Chapter seven
Fine, the first night at the Hog's Head wasn't so bad. I ate until I almost popped, and slept like a log. The absolute heavy blackness of my sleep was either potion-induced, or my brain's way of cloaking all the nightmares that flit through my waking moments.
Now, a few weeks later, I barely leave my tiny, grubby room, and my parents are starting to grate on my nerves. It's like their definition of what is acceptable Malfoy-behaviour has changed overnight. Mother swans around, establishing contacts with the wrong sort of people – poor, ugly, and once, a House-Elf! – and Father keeps pressing on at me to go back to Hogwarts in September to re-take my final year.
"But Father," I say, trying not to sound like a whiny four year old, "why?"
Father claps me on the shoulder. "Son, Hogwarts is the best place for you. You can start working on improving the family name, if you keep to your studies and don't mention the war. It might even take your mind off... everything else."
I start thinking over the next few days that it's possible. I can compartmentalise. The past is the past, and I don't have to keep re-living it.
Except, of course, all I can do is re-live it. Constantly fearing attack, the icy stare of death - or even worse, Dementors - on your back all day every day.
Because of this, I find myself utterly unable to relax. I remember the days of lounging around – the common room, the lounge at the Manor, anywhere – and being able to simply drape myself over furniture and be. But these days, all I can do is perch, muscles prepared for a rapid reaction.
Mother notices this, when she comes into my room for the fifth time and makes me jump, for the fifth time.
"Draco, sweetheart," she gives me a worried look, "are you okay? You seem jumpy."
"I'm fine." I say shortly.
She sighs, all too aware that the truth is incommunicable. As she's leaving, she suggests I go to Diagon Alley, saying that a walk would do me good.
With a wand, I'd be happy to leave this dingy room, but the prospect of having to ask for someone else to tap the brick behind the pub and let me into Diagon Alley is unappealing. I'm not five years old anymore.
The thought of venturing into Muggle London flits across my mind at random intervals – and seems outrageously adventurous and terrifying by turns. What if there are dangers out there and I don't have a wand to protect myself? But then again, I can't use magic in front of Muggles anyway, without going straight back to court – I'd probably be sent to Azkaban regardless of whether it was life threatening or not. I'm on thin ice as it is.
It's a huge relief when Shacklebolt finds us to say our funds have been released back to us, and the Manor has been thoroughly inspected and all threats removed. We go home immediately.
"By threats, did he mean furniture?" I say in disbelief when I step inside, seeing the Manor barren of all furnishings and decoration. "What do the Ministry find threatening about an end table? Bloody hell."
I see Father close his eyes and count to ten in his head, breathing deeply.
"This is theft, Father." I say, trying to get him to do something. The Malfoys should not tolerate this!
"Draco." Mother says simply, putting a placating hand on my arm. My anger dissipates into the nothingness that surrounds me. It could be much worse than this, I suppose.
I don't get involved in the buying of new furniture. Or the hiring of staff. The House Elves have been freed, not by clothes but by law. I don't get involved in Mothers outings to London or Fathers meetings with Governors: their whole act is still bothering me. They're even treating me oddly – Mother tilts her head and looks sad for me, and Father avoids my eye when I'm around. I develop a routine of eating, sleeping, and using my en-suite. Occasionally I wander the grounds, which brings me peace until I see random staff like the gardener and the cook. Invading what used to be our private family home. They probably report to the Ministry about us.
I probably haven't seen daylight for a week when Father comes to my room, nose wrinkling.
I stand up as he enters, and ignore his look of distaste at the odour and mess.
"Draco," he says, and sweeps his hand to my desk, his desk, inviting me to take a seat. I do, silently. He sits opposite me, and I feel a lecture coming on by the way he's leaning and looking at me.
"Your behaviour has been strange of late." Excessively formal, concise, and leaving no room for argument. This means he's feeling awkward. Mother's asked him to talk to me.
I want to say no, it's YOU who's been strange, I've been normal. But I can't.
"Your mother and I are concerned. We know you've been through a lot, but we can't allow one little setback like this to affect you so deeply. You need to act more like a Malfoy in how you deal with rejection."
"You have no idea what I've been-" I pause, drawing a blank. "Wait, setback? Rejection?"
Now it's Father's turn to look awkward. He takes a deep breath and smoothes his cuffs. "We've been reading the paper, Draco."
"What paper? Why would I be in the-" Through a confused haze, realisation suddenly hits me like a punch to the stomach. Oh. Fuck.
"It's understandable that you'd do anything necessary in order to keep yourself – well, all of us – out of Azkaban, Draco, and we are…" Father fights to say something nice to me. "We are proud of you for that. And being rejected by Potter must have been difficult, but that's why it's important not to get emotionally involved."
Emotionally involved? With Potter? I open my mouth to speak but all I can make is weak croaking noises for a while. "What—what did the papers exactly say?"
"Well, your mother's been giving me the gist of them," says Father, waving his hand in a little circle. "Something about you using your Malfoy charms on Potter to keep us out of Azkaban, an idea I wish I'd thought of myself… Miss Skeeter's a friend of yours, is she not? She may not be the best person to confide your true feelings in, I must say. She apparently wrote all about your heartbreak after your plan backfired when you fell in… ahem, love."
"Father." I say, slowly and clearly, standing up on my side of the desk. "Listen to me. It's all rubbish – Skeeter's nothing more than a half-baked fiction-writer!"
He looks at me dubiously and with a small smile, as if this is the way he expected me to react. "Draco, there's no need to be so secretive about it. Now if it was a fling with a Mudblood, then I'd be angry. But as things stand, this little scandal's done wonders for your press reputation. The public sees you as the epitome of Slytherin values – cunning, ambition, and sex appeal."
"Father, please-"
"Our only concern now is getting you out of this depression you've been in." Father cuts me off, and turns all business. "And if you won't consider returning to Hogwarts, you'll have to do something else."
"Like what?"
"Have you considered Auror training?"
My heart almost stops right there.
"Now, don't look at me like that." Father can clearly read my horrified expression. "I wouldn't go so far as suggesting you become an Auror. The acceptance rate after Auror training is roughly two percent, so if fifty people go through training, only one will make it. Do you see what I'm saying?"
"You want me to train to be an Auror and… fail?" I say slowly.
"Precisely. The press is all over your every move, so now would be the perfect time to apply. You will boost the Malfoy reputation away from dark and evil beings, and towards justice and all the rest of that rubbish. If we want the wizarding world to believe we've turned over a new leaf, scandals concerning Harry Potter are only the beginning."
"Have we turned over a new leaf?" I ask, purely for clarification purposes.
"The Malfoys only have one leaf, Draco, and that is the leaf of power." Father gives me a serious look, but to me the whole thing sounds like gibberish to me. I should probably start taking notes.
"So… In order to get back to the status we had before, status that we got by following the Dark Lord… we have to be… good? Or at least fake it?"
I get a hearty slap on the arm for my efforts. "Precisely, Draco. Couldn't have put it better myself. I'll collect your Auror forms in the morning and after dinner, your mother has a suggestion to get you out of the house."
And with that, Father leaves.
"… I don't get it." I say to the mirror by my dressing table.
It harrumphs at me. "Brush your teeth."