Somehow in the back of his mind, doubt had persisted, though he had kept tuning it out. He didn’t deserve a normal life; neither did he deserve love. He had done far too many wrongs, committed too many fatal errors, and he would pay for them throughout his lifetime.
“Aren’t you flying out today?” asked his mother, when she found Draco lying on an armchair. “If you want to take it up seriously, you can ask your father to buy you a better broom.”
“No,” said Draco. “I’m not interested anymore.”
“You cannot stop abruptly like that,” chided Narcissa. “It’s bad for your health.”
“Watch me.”
“Draco “ ”
He got up and left, breathing easier only when he had locked the door of his bedroom from the inside. But when he turned around and surveyed the long, rectangular room with the tall ceiling, he felt shut in. This place enticed him with its deceptive grandeur, pretended to offer him solace, but in reality, it made him more miserable as the days passed. How had he missed all those cobwebs of the past which hung from every corner? How could he breathe in the dank miasma of guilt?
He would never be free unless he was free of this.
As though possessed by an alien spirit, he furiously started to pack. There were luckily a few Galleons in the drawers of his dressing table; he threw them into the bag. Where was he going to go? Goyle appeared to be the only option, as Draco didn’t want to risk staying at a public inn.
In his note to his parents, he told them he needed some time alone, that he would be safe wherever he was going, and that they weren’t to look for him.
“I’m sorry about this,” he told Goyle as the latter brought him some bed linens. “I promise I’ll leave as soon as I find a job.”
“No worries,” said Goyle, who had manually arranged the room for Draco. “This was my Ma’s room.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Draco. “You cleaned it up really well.”
Goyle nodded awkwardly. “Time for work,” he said.
“Yeah, you go. I’ll be fine.”
The faded mauve sheet which covered the late Mrs Goyle’s bed was creased, not because it needed ironing, but on account of Draco’s utter failure at making beds and household chores in general. Too tired to bemoan his inadequacy, he jumped on to it and lay quietly.
Goyle’s flat was small. It consisted of his room, his mother’s room, and a guest-room, which was smaller than the broom closet at Malfoy Manor. There was a kitchen and a drawing room as well. The place didn’t have many furniture in it, and it reeked of disinfectant everywhere. Draco supposed Goyle was taking his new self rather seriously.
What was he going to do now?
The obvious answer was to look for a job, but having grown up the way he had, waiting to inherit serious money some day, he had never considered having a career. Even now when he thought of it, there was nothing he wanted to do.
Another problem was that, while his marks were decent, they weren’t good enough for any of the high-profile jobs which might bring some respectability back into his life.
“What the hell am I doing?” he finally cried aloud.
The only source of comfort he had was this: once he knew what he wanted, he wouldn’t stop at any means to get it. He was a Slytherin, after all. As long as he could sort out what his goals were, he was fine.
His other goals, he reminded himself, apart from getting Astoria. Although, the latter was beginning to looked like a futile endeavour now.
Hugging a saggy pillow, he went to sleep with the hope that his vivid dreams might provide him an answer.
The end of the tunnel must have been a bit further away, for Draco was still without any bright ideas on his fifth day at Goyle’s place. However, he had persuaded Goyle to let him clean the place and do the chores as a return for his generosity.
He didn’t stick to his word all the time. He found that no matter how hard he tried, the stains on the stove wouldn’t go and the dust on the floor would always return. His wandwork, when it came to such matters, seemed to be no better than Goyle’s. Frustration began to eat him from the inside, and he dealt with it the best way he could: unflinching lethargy. Goyle often had to clean up after he had returned from work. Draco felt guilt piling up on his head, but he found more peace in retreating into his shell than in tackling it head on.
It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop thinking of Astoria. Draco hadn’t ever felt about anyone the way he did about her. He couldn’t understand it because it wasn’t like he knew her well and they had spent a lot of time together. Maybe, it was the way she made him feel different. She didn’t appear to judge him. She wasn’t like Daphne. She treated him as just another wizard, not the younger Malfoy.
Besides, she was very attractive, and in an understated manner that Draco found surprisingly pleasant. Whatever he happened to be doing, whether it was scrubbing the floor (for he had found that doing it by hands was proving more effective), or just lying without purpose on the rickety bed, his thoughts wandered to her. He thought of how she might be in bed, how her skin would feel, how her body would move under his. He was almost thankful Goyle didn’t bring Pucey home with him. He would implode from jealousy and longing if that happened.
Living with Goyle was calming. He minded his own business, asked no questions and left Draco alone. If he had to spend the night with Pucey, he let Draco know, and even got him food before he left. It was a perfect arrangement, and like all good things, it came to an end.
Draco had hauled his arse out of the bed to wash the dishes when the door rang. He opened it to find an apologetic Goyle and the fuming face of his father.
For some reason, Draco felt a kind of sick pleasure to have his father find him like that: unshaved, unkempt, and wearing an apron.
“Hello, Father,” he said.
“Get your wand and clothes. We are leaving right now.”
“I’m sor-” began Goyle, but Draco overrode him.
“It’s all right, Goyle.” He slowly took off the apron, handed it back to the owner, and said, “Thanks for everything.”
“Are you out of your mind?” asked Lucius, voice shaking with anger. “Leaving the house without any warning, running off like an idiot. What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Draco was back in the Manor, back to facing his father’s domineering control over him. His mother was sitting in a sofa and looking pale. He felt both young and aged at the same time; the scene was so achingly familiar, and yet profoundly unbearable and stupid.
“Did you think we would be proud of you if you just took off like that?” went on Lucius. “And cleaning Goyle’s room! Cleaning! How could you bring disgrace and shame to your family’s name?”
Draco raised his eyebrows. “Family’s name, Father?” he asked. “What family pride are we talking about here?”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” said Lucius, whose face had gone red, “the Malfoys are the one of the oldest, purest wizard- ”
“Oh give me a bloody break!” snapped Draco. It effectively shut up his father; his mother’s mouth was hanging open by now. “You have a problem with me cleaning Goyle’s mess? Well, I’ll tell you what I feel, Father! I’d rather be known for Goyle’s toilet than for harboring murderers in the house.”
“Draco!” cried his mother. Lucius looked too stunned to speak.
But Draco wasn’t going to hold back. It had finally come, the moment that had been slowly building in the house over years, the moment that needed to happen.
“I’m sick of it all!” Draco shouted. “I’m sick of this bloody house and this bloody life. I’m sick of having to live with my past. I can feel the hatred and the disgust everywhere I go, and I’m fucking sick of myself.”
He could hear his mother, who hardly cried in his presence, giving into her emotions at last. Perhaps, she had known it all along. Perhaps, she had been waiting for this day just like him. But he felt possessed yet again by the same force that had made him leave the house over a week back.
“You go around town and drop Galleons and pretend as if nothing happened,” he raged on, “but it isn’t enough, Father. Don’t you understand? Don’t you see the disapproval everywhere? Don’t you know we are unwanted, we’re outcasts, and life will never be normal again?”
Lucius didn’t say anything, but the glass of whiskey in his hand was going to break at any moment. It was his mother who spoke up.
“What would you have us do, Draco?”
He took a deep breath before answering. Now was his chance.
“Let me go,” he said. Ignoring the look of shock and hurt on their faces, he went on. “Let me make my own life. I can’t live here anymore under your shelter. It’s killing me.”
The room was silent for a long time.
“Very well,” said Lucius. “I’ll set up an account in your name and get you a proper house“”
“I don’t want it,” said Draco resolutely. “I’ll need to borrow some money from you “”
“Stop being ridiculous!”
“No, you listen to me, Father,” said Draco. “I don’t want any favours from you. I need money to pay the rent while I’m looking for a job, and when I do land one, I’ll eventually pay it back.”
“But the money is yours, Draco,” insisted Narcissa.
“I don’t want it,” he told her. “I don’t need it. I don’t need … you.”
It was only when he had left the room that he heard the glass shatter at last.
It was Pucey who got the flat for him. The landlady was a witch who lived on the ground floor, and rented rooms to both wizards and Muggles. Draco’s was an Unplottable one situated on the top floor between Room Number 11 and 12.
The flat was even smaller than Goyle’s, but Draco knew it would suffice. He didn’t want roommates, and he didn’t expect any guest to drop by in the near future. The best part was that it was situated in an area of London where very few wizards lived. The anonymity was definitely welcome to him. Besides, it had a balcony, which provided a lovely view of the huge park nearby.
He spent the first few days cleaning it up. It had come dirt cheap, and it had come with a lot of dirt, too. To his surprise, he wasn’t repulsed by the grime; the greater shock was the fact that he didn’t mind the manual tasks involved in making the place inhabitable. It took his mind off things, even Astoria.
Goyle dropped by the first Thursday and helped him paint the walls. Draco decided not to think too much of why he had chosen the same shade of cream that brightened up Twilfit & Tattings so well. Then, he got a Cooling Box, a product of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes which was a small cupboard charmed with multiple Cooling Charms to keep foodstuffs fresh. Goyle persuaded Pucey to buy it for Draco as neither of them was welcome at the ginger twats’ store.
Gradually, the flat began to look presentable. Small pieces of furniture were added. Pucey even gifted him a few plants. Draco supposed it was her manner of extending the olive branch, and he accepted them gratefully. Apart from the fact that she was useful at times, he desperately needed friends.
Two weeks after Draco had moved out of Malfoy Manor, he had a home of his own. For the first time in ages, he felt proud of himself.
“Play to your strengths,” said Pucey, who was perched on a sofa.
“If only I knew what they were,” said Draco.
“I thought you were good at Potions.”
“When old batface was teaching us,” answered Draco lightly. “The walrus was not so keen on my talents. Besides, I have no intentions to spend the rest of my life healing ghastly wounds caused by incompetent spell casting.”
Numerous pages of the Prophet were laid out on the floor, all of them featuring the Job Vacancy sections. Draco had managed to circle only three ads so far.
“Quidditch,” suggested Goyle from the kitchen, who had been put in charge of cooking. He was no gourmet chef, but he was better than his girlfriend and Draco at any rate.
“Yeah, because all the clubs can’t wait to get their hands on a former Death Eater,” said Draco. “I’ll get clobbered during practice, forget the matches.”
“What have we got so far?” asked Pucey.
“Assistant at Flourish & Blotts, librarian at the Central Magical Library, and … Personal Assistant to the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”
“The first will pay the least, the second will be too boring, and the third will suck the life out of you with its hectic schedule.”
Draco looked up and said, “Those are my prospective careers. Be a bit nice, will you?”
She shrugged. “Just giving you the facts.”
“You’re probably right.” He sighed and went back to fishing.
“You know, Draco,” said Pucey, “I can’t help but wonder. Why didn’t you think of starting your own business? You have the money, don’t you?”
“Not ready for it yet,” he told her evasively. The thing was that Draco wanted to build credit with people first, show them he could be trusted. Eventually, he would do something profitable.
“Oh here’s one!” she cried, picking up a page. “Nimbus is looking for Quality Testers for their products.”
“What?”
“Here!”
Draco practically snatched the paper out of her hands. Nimbus, one of the most popular Quidditch gear suppliers, had a vacancy. Draco didn’t have any experience whatsoever, but he had a feeling this was the best chance he could have.
“I can do this,” he told himself.
“Draco always has the best Quidditch stuff,” said Goyle helpfully. “’Course he’ll know all about the quality.”
“So,” said Mark Winters, the manager of Nimbus Pvt. Ltd., London. “You have no experience to speak of.”
“But plenty of knowledge,” said Draco. “I’m familiar with a variety of brands, and I’ve used each and every product that has to do with Quidditch. You could quiz me on any Quidditch-related topic right now, and I’d give you the answer.”
Winters crossed his fingers and propped his chin upon them. “You have some guts, Mr Malfoy,” he said. “I’ve already interviewed five pros “ two of them with five years’ experience, and the other three are actually retired players. Why should the job go to you?”
Draco took a deep breath. “Because I understand quality better than anyone does,” he said, his voice all seriousness. To be honest, he had begun to lose hope when he heard who he was up against, but now was not the time to show his despair. “Sure, you have players. I’ve played, too. I admit I’m not a professional, but I was selected as my house’s Seeker during my second year at school, and I played in every single match.”
He decided not to mention that he had bought his way into the team, or that he had missed a match in sixth year. In fact, he didn’t give Winters the time to question his skills. “As for gears, I never repeated brands, and I often changed them. I know what failings each model had, and suggestions as to how they could have been improved.”
“How good are your detection charms?” Winters asked.
Draco wanted to laugh; he knew more detection charms than anyone in the world needed to. “I could give you a demonstration now if you wanted it.”
Winters wasn’t a fool. He took Draco to one of their supplies room and asked him to test a few broomsticks for hexes. Draco took a mere ten minutes to strip down all five broomsticks and identify the spells that had been cast on them. Then, he was made to examine Quidditch gloves and see which models were better. From gloves, they went to cleaning kits and balls.
Draco slipped up only once. He forgot that a potion was missing in the cleaning kit. He hadn’t done much cleaning back in school; Crabbe had always been happy for any excuse to touch his Nimbus Two Thousand and One. Apart from that, everything had proceeded smoothly enough.
“You have given us quite a performance, Mr Malfoy,” said Winters finally. “However, there is this thing nagging me.”
“What is that?”
“Why are you even applying for this job?”
He had hoped this question wouldn’t come. Now that it had, he didn’t know what the best answer to give was. Winters sounded like a reasonable man, though. So, he decided to be earnest.
“I wanted to do something with my life,” he said. “And this job is one that I’d definitely enjoy and be successful at. It’s an attractive package, you see.”
Winters nodded. “Well, you can go now,” he said, holding out his hand for a shake. “We’ll owl you on Monday.”
By Sunday, Draco had lost all hope.
“I know I’ve fucked it up!” he wailed, clutching a bottle of Firewhisky to his chest. “I was too arrogant. And I couldn’t remember that effing potion in the kit because I never bothered to clean my bloody gears myself.”
“You’ll be okay,” said Goyle, who was getting up to leave.
“Where are you off to?” Draco asked irritably.
“Chlo-wee’s.”
“Yeah, go to her, you sodding traitor!”
“Draco “”
“JUST GO!”
A sharp pain on his wrist woke him up.
“Argh!”
He forced his heavy eyelids to open so that he could see what had attacked him. It was a tawny owl.
“Whoyoo?”
The owl screeched and ruffled its feather.
“All right!”
Draco took around five minutes to untie the letter which the owl had come to deliver. With an annoyingly loud hoot, the owl took off. Massaging his forehead, Draco opened the letter. It had the Nimbus letterhead on top.
“Frigging Merlin!”
He hastily shot a jet of water on his head using his wand, cried out in pain, and then tried to focus on the words on the letter.
Dear Mr Malfoy,
We are pleased to inform you that your application has been approved, and you have been accepted as our new Quality Control Inspector. Please report to work at 9 a.m., Tuesday, 15th May, 2003.
“Bloody Salazar!” he shouted. “I have an effing job.”