114. Unexpected Mail
Spring was in the air. The wind carried the scent of hyacinths through the streets.
Draco had left the library at half past one in the morning and was on his way home. As he neared Mrs Bates's lodging house, an owl swooped down from the roof and circled him.
He held out his left arm for the bird to perch on.
It was a screech owl, but it wasn't Lissy. It looked a tad too small for a female.
"Hey," he whispered. "Who are you?"
The owl hooted.
"Yes, I thought so," Draco murmured while he tugged at the parchment that was tied to the bird's leg. Removing it with only one hand was difficult. "Look, I'm sorry, I don't have owl treats. Over there is a park, though. I bet it's full of fat tasty mice."
The owl hooted somewhat indignantly but took off and sailed into the night.
Draco scrutinised the letter. It was addressed to Draco Malfoy wherever he lives now, and the sender was Daphne Greengrass.
Greengrass? What could she possibly want of him?
He went to stand directly under a street lamp and unfolded the parchment.
Draco,
There was a dinner party at Lucrecia Runcorn's-
The name gave him a start. He breathed deeply before he continued reading.
-a dinner party at Lucrecia Runcorn's at Yule. It's been a while, I know. Anyway, we were there, and your mother kept dropping hints about you being in France. I really envy you, you know? We're not so lucky. The Ministry took away our new house. They said they were being "generous" and let us live in the gardener's cabin. That is, we get to see every day how they walk in and out of our house and do Merlin knows what. They have "guests" there – so-called war orphans and all sorts of riffraff like M-bloods and house-elves that are too lazy to work. And the Selwyns are bleeding us dry with their Magic-free Supply Service. We can't do anything about it! My parents are forbidden to do magic for another three years, and I, well, it's really embarrassing – a Ministry snoop caught me with a beautifying potion. Can you believe it? It was such a slight lapse, but the gits have doubled my probation time anyway. This whole probation nonsense is the worst idea these do-gooders ever came up with Father says. He says going to Azkaban would at least have been honourable. Well, I don't know about going to Azkaban. I'd much rather go to Italy (that's in the Alps) like Pansy did. She eloped with Iain Urquhart, did you know? They are now happily married and live in a "chalet" (I think that means castle) in the mountains. She's always known how to make things work for her. The Urquharts are purebloods, but they kept their noses clean during the troubled times. Iain has his wand and all. He's really a good catch; Pansy has more luck than she deserves. So, thinking about it, I'd say going to Italy and watching their sweet love life would only make me sick. I'd much rather go to France like you. Do you have some tips for me? How do I get there? We could only be at Runcorn's Yule dinner because she sent a four-in-hand stagecoach to fetch us. We're back now, and I hate being stuck here. I'd rather not hang around until Goyle shows up to court my sister. He's still serving his sentence, but he'll be released from Azkaban when my sister leaves Hogwarts. He'll be forbidden to use a wand for years to come so my parents figure that she would have the upper hand in the marriage, so to speak. She doesn't like the idea much, but better her than me. That's one more reason to scarper. Lots of people went abroad, the Gamps, for example, and all of the Macnairs that aren't in Azkaban. At least, that's what the rumours say. You can't be sure when people disappear. Montague (I'm talking about Aeneas, the younger brother of our former captain) was found dead after he'd been missing for a month or so. They arrested Earnest Macmillan (he was in our year, Hufflepuff, remember?) for it. Didn't think the Phoenix rabble would turn on one of their own lot. Potter was mightily pissed off by the affair if you are inclined to believe what the "Prophet" says. Theo and Dorea Rosier disappeared a short time later. Dorea is living with relatives. Your mother had word from her. I don't know where Theo is. He's always been clever, so I think he may have made it abroad. You need to be clever these days, or you don't stand a chance. Wasn't it downright outrageous what happened to one of Thicknesse's granddaughters? You probably don't have the "Prophet" in France, but I trust you heard the shocking details of the Yaxley story from your mother. Lucrecia Runcorn couldn't stop ranting about it. I can't blame her; he's her great-grandson. Honestly, those stupid Gryffindor prats really had it coming to them, provoking him the way they did! They cornered him just outside Eeylops Owl Emporium and spat right into his face. Of course, the Wizengamot didn't accept self-defence as an excuse and sent him straight to Azkaban. Well, Yaxley is a big oaf; you can't argue that. I for my part don't miss him. Mrs Ooze is in Azkaban as well. They sentenced her for putting the Imperius on Muggles. Can you believe it!? Her so-called victims were Muggles, for crying out loud! Who cares what happens to them? Well, that's all I can think of right now. Write and tell me how I do get to France without being caught. Perhaps we can meet there? It would be nice to have somebody to chat. I don't speak French.
Daphne
His thoughts raced. They darted here and there like maddened chickens, clucking wildly and flapping non-existent wings. The content of the letter was disturbing – no doubt about that! – but the most crucial point was its origin.
Did Greengrass write it? Could he be certain about that?
It sounded like her. Rubbing it in that Pansy had married another man was exactly the thing she would do. Then again, he didn't recognise the handwriting, and he was sure Greengrass and he had never been on a first-name basis. Pansy had been the only one enjoying this privilege. Besides, why would his mother tell people he was in France? What gave her such an idea and why was she spreading it?
He had an ominous feeling about the letter. Practically everyone who knew Greengrass could mix an imitation of her typical insensitive chatter with an ample amount of gossip and sign that fabrication with Daphne.
He crumpled the parchment and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Not caring what time of the night it was, he ran up the street and into the park. He ran on, lap after lap, until he had calmed down enough to attempt a rational analysis of the situation.
If anybody knew where to find him, they'd be here already. So, evidently, nobody did.
However, he could think of a vast number of people who would love to trick him into revealing his whereabouts. The letter might very well be a trap.
...
115. Women
When he finally went home, the sky was red in the east. He tried to be as quiet as possible lest he wake anybody in the house. He eased open the door to the converted attic and was instantly met with the sort of noise the twins liked to call music. The dissonant thudding was just muted enough to not be heard downstairs.
Draco postponed demanding silence. He needed to pass water first. The door to the bathroom wasn't locked, so he didn't expect anyone to be inside, especially not a girl. She was smearing some strange black stuff onto the skin around her eyes.
"Mind to get out?" she snapped, not taking her gaze off her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was dyed in ridiculous colours and stuck up in a spiky way.
"Actually, I do," he retorted. All of a sudden, he felt dog-tired. "You'll leave. I need the loo."
"I'm not done here. So, wait."
"Get out," he said. "Now."
"Shove off."
Spurred on by her choice of words, he toyed for a second with the idea of shoving her forcibly out into the hall. She was short and scrawny; it wouldn't take much effort.
"Leave," he said slowly and in warning tones, "if you know what is good for you."
"Sod you!" she blustered. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
She didn't even look in his direction and continued to put black grease onto her eyelids. He remembered Trish talking about a woman whose face was "positively caked with paint" and Jory complaining about his daughters' absurd clothes. Both descriptions fitted the girl perfectly. He hoped for Jory's sake that she was neither Isabel nor Betsy.
"You're asking for it," he drawled, walking past her to the toilet.
He flipped the seat up, took his member out and emptied his bladder.
"Perv," she breathed.
He didn't reply. He had his back to her; she had no direct look at what he was doing. Besides, she was free to leave if she felt uncomfortable about the situation.
Instead of fleeing the scene, the girl broke into hysterical giggles.
Ignoring her, Draco buttoned up his flies and flushed the toilet. He splashed water on his hands from the tap of the bathtub and then, without sparing her a glance or saying another word, he left. He slammed the door with full force. Whether he only wanted to vent his anger or whether he wanted Mrs Bates to notice he wasn't sure.
...
He woke a quarter past nine. The flat was quiet, the bathroom empty, and the washbasin mercifully devoid of any trace of black grease. While he went through his morning routine, he mused about the owl that perched on the railing of the would-be balcony outside his room. By the look of it, the bird had orders to wait for a reply. This ruled out the option Draco would have favoured the most – the option of pretending to have not received any letter.
When he saw Mrs Bates waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, he wondered whether he was in trouble. His landlady didn't look particularly happy. On Sundays, she made breakfast exclusively for him. The twins didn't get up before two in the afternoon, and other lodgers rarely stayed over the weekend.
"Good morning, Mrs Bates," he said carefully. "I'm afraid I overslept. I am very sorry."
"It's all right, dear, it's all right. Don't worry. Just come in and have a seat, please," she said, ushering him into the breakfast room. Her strained smile belied her words. "I heard you coming down and put your breakfast straight into the microwave. It will be ready in a jiffy."
Draco opened his mouth to repeat and maybe exaggerate his apology when Mrs Bates, almost rigid with awkwardness, asked, "Would you mind me sitting with you for a moment?"
"Not at all," Draco said, although he felt completely stunned now. He pulled out a chair for her. "Please, Mrs Bates, sit down."
"I don't know what to do anymore," she sighed as she dropped into the chair. "Patrick and Lewis were with girls again last night. Again! They say they're of age, and I'm not to meddle. But the girls I caught tiptoeing down the stairs this morning were barely sixteen! If I had a sixteen-year-old daughter and she wasn't home at midnight, I'd be in a state. I really don't know what to do with such difficult young men... I can't kick them out. They're family. Their mother and I grew up together. Why can't the brats behave themselves?"
Draco cleared his throat, not sure whether he was expected to answer.
"You always behave properly, don't you? You've been here for more than three years now, and you haven't been dragging in little hussies five times a week. Why can't the twins be a bit more like you?" Mrs Bates held up a hand to indicate that she wasn't done. Embarrassed and struggling for words, she went on, "That is to say... I hope everything is, err, right with you, Mr Malfoy. Or is there something, err... peculiar that I haven't realised yet? Please, don't tell me you're into men."
To his own surprise, Draco caught on immediately. A year ago, studying the last-minute reading material for Biology, he had skipped a chapter called "Men Who Like Men" because he had known after reading the first few lines that the subject matter didn't apply to him.
"I do like girls, or women who are brunette and-" the sentence died on his lips.
He couldn't very well say out loud what was occurring to him at this very moment. The women of his bedtime fantasies – Doctor Prewett as well as all the nameless beach beauties in their scanty bathing costumes – were invariably brunette, shapely and, for lack of a better word, distinctly feminine. They were the exact opposite of the girl he had encountered in the bathroom earlier in the day. What did Mrs Bates call her?
"I don't like little hussies, though," he added before the pause became too long.
"Right you are," Mrs Bates said in openly displayed relief. Her words were accompanied by a ding-dong-ding melody coming from the kitchen. "Ah, your breakfast is ready. Please, stay seated. I'll fetch it."
She returned with a tray holding a full-scale breakfast. Putting it down in front of Draco, she asked, "You aren't annoyed with me, are you? For asking about what side you lean?"
He was puzzled rather than annoyed. Why did she ask questions of such personal nature?
"I admit the question was unexpected," he said with as little emotion as possible.
"I just needed to make sure. It's already bad enough with the neighbourhood talking about the twins and their goings-on," she said apologetically. "Enjoy your breakfast!"
"Thank you," Draco said. "Maybe you should have installed a turnstile, one that operates with electronic ID cards. Then nobody would be able to enter the house without your permission."
She shook her head.
"I'm afraid such contraptions cost an awful lot of money," she said. "No, I think I'll write Lewis and Patrick's mother and let her know what a nuisance her brats have been lately. Perhaps she can talk some sense into them."
...
116. Disquiet
The owl was still there after a fortnight.
It was away hunting in the park when Draco returned after evening lessons or after late shifts at the library, but in the morning when he pulled the curtain aside, he saw the bird perch on the wrought-iron railing. Every morning its presence reminded him of the letter that lay beneath a stack of heavy folders.
He had put it there so the pressure would smooth out the wrinkles. Of course, this was a pretext. Even if he could reverse the parchment to a condition that looked sufficiently unread the owl wouldn't accept it back unanswered.
The true reason for placing the letter beneath the folders was to have it out of sight.
He had a sketchy idea about how one would travel to France. He had learned in Geography about ferries that left frequently from Dover or Portsmouth for ports in France. A long tunnel for trains connected Kent with Nord-Pas-de-Calais, and there were also dozens of aeroplanes flying between both countries every day.
He was hesitant to disclose such knowledge, though. It might be unwise even if the letter was genuine. Greengrass would hardly be thrilled by the thought of using non-magical means of transport.
For a while, he considered composing a letter that praised life in France. He wouldn't mind if people believed he was there. The more time and effort they wasted on searching for him in faraway places, the less likely they were to find him.
He discarded the idea after careful deliberation. The risk was too high. He was bound to make mistakes because he didn't know enough about the country. Already a few inaccurate details here and there would allow an informed reader to conclude that he was only pretending.
The owl's growing impatience became a problem as well. In order to appease him, Draco fed Aeolus liberal amounts of mince and chicken liver that he bought in the supermarket next to the park. Aeolus – Spirit of the Winds – was the name Draco had chosen in an attempt to mollify his guest. Owls liked to be called by a proper name, even if it wasn't their correct one.
...
Another week went by, and Draco still didn't know what to do.
The facts Greengrass had compiled in her letter created a disturbing picture, and there was something even more abhorrent lingering between the lines. Part of his mind struggled for a rational analysis of the text, another part struggled to avoid thinking about it at all, and both parts failed. The blasted letter dragged him back to the past he wished to forget and suggested a future he refused to acknowledge.
All efforts to keep his mind occupied with other things were futile. Thinking of Jory eventually led to thinking of Fiendfyre. Recalling his journey with the Hungarians led to recalling a Repello Muggeltum taking effect and, subsequently, to wondering who lived in the unplottablehouse on the hill, a question that steered his thoughts straight back to Greengrass.
Before long, the letter interfered even with paying attention in class. His thoughts would slip off topic no matter whether the Astronomy teacher launched into one of his enthusiastic speeches about the most recent ESA space mission or the Maths teacher explained the Fundamental Theorem of Calculus. His homework suffered, too. The essay on the characteristics of real, personal, and nominal accounts was nothing more than two pages of pointless babble at the time he had to hand it in. Unsurprisingly, he got a D.
Mrs Smith, on one of the few occasions on which they were still working together after the rota had been changed, asked him whether his steadily growing edginess was due to the upcoming exams. He hastened to confirm that notion, although he felt none too happy about lying to her.
The exams were approaching, indeed, but he wasn't able to get a grip and revise. Instead, he became more distracted and more irritable with each passing day.
He extended his jogging time until it took up half of the night, but the physical exhaustion no longer helped him fall asleep. At the end of April, even warm baths combined with simulated intercourse didn't do the trick anymore.
Then, the horror came back.
...
Jeering laughter filled his ears as a huge snake slithered towards him. At the very last instant, it swerved to attack somebody else. The woman wasn't the unfortunate Hogwarts professor, though. She was Mrs Bates, and she was still alive when the snake started to eat her. Her shrieks rose to a frightening roar before they changed abruptly to heartrending sobs. She pleaded with him, Draco, not with Snape. He wanted to pry the snake away, but he was unable to raise his hands. He couldn't avert or close his eyes, either. He had to watch. Helplessly struggling against invisible chains, he had to watch... and to listen...
Draco woke to the angry cries of Mrs Bates. A loud rhythmic thudding came from one of the rooms of her second cousins, and the landlady was all but screaming to make herself heard above the din.
He got up and went to the bathroom. Mrs Bates and the twins, busy with shouting at each other, didn't notice.
He splashed cold water onto his face and let it run over his forearms while he waited for his heart rate to slow down. It was near dawn, and he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.
He went jogging.
It was early May, but he didn't hear birdsong. Sobs and whimpers echoed in his ears. He didn't see flowers or the fresh green of the trees. He saw the terror-stricken face of Professor Burbage morph into that of Mrs Bates and then back again.
Was there a more horrible way of dying than being eaten alive? Was it mercy that the monster had killed the poor woman before feeding her to its pet?
Draco had heard his father claim countless times that Avedra Kedavra was the most merciful option when it came to killing. He couldn't tell anymore whether he had believed this in the naivety of his younger years.
He remembered his fear, though. Very, very clearly, he remembered the terror he had felt while forced to witness the monster execute the helpless woman. She had been dead before the snake had eaten her, yes, but the only mercy in this was that it had enabled him – somehow – to keep down the contents of his stomach until later that night when he had finally been in the privacy of his own bathroom.
There had been no mercy for Professor Burbage.
He wished he could forget. He wished he could forget both the act of murder – foul sickening murder, committed in his childhood home – and the nightmare it had spawned.
But he couldn't.
...
Hours later, in the breakfast room, Mrs Bates handed him a plate with a generous helping of fried bacon.
"You look tired, Mr Malfoy," she observed. "I hope the quarrel last night didn't disturb you."
"No... it's just the exams," he muttered, not caring whether or not the lie convinced her.
"They're just such ungrateful brats," she sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning away.
He didn't dare meet her eyes. The image of the snake devouring her was still vivid in his mind.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Bloody big snakes had no business haunting him here. Mrs Bates's lodging house was to be safe and monster-free!
His stomach felt constricted. He left, his breakfast barely touched.
In the library, he had to make photocopies – hundreds of sets of the same five pages. It took all morning and did nothing to drag his thoughts away from the nightmare or the memory from which it had sprung.
The afternoon wasn't much better. He tried to do his homework – computing a definite integral for which he needed the antiderivative of an exponential function multiplied by the square of x – but got nowhere with it.
He wished he could dive into the serenity of Maths like into cool water. Sadly though, the pull that the elegantly sloping graphs of functions based on Euler's constant had on his mind was too weak. His mind kept replaying a scene of heinous murder with Angela Bates substituting for Charity Burbage.
...
117. Sectumsempra
He felt hot. Panic seized him as Chimera-headed flames closed in from all sides. He wanted to run, but his feet didn't move. The flames lunged at him, and their roar mingled with deafening screams. A girl in Gryffindor robes was down on the floor, writhing in pain. Bellatrix Lestrange, features contorted with rage and malice, spun round and round like a crazed Sneakoscope. The loud wails changed abruptly to a harangue about his inadequacy: Failure. Wimp. Disgrace to the line of Black. He trembled with mortification and fear, and the chandelier trembled with him. It fell and burst into myriad shards that cut deep into his chest. Blood spilled forth in great quantities and pooled on the flagstones. He felt hot and cold and weak, and his knees buckled. He was down on all fours, soaking wet in a puddle of blood and faeces. A figure wearing Mr Penwith's old jacket lay a little way off. He crawled over, but found Vincent Crabbe rather than Gorran Penwith, and Crabbe didn't breathe. All of a sudden, there lay dozens of dead people, hundreds, thousands. The row of corpses stretched all the way through the library, down the stairs and out into the university grounds. One nameless, faceless dead man sat up and said in Snape's voice, It's your fault you know. It's all your fault.
"No!" Draco choked. "No, no, no, NO! It's not... please, no-"
Furiously, he yanked at the sheets. They were damp and tangled. His mind reeled. He needed to get out – out of the bed and out of the house. He needed his painkiller, and he needed it badly.
...
The night breeze was soothing. He ran slowly, setting methodically one foot before the other. He tried to think, but his brain didn't cooperate. It produced an endless stream of images and memories, none of them good ones.
The sun rose slowly in the east-northeast. Travelling south, it gained height. The rays filtered trough the leafage and, little by little, the shadows grew shorter. The air became warmer and the city louder.
He ran lap after lap, but the flood of memory snippets didn't cease. Scared faces, yells and curses, dead people on the floor, monstrous flames with maws and claws, spats, fights, accusations, punishments, acts of humiliation, agony of death – the scenes came and vanished. There was no connection between them and no logic. There were only random flashes – on and off, just like his electronic pocket calculator throwing one of its funny fits. Strangely enough, that thought suddenly stopped the onslaught.
He slumped down onto the nearest bench.
Judging from the traffic noise that drifted over to him, it had to be mid-morning. It was surely too late for having breakfast at Mrs Bates's. His stomach wouldn't accept food, anyway.
Wishing more than hoping the daily routine might calm him down, he went to the library.
On the way there, he bought himself a large pot of black coffee. With any luck, it would help him struggle through the day. The bitter brew contained almost as much caffeine as an Exsomnia potion.
The clock in the cafeteria told him he was late for work, but he was too preoccupied to really care.
Noting with fleeting relief that he had his ID cards about him – he didn't even recall how he had got dressed – he let himself through the turnstile. Somewhat distractedly, he walked into the staff area. Jumbled fragments of his latest nightmare replayed themselves in his head and set off a fresh series of bad memories. It's all your fault... thievery may indeed be all my son is fit for if his school marks don't pick up... you are being incautious, foolish in the extreme... you are a failure, a disgrace... useless little milksop... don't you dare to call Hagrid pathetic, you foul – you evil-
"-loafer. What's up with you, idling the morning away like-"
"I won't listen!" he snarled. "Begone, foul Boggart!"
"Excuse me?"
Realisation hit him like a blow from a Hungarian Horntail. Heat rose to his temples, and the blood pounding in his ears muffled Mrs Shaw's angry speech.
He turned on his heel and ran to the Gents. There, he splashed cold water onto his face until his heart rate slowed to normal.
He straightened up and glared at his wet unshaven face. The haunted look in his eyes triggered yet another memory. It was the memory of his sixteen-year-old self crying in black despair, of spotting a second reflection in the mirror, of drawing his wand, of duelling in rapidly mounting panic, of attempting an Unforgivable, and of being struck down, slashed, sliced open...
The scar was still there, curving in a smooth arc from his lower, right-hand rib cage across his chest and the side of his neck to his left jawbone. It was more visible in summer when his skin tanned slightly.
What had happened in that bathroom? More precisely, what was the true story behind the obvious one?
Potter had looked as if the curse had backfired and cut him as well.
Potter is as inept as he is bigheaded. He misspelled a particularly harmful hex.
Snape had lied. Of that Draco was sure. But why? Why would Snape cover up for Potter? It made no sense.
Besides, what had the git meant by particularly harmful hex? Particularly harmful hexes were called curses – for a reason. They did real damage, in many cases irreversible damage.
Draco was willing to concede that Potter had not meant to do what he had done. The Gryffindor's horrified cry of, No, I didn't had been genuine enough. It had been the reaction of somebody who had been tricked into doing a deed that couldn't be undone. Draco knew all too well how this felt.
Maybe Snape's so-called explanation had been a half-truth. Maybe Potter had indeed messed up the spell. If he had succeeded in murdering a fellow student, he would have been forced to flee. Not even Dumbledore would have been able to bail out his Golden Boy.
Didn't this look like the perfect scheme to kill two birds with one stone, to literally kill two clueless teenagers in one fell swoop? Snape would have been rid of the pathetic would-be assassin, and Potter, on his own and without friends and protection, would have been easy prey for the monster or any of its followers.
The Ghost Girl, sweet lovely Myrtle, had spoilt it.
Slowly, he mulled over the idea of Snape pulling the strings. It didn't seem preposterous, not at all. Where could Potter have picked up a curse so clearly designed to kill? Who, aside from Snape, had been at Hogwarts at that time to know such Dark Magic?
Then again, Snape had healed him.
On the other hand, how did Snape know the counter course without having to ask what Potter had attempted to do?
Oh, to hell with Snape!
To hell with everyone!
He clenched his fists and stomped his foot. It didn't help.
Looking for an outlet – something, anything – he swivelled around wildly. The basket for used paper towels was the only thing within reach. So, he kicked it. He kept kicking until the plastic cracked. Crumpled paper towels spilled onto the floor.
Trembling, he took a step backwards.
For a split second, he believed to see the Ghost Girl rise out of the furthest urinal.
Oh, great. Now he was hallucinating.
Panic attacks would be next. He was going to get worse and worse until he suffered a full mental breakdown.
Four year's worth of effort to come away from all that shit was going down the drain, and he couldn't do a thing about it! He had to watch it happen, and it was totally and entirely the fault of that trice-accursed letter-
He froze.
Why hadn't he seen that?
He stormed out of the room, face and hair still damp, to search for Mrs Shaw.
...
To be continued
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Author's notes:
(1) Dear readers,
Thank you for your patience.
I apologise for keeping you waiting for so long. Writing fan fiction is a leisure pursuit, and it's difficult to write when there is very little leisure time or none at all.
However, I haven't quit. There are several thousand words of draft sitting at my hard drive at the moment. I hope I will make good progress converting them into proper chapters.
I thank all readers who encouraged me with reviews and PMs. Please, keep reminding me that there are people out there waiting for the story to continue. It helps.
(2) Thanks to Simply Ridiculous for beta reading this chapter and for pointing out to me that chalet doesn't mean castle. Well, I'm aware of that. It seems, though, that Daphne Greengrass believes Pansy is living in a castle.