118. Making a Mess
"Care to do your work now?" Mrs Shaw asked when he found her.
"I apologise for my behaviour," he said, slightly out of breath. "I know it was inappropriate. However, I must ask to be excused for the morning. I got a letter, and I can't stop thinking about it. It is haunting me. I need to put a stop to it, and I need to do that now."
She shook her head.
"Apology accepted, but I need you here. Four trolleys are already waiting to be cleared, and look at the heap of returned books over there," she said, pointing. "That's another four trolleys I'd say. I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, I can't let you go."
He glared at her.
"I'll be useless! I won't be able to concentrate on my work!"
"I won't let you go, Mr Malfoy," she said firmly. "Look, we all have a bad day once in a while, but we can't just run away. Call me a foul boggard again if that helps, but do your work."
He sucked in a breath.
"I'm not really sure how boggard applies to me," Mrs Shaw went on, and a grin spread across her face, "but at least it's more creative than see-you-next-Tuesday."
The grin caught him off guard. He didn't see what was funny about the situation, and he didn't get what the oncoming Tuesday had to do with anything. The only clear thought in his head was that he had to get rid of the letter, and quickly.
"Look, Mr Malfoy, I really banked on you being here this morning. It's almost noon, and not a single trolley has been cleared. So let's just forget about the incident and go to work, all right?"
Slowly, he backed off. What could she do if he just left? She wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange; she couldn't Crucio him.
"Start with this one, if you please," Mrs Shaw said, gesturing to a trolley that was mostly filled with videotapes. "I promised Miss Thompson to have all tapes back on the shelf by one o'clock. She's conducting a limited physical inventory to prepare for our changeover to digital media."
"Yes, ma'am," he said and walked towards the exit.
Those tapes could wait; he had to dispose of the letter.
But how? Chucking it simply into the bin wasn't safe. Somebody might find and read it, and that wasn't even the worst that could happen. There was no telling what harm might occur if the dormant magic was triggered accidentally, for example by a smouldering cigarette stub that set the parchment on fire. One thing was certain, though. An emergency squad would Apparate into the neighbourhood within minutes, and the Aurors wouldn't be far behind.
What else could he do? He'd rather not try to destroy a cursed object by non-magical means; the damn thing might actually attack him. If only he knew exactly how dangerous this letter was!
It took extraordinary skill to attach a real curse, one that came under the heading of Dark Arts, to an object, but a jinx was feasible for everyone. It didn't help to know that the Greengrasses were on probation because he had no proof whatsoever of the letter's origin. He could think of a fair number of people who would love to hex him. They didn't need to know where he lived; sending him an enchanted letter would suffice. Then again, wouldn't they choose a more immediate curse, one that did its damage within hours, if not instantaneously?
Maybe it didn't matter whether or not the letter was jinxed in the strict sense of the word. Its mere existence was a jinx in itself. He had been spiralling downward ever since its arrival. He had to get rid of it, and the only secure approach was to send it back with Aeolus.
He paused in mid-stride, and considered. The owl would accept a single line scribbled on the reverse side of the parchment as the reply it had been waiting for. The recipient wouldn't be satisfied as easily.
He had to think up an answer that discouraged people from further harassing him with letters, and he had to do it while the caffeine had an effect on his brain.
He turned back and walked past Mrs Shaw, who gaped at him in silent bafflement.
He grabbed the key to the storeroom for videotapes off her desk, fetched the trolley and manoeuvred it into the lift.
...
Greengrass, be advised to desist from sending me letters.
No, that was crap.
Leave me alone, Greengrass; your letters are not welcome here.
That was worse.
While he mulled over possible replies, he shoved the tapes somewhat haphazardly into the slots of the racks. Once he was finished with the tapes, he left the room, locked it, and turned to the books. There were various dictionaries, a book called Contemporary Linguistics, and a couple of textbooks on Spanish grammar – he quickly walked to the right area, but he couldn't muster the patience to search for the accurate places. Instead, he put the books on an end of one of the shelves. He had an eye for spotting misplaced items; he could easily tidy up tomorrow.
Next was a tome recounting the history of coal mining in Wales. He couldn't tell instantly where it belonged, and his thoughts slipped back to the letter.
I don't have to tell you anything as I cannot even be sure you are Daphne Greengrass.
No, that wouldn't do. It hinted at fear and insecurity.
He steered the trolley to the far end of the room where there happened to be a vacant shelf on which he put the rest of the books. He would bring them to their proper places tomorrow.
He fetched the second trolley and transferred the books – various biosciences and a lot of computer stuff – indiscriminately to the same, unused shelf.
France is a magnificent country with breathtaking landscapes and an intriguing history.
No, that wouldn't convince anyone.
Maybe he should write the letter in French. Greengrass would have a tough time reading it. What was the daft cow thinking wanting to live in France without speaking French?
As a matter of fact, none of his former classmates, not even Zabini, spoke French. It wasn't much use for wizarding sciences. Latin and Greek as well as such rare idioms as Aramaic and Old Norse were the languages one had to be well-versed in because certain works had never been translated and were only available in the form of original handwritings.
So why had his mother thought it necessary to teach him French? On the day of his grandfather's funeral, she had told him that he, being now the official heir to the Malfoy name and fortune, was to act accordingly. You have been allowed to fool about long enough. It is high time you take on a proper pure-blood attitude. He was to learn she had said – and had started straight away teaching him French. Why? He very much doubted that it had been his mother's intention to give him a skill with which he could impress head librarians in the non-wizarding world.
Why did his mother spread rumours about him living in France? Did he have relatives there? What else was there in his family's history that he didn't know about?
Oh, to hell with family history! He had a letter to deal with.
What should he write?
How dare you send me letters? How dare you suggest violating the Code of Conduct?
Well, no, fleeing abroad didn't violate the effing Code. Greengrass could emigrate to whatever country struck her fancy.
He was tired. The caffeine boost had petered out, and he had two more trolleys to clear. He proceeded with them in much the same way as he had done with the first two. He just dumped the books where there was enough space to accommodate them. He would tidy up tomorrow.
...
He still had no idea what to write when he brought the last trolley back to the staff area. Maybe it was all the same he thought wearily. He didn't have to tell anyone anything besides, Yes, France is a great country, and you – whoever you are – can go kiss a dragon.
He was already heading for the exit when Mrs Shaw called after him.
"About the problem that plagues you, Mr Malfoy," she said, "do you think you can sort it out?"
The question surprised him, to put it mildly. The most astonishing part of it was the un-voiced Will you require assistance?
He would like nothing better than having help but, alas, help was not to be had. In order to get help he would have to disclose not only the content of the letter but also the existence of a hidden, jealously guarded world.
"I think I'll manage," he said, trying to sound confident. "Thank you for the offer, though."
"That's alright. Good luck, then."
He saw her smile. He felt the sincerity. All of a sudden, he became acutely aware that the very same words uttered by somebody with another background than hers were much more likely to mean You will need a lot of luck because your skills clearly fall short of requirements or, even worse, Just try. You'll see how you'll fail.
...
He hastened up Hind Green Close.
Finally, finally, he knew how to phrase his reply.
...
119. No Way Out
Miss Greengrass,
Kindly inform your sister that letters like the one on the reverse are not welcome here.
Prattling about ill-considered plans for living on her own without having the means to support herself is no behaviour befitting a sensible young witch. A daughter of one of the oldest wizarding families in England ought to know better than to run headlong to a foreign, and possibly unsafe place, especially if she neither speaks nor understands the language of the natives. Does she think in earnest she can sneak away in the wee hours of the morning, board – I hardly dare write it – a Muggle ferry, and be gone?
Furthermore, one has to wonder whether your sister has ever listened to the many cautionary tales of letters falling into the wrong hands. She ought to be more prudent.
M.
Maybe he had been smoother with words in former times, but he was moderately pleased with his draft. He copied the text onto the backside of the letter. Then he crossed out the address and wrote, Miss Greengrass, Hogwarts, Slytherin House.
He knew next to nothing about Daphne's sister. He couldn't even recall her given name or how old she was. Sending the letter to her was nevertheless the most brilliant idea he'd had in weeks. It was a trick outflanking potential snoops who lay in wait for the owl returning to the Greengrass' current quarters.
Besides, the younger sister probably wished to absent herself just as much as Daphne did. No girl – no matter how dim-witted or unsightly she was – should be forced to marry Gregory Goyle.
While he searched for the bit of string with which the letter had arrived, he mused about how much suffering he would have saved himself if he had written his answer straight away.
On the other hand, procrastinating for weeks did have a favourable side effect, he thought as he fastened the parchment to the owl's leg. It took an owl much longer to fly to a location on the continent than to cover the distance between two places on the British south coast. Considering the time that had elapsed, Aeolus could well have been to a Mediterranean town in France.
The instant the owl took off, Draco felt like rising into the air as well. He had no broom, but he went jogging. His feet touched the ground lightly as he ran through the park. The drizzle turned into heavy rain after the first two laps, yet he kept running for the pure joy of it.
...
He went to the library very early the next morning. He worked diligently and was almost done retrieving the books and shelving them properly by the time Mrs Shaw confronted him.
"I see you're cleaning up," she said.
Of course, he had been foolish to believe nobody would notice. He should have come back last night immediately after sending the letter!
"Good morning, Mrs Shaw," he said. "I'm sorry about the incorrectly placed books."
"I hope you are. Just what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking about the letter I had received." He had told her so yesterday; he might as well repeat it. "I said I would be unable to focus on anything else."
"So you thought it was a clever idea to dump the books were there was a bit of empty shelf and be done with."
It wasn't a question, and so he said nothing.
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to tell Emma. She deserves to know," the woman said. Frowning, she added, "Don't think of me as a stickler who tells on colleagues. I just don't want her to run into another disaster like the one with Jeffrey."
She turned to leave; he still said nothing. She was already walking away from him when realisation hit with full force.
He was in trouble here, in the non-wizarding world! Mrs Highbury was going to discipline him, and the reason was that damned letter! How was it that Greengrass or whoever else was responsible for the effing thing could ruin his life in a world they all but pretended did not exist?
Unable to keep the upsurge of rage at bay, he kicked the nearest shelf. Books fell off with loud thuds, causing Mrs Shaw to double back.
It took all willpower Draco could muster to refrain from kicking the shelf again.
He wanted to run. He wanted to be away from Shaw's furious glare, away from the building and the books, away from this new mess, away from everything. He knew it wasn't possible, and his rage was quickly joined by a feeling of utter powerlessness. This was the very mixture that had been his downfall as far back as he could think. It made him want to scream and to lash out. It made him want to destroy. Hurling books against the wall would do nothing to calm him down; he felt like smashing the whole place to smithereens.
His vision blurred at the edges. A prickly feeling spread out from his right palm, sped up his arm and, feeding on the boiling rage, flooded his body. The flood pooled, and transformed, and raced back down his wand arm. In a desperate attempt to keep the bout of raw magic inside he forced his fingers into a fist. It was an insane thing to do, but the curse was already leaving his fingertips. With nowhere else to go, it shot up his arm and past his throat. Narrowly avoiding his heart, it hit his stomach.
The pain took his breath away. It rendered him deaf and blind. For an indeterminable length of time, the world consisted solely of the cramp that shrank his stomach to a Snitch-sized lump of contorted muscle.
The curse ended abruptly, but left him winded and giddy. Holding on to the bookshelf for support, he sucked in great gulps of air until the dizziness ebbed away.
Still feeling weak, he lowered himself to the floor. He rested his back against the shelf and tried to breathe more evenly. He was cold. His shirt, soaked with sweat, clung to his torso. With shaky hands, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead and from his neck.
All things considered, he had been lucky. He had hit himself with nothing worse than a crude version of the Stomach Cramp Curse.
Ironically, Cruditas was the curse he had used in lieu of the Cruciatus ever since the day he had been ordered to torture Rowle. After the third futile attempt at a real Cruciatus, he had thought his life would end there and then. He had feared he would get Crucioed to death alongside Rowle. Miraculously, with his heart hammering at a rate of two hundred beats per minute, he had found a solution. Trembling so badly that he had been barely able to aim, he had mumbled the somewhat similar-sounding incantation for the Stomach Cramp Curse under his breath. Rowle had responded with violent writhing and piercing screams. It was likely that the man had recognised the wrong curse but decided to exaggerate for both his own and Draco's benefit.
Needless to say, they each had been subjected to expertly cast Unforgivables a couple of minutes later – Rowle for his failure with Potter and Draco for his shameful weakness.
When the Carrows had made him torture fellow students, he had resorted to the Stomach Cramp Curse as well. He didn't think his victims had enjoyed it, but they had been lucky, too.
With an effort, he shoved the sorrows of the past aside.
He had present trouble to deal with.
What were his options? Should he hand in his resignation? Pack up and leave?
He could go back to Trethwyn.
Or maybe not. Jory would ask questions.
There was a little piece of white cardboard lying at the bottom of his wardrobe. Should you feel one day like you would want somebody to help you then call me. Don't wait until it's too late.
Jory couldn't help, at least not with the problem from which all the others originated. Even if he broke the law and revealed to Jory the existence of magic, what use would it be? Jory would listen – no doubt about that – but how could he expect the man to understand what most people who had lived in the wizarding world for their whole life seemed unable to comprehend?
He was as friendless as ever.
He was as inept and as weak as ever.
Indeed, he hadn't changed much. He was as prone to impotent anger as he had always been. He still threw tantrums like a toddler as soon as the demands of life became too much for him.
He was so done for. He wished he could, at least, will his life back to the way it was on the day he let himself through the turnstile for the first time. Until yesterday, his colleagues had been friendly to him. They had appreciated his work. To some extent, they had even appreciated him as a person, although he couldn't explain why they had done this.
Like the eternal failure he was, he had gone and ruined it.
Was there any option other than to run away?
Essentially, running was what he had been doing ever since the night he'd left Runcorn's cottage. He never really had stopped.
He had been trying to run from his past, his problems, and his failures. It hadn't worked. No amount of running – physically or metaphorically – was going to be enough because he was trying, essentially, to run away from himself.
Sighing, he got to his feet.
He picked up the fallen books and put them carefully back where they belonged.
...
120. Slytherin to the Bone
Mrs Highbury called him to her office the very moment he finished tidying up.
She didn't offer him a seat.
"Helen complained," she said, skipping the pleasantries. "I would like to hear your version of the events, Mr Malfoy."
Looking anywhere but at her face, he said, "I have no doubt Mrs Shaw's version is accurate. I will accept the punishment for my failure."
"This isn't about punishment," Mr Highbury said, sounding slightly cross. "I'd much rather know what is going on."
She waited for him to respond. When he didn't, she continued, "If it were somebody else, I'd tell them that it would be best to own up on having been on a binge the night before and that they, therefore, were suffering from a king-size hangover. But you? You don't go binging as far as I can tell. You don't misplace books. In the rare event of you not knowing where an item belongs, you'll come and ask. At any rate, this is what you did until yesterday. Yesterday, after more than a year of flawless performance, you just go and botch it up. Why? What got into you?"
"I apologise for my behaviour," he said stiffly. "It was most inappropriate."
"I don't want to hear apologies, Mr Malfoy. I want an explanation."
He stared at a spot on the floor right before his feet.
He would gladly give her as many explanations as she was willing to listen to if only she were allowed to hear them. Instead, he was forced to come up with yet another batch of make-believe reasons.
"Damn it, Mr Malfoy! Talk to me!"
He jumped as her chair suddenly crashed against the filing cabinet. She marched around the desk to where he stood. She was a good deal shorter than he was and had to look up to meet his eyes, but that didn't faze her.
"What am I supposed to think?" she demanded. "Was your good conduct simply an act you are prepared to drop as soon as it becomes inconvenient?"
He just about stopped himself from nodding. Of course, his conduct was an act. Every word, every gesture, every agreement, every promise was aimed at concealing who and what he really was. In order to blend in with her world he had to deceive.
"I'm sorry," he said, tonelessly. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"Well, yes. I can see that," she sighed. "Now, will you please tell me what happened? Start with the beginning. That's always easiest."
The beginning? Even if the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy did not exist, he wouldn't know where to start. Relating his life from the day he had been born to a pretentious father and an ultraconservative mother would not suffice. The primary reasons for the disaster that his life was dated back centuries.
Not wanting her to mistake his silence for defiance, he asked, "Do you wish to hear what happened before I came here yesterday?"
"If it is relevant, yes. Please, go ahead."
"I didn't sleep much the night before yesterday. In fact, I slept even less than the night before that. My stomach refused to accept food. Therefore, I didn't eat breakfast. I could barely keep the coffee down, but I hoped the caffeine might help-"
"Why didn't you just call in sick?" Mr Highbury interrupted. "Honestly, Mr Malfoy! Jane Thompson caught some stomach bug a few days ago, and she didn't stay at home, either. Evidently, she has been spreading it. Amrita came down with fever and stomach trouble Wednesday night. And now you, too. Let's hope you didn't pass it on as well."
She paused to compose herself. Then, she said, "I'm sorry for ranting. Please have a seat."
She went back behind her desk and sat down.
Draco sat in the visitor's chair.
"How are you feeling today?" Mrs Highbury asked.
"I'm considerably better, thank you."
"Good," she said with relief. "You've looked a bit off-colour. I noticed, but I put it down to the upcoming exams."
The exams!
He had completely forgotten about the exams!
"Are you sure you're well again?" she asked, concern lacing her voice. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you're looking awful."
"I'm better than yesterday, thank you. I slept well last night," he said slowly. Perhaps here was his chance to steer the conversation towards a less precarious topic. "Regarding the exams, however, I have a sinking feeling. I severely lag behind schedule, and there is next to no time left for revising."
There was silence, and he raised his eyes for a split second. Mrs Highbury looked taken aback.
"Studying three subjects, I might have bitten off more than I can chew," he added softly.
"I'm sorry to hear that," the woman said gravely. "If it's really that bad, I'd say focus on the course for the full grade. That was Mathematics, right?"
He nodded.
"You can opt for sitting the subsidiary subjects later. This might indeed be the most sensible solution under the circumstances," she continued. "I'm afraid you will have to ask really nicely if you want Helen to give you time off. She appears to be a bit miffed. Seeing your GP would definitely have been better than calling her names."
"I apologised for calling her a foul Boggart."
"Goodness, what's Helen got to do with boggards?"
"Do you know what a Boggart is?" he asked back, stunned.
"Yes, some sort of fantasy creature that inhabits swamps or fens," she replied, her tone suggesting that it was common knowledge.
"Well," he said, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice. "The word was somewhat popular in my dorm at school. I shouldn't have used it here."
"No, probably not," she agreed. "However, what's done is done. Make sure to mind your tongue in future."
"Yes ma'am," he said, daring to hope she'd dismiss him now.
She didn't.
"Mr Malfoy, should I be informed about the letter Helen mentioned?"
Suppressing a sigh, he cast around for a safe response. The woman wasn't stupid despite of the odd fact that she had jumped to the conclusion of him having been ill.
"Yes, there was a letter. Maybe the phrase about last straws applies to it." He was twisting the truth beyond recognition, but he needed to play down the matter before she asked more questions. "An acquaintance wrote me about a fairly foolish plan of hers. I sent a reply, warning her to be more prudent lest she ends up selling sexual services in order to be able to pay the rent."
"You have been really outspoken yesterday, haven't you?"
"I assure you I choose my words with the greatest care possible." This, at least, was not a lie. "I was just giving you the abstract."
"Well, then," Mrs Highbury said, "I hope your friend will benefit from your advice."
He nodded, wishing she would leave the topic alone.
"About yesterday," she continued. "I see no need to punish you. However, make sure it doesn't happen again. Having a number of book-filled trolleys standing around is still better than having to search for randomly dumped items. You can call in sick if you aren't well. It is as simple as that. In case you don't feel better within a day's time, you'll have to see your GP for a sick note, which you'll have to hand in. All right?"
He gave a vague nod. He wasn't sure whom he'd have to see exactly, but such information was more safely gathered from Mrs Bates.
"Good." Mrs Highbury seemed to be back to her usual friendliness. "That will be all, Mr Malfoy. Have a good day!"
"And you," he said, rising.
He left the office, feeling slightly light-headed.
...
Hind Green Close seemed twice as long as usual.
While he dragged himself home, he couldn't stop marvelling at how readily Mrs Highbury had accepted his half-truths and half-lies. His heart should probably swell with pride at his craftiness, but he just felt wretched.
No sooner had he reached his room than he slumped down next to his bed, and cried.
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Author's note:
Thanks to Simply Ridiculous and Imo97 for beta reading this chapter.