102. Admonition

Mrs Shaw scribbled the number of Draco's bank account on a scrap of paper and sent him on to Mrs Highbury.

The head librarian greeted him with a warm smile.

"I would like to talk to you about your employment contract, Mr Malfoy," she said once they were seated on either side of her desk. Placing a partially completed form before him, she continued, "I've prepared a standard contract. We'll pay the minimum wage of three pounds twenty pence per hour until you'll get paid the main rate when you turn twenty-two. The amount of notice of termination of your employment that you are entitled to receive is two weeks, and the amount of notice you are required to give is also two weeks. You'll work as instructed by the senior staff. No special responsibilities, the usual conditions concerning sickness et cetera. The only thing we really need to talk about is how many hours you'll work. I'd like to fix a minimum of twenty hours with an option to work more. This way, Helen can be sure she has you for at least twenty hours while you can be sure you don't have to work more than that during exams periods. I don't want the work to interfere with your studies. What do you say?"

"It's fine. I can work twenty hours per week."

"I meant twenty hours per month. You'll have to revise for your exams, Mr Malfoy. Don't underestimate the workload."

"There will be only one exam, Biology, and I've kept up with the recommended background reading."

He knew instantly that he had said the wrong thing when she straightened up in her chair and fixed him with a stern look.

"There will be only one exam?" she asked softly. "Why are you studying only one single subject?"

Why? He hadn't wasted any thought on choosing subjects. She had told him, a year ago, that Biology would help him to understand genetics. This had not come true – at least not until now; the lessons hadn't covered the topic yet. He didn't mind much, though. Biology had turned out to be a moderately interesting science.

"I didn't see the need to take more than one," he said. He had no use for A-levels. Even an A* would be meaningless in two years' time. But of course, he couldn't say that. So, he simply added, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise to me. It's your life you're mucking up, not mine."

He sighed. His life was a bigger mess than she could possibly imagine. But the more she tried to understand, the worse his predicament became. He couldn't speak about his problems without violating the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. All he could tell her were excuses and make-believe reasons and lies, lies, lies...

"I know I ruined my life, and you know that I'm not allowed to reveal details. Please, stop asking," he pleaded. "I'm tired of lying."

"Maybe that came out wrong, Mr Malfoy. I didn't mean to discuss your past," Mrs Highbury clarified. "I would like to direct your focus on what you will do in the future."

"I promise I'll study," he said quickly to placate her. She had always stressed how important learning was. "I'll take more subjects next year if you say that's the more sensible course of action."

"No offence, but you are missing the point. You can't have me make decisions for your life. It's your life. You decide. At least, you will have to decide one day. At the moment, however, I have the impression that all you're doing is putting decisions off."

He tensed. Her observation was correct, and he couldn't think of anything to say that would convince her otherwise.

"What do you want to do with your life, Mr Malfoy?" she prompted when he remained silent.

"I honestly don't know," he said after another long moment of silence. "I'm only sure about what I don't want. My life was planned out for me before I was born. Unfortunately, reality got in the way, and my mother's only fallback option has been to marry me off to a sufficiently well-heeled witch – no matter how fat or ugly or generally unpleasant she is, just rich and with the right pedigree. And it won't matter if she's six years older than I am because that will make up for my immaturity." He was aware that he was digressing, but he couldn't stop himself. This was something he could say out loud; it had nothing to with magic. "Maybe I can't argue that. Maybe I am immature. But the thought of allowing some such person into my bed – and be it solely for reproduction purposes – scares me beyond words. No matter how much I would be disgusted and feel like throwing up, literally like throwing up, we'd be husband and wife and would have to act accordingly. It wouldn't be enough to simply endure it. I would have to pretend that my life is exactly as I want it to be."

"Your preferences are nobody's concern but your own," Mrs Highbury said, hesitating very briefly before the word preferences. "Your mother may be disappointed, but we're living in the twenty first century. She can't force you to marry."

The last sentence startled him enough to make him twitch. He had feared Runcorn so far, but once his mother had her wand back, she too could force him into submission!

Would he be able to resist? Her skills and her cunning were clearly superior to his own. He also doubted that he'd have the guts to raise his wand against his mother. The question was whether she would raise hers against him. He hadn't dared to consider such a scenario before. He didn't want to think about it now because he didn't want to see how bleak his future was.

"I just want to be, just be," he said very softly. "I'm afraid I have no specific plans going beyond that. I just wish to be left alone."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me."

"You have no idea what my mother is capable of," he said while he searched for a way to get the point across without revealing the existence of magic. "She isn't alone. There are others who think the same way as she does. Her name, her maiden name in particular, still carries weight in certain circles. Like my mother, these people think of themselves as the old families or pure-bloods. I belong to this stratum by birth, and I am therefore expected to marry a daughter of one of these families and produce an heir with her. I once believed I would be able to choose. However, with our wealth gone and my father's and my own name tarnished, people are reluctant to connect themselves with us. That's why my mother is prepared to seize any opportunity. I doubt she would have considered Araminta Bulstrode for a single second before our fall from grace. Now she does. She sets great store by the old traditions. Aside from that, she wants to regain some wealth."

"Pure-bloods, Mr Malfoy? Are you serious? Money and bloodlines, is that all your mother cares about? Husband in jail, son under probation, and she still clings to her prejudices and dubious values? One should think she'd question her, well, principles after what has happened."

"My mother would have established these principles if they hadn't already existed," he said without thinking.

But it was true. His mother wouldn't dream of questioning the time-hallowed ways of the old families. Upholding the old customs was what she lived for.

Old was indeed the keyword here. The fundamental pure-blood values had been there for centuries. The monster hadn't brought them up; it had merely capitalised on them. More importantly, these values hadn't perished along with it. Thanks to people like Runcorn and his mother, the old families' way of thinking persisted throughout all changes that life brought. They made sure the tenets of proper pure-blood conduct were passed down from generation to generation like deoxyribonucleic acid molecules.

Here, his thoughts suddenly stumbled.

The tenets the old families preached were based on a myth! There was no such thing as blood-purity. Didn't his mother see that? She wasn't stupid. She didn't need to know about chromosomes, Mendel's laws, or the influence of environmental factors on DNA performance to spot the flaws in her own family tree. He was pretty certain that she was aware of these flaws. Yet, she perpetuated the pretence and expected him to do the same.

Why?

The answer was simple. All the old families were related to each other. The unnamed woman Deneb Black had married in January 1817 was not only his mother's and his ancestor, but also the forebear of quite a few well-known witches and wizards living today. Aside from Procyon, her only son, she had borne seven daughters. All eight children had grown into adulthood, married, and procreated. Her name should appear in many a family tree, but it didn't. It had been deleted from the collective memory of the wizarding world. Was the reason hard to guess? No.

In all likelihood, a great number of people were in on the sham and hell-bent on maintaining it. Unless some piece of hard evidence forced them to do so, nobody from the old families would admit that their great-grandmother had been a half-blood and, consequently, their great-great-grandmother a Muggle-born witch or even a Muggle.

The purpose of "pure-blood" marriages wasn't to protect a fictitious blood-purity. The true goal was to keep the myth alive. Despite knowing this – no, that was wrong. Because of knowing this, his mother would insist on him marrying a daughter from a "respectable family".

What were his chances of escaping that fate?

...

103. Prospects

Mrs Highbury cleared her throat. She looked disgruntled.

Draco couldn't tell how long he had sat before her without saying a word. He pulled himself together and said, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for your mother's mind-set," Mrs Highbury said. "Perhaps we shouldn't stray any farther from the initial topic. I see two options for you, Mr Malfoy. Either you comply with your mother's wishes and marry into money, or you pursue a career that will ensure your independence. I suppose you are well aware of the pros and cons of the first option, and I believe I understand why you are reluctant about it. What puzzles me all the more is why you hesitate to choose the second one."

"Why do I hesitate?" he repeated to buy himself a few seconds to think. "That is because I do not know what to do. You say you won't make decisions for me, but I am willing to listen to your suggestions."

"Suggestions? What kind of suggestions do you expect of me?"

"Anything. I am at a complete loss. How do I take up a profession? Which one should I choose? What would I actually be able to do with my limited skills?"

"You really never thought about this, did you?"

"No, I didn't. Couldn't you give me at least an example? That would be more helpful than another assurance that, basically, everything is possible." He finally saw a chance to get the debate under control. "For instance, how did you become what you are now?"

"A-levels, Bachelor's degree in English and Communication, work in public libraries for several years, then postgraduate studies at Aberystwyth University with a two-year break when my daughter was born. After a stint at Exeter, I came here in 1989. I've been head librarian since 1996," she said rather quickly. "Mr Malfoy, my career is neither typical nor exemplary. In the beginning, I didn't even aim for librarianship. I dreamt of becoming a dramatic advisor or director at a theatre."

"Well, yes," he said while trying to process the information. "Would not being instructed by an experienced librarian and learning things by doing them be the most straightforward approach?"

"Of course, training on the job is possible. You can become a library assistant through an apprenticeship, but lesser qualifications will mean a smaller salary. You'll need a university degree if you want to climb the job ladder. Then again, if you are afraid that studying for a degree will be more than you can handle, then don't. Don't let your mother force you into a marriage you don't want; don't let me push you into an academic career you are not prepared for."

She paused for a calming breath.

Draco gave a slight nod to indicate his continued attention.

"Unless you go for a trade, you'll need A-levels," she went on. "To be honest, I can't picture you as a mason or joiner or something similar but, of course, you have the perfect right to become a workman if you want to. Mr Malfoy, I cannot tell you what you want. I can only let you know my view on the matter, and here it is: considering how undecided you are, I'd say play to your strengths and choose French and Mathematics and perhaps one or two subsidiary subjects next year. English or Humanities will hardly go amiss. Re-sit ICT. Wherever you'll work, you'll need at least basic computer skills."

"All right. I'll think about it," he said, holding in a sigh. If he had truly planned on a career in her world, her last sentence would have dashed even the most humble of hopes.

"Good. Let's return to the business at hand, shall we?" Mrs Highbury said, holding up the contract. "What about working six hours per day? You may be able to pass that off as regular employment in your curriculum vitae, and Helen would be delighted."

It took him only a moment to make his mind up. More working hours would come in handy because he had reached the end of his reading list for genetics. The few remaining papers on recent research were so full of complicated scientific terminology and daunting chemistry he didn't understand much more than the abstracts even if he perused those papers three times over. He could as well quit; his chances to actually learn something were exhausted. Shelving books, although less demanding than studying genetics, was going to keep him busy from now on.

"That's fine by me," he said.

"Excellent."

She made the necessary adjustments; he took out his fountain pen.

"Please, sign here, Mr Malfoy," she said, placing the form once more before him.

He read through the contract, and then he signed it with his full name. He was writing the f in Malfoy when, all of a sudden, he had the eerie feeling of being outside his body and watching himself.

He had pledged his service once before. Back then, he had not signed any form or parchment. The idea that the monster might have deemed its followers worthy of a written agreement – even one sealed with their own, oh so pure blood – was preposterous. Instead, they had been branded as it befitted slaves. It's a lifetime of service or death.

The document he was signing now contained no threats of any kind. There was no penalty for wanting to back out. If he wished to quit, he simply would have to say so two weeks in advance. The contrast couldn't be any starker.

Gripping the pen more firmly, he wrote the o and the y and added a flourish.

He straightened up and looked at Mrs Highbury.

"When am I expected to be here tomorrow?" he asked.

"As usual, I'd say. Discuss the details with Helen." She smiled at him. "And, Mr Malfoy, welcome to the team!"

...

104. Future and Present

He dropped his employment contract and the jute bag onto the desk in his room and went straight on to Hind Green. Jogging, he reviewed the events of the day.

He owed Mrs Bates a favour. She wasn't the person to make a big deal of it, though, and perhaps he could even find a way to oblige her before she thought of calling in the favour.

He had a bank account now. This was probably an improvement as it seemed to be expected of all members of the population to have one. He didn't know yet what to do with it, but maybe finding out could wait.

Mrs Highbury's interrogation had come completely out of the blue, but he thought that he had handled the situation well. He had managed to steer clear of all things connected to magic, and she, although not liking them much, had accepted his answers. The admonition he could stomach.

He had never aimed for formal employment. Signing the contract was, in some way, another, almost logical step in a process that had slowly evolved ever since the afternoon when he had first set foot into the library. He couldn't say that he was exceedingly shocked.

Besides, shelving books was definitely better than risking to lapse into ceaseless brooding again. Being able to say, "I work at the library of the university and, yes, I can prove it" was also a good thing because it should help to make people less inclined to question his presence in their world. At any rate, he felt a bit more secure thanks to this new arrangement.

He even had something like a plan for the rest of his probation period.

Regrettably, he couldn't say the same for the time afterwards. He had absolutely no idea what to do two years hence. A strategy that was successful here didn't necessarily bring the same positive results in the wizarding world. Who was going to employ a Malfoy? Even if he found somebody willing to accept a traitor who had talked to the Aurors – or, from another point of view, a former Death Eater – there would still be the question of his skills and abilities. The lack of formal qualifications aside, he hadn't much to offer. Arithmancy and Astronomy, which he had taken at N.E.W.T level, were sciences with little everyday use. Only the Ministry hired Astronomers and Arithmancers to work in the research-oriented departments. Needless to say, Shacklebolt's henchmen wouldn't let him within a mile of such facilities.

He would probably make a decent potioneer. He might be hired to brew potions in the backroom of an apothecary's – under the condition that he never, ever showed his face to the patrons. Well, he could live with that; he wasn't eager to be seen. His weekly salary, however, would hardly come up to five Galleons. It was laughable to think he could gain independence this way.

That left him with only the marriage option.

If he complied with his mother's demands, his choice would be narrowed to a fistful of eligible heiresses. But even if he cast aside all considerations of wealth or parentage, the number of potential brides who were roughly his age was limited.

He paraded the female students from his year, the two years above and the two years below in his mind's eye. Of Jenny Baddock, Cedrella Smith, and Elissa – or perhaps Elissia – Pritchard he knew no more than that they existed. Then there were spindly, squint-eyed Martha Flint and dim-witted Philotta Mulciber – he'd rather not see either one walk up to him in bridal robes. Dorea Rosier was less stupid than Mulciber, but a downright bitch. Daphne Greengrass was shapelier than Flint, but unable to keep her mouth shut for more than five seconds. He certainly didn't want to listen to her prattle for the rest of his days. A fair number of girls had already been betrothed while still at school. Wilma Gamp had left Hogwarts during her seventh year to marry a prosperous mandrake grower from some little place near Cork. Millicent wasn't any better than her sister, Dorea Broadmoor was a Gobstones maniac, and a renewed relationship with Pansy would be awkward, and that was putting it mildly.

Besides, who would want him? Everybody at Hogwarts had seen him go from cocky Malfoy scion to pathetic weakling. What could he expect except contempt and, perhaps on rare occasions, pity?

In fact, he might encounter worse sentiments than contempt. Most girls from other Hogwarts houses would probably hex him six ways to Sunday as soon as he came into wand-range. Some from his own house might do so as well – Davis, for instance. He had pointedly ignored the lone half-blood in Slytherin throughout their time at school. If he approached her now with a marriage proposal, she would most likely answer with a Bat Bogey Hex three times more vicious than the one that the Weasley girl had thrown at him.

Ending up with somebody who despised him, with a wife who sneered at him from the far end of a twenty feet long breakfast table, was a frightening thought. Maybe he should wait until a generation came of age that had not been at school with him. Then again, the thought of a hapless girl who was at least seven years his junior being bullied into his bed by her parents because they were fatuous enough to believe they'd benefit from the liaison was appalling as well.

He didn't want to deliberate on the likeliness of such scenarios. He dearly wished Mrs Highbury hadn't urged him contemplate his future.

Perhaps he should propose to Ludmilla Crabbe. She was a likable person and, aged thirty-seven now, still young enough to bear children. There was no disgrace in marrying a widow. Perhaps this was the most sensible solution he mused as he ran on. Perhaps he should take the initiative before his mother got a chance to do so.

Maintaining a steady pace, he ran lap after lap.

It took him hours to calm down and to console himself with the thought that immediate action wasn't necessary. He could stay here for two more years. Afterwards, another two and a half years would have to elapse before his mother got her wand back.

...

The moon had sunk low and disappeared behind the ugly building of the supermarket when he eventually went home.

Back in his room, Draco emptied the jute bag. It looked enduring and was big enough for two folders and some additional stuff. He decided to use it from now on instead of the plastic bags that never lasted long.

He hid the employment contract along with his Birth Certificate at the bottom of the wardrobe beneath the never-sent letter to his mother.

The leaflets that Mr White had given him were advertisements. He put them onto the bookshelf, unread. The three pages of tiny print were General Terms and Conditions. He tried to read through them in the hope of getting a more detailed insight into bank proceedings, but he was tired, and the terminology was as complicated as that of scientific papers on genetics.

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to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) I did my best to find out about the history of minimum wages in the UK. Apparently, people younger than 22 were paid £3.20 per hour previous to October 2001.

(3) Many thanks go to my beta readers for their help and support.