History Moves in Circles

History Moves in Circles

Chapter 3: Something Unusual

Merlin’s beard, he was tired. Mountain Trolls weren’t especially smart; considering their brains were perhaps the size of a peanut. Anyone with the wits of a ten-year old could out think one; Potter and Weasley had proven that in their first year. But it took wits and speed to defeat an entire village of the dumb lummoxes, especially when they were enraged.

Today he had been given ample chance to see exactly how quickly he could dodge.

He walked to the mirror of his room in the inn, hoping that he had, for once, gotten a non-magical mirror.

“Come now dear, how long has it been since you’ve washed your face? Or anything else, for that matter?”

No such luck.

With a warning growl at the mirror, he poured water into the small basin and warmed it with a poke of his wand. The only sound in the small room was the quiet splashes of water dripping from his wash cloth back into the basin while he carefully wiped away a few days worth of grime, sweat, and blood. Always fastidious in his appearance, he would at least wash his face before he went downstairs for dinner. Even now he had his own personal standards to maintain.

He flinched as he drew the rag across the rag across his cheek. Letting it drop to the dresser, he leaned toward the mirror and examined his face, prodding the tender spot with his fingers. He didn’t remember exactly what had happened, but he didn’t think he had broken anything although experience told him he’d have the mother of all bruises in a few hours.

Shaking his head, he continued to wash the grime off his face while the mirror decided to speak to him again. “Oh my,” the mirror cooed, “aren’t you the handsome one.” He cocked one of his dripping eyebrows. Mirrors could be very annoying; especially the ones who had been given female personalities. His childhood mirror, also female, had done nothing but flatter and chatter at him until his father had complained it made him soft. The sullen mirror that had replaced it had made his life miserable.

He missed his first mirror; aside from his mother, it had been his only balm from his father’s demanding ways.

“You know,” the mirror continued slyly, “there are several pretty girls without husbands in town.”

The man froze, not believing what he had just heard. Was the mirror propositioning him? He’d been accustomed to having girls flirt with him; if not for his money, then for his looks. But a mirror? This was a first, even for him.

His eyes narrowed threateningly and he turned his attention to his hands, attacking them with a small brush and a bar of soap that smelled like lavender. Just because he roamed about the land several months of the year didn’t mean he had to smell like it. Even now he longed for the comforts of his flat back in Paris, where he could sink into a bathtub filled to the brim with warm scented water. He hadn’t been home in months, and it didn’t look like he would be free to return soon. At least his housekeeper could be trusted to keep things in order there.

“I’m sure,” the mirror offered again, “that one of them could make you very happy.”

The troll-slayer stared at the mirror for a moment, wondering why it was behaving so oddly. “And what happens if I’m married,” he questioned in a cool voice.

“You’re not married, dear,” it replied cheerfully. “You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

He shook his head and dried his hands, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. A pale-haired wraith looked back at him. His features had never quite lost their sharp lines, although the purple rings of exhaustion gave him a bit of color. He most definitely wasn’t at his best.

Leaving the mirror to ramble on to itself about the virtues of various females, he returned to his bed and exchanged his grubby clothes for the clean spares he kept in his pack. With one last glance in the now silent mirror, he scraped his long hair back into a ponytail and headed downstairs.

The inn he was staying in was dark and murky, like the Leaky Cauldron. Comfortable. He made his way to the highly-polished wooden bar, wincing slightly as he sat down on one of the stools. He would have bruises on other places besides his face in the morning.

The bartender looked up from where she was polishing a glass. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mister Hired Wand.” Her dark eyes glinted teasingly at him; she looked somewhat familiar.

“It takes more than just a wand with Mountain Trolls,” he replied sternly, noticing how the young busboy’s stance had perked up. He’d seen enough hero worship in young boys not to see the signs in an older one. And until he was sure he’d taken care of all the local nasties, having groupies follow him about was too bloody dangerous. Best squash this urge now.

The middle-aged woman nodded sagely. “Aye, like strength, defense spells, and the wits to use them.” She glanced over at a table of men in one corner, her eyes darkening. “And these blokes haven’t been taught to use the three together yet.”

She flipped her neat braid over her shoulder, glancing off into the corner of the pub. “They’re mighty lucky you showed up when you did, Mister Mercenary; they’ve already lost six men, and twelve others were injured.” Six men? The mayor had said that a party had already been sent out, but he hadn’t mentioned that any lives had been lost. He alone had been able to handle the trolls; how had six men died out there?

“Good men, too,” the old man next to him snorted into his beer. “The town’s best.”

The bartender shot the old patron a quelling look, then glanced back at him. “So what’s your poison?” She thunked the glass down on the bar. “Everything’s on the house.” Typical payment for such small towns; free meals as long as he stayed; not that he was ever wanted around for more than a day or two after his stay was over.

“I’ll stick with Butterbeer for now,” he replied, swinging his stool around to stare out at the crowd. The Sparkling Diamond was full; it was almost as if the entire town had turned out for celebration. If he had been in their position he would have done the same.

He shook his head and took a sip of the Butterbeer the bartender had just sat down beside him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She took up her task of washing glasses again. He could hear the methodical clinking over the noise of the crowd out on the tiny dance floor. “You got a name to go with that pretty face, Mister Mercenary?”

“Draco,” he replied absently.

She lifted an eyebrow.

“Just Draco,” he repeated, taking another sip, then tried to change the direction of the conversation. “So what’s good here?”

Again the man sitting beside him snorted. Draco looked up at the bartender and rephrased his question. “What’s edible?”

The woman grinned. “Smart man.”

Draco turned his attention to the crowd while he waited for the woman to reappear with his food. The people in this town; they were hiding something. When he’d arrived here almost a week ago he’d found the town in shambles, the inhabitants shy of their very shadows; afraid to walk out in the street during broad daylight, and as soon as the sun went down every door, window, shutter, and mouse-hole in town were locked down tighter than Gringott’s vaults.

As soon as the lights went down, the paranoia only increased. Draco had made the mistake of arriving in town just after sunset, and the first living soul he had seen had been a half grown kitten running in a desperate drive for freedom, followed by a young girl trying to catch it. They’d been accompanied by a gawky teenager armed with a pitchfork, the very same pitchfork he’d nearly gotten through his belly when the boy had spotted him in the shadows. Once he’d persuaded the boy he wasn’t going to hurt anyone and felt confident enough to step into the light, the girl had taken one look at his face, screamed loudly that an elf had come to save them all, and attached herself to his leg, disobedient kitten forgotten. She clung to him like glue, despite all efforts to peel her off, and by the time the boy had led him to the mayor’s house, the entire town had come out to see what the ruckus was about.

And thanks to the little girl’s cries, they were all positively certain that he, a plain wizard, was one of the mythical woodland elves. Draco’s comments that he was as human as the next man fell upon deaf ears, and so he found himself in a most unusual position in this town. The little ones absolutely idolized him (he knew how Potter felt), the adults treated him as an esteemed guest, the old people just liked to stand and stare at him. The younger adults were what bothered him; the young women flirted as if he was the only man in town, while the young men seemed divided between hero worship and wishing him into his grave with glares.

Draco preferred the death glares; those he could deal with.

As he lounged against the counter, he heard light footsteps come up beside him, and a girl with long, light brown curls inserted herself between his seat and the one next to him, which was occupied by a rather sloshed bearded man. Draco studiously ignored her as she ordered her drink, taking a calculated sip of his Butterbeer.

Drink ordered, she turned around and nonchalantly tossed her hair, the ends of it lightly grazing Draco’s arm. A few seconds later, absently twiddling a strand of her hair between two fingers, she reached directly across him to grab her drink. “Oh, sorry,” she apologized, flashing him a simpering smile, managing to expertly slosh a little of the liquid onto his shirt.

Then, much to Draco’s detached amusement, she put on a perfectly contrite face. “I’m so sorry,” she half wailed desperately, producing a delicate lace handkerchief from the recesses of her formfitting robes to dab at his sleeve. Draco said nothing as she examined the folds of his white shirt closely, being sure to arrange herself so he would have a clear view of her chest while she worked.

She was good; but he’d seen better.

After a few seconds he gently pulled his arm away. “It’s fine,” he assured calmly. “It’s clear anyway.”

A pair of pale green eyes looked up at him, a lone curl flopped against her brow. “Are you sure, m’lord?” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry; I should have been more careful. I’ll be more than happy to clean it for you.”

“It’s fine,” Draco repeated stubbornly, trying to ignore the title. “No harm done.”

The perfectly painted mouth pouted for a moment, then the girl threw off his refusal. “If you change your mind, m’lord, come and see me.” She offered him what passed for what might have been a semi-sexy smile, had it not been so forced. “My name’s Novelle,” she continued slyly. “I’m the chief astronomer here, although,” she fluttered her eyelashes, “I have been known to take up divination in my spare time.” She looked at him for so long that Draco was sure she had mentally undressed him at least three times before she took her glass and rejoined her friends, hips swaying gently as she walked away.

A part of Draco’s mind admitted that the view from behind was as nice as the girl’s face, but she was a divinator, and Draco had yet to meet a divinator that had more brains than a bird. Although, he admitted to himself as the malt-colored hair gleamed in the dull lights of the tavern, she was rather fetching. He shook his head firmly and reminded himself this was a business trip, not a pleasure cruise, and a casual shag with the local astronomer would not be profitable for his relations to the townspeople, despite their openness. He had no desire to be driven out of town at the end of a pitchfork.

Luckily, his ruminations about the eligibility of a certain astronomer and divinator were cut short when the bartender returned with a platter of food fit for a being of Hagrid’s size. Draco stared down at the unappetizing glob in front of him, not certain he wanted to know what it was. Prodding it gingerly with a fork, he ascertained it wasn’t still alive; granted, he’d eaten a lot of unsavory things during his days as one of Voldemort’s henchmen, but at least most of it had been recognizable as food.

“You’d best eat it while it’s hot,” the woman urged as she refilled his Butterbeer. “Once it cools, it’s not nearly as palatable.”

With a slight hesitation, Malfoy shoved the laden fork into his mouth and hoped he wouldn’t meet his death by food poisoning. Much to his surprise, the brown glop wasn’t nearly as revolting to the taste as it was to the eyes. He chewed carefully, trying to decide exactly what flavors he could discern. Some sort of local meat, obviously—venison, perhaps—in some sort of gravy, cooked ‘till it was mush. Not too bad; he’d had worse.

He continued to eat his monstrous dinner, well aware of the slight giggles wafting over from the gaggle of girls not too far away from him. Several of them seemed to have copied Novelle’s tactics, and made sure to stand directly beside him as they ordered their own drinks. The latest had trembled so hard that she hadn’t been able to wait long enough to retrieve her order. She couldn’t have been more than 16, perhaps 17 at the most, and had given him such a terrified glance that he knew she had been literally forced to stand next to him.

Draco continued to eat his dinner, wondering which of the town’s girls would be next to come and order their drinks while trying to catch his eye. A few locks of curly malt-colored hair drifted past the corner of his eye. Novelle; no other in the tavern had such distinctive hair. “Sorry, m’lord,” she oozed sweetness as she reached for the unclaimed Butterbeer with a pale arm, “but Josie forgot her drink and she’s too flustered to fetch it herself.”

He lifted one of his eyebrows and nodded curtly, pointedly taking another bite of his meal to avoid answering her.

She flashed him another white-toothed smile and winked, before turning to rejoin her friends. As she walked behind him, her hand trailed along the back of his shoulders, rubbing circles on the back of his neck.

Draco froze, not daring to turn his head until the rush of giggles signaled her arrival back into the small mob of his bright-eyed admirers. He summoned his courage and swiveled his stool to look behind him. One look at the sea of admirers standing there, wide-eyed faces looking at him in awe, without even the slightest bit of disgust or scorn sent his courage rushing back under the rock he’d hidden it under.

Draco Malfoy was not a man to run away from what he was afraid of, but a dozen girls sporting that particular expression would have make even a reckless Gryffindor turn tail and run. In true Slytherin fashion, he decided it was time to make a strategic retreat to the loo.

Thankfully, the men’s room was empty, so Draco wasted no time in making his frustrations known with a few choice words that would have his mother furious. Done swearing, he turned the cold water on and splashed his face with water, absently noting the muffled sounds that were coming from somewhere. He had turned the water off when they expanded into the sound of women’s giggles.

Merlin’s beard, they hadn’t followed him into the loo, had they?

Draco wondered if he could manage an invisibility spell long enough to make it back to his room.

Then he quickly realized that he was just hearing their voice’s carry over from the women’s loo, which was next door.

“Ohh—he’s so handsome,” a particularly excited girl squealed.

“Of course he’s handsome; he’s an elf!” Another voice joined in.

Draco groaned. Yes, he was blonde, and yes, he favored leather trousers, but could they not see that he had perfectly normal ears? They weren’t pointed in the slightest! Of course, there had been that one incident with the Weasley twins his fifth year—but that had been years ago, and he had all the photographs destroyed. Well, there were rumors that McGonagall had taken one; but she’d denied it, and he hadn’t found it when he searched her office, despite the detention it cost him when she caught him.

“Oh, here you are—how’s it going?”

“He’s in the restroom. Did you get the stuff?” That was Novelle; there was no mistaking the smoky voice; she most certainly had mystical appearance going for her.

“Yes—muggles use it…” a loud clatter, and a muffled curse, “here. Cover Girl, Maybelline, and my sister has a bottle of perfume—what’s it called Josie?”

“Nature.”

“Oh, how original.”

“Whoever said Muggles were imaginative?” An older voice snorted. “C’mon, Novelle, let’s get you dolled up for our gorgeous elf.”

Draco frowned—what was going on over there? On second thought, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What’s going on in here?” It was the bartender; Draco wondered what her name was as he stood next to the vent. “Oh, come on now—leave Draco alone. He’s not for the likes of you.”

“His name is Draco?”

A chorus of sighs echoed through the vent. “How’d you learn that?”

“I asked him,” the bartender’s voice carried clearly through the vent. “And what’s this about an elf?”

“Oh come on; he’s got to be an elf. With that hair, and those clothes….”

“And Tom said he handled those trolls like they were nothing! Elves have a natural skill for fighting darkness—it’s in the textbooks!”

The woman snorted. “Come on girls, use the brains I know you’ve got. Anyone with a good Defense education under their belt can handle a troll; and I know for a fact that Malfoy knows his Defense spells. The man went to Hogwarts, for Merlin’s sake. He’s no elf.”

Draco froze—he hadn’t told the woman his last name. He hadn’t used his last name now for several months. When traveling through these little wizarding villages scattered across the countryside, using the name of a well-know Dark-affiliated family was like painting a target on the back of his coat. So for several months out of the year, he was just Draco. Draco Johnson if pressed, but never Draco Malfoy. How did she know who he was?

“Magdalen MacDougal, you just want him for yourself—he’s too young for you!”

Magdalen MacDougal? The name sounded remotely familiar. Draco frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard it before.

“It’s your funeral girls; trust me—that man has friends in high places,” the bartender spat, and then he heard the door slam shut.

“Don’t listen to her Novelle; all you have to worry about is making sure our young elf-lord has no desire to leave town in the morning,” the older woman soothed.

“We need someone like him to protect us.”

“I know Aunt Tina,” Novelle replied. “He can help us.” There was a long silence. “Mom was saving this until I got married, but she let me have it now.”

“What is it?” Draco frowned, feeling his stomach lurch. This was not sounding good.

“Fairy dust—it will keep him bound to me, elf or not. And Mom’s almost finished brewing the potion; it’ll be done by the time the dust wears off.”

Draco grit his teeth, wondering exactly what they were planning over there; and how he could possibly get away without being noticed. He really wished he had memorized that invisibility charm.

“Then he’ll be here for good; and completely under your control.”

This was bad, very bad.

Draco buttoned his sleeves, seriously considering making a run for it. He opened the loo door a bit, peering down the hall and into the tavern’s main room, where the only door was. It was filled with people. They’d stop him before he could escape.

He pulled his wand from its holster and held it ready; he didn’t know exactly what these people wanted with him, but they weren’t going to get him without a fight.

Pulling air into his lungs, he squared his shoulders, and stepped out of the loo, prepared to hex his way to the door, although he’d probably never make it out of town.

But before he could take another step towards his doom, a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a side door. “Quiet,” the bartender’s voice ordered as she drug him into the closet.

“Lumos!” Draco held his wand aloft, to see the woman locking the closet door with a strong charm. “What are you doing in here?”

“I might ask you the same, Mister Malfoy,” she hissed.

He stared at her, eyes demanding an answer.

She glared at him. “Magdalen MacDougal, Hogwarts class of ’90. I had a sister in your year, Morag. A Ravenclaw; and very taken with you, although you may not remember her.” She pointed her wand at his chest. “They said came over to Dumbledore’s side; that Hermione Granger herself vouched for you; but Slytherins always were a sly bunch. You could be double-crossing them. Now tell me what you’re doing here, or I’ll scream that you’re a Death Eater for everyone to hear.”

With her wand pressed point blank against his chest, Draco had no other choice. The MacDougal’s were a family of Unspeakables; the children always top of the class in dueling. This woman could curse him faster than he could raise a shield. He raised his arms in submission and let his wand clatter to the floor.

MacDougal, her face serious, gave him a hard smile. “You made the smart choice, Mr. Malfoy. Now talk.”

It was going to be a long night.