She watched, with barely concealed glee how Draco folded himself in the back of her Panda and how Severus eyed the car rather suspiciously before getting in, before she got in herself and started the engine. Yes, it made that typical whining sound and it did rather...well, it still ran. And that was what was the important thing.
"Ready?" she asked, curiously, as Draco fought with the seatbelt. It almost looked like he had never used one before and he had to watch his godfather as he fought with his own. Strange, she thought. Something was — weird. She would have to wait and see — and ask. But struggling with seatbelts? The boy almost strangling himself and Severus fiddling with it until he could fasten it? That was — well. Surely any kind of person knew how to use them?
Still, she was intent to focus on her driving and she did. It wasn't too far to Ikea though and she managed without any further incidents. The boys were both quiet and in the rear view mirror, she could see Draco looking rather afraid. It was odd — and she certainly wanted them both there at Christmas. Just to observe them. And of course, to feed them.
.
Severus felt absolutely overwhelmed. There were little living rooms and bedrooms and kitchens and halls and everything in little cubicles and you could sit in them and look at the things in there. It was as if he was in someone's overstuffed, huge home, really. Apart from the masses of people in there. Draco, walking closely next to him felt obviously the same way. It was truly astonishing to believe that people would have built all that, that people would have put it all there as if it was really someone's over-decorated living room or bedroom or bathroom or hall or study or kitchen. And fake flowers everywhere.
He could not even imagine one of those tables he saw there in his living room. Or one of the chairs that stood, not only decorated in the rooms but two or three rows as well for perusal. He had absolutely no idea. That was too much.
If there had been three or four — he could have picked one. And those weird names. Things with ä, ö, unpronounceable. He was overwhelmed and he felt slightly claustrophobic.
It was Draco who got securer quicker. He truly looked at the tables and at the small living rooms and the rows of tables and chairs. And it was Draco, together with Eleanor, who saw one first. A table he might like. But if truth be told, at that stage, Severus only wanted to get back into the frightening car and go home. Or better yet — walk home. Shut himself into his blissfully empty, blissfully quiet living room. And yes, he caught himself more than once rummaging through his pockets, looking for his wand.
An average table was what they pointed out to him. Not too large, but not small either, wooden. Not too heavy looking.
"That one's good, I think," Eleanor said gently, moving to his side, her hand touching his gently. "It is a bit overwhelming, yes?"
He didn't have to say anything. It was enough to just look at her and she understood. Or she seemed, at least, to understand.
"Do you like it?"
He didn't care. It was a table. It would do. "Yes," he said.
She smiled softly and nodded. "Alright then. Draco, remember the name and the what location it says on the tag," she said, a little louder. "I'm sure there are chairs that fit, too."
Again, he nodded. Couldn't speak. Was too much. Too many people, too much perfection, too much strangeness in that place.
.
Oh it was wonderful! There were little made up rooms and Draco felt as if he could be truly comfortable in one of those rooms. If he ever had enough money to afford his own flat, he wouldn't go to one of those Wizarding furniture shops. He would go there. And pick up his furniture there. It was pretty and it was lovely and he truly, truly liked the way those rooms were made up. And the furniture itself was pretty. It wasn't the overly stuff, golden gilded, ancient stuff. It was simple, it was clean cut, it was more to his taste. More than all the gold-stuff at his parents' place.
Within minutes, he had found a table and chairs for his godfather — together with Mrs Callaghan. His godfather only stood there and seemed unable to decide, which Draco could understand, really. There were so many beautiful things. So many decisions to make. If he had his own flat to furnish, he would take a lot of time to pick carefully.
Oh, it was really fun. It was even fun to see that Mrs Callaghan, on their way out, picked up a few more items, a few cups and mugs, even plates. Towels, tea towels. That Ikea-shop truly had everything! Everything you needed to live. Astonishing. Draco knew that his eyes grew wider and wider. He had memorised the numbers on the tag of the table and the chairs — and to his even greater astonishment, there were huge huge huge shelves. Higher than the goalposts at Quidditch, well, almost, and there, in those shelves, were slim packages.
He had no idea what that had to do with furniture or the table or the chairs but, as Mrs Callaghan directed them, they picked up the packages, square and heavy and loaded them onto a — sort of trolley thing. One of the bigger ones, four of the smaller ones. But whatever that was, Draco trusted Mrs Callaghan. She knew the ropes, she knew how that worked. And his godfather looked a little weird. As excited as Draco was, as unexcited, almost bored seemed his godfather. But then again, he probably knew how all this worked as well. He had no trouble paying for all that when Draco would have completely failed in even understanding what that woman in that small stall did with the weird shaped, almost wand-like thing in her hand. All he saw was that a reddish light came from there that emitted a beeping sound. And then, Severus pulled those bank notes out of his pockets and paid and they left. It was nothing more — but oh so fascinating.
The moment, Draco left Ikea, he knew he would return and he wanted to return.
.
He had never in his life — apart from those days when he had been almost tortured to death by Cruciatus after Cruciatus — been happier to be home. Happier to be in the house he called home now. With Draco, who insisted on seeing what was in the smallish, square packages.
Severus knew. He had no idea where he knew it from — but he knew that they would have to put the table and the chairs together. He had barely paid attention to what else Eleanor had picked for him but she had bought good things — towels and mugs and plates. He had gone down to the cellar where he knew his father's toolbox sat and as he brought it upstairs, he could already hear his godson's excited chatter. The boy almost rivalled Arthur Weasley now in his enthusiasm but he would keep that to himself.
"Uncle Severus, look. The pictures don't move. They just stick and you have to figure out how to put the furniture together."
"I know," he replied darkly, the tool box in his hands.
"Can I stay and help?" he asked, hopeful.
Severus took a deep breath — but deep inside, he knew it was no question. He couldn't do this alone. But the boy didn't have to know that.
"If you must," he said darkly and sat on the floor, checking the instructions.
14. The Lombard Effect
The Lombard reflex or effect is the elevation of vocal effort that occurs when talking in the presence of noise. In addition to 'talking louder', the Lombard effect also involves several vocal and articulatory changes associated with the increased vocal effort while the noise is present. We have all experienced this effect when we try to continue speaking even though a loud airplane or train is passing by.
(Gelfand, 1948)
Hermione nodded gratefully at the goblin and pocketed the money she had just been given over the counter.
"I have absolutely no idea why so many of you now want that cheap currency," he muttered.
"Have there been many lately?" asked Hermione, curiously.
"I'm not at liberty to tell," he snarled, then looked over the her head and shouted, "Next!"
She stepped aside, brow furrowed. So there had been many people exchanging Galleons for Pound. And she had just done it as well. With Kingsley's, well, more or less, blessing. She thought that maybe he was too busy, and that he thought it was better she went — better her than Harry in any case. Or not. She wasn't so sure about that anymore but she would have to try. She would have to evoke her inner Gryffindor lioness and would have to just — suck it up. She was doing the right thing, she told herself firmly and he not only deserved, but probably needed it.
And seriously — the poor man was all alone in what seemed like a dead town with an old neighbour only. A neighbour who probably didn't even know who he was. What he had done. And that bit of money, which was actually rather a lot, was rightfully his and he deserved it. Even if it wasn't nearly enough. But she had talked to Kingsley about a sort of rent — and he said he would think about it and talk about it. She was positive that he'd decide on it. The bigger problem, she knew, was only to get him to accept the money.
For now though, it was more difficult, she thought, to get close to him, to make him open the door and to at least talk to her for a minute. If he did, she could always throw the money in through the open door. If he slammed the door right back in her face, she would have to use the postbox. She wondered, not for the first time, thinking about postboxes, if Harry's letter had already arrived but she honestly didn't think so. The Royal Mail wasn't that quick. Or reliable.
She shook her head to clear her mind and closed her eyes, concentrating on her destination, then disappeared with a faint pop.
.
"This is not right," Draco muttered, the screwdriver in his hand. "I could use ma..."
"Don't," growled Severus. "If you insist on using magic, I suggest you go some place where it is used naturally and not here. This is a Muggle house."
"I know that," the boy huffed. "But those instructions are just...what does it mean?" he pointed at a picture which Severus couldn't interpret either. It looked as if one thing was supposed to fit into another thing and was to be secured with screws. His godson picked up the seat of the chair and put it flat on the ground, then what looked like a leg of the chair and tried to wriggle it into the holes provided. It stuck — but wobbled. "And the screws go in where?" he asked.
Severus was close to sending the boy home. He wanted to do this alone, wanted to figure this out himself and not be looked at by his godson as the person who couldn't even put a bloody chair together. Gingerly, he picked up the screw and the screwdriver and put it where he thought it would go — without looking at the instructions again and tightened it. The leg stopped wobbling. It was secure.
One leg on one chair — fifteen to go and an entire table to set up. He would be there, indubitably, until the morning. And he knew this was one of those jobs he truly had to — wanted to — do alone. Like cleaning and like mowing his lawn and like cleaning windows and like painting. Without magic, just with his bare hands. And without his godson. He had seen Ikea, he had ridden in a car, and that was enough excitement for the boy for one day. He would have to switch back into his old, stern teacher mode.
"Draco, I think you should go home now."
"What? Why? It needs to be put together," he almost pouted.
"Because I say so," he said menacingly. "And this is not your place to stay. You've had your little trip into the Muggle world, now return to the witches and wizards and do some magic."
"But..."
"Leave," said Severus again, a little more menacing this time. "You've had your entertainment." Yes, he did know that it had been more than mere entertainment. The boy had really wanted to be there, but now was the time to leave. He needed his solitude and he needed to stop the bubbling memories in his mind. Memories of other furniture, of other times that the boy had been asking for advice — and those times he had not. Those memories of when he had apparently, on orders, had to save the boy's soul and had marred his own. He knew that it wouldn't help to have him there. It would help to keep himself busy. Discarding all the instructions and just doing it, just putting the furniture together. Having to think on the important things — getting a chair to have four legs and stand securely. Getting a table with four legs and four chairs around it. Didn't want to think about all the rest. Didn't want to ponder on his soul or the boy's soul or the Mark that were on both their arms — Marks that looked so alike now they both had pushed their sleeves up.
He glared at Draco, wanting to convey with fewer words that he truly wanted to be left alone and him to leave when there was yet someone else ringing at his door. He shook his head. This couldn't be true. "I live in a bloody train station," he muttered and could only look after Draco as he bounced up and towards the door. All that he could do was groan.
And how did all those people — whoever it was now — knew where he lived? He knew Narcissa knew so Draco and Lucius would know. How Harry Potter had known, he could only guess — maybe his aunt, maybe his memories. But whoever was at the door now — providing it was not one of those people, had no way of knowing. Except if word got around and he didn't want that. He wanted his solitude, he needed to find his own peace there. On his own. Not with masses of people. He wanted his own company and on occasion Eleanor's. Nothing more, nothing less. If it continued that way, he would just...do something. Couldn't hex people. Couldn't put wards on his house. Couldn't repel wizards or Muggles. Couldn't do anything but lock his door and refuse to answer it. And he would have, if Draco hadn't gone to open it already. And he certainly would in the future. Would tell Mrs Callaghan to knock on his back door, or use a special ringing sign — or maybe he could just spy out of the window (there were curtains in the paper bags Mrs Callaghan had used to put all the smaller things from Ikea in. Hadn't noticed when Eleanor had put them in there) and see who was there. He could do that covertly.
Hang up the curtains, finish the furniture, wash the new dishes, make a cup of tea. After he had thrown Draco out. And whoever was at the door.
.
Hermione's eyes widened considerably (and she knew it) when there the door opened. Only a crack, really, but the eyes that looked at her from inside were silvery-grey, not black and when they spotted her, it was flung wide open and a wand was pointed at her. She was quick to draw hers as well, glad that this town, this street, seemed dead. Was dead, probably.
"What are you doing here?" snarled Malfoy.
