Chapter 12: Exile and Death
When Draco passed through the barrier at the end of dock four and three-eighths, he was surprised to find the its planks level with his head and his feet already on the deck of a sloop that floated alongside. While he tried to figure out how he had taken a drop of six feet without noticing the rope that moored the ship began to unwind itself from the cleat on the pier.
"She's coming," he said, catching the rope even as it rasped between his fingers. "She's coming. Give her a minute." He squinted over the pilings, straining his eyes to see her, to see anything in the misty half-light.
Draco felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to command that they drop anchor until Ginny was aboard, but no one was to be seen. "Hello?"
The rope began to uncoil again, and Draco let it slip from his grasp as he sat heavily on the weathered boards. It was a relief, he supposed, that she was safe. He had grown so accustomed to sharing unpleasant tasks with Ginny, whether they were half-confidences or assignments, that he hadn't really imagined that he would be seeking sanctuary completely on his own.
The sails hoisted and trimmed themselves as they filled with a wind Draco didn't feel. It wasn't warm or cold. It wasn't dark, but not yet light. The air was neither fresh nor stale. He hauled himself up at the rail, fully expecting to be as sick as he had the last few times he had been on a boat but the water was so still and glassy that he could see his -- Fleur's -- reflection on the surface.
They had been on the boat for weeks or minutes, Draco wasn't sure. The fog grew sharp and pointed, layers running parallel in rings. He blinked and wondered if he had slept.
At the end of time, the vessel was motionless next to a very rickety pier. A rope ladder spilled over the side and Draco climbed down, catching his feet in his skirts. By the time he brushed his hair out of his face the boat was gone.
He walked for hours. The boards were slick and no rail lined the sides to protect him from falling into the sea; more than once he skidded precariously close to the edge. He had to skip over gaps where the boards were gone and be ready to move ahead should any prove to be as rotten as they looked.
An old crate teetered precariously over the water, and Draco pulled it away from the edge and sat down heavily. He rested his head in his hands, battling the strong temptation to remove Fleur's decidedly uncomfortable shoes and throw them into the sea. Was this sanctuary? Endless miles of decaying wood and thick clouds? Sighing, he rose to trudge on.
Once he stood, he realized that he couldn't remember which way he had come from. The pier disappeared into the fog a few steps in either direction, and he turned back and forth trying to remember. Which side had the crate been on? Panicking, he walked a few paces one way, then the other. What if he got lost? What if he walked forever?
A glimmer of bronze caught his eye. A Knut, tarnished but recognizable, lay at his feet. He was sure he would have noticed if he had passed it before, so he convinced himself that he must be going in the right direction and hurried on. One way is as good as another. He was rewarded shortly when the dock gave way to neatly trimmed grass. The fog parted, tunnel-like, and he picked up his pace over the even ground. He was nearly there. He could feel it.
His steps brought him to a clearing, both of fog and of trees. A fortress of stone rose above him into the clouds, its door open to the mist. Inside, the tower was blackened and sooty; it had burned ages ago.
A yellowed scrap of cloth was stretched between a set of pegs on one wall. Draco moved toward it, puzzled. He could see it flutter slightly, but there was no wind. Was it a window? A hole? He reached forward to lift it and peer behind.
The world shifted as his fingers brushed the fabric.
The walls were clean, and the cloth was a flag, or perhaps a tapestry -- it was embroidered with so much gold thread he couldn't tell for certain. Warm sunshine streamed from the entrance, and Draco walked back outside, blinking in the bright light.
Manicured gardens stretched in all directions; plots of sculpted hedges and exotic flowers gave way to herbs and fruit trees. Figures in long robes and straw hats to protect against the sun moved about, kneeling to pluck weeds from the soil or to carry away a basket of produce. Others pored over books or bent their heads together in deep conversation.
Sanctuary. Draco closed his eyes and willed away the Switching Spell. The sun was warm on his face, and light breeze swept around his ankles and up his bare legs. "Oh, bugger," he said, as he realized that even if his own body was restored to him he was still wearing Fleur's dress and cloak.
"Fashions have changed since I last went out."
A tall, dark-haired man in a brown robe set down a basket of strawberries and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Pulling off a dirty glove, he reached for Draco's hand and clasped it warmly. "Evan, pleased to meet you."
"Draco."
"How did you come to be here?" Evan asked, still eying his clothes warily.
"When a witch or wizard is safe nowhere in the world, there is sanctuary outside of it," Draco quoted, pulling his copy of Magical Geography of the United Kingdom out of his cloak. "Certain places are rumored to be portals to safety, although this has never been proven. However, the author notes that since only someone in true mortal peril can pass through the barriers, it's awfully difficult to confirm or deny the existence of these sanctuaries. And, of course, you never know if or when it's safe to leave again." It fell open to the page he needed and he held it out. "I sound like Granger," he muttered to himself.
"That's correct. It's very rare for us to have visitors. Welcome, then," Evan said, hefting the basket again. "I think we can find you something to wear."
***
A half-hour later, Draco was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers and seated in the sanctuary kitchen, hulling strawberries. A wizened woman crushed the fruit in a deep-sided bowl and added it to a bubbling cauldron that hung over a small fire. It was almost like being in Potions class, except that Potions class had never smelled so good.
After a while, she handed him a wooden spoon coated with red, and he licked the sweet sauce appreciatively. "It's good." Draco watched her strain out the seeds by pouring the lot through a cloth. Her hands shook as she steadied the cauldron against the rim of the second bowl, and Draco placed a hand underneath. "Let me."
She stepped back, giving the task over to him and tucking her thin, white hair behind an ear. He dribbled a little of the syrup onto the trestle, and she wiped up the mess with the corner of her apron before pointing up. Draco took the hint and handed down one of the copper pots that hung on the rack over his head.
"Have you been here long?" he asked, licking a sticky finger. The old woman pursed her lips before her lined face crinkled further into a smile. However, she didn't answer; she simply patted his shoulder with one gnarled hand and tottered away to examine a stack of small crocks that Draco assumed were meant to hold the jelly.
"She doesn't understand you." Evan's arms were full of kindling. "She's not a wizard."
"She's a Muggle, then?" Draco asked, returning to the strawberries that Even had set him to preparing.
Evan laughed, his wide blue eyes closing. "No, something older than that. Something far more powerful. I suggest you do as she tells you, or she might turn you into a toad."
Draco wasn't sure what to make of this. "She hasn't said anything."
"She doesn't need to, then. I warn you, though, she hates indecision."
The days were full, but it seemed to Draco that they passed as a series of lazy afternoons. He picked bushels of oranges from the tree in the orchard, this time for juice and marmalade, then rested in the bluebells underneath and listened to the hum of bees while billowing white clouds sailed across a cerulean sky. He helped an old man card wool and watched a woman of uncertain age weave the yarn into a serviceable blanket.
On another day, he crawled along the garden rows, pulling weeds and sorting basil, rosemary, and peppermint. His hands were rough and his nose burned, and the old woman who made the jelly -- he had names for no one -- rubbed on a salve of aloe. She seemed most amused that he turned red, and chuckled softly to herself when she served lobster that evening at dinner.
There was butter to be churned and bread to be made, and a few dozen hands to do it. There was no one of his own age, no younger children. There were simply the silent denizens of this place who slept in two long rooms on narrow cots at night, and who scattered about the grounds by day.
One could walk down to the sea, but it seemed to have no change of tide. No shorebirds circled overhead, and no shells were hidden between the pebbles. One could walk past the orchards and gardens, but there was a thick line of Scotch pine ringing the grounds. Draco parted the branches, once, but on the other side was thick fog and nothing else.
Evan would sometimes talk with him after the evening meal about inconsequential things. Where had he been today? What had he done? Was there anything he needed? Then, they would push their chairs back from the rough-hewn table and push their earthenware dishes to the side and play a game of chess. The pieces were odd. They didn't move or speak, and had to be removed from the board by hand. There was little to discuss, though. The days ran together in their sameness.
One morning Draco rose late. His back ached from the way he had been sleeping half-on and half-off the bed and tangled in the sheets. He had lain awake half the night, and not woken up at first light with everyone else for the first time since he'd entered the sanctuary.
Bright sun washed over the rough stone floor. It was unnerving; were there never rainy days here? He poured water from a pitcher into a basin and splashed his face and neck before dressing and wandering out of the room.
The kitchen was empty, but there was freshly baked bread, butter, and jam on the sideboard in the dining room. Draco slapped a sandwich together and sat down on a bench to eat. As he did, his gaze was drawn to a vertical crack in the stone wall. Swallowing the last of the crust, he walked around the table to inspect it.
The crack was -- it wasn't a crack at all. It was a door, not quite shut. He slipped his fingers along the edge, and finding purchase, pried it open.
There was a chamber within. Its walls were lined with books, and Draco pulled an oversize, dusty volume down from a shelf. He blew softly on the binding, raising a cloud of sparkling dust. He dropped it on a small table and began to leaf through the pages.
The illuminations were exquisite: gold and silver and emerald and ruby ink illustrated ancient scenes. The stories were beyond his comprehension, though, because the words would not be still on the page. The letters danced down and across the page, blurring and combining. He turned his head and looked at the book out of the corner of his eye. He still couldn't read this way, but could see that Ogham writing covered the page. Fairy language, his mother had used to call it. She would have liked it here, he decided as he replaced the book.
A quick perusal of the other books turned up nothing readable. Each book held its secrets behind swirling ink, and no matter what charm or incantation he tried he couldn't break the code. On the shelf nearest the window sat candles, ink bottles, quills, and parchment. On impulse, Draco took some of each to the table and settled himself in a chair.
Dear mother, he wrote.
He chewed the end of the quill.
I've been meaning to write you. There are so many things I want to tell you about, but I don't know where to begin.
I wanted to say that I remember. I remember the house in France, and the time I drank all the wine before dinner and threw up all over your favorite carpet. I remember when we stayed in India and you took me to ride on that elephant -- smelly thing -- even though I was acting deplorably. I remember the birthday party at the manor when you invited all the children from our social circle and forced them to play party games and treat each other nicely. It was the first and last time the Slytherins I know now ever pretended losing at horseshoes, or anything else, was even remotely acceptable.
Draco walked to the window. His fingers were shaking. He told himself that it was because he hadn't held a quill in so long; they were only fatigued. The letter waited on the table.
I remember that I could tell you things. I remember that you listened. The problem is that I didn't listen to you. Don't show emotion, you said. I didn't realize. I didn't understand.
Looking back, the pattern is clear. Home when Father wasn't, away when he was. Visits twice a year. I thought you took me away because I wasn't good enough for him. I thought you took me away because I would anger or annoy him. Or, at least, that's what I would have thought if I could have. . .I'm not making any sense.
He threw down the quill and paced the room again.
I mean to say: you didn't want me to know him. And he didn't care. Something happened that summer when we were home for my eleventh birthday. I remember that we were having tea and Father Apparated in and you were very startled. You spilled your tea, even. I thought it was because you always made such a fuss about visiting him and maybe the house wasn't right or my hair was mussed.
He seemed surprised to see us, and he looked at me -- really looked at me -- for the first time. It was such a change. I thought it was what you wanted. I thought you wanted me to please Father, and I thought I had finally done something right. He agreed that I should go to Hogwarts, and he went with us for school things. He must have known something we didn't. I think that was the last time I saw you.
It was never the same, after that. I thought that you didn't love me; it's not your fault that you couldn't. I didn't know what the Imperius was. Son of a Death Eater and I didn't know. And later, when I did, I didn't realize... By the time I realized, you were dead.
The Death Eaters are active again, and it's not hard to figure out that this could only have happened because their leader has returned and gains strength with every day. It's only a matter of time until something gives and he finds himself with absolute power or with absolutely nothing. I'm afraid the chances of the latter are slim. I have never, in all the tales I have been told, heard of anyone that could slip from his grasp save Potter, and I think he's already used his share of luck in this life.
I've been busy at school. At least, I was until Father decided to kill me and I had to go into hiding. It's rather lonely, and I wouldn't mind having you, or another friend, here.
But you'll never be here again.
The worst part is that I did nothing. I didn't avenge your death like a loyal son should. I can't. There is no way to win. I’m tired of death and pain.
And I wanted to say that I'm sorry.
I hope that wherever you are, you can forgive me for my cowardice.
Because I can't forgive myself.
Draco
He took a deep, shuddering breath and lit a candle. In a moment there was wax to drip over the edges and lacking any other marker he pressed his thumb over the seal. He placed the letter in the center of the table and leaned back, staring at it. He didn't know what to do with it. His chest hurt and his eyes were watering. "Must be the pollen," he whispered to himself, wishing he could believe his own lies. "Stupid flowers."
Finally, he pulled another piece of parchment to him. Several quills snapped beneath his fingers before he dipped one into the inkpot.
Dear Ginny,
There was nothing to say, was there? She was far away, probably revising for her end-of-year exams. That was one good thing that had come of all this, he mused. Yet, in spite of the peace to be found in this hidden world, Draco wondered if homework with Ginny might not have been more interesting.
I miss you.
He stared at the words until they looked strange. There were more things to say, but there was the possibility that Ginny didn't want to hear them. He traced the words with the tip of the quill, over and over. I miss you.
When he finally looked up the sun was slipping into the ocean and through the window he saw soft gold clouds floating across an apricot sky. Ginny would say that one looked like a toad, and that one a Grindylow, and that other one a dragon. He watched the dragon-shaped cloud sail over all the others and dissipate. Draco picked up his quill again, prepared to write, but Evan came in.
"You've found the library," he said. It was hard to tell if he was pleased or not. Evan rarely smiled, but neither did he frown or chastise.
"I'm sorry, I didn't ask," Draco said, gesturing to the letters.
"Anything we have, you can use," Evan replied gently. "But you can't send those. Nothing can pass in or out except you."
Draco looked hard at the parchment in his hand, and picked up the completed letter as well. "It doesn't matter, anyway," he said, touching them to the candle's flame.
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Draco and Ginny belong to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Warner Bros and various other corporations. They are being used here without permission and/or affiliation with the above. None of the authors listed here make any profit from these stories.