketched the excavators and the big lorries that brought copious amounts of building material.
Sketching, he remembered the days when he had been here for the first time. He remembered the confused state of mind he had been in, his internal terror, and the nightmares. He remembered how he had struggled for a single hour of sleep.
He hadn't forgotten all the many questions starting with why that dated back to that time. Now, with no spreadsheets or essays to distract him, they were again very present in his mind. And he still had no answers.
He watched the construction workers labouring for almost an hour to remove a heavy slab of grey stone from the excavation pit. Erecting a new building where an old one had stood seemed to have similarities to rebuilding your life from ruins. Before you could set up something new, you had to form a solid foundation. Before that, you would probably have to dig a hole and before that, you had to clear away the wreckage.
Should he simply shove the debris aside, Draco wondered, or should he keep searching for things that were still intact and valuable? Was there more left of his former life than a few keepsakes?
...
81. Travelling with Strangers
In the evening of Draco's fourth day there, a group of young men arrived at the pub. Their English was rudimentary. It didn't suffice to read the menu, let alone to communicate their wishes to Mr Gill. One of them tried French, but Mr Gill's French was as poor as the stranger's English.
Draco, having finished his dinner, got up and stepped closer.
"Allow me to assist," he said to Mr Gill and asked the stranger, "Puis-je vous aider?"
Mr Gill sighed in relief. The stranger nodded enthusiastically.
Draco played the part of the interpreter for the whole evening. He helped the newcomers to check in and to order meals. Getting information across was anything but easy, though. Among themselves, the men talked in a language Draco had never heard, and only one of them spoke French well enough to form coherent sentences. So, in effect, everything had to be translated twice.
The foreigners were planning to walk to the southernmost region of Britain. They asked all sorts of questions concerning the area, questions that Draco found difficult to answer. In order to provide at least a modicum of information, he fetched the sketchy map of the Coast Path from his room. The men got very excited about the many orange dots on it. They also jumped to the conclusion that Draco intended to go to much the same places as they did and invited him straight off to come with them. Rather stunned by the unexpected proposition, Draco excused himself and went swimming.
...
He passed by the old signpost marking the point where the path that led to his preferred stretch of beach branched off the lane. The sign had become completely illegible over time. Two years ago, the words Cliff and Natur – without an e – had still been discernible. Now only the capitalised N was left.
Thanks to the late hour, the beach was deserted. Draco undressed and put two smooth, round stones on the pile of his clothes so the wind wouldn't blow them away. Then he rushed into the water and dived beneath a wave that was on the verge of breaking. The sea was almost too rough for swimming, and he ventured no further than where his feet could still touch the ground.
Back at the shore, he dried himself hurriedly since the air was chilly and the wind sharp.
Running back to the pub, he pondered the invitation. Should he really travel with a bunch of people from a foreign country? There was little doubt as to why they would like to have him with them – they were in dire need of an interpreter.
But was he up to the challenge?
Maybe he'd manage, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his room. Maybe the difficulties he usually experienced with informal conversations would be less severe. Lack of comprehension could easily be blamed on error in translation. Both sides would be faced with very much the same problem. They would have to simplify and rephrase their sentences until the other understood.
In a way, the offer of the strangers was tempting. He had already been to all post offices within a day's walking distance and would have to go further away this year in order to find new ones. Following the Coast Path for this purpose seemed a good choice because the clerks in the smaller villages were usually delighted to be able to help tourists and changed old banknotes for them without getting too curious.
And there'd be another benefit. Travelling in company, he would be less visible than when he walked on his own.
...
The next morning, Draco was the first at breakfast. He settled the bill with Mr Gill. Although the pub owner wore a mask of professional stoicism, Draco could tell the man was disappointed by his leaving after only a few days. That was why he opted for waiting outside.
The five strangers emerged around ten o'clock. When they learned Draco would be accompanying them, they were overjoyed. Laughing and joking – probably joking; Draco had mainly to judge by their facial expressions and tones of voice – they introduced themselves. They had zany names like Gyula and Zsolt, and the one who spoke French was Attila. Attila, a sheepish grin on his face, admitted that none of them had really caught Draco's name the previous night.
Shaking off the surprise, Draco made a spontaneous decision. He told them to call him Paul. They were perfectly content with that, and he remained Paul for the entire time of their journey. Whenever a landlady or landlord asked his name, he gave it as Paul Williams together with a likewise made-up address. Nobody ever paid much heed. People were usually more intent on checking the Hungarians' passports.
...
His travel companions were a cheery, easy-going lot. Draco got along with them quite well even though verbal conversation was always protracted. He learned from Attila a small selection of words that helped to coordinate their activities. Eszik, for instance, could be used to suggest eating, and alvás meant sleeping. His companions resorted to pantomime and crazy gesticulation if words failed them; he drew them comic strips if he needed to get a point across.
The people he sketched no longer looked invariably like Vincent Crabbe, but depicting faces was still a difficult, time-consuming task. Most times, he therefore drew only a simplified human shape and put for clarification the first letter of the name on the chest of the respective person – Attila, Ferenc, Gyula, Károly, Paul, Zsolt.
He did all the vital talk with third parties – shop assistants, innkeepers, or landladies – and he always volunteered to go and buy stamps for the innumerable picture postcards that Attila and his friends wrote home. He often ran errands alone, thus getting plenty of opportunity to change old banknotes.
Concerning the route that should be taken, however, he didn't have much input. His fellow travellers were not inclined to simply follow the Coast Path. Navigating with the help of a map and a magnetic compass, they made detours to every site that they thought remarkable enough to take a closer look at. They dragged Draco to ruined castles and lovely gardens, to abandoned coalmines and, once, to a museum full of rusty machinery and broken tools. When they realised he had no swimming trunks, they lured him into a huge shop – one that had moving stairs – where they made him buy a ridiculously coloured piece of clothing. Afterwards they marched him straight to the nearest beach so he could give the new purchase an outing.
To his astonishment, Draco didn't mind much. He didn't even protest sleeping in large dormitories as long as he could rent a locker for his rucksack. After about a fortnight, he silently conceded that he felt more tranquil than he had in years. Whether he had ever felt exactly like he did in the company of Attila and the others was hard to decide because five or fifteen years ago, his life had been much too different to be compared to the present situation.
Needless to say, fate took care to remind him of who and what he was.
...
82. Repello Muggeltum
Draco's companions liked to sleep in, and this day wasn't different. While they dawdled the morning hours away, he went swimming. Having bathing trunks now, he didn't have to seek out special places. This was the one thing that could be said in favour of bathing trunks. Apart from that, he didn't like them much. They were uncomfortably tight and looked just silly. Wearing them, swimming felt less good than it did otherwise. He couldn't put it into words, but he had a feeling that something essential was missing.
When he returned from the beach, the others were still busy packing up. He filled the old hip flask – the one he had nicked at Runcorn's – and a plastic bottle with water from the tap. Then he waited for his fellow travellers to get ready.
They set off at half past ten. The weather was nice – neither too hot nor too windy – and the trail led slightly away from the actual coast, providing great views of scenic landscape.
Zsolt took photographs. Ferenc and Gyula were immersed in what seemed to be an endless debate. Draco didn't know what the topic was and didn't bother to ask, either. If it were important for him to know, Attila would volunteer information.
They had lunch – somewhat belatedly – at a mobile food stall near a large car park. For some reason, the other four kept poking fun at Károly throughout the meal. Eventually, Károly stalked off. The others chuckled, by the look of it in anticipation of more entertainment. When Károly came back, he said something that made them roar with laughter. This time, Attila felt compelled to explain to Draco what the hilarity was about. But despite Attila's best efforts, Draco didn't get the point.
He smiled politely and asked, "Lépni?"
Lépni meant something along the line of walking or moving. Whether it was a finite or non-finite form of the verb he wasn't sure. He had given up on the grammar of the strange language. There seemed to be no such thing as a discernible sentence structure.
Sure enough, his rudimentary question put him into the centre of attention. Everybody talked to him at the same time, gesticulating and grimacing. Draco shook his head and raised his hands in a silent gesture, indicating his lack of comprehension.
In all the hubbub, Attila snatched the map that Zsolt had taken out, wrote something in the margin, and pushed it to Draco. The others quieted down.
laissez-le aller = menjünk Draco read.
"Je comprends," he said. "Menjunk? Menjunk szálló?"
The others gave some vague nods; Attila padded his shoulder.
Draco inched away from him.
"Yeah, it might help if you could be bothered to learn a bit of English," he muttered under his breath, but his grumpy remark went unheeded because Zsolt had repossessed himself of the map and was now indicating their current position. He also pointed to the place – Ifjúsági szálló the map said – where they intended to stay for the night.
Apparently, Draco's companions had realised that they should get a move on. It was already well past three in the afternoon, and they were still several miles away from their destination. Draco was therefore not surprised when they, after a short debate, decided on a shortcut. Zsolt communicated their plan to Draco by moving his thumb several times in a straight line from the car park across a vast expanse of pastures to the hostel.
...
Attila, compass in his hands, led the way. Zsolt let Károly have his camera.
Draco tuned out Ferenc and Gyula's bickering and listened to the sounds of nature around him. Birds sang, insects hummed, and the wind rustled softly through the leaves of the greenery on the hedge. They followed that hedge for nearly half an hour. At several occasions, they had to walk in single file and very close to the earthwork because the grass grew waist-high. But by and large, walking across the meadows was rather pleasant.
They were climbing a moderately steep slope when all five of Draco's companions suddenly stopped in their tracks, turned and – with many worried exclamations – rushed back downhill. Stunned, Draco watched their strange behaviour. When he glanced at the impressive house on top of the hill, realisation struck. He ran after the others, every bit as alarmed as they were.
Running, he recalled Greengrass talking about the substantial property that her parents had acquired somewhere in the southwest of England. Whether or not the manor on this hill here was the one she had ceaselessly boasted about during their last year at Hogwarts he didn't know, but he sure as hell wasn't going to hang around until he found out.
Even after the house was well out of sight, the others kept up their mad dash, pushing through waist-high grass without slowing down for a second. Draco followed. He had absolutely no desire to meet whoever lived on top of the hill.
He stopped when he reached the car park, knowing that he was back on safe territory. He called after his companions, who continued to speed-walk into an entirely wrong direction.
"Attila, attendez-moi!" he yelled at full volume because they were already several hundred yards away.
He tried to recall how the bloody charm worked. He had never cast one himself. He hadn't even seen one taking effect before today. Did it wear off all by itself? And if so, how long did that take?
"Wait!" he yelled again. "Attendez-moi!"
He saw his companions come to a halt. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he trudged after them. It had been a long time since the rucksack had felt so heavy on his shoulders. His best option might be to pretend he didn't understand if Attila asked tricky questions...
However, when he finally reached the little group of people with whom he had spent the last weeks, they were chatting cheerfully. Draco had no way of knowing what they were talking about, but he looked at their merry faces, saw everyone's relaxed posture, and heard the impending laughter in their voices. They seemed perfectly fine, and the questions Attila asked in his clumsy French amounted to nothing more serious than Are you tired? Are we walking to fast for you?
Either the memory of what had just happened had already erased itself from their minds, or some appended curse hindered them to perceive the peculiarity of their recent behaviour. There was a decidedly awkward component to each alternative Draco thought.
He shook his head in response to Attila's questions and motioned for Zsolt to give him the map. Zsolt, shrugging and unconcerned, handed it over.
The magnificent house on the hill wasn't shown on the map. Unplottable, Draco concluded. This added to his conviction that he didn't want to be seen by the people who lived there.
"Y at-il un problème, Paul?" Attila asked.
"Oui."
Draco put his finger to the point on the map that marked the place where they stood. Then he traced the road back to the car park. From there, he followed with his finger a lane that circled in a wide arc around the expanse of grassland. He repeated the motions, and Attila got the hint.
...
The walk was long and strenuous. Ferenc and Gyula's daylong debate soon petered out. Attila, Zsolt, and Károly kept silent as well, saving their breath and their strength for the lane that undulated endlessly through the countryside.
Draco's thoughts returned again and again to the photographs Károly had taken with Zsolt's camera. Would there be something in those pictures, something neither Károly nor his friends would remember to have ever seen? Or would they be empty, and Károly would believe that he had made some mistake with the borrowed camera like, for instance, not removing the lens cap?
When they reached the hostel, they were tired, starving, and soaked to the skin. It had been pouring with rain for the entire last hour of their walk.
The cook had already gone home. Some other employee fetched milk and cornflakes for them while they took a hot shower to get a bit of warmth back into their limbs.
They wolfed down the improvised meal in unwonted silence.
Whereas the others mumbled a quiet Jó éjszakát afterwards and shuffled off to their chambers, Draco went back to the now empty washroom. He was as tired as the rest of them, but he doubted that he would be able to sleep. Witnessing utterly unsuspecting people being hexed – people who didn't even know magic existed! – had stirred up his least-favourite memories.
Scrutinising his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he felt a pang of guilt. What for, he wasn't sure.
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Author's note:
Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.
Note added on Dec 12, 2013:
I corrected the spelling of Gyula. Thank you, poppaeasabina, for pointing out the error.