A lone figure with pale skin and slick, white-blond hair walked along a dusty, deserted road somewhere north of London. Draco Malfoy walked as if dead, his footsteps heavy and his head bowed as he walked, paying no attention to where he was going, thinking, as his feet took him through the foggy night.
It had been two days since he and Snape had fled from the Hogwarts grounds, that cold night when the Death Eaters had infiltrated the school. And it was all because of me, Draco thought, with a sinking in his heart. He didn’t know whether he should feel pleased or mortified at his betrayal; the part of him that had always been told that the Dark Lord’s cause was a noble one swelled with pride, while the other part of him ” the part deep inside of himself that knew the Death Eaters and their master were evil ” was shocked. How can things have gone so wrong?
Draco had worked day and night, never resting, to make sure that all would be prepared on the night he had set for the Death Eaters to come. He had planned everything carefully ” so carefully! ” but that was all over now. The feeling of importance he’d once had was long gone, to be replaced by a deep confusion. He didn’t know, now, if he’d done the right thing. He had caused Albus Dumbledore to be killed just after the man had offered him safety, a chance to turn back. Then, after the deed was done, Snape had whisked him away from the school, giving no explanation for his behavior until they had gotten far enough away.
Even then, Snape had seemed different, somehow. No longer the cold, detached teacher he had been, he had been just short of a breakdown when he confessed everything to Draco. How he wasn’t really a Death Eater anymore, how he was really a spy for Dumbledore, and something called the Order of the Phoenix... how Dumbledore had asked Snape to kill him. Kill him. Snape still hadn’t explained that one, although he had mentioned something about an Unbreakable Vow and a deadly potion that sapped Dumbledore’s life force, killing him slowly and much more effectively than any Unforgivable Curse.
Draco hadn’t understood. Snape had never seemed to like the Headmaster, not enough to feel remorse, even guilt, about his death... at least it hadn’t seemed that way.
And then, just yesterday, Snape had sunk into a sort of lifeless depression, a dark despair descending over him as he lost all sense of purpose. Draco had been frightened, then; he had never seen anyone in such a mood before, never, and he didn’t know what to do or say. Now that he could think of something, though, it was far too late. When night finally fell, Snape had wandered away from their hiding place. And he hadn’t come back.
It was nearly midnight when Draco had decided to go looking for him. It hadn’t been long before he found the Potions master’s body, lying on a patch of grass at least a mile from Draco’s starting point. The body was cold and lifeless, the black, still-open eyes seeming to stare straight up at Draco. To his great shame, the boy had been sick right there, unable to hold in the combination of horror and shock. It was obvious that the guilt had been too much for the professor. But that someone would do such a thing to himself, just to escape the guilt...
Snape’s suicide had been the final straw for Draco. Lost and alone, he had started walking. With no idea of where he was going, not even seeing the road he was on, he just concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other, taking one step at a time. One step...
One step at a time.
One step...
His foot caught on something and his body lurched forward, falling face-first. He didn’t bother to try and stop himself. He didn’t even put out his hands to keep his face from getting scratched by the tiny pebbles sticking out of the dirt of the road. When he sat up again, his cheek was covered in something hot and sticky.
But he kept walking.
He kept walking, in spite of the pain of the cuts, in spite of the pain in his heart, because it was the only way he could escape the pain. It was the only way he could stop his mind from taking over and telling him that there was no point in living anymore. Telling him that he might as well just give up, lie down on the road to die. He couldn’t let his mind destroy him.
Snape wouldn’t have wanted that.
And that was why, even when his feet became like leaden weights on the end of his legs, he didn’t stop walking. No matter how numb he felt, he couldn’t allow himself to give up. He walked on, even though he didn’t know where he was headed. There was nothing else he could do.
So when the building appeared, he was taken completely by surprise.
He was abruptly flung out of his stupor when he nearly walked right into a brick wall. He staggered back automatically, not really thinking about it, and made ready to continue around the wall... when it struck him just how odd it was that there happened to be a lone brick wall in the middle of this deserted road. He took a few steps back and looked up.
Draco blinked as he saw a large building looming out of the heavy blanket of mist that covered everything else. It was a nondescript building, painted a dull brown color, with nothing really unique about it.
Nothing except the sign that swung in the light breeze created by the fog, creaking eerily. The sign was painted with the elaborate, sinuous figure of a green dragon. Its long, twisting tail reached beneath the body to spell out the words “The Green Dragon.” Underneath those words was another line of writing, a uniform sort of cursive in black paint. Est. 1683.
Draco looked about warily. He hadn’t even seen the building before it had suddenly smacked him in the forehead. He thought hard. He’d been walking along... there hadn’t been any obstacles in his way... It was almost as if the building had just appeared out of thin air. Plus, there weren’t any other buildings or other signs of civilization anywhere in sight. It was just one building, sitting smack in the middle of an isolated country road that didn’t seem to lead anywhere in particular.
Was it magic?
He walked around the corner and came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door. He surreptitiously peered through one grimy window, trying to see what was inside. All he could make out, though, were several dark silhouettes moving through the room. Didn’t give him much to go by.
But Draco was tired. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and most of all, he was sick of life. He didn’t have anywhere else to go; he didn’t even know what he would do now that Snape was gone.
He had no other visible choice. He pushed open the heavy door and stood just outside. He blinked around, his eyes trying to adjust to the brighter light inside, as he got a good look at the Green Dragon.
It was a small pub, brightly lit by a roaring fire and several electric lights set in the ceiling. There was a bar at one end, right next to the fireplace, and there were quite a few small tables and chairs scattered about. A flight of stairs heading upwards indicated that the place was an inn as well as a tavern.
The building was bright, well-kept, and impeccably clean, in spite of its nearly claustrophobic size. About half a dozen tenants sat around, each at his own table, not looking or speaking to each other. Only one sat at the bar. They all seemed either depressed or meditative, thinking so hard about whatever it was that occupied their minds that their drinks sat untouched before them.
Draco entered and stood awkwardly just within the doorway, already having second thoughts about coming in. The door swung shut behind him with an ominous thud. The bartender, a tall, burly man with a shaved head, looked over as he heard the door close. He shot Draco a shrewd, almost calculating look that made Draco feel uncomfortable; then he gave him a warm smile and nodded to him, as if he’d passed some test.
Draco didn’t return the silent greeting. He edged toward the table closest t the door and sat down. It felt so good to sit down... His eyes closed as he thought over his options.
I can’t go back to Hogwarts, obviously. And Snape wasn’t really with the Dark Lord, so going back to him... I can’t. He shuddered to think what the Dark Lord would do to him if he turned up now, after he and Snape had fled from the Astronomy Tower and abandoned the other Death Eaters.
What can I do? He doubted the Order of the Phoenix would take him in now; after all, they knew his history, and helping Snape kill Dumbledore could not have put either of them in a good light. They had no idea of the truth, of Snape’s innocence. The Order would probably kill Draco on sight if he showed up anywhere near one of their members. So trying to go to them was out of the question as well.
Draco ran his fingers back through his hair and left them there, staring down at the wooden tabletop between his elbows. What am I supposed to do? He suddenly felt unreasonable anger toward Snape. Why did he have to go and leave me out here alone? Alone... The word cut deep into his pride, and he smiled a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Alone. There I was, a great arrogant prat, thinking I could do anything I wanted to, but now that it comes down to it, I have no idea what I’m really doing. I’m no more than a child. His wounded pride shied away from the thought, but he clung to it grimly. The despair began to come back., threatening to overwhelm him...
“...Lad.”
A voice grew out of the darkness. Draco thought, What do I do? Maybe I should answer... That’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? He couldn’t remember. But perhaps the kindly voice was only a figment of his imagination, after all. Who had he been fooling? Nobody really cared about what happened to Draco Malfoy.
“Lad. Are you alright?”
That voice again. Not his imagination, then. His imagination was rarely so persistent. He slowly dragged his head up out of his hands and stared blindly at the owner of the voice.
It was an old man. A very grandfatherly-looking man at that. He had tangled, ash-gray hair that fell to his shoulders, framing a pale, wrinkly face, which was currently creased into a concerned expression. His eyes were the part of him that caught Draco’s attention, however. One was a light blue color, and the other was green; both were clear and sharp, giving the impression that the old man missed nothing that went on around him. The odd-looking eyes seemed out of place in his face.
Draco realized he was staring, and quickly looked away. But the man’s uncomfortably observant eyes never left his face. “Are you alright, lad?” he repeated patiently, the slightest Irish lilt in his gruff voice.
“What? Oh ” I’m fine,” Draco answered shortly. His mind went back to his previous argument with himself. I’m fine? I don’t think so.
The old man didn’t miss the pained expression that suddenly flitted across Draco’s face. “You seem out of sorts, boy. Is there something I can do to help?”
Help? the desperate voice in the back of Draco’s head thought. Yes, help would be nice. You need help. But he ignored it and said quickly, “It’s nothing. Nothing at all, really. I’m just fine.”
“I see.” The different-colored eyes scrutinized him closely. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Would this nosey old man ever go away? Didn’t he see that all Draco wanted right now was to be left alone?
Probably, Draco thought, thinking of the sharp eyes.
But the man didn’t leave. Instead, to Draco’s discomfiture, he sat down in the chair across the table from Draco and smiled warmly at him as he stuck out his hand. “Oh, I’m Blenkinsop Waterbut, by the way. You can just call me Blenkinsop. Everyone does. I’m the proprietor of the Green Dragon.”
Not wanting to seem impolite, Draco shook the proffered hand and quickly let go, sitting back to get a better look at Blenkinsop Waterbut. What a strange name, the judgmental voice that hadn’t quite left spoke up snobbishly. Wherever did he get it? Did his parents piece it together out of the first words that came to their minds? But he didn’t say anything. The tiny, hopeful part of him wanted this man to stay, to listen to his problem. Maybe he could help...
Blenkinsop looked at him, the concerned look back on his old face. “What’s troubling you, my boy? I have a nose for other people’s problems, and it seems to me that you have quite a big one.” He grinned suddenly. “As in a big problem, not a big nose. I haven’t had such a defeated-looking person walking into my inn since... oh... 1766, perhaps?” He flashed another, almost mischievous grin at Draco, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. “How time does fly, eh?”
1766! Draco gaped at Blenkinsop. That makes him over two hundred years old! My God... He’s even older than Dumbledore!
The old man stood abruptly and walked to the bar. Draco noticed he walked with the ease of a young man, not a two hundred-year-old. He strode over to the bar and spoke to the bartender in a low voice. He returned to Draco’s table a moment later, carrying two gleaming bottles of butterbeer. Sitting down, he slid one over the table to Draco, who grabbed it automatically. Blenkinsop nodded toward it as he deftly opened his own. “Looked like you could use that. No charge.”
Draco pulled off the cap reluctantly, then stared into the butterscotch-colored drink moodily. Across from him, Blenkinsop took a swig from his own bottle and then leaned toward Draco, staring intently at him. “So. Draco Malfoy.”
Draco, who had just begun to take a hesitant swallow of butterbeer, choked on the drink and quickly set down the bottle, coughing. He couldn’t remember having told the old man his name. How did he know?... “What ” how ” what are you?” he spluttered, staring.
The man laughed out loud, drawing the attention of several other tenants, who just as quickly looked away again. “That’s a good one!” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. “‘What are you’!” He waggled his finger at Draco in an amused way. “I’ll admit, Draco, even I wasn’t expecting such a good line. Wonderful!” He stood up, still laughing as if what Draco had said was the most hilarious thing he had ever heard.
Draco watched in a sort of bemused shock. He hadn’t been expecting his question to have such a reception; and rather than putting him off, it just made him even more puzzled about this strange old man.
Blenkinsop’s laughter abruptly came to an end, and he regarded Draco seriously. “‘What am I?’” he repeated, smiling slightly. “I’m afraid I’m just as human as you are, Draco Malfoy. As for who I am ”” He put his finger along the side of his nose, reminding Draco irresistibly of Santa Claus. “That’s quite a long story, and you’re probably very tired after your long journey.”
How does he know I’ve been traveling long? Draco wondered. He was about to open his mouth again, but to his surprise found that he really was tired. He let out a great yawn, then frowned down at his still-full bottle of butterbeer.
“There, you see?” Blenkinsop smiled again. “You need rest. We have several empty rooms upstairs; you can use one, no charge, until you find your feet again.” He turned away and walked in the direction of a small door that Draco hadn’t noticed, hidden in the corner. The old man paused with his hand on the doorknob, then turned. “Good night, Draco,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. And then he had disappeared through the door, which swung shut with a soft click.
Draco stared after him. He noticed that the bartender didn’t even bat an eye at the sudden arrival and disappearance of the Green Dragon’s proprietor. Instead, the bald man looked at Draco and made a gesture toward the stairs with one callused hand. “Choose any room you like.”
Draco shook his head and, after casting one last glance at the small door in the corner, stood and headed up the winding staircase.
The Green Dragon by PadfootBaby
Chapter Notes: As always, I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters JKR has created. Darn.