The idea for this chapter title came from the Charles Dickens novel, Bleak House, where one of the characters calls himself Nemo, the Latin for “no-one”.
A thumping buzz was emanating from somewhere near the driver’s seat of the car, as the vehicle churned its way through the rain-washed grime of East London. Draco hung his head and stared at his fidgeting fingers, raucous voices laughing and cursing around him while his mind raced miles away. He was totally alone now - no money, no home, no friends, no family… A strong stench of alcohol had seeded itself amongst the thickness of the air above him. He sniffed.
“Where’re you headed, anyway?” barked the square-jawed man seated on Draco’s right, his dark eyes glittering through the cloud of smoke surging round his head. He flicked his stubby fingers; ash sprinkled over the torn leather of the car seat.
Draco gritted his teeth. “Nowhere,” he muttered.
To the boy’s surprise, his new companion let out a harsh, inebriated laugh. “Oi, Frank!” he shouted to the black-haired man in front of him. “He’s going nowhere - d’you know the way?”
The man called Frank began banging a rhythm out on the steering wheel, out of time with the music blasting from the car radio. He threw his head back and started singing in a loud, boisterous voice:
“We’re on a road to nowhere…!” *
The square-jawed man joined in, the vile smell of booze blasting from his open mouth. The car swerved to the right and a screeching sound was heard from somewhere on the other side of the road. Neither of the singers seemed to have noticed. He had put up with Crabbe and Goyle for six years - surely he could manage two more idiots? Draco closed his eyes.
“Oh, shut up, the pair of you!”
It was a woman’s voice. Until now, Draco had not noticed the fourth person in the car, the dark-haired female in the passenger seat in front of him. Now she turned round to face him, a dismissive yet apologetic expression on her pale face, cold blue eyes flicking from Draco to the man laughing beside him.
“Frank! Craig! Shut it!” She fixed a frown on the boy who now looked almost frightened by her. “What’s your name?” she asked, and Draco noticed she had a tarnished silver ring through one side of her lower lip.
He hesitated. Name - he hadn’t even thought about… if he wanted to disappear completely, to go into hiding… ‘If I don’t want them to find Draco Malfoy, I’ll have to stop being Draco Malfoy. I’ll have to be…’
“What’s the matter with you?” the girl asked. “Ain’t you got a name?”
“Dra - er - Drake -” it was out before he could stop himself.
She smirked. “Drake? Very nice.”
The car jerked to the right again and she spun back round in her seat and slapped Frank across his stubble-strewn face. “Watch the road, you drunken nonce! There’s a bloody copper over there! You want to get us pulled over?”
Frank let out a howl of laughter and struck the middle of the steering wheel. A loud beeping sounded from the outside of the car.
Draco jumped at the noise, and the girl turned round again to stare at him with an even deeper frown. “Drake what?” she demanded.
“Um…” A last name - any last name… The girl’s eyes were boring into his, not a hint of the intoxicated blur worn by the two men. He shifted his own gaze to stare out of the hazy window for inspiration. They were rumbling past a line of tacky take-away shops, the neon signs glowing pink and green and with the occasional letter missing. One big blue word caught his eye, a giant cartoon of a yellow fish curling round the end letter.
Draco snapped his eyes back to hers. “Y-Young,” he stammered. “Drake…Young.”
He gulped. His brand new identity.
“Well, Young Drake Young,” the girl grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, “I’m Alice. This is Frank fat-head and Craig -”
“Oi!” the man beside Draco leant forward and attempted some sort of feeble slap on the girl’s arm. Alice shook her head, shoved him backwards and Craig slumped into his seat, the worn leather squeaking. To his uncomfortable surprise, Draco found a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Alice giggled. “God,” she said, “five minutes ago you looked like death himself and now you’re smiling. See, Craig, you ain’t that good for nothing…”
She continued to laugh, while the two men began singing again. Draco turned his head slowly to the left and stared out of the window, silver-white hair hanging down over his forehead to hide his latest frown. What would his father say if he could see him now? His stomach contracted at the thought - sitting in a muggle car, surrounded by the lowest of the low, no money, no home…
A familiar face swam before his weary eyes. Wizened, pleading.
“What you doing here anyway?” It was Alice talking to him again. He blinked himself out of his thoughts.
“Um… I don’t know…”
Alice gripped the back of her chair with long, violet fingernails, her brows knitted together in mock concern. She nodded. “Think you were right, Craig - he is a crack-head.”
The boy had no idea what she meant by this, but as the other two let out coarse bellows of laughter, he reasoned that it couldn’t be anything good.
“No,” he said defiantly. “No, I am not -”
“Alright, alright - I was only joking,” the girl said. She studied him for a moment. “Runaway?”
Draco looked down at his feet, the patent leather of his shoes splattered with mud yet still shining. He nodded.
“Don’t blame you,” Alice muttered. “If my parents made me dress like that -”
Snapping shut his eyes, Draco clenched his teeth and suddenly found himself consumed by a familiar, yet now unwanted, pride. How dare she talk about my parents! What does she know, the filthy little -
But her voice interrupted his thoughts once again. “Alright, alright! I won’t talk about it…” She had shifted in her seat to face through the grey windscreen again. She reached out a skinny white arm and thumped the driver on his burly shoulder. “Frank, you idiot, you’ve gone too far! Keep your eyes on the bloody road!”
Again, despite his sudden flare of anger, Draco found himself smiling. He’d ended up with the most useless people he had ever met, and yet… he had done it. Escaped. How long had he been in this car? Twenty minutes, maybe, half an hour? And not one sign of anything magical. The street outside his window was dark and streaked with rain, totally devoid of any sparks of wand light, or robed figures; there weren’t even any alley cats that his fevered mind could have reasoned to be animagi. He was on the run - yes - but in a totally different world. Hopefully one where not even the Dark Lord would be able to find him.
The car rounded a corner where the wall was broken up by large, square windows. A sign above the shabby brown door indicated that the place was some sort of café, while a small piece of white card pinned to the inside of the glass read: Help Wanted
No money, no home, no family, no power, no status.
He had nothing anymore… did that mean he had nothing to lose?
*From the song of the same title by Talking Heads.