Chapter 5. Tales from the other side.
The defeat of Voldemort and the appointment of Arthur Weasley as Minister for Magic had seen an increase in the fascination that the wizarding world had for the muggles. Weasley's Watchers or the WW's were concentrating on several interesting subjects, one of which was an elderly academic at a University in the east of the country.
The work of one Professor Wilfred Fullbrook who held the double chair in Metaphysics and Parapsychology at St. Beade's College, Cambridge, was causing some concern. Without realising it, the Professor, who was now getting on in years, had been, on no less than three occasions, within a hair's breadth of proving the existence of magic and the way it could be channelled to allow its use. On each occasion Weasley's Watchers had acted, the Professor had been neatly sidetracked by the arrival of a supposed 'student' brilliant in some closely allied but slightly divergent field, and so the secret of what could make a muggle appear like a wizard remained just that, a secret. Arthur had vetoed the use of memory modification on the Professor; the man was reasonably isolated by his incumbency, and who was going to believe him anyway, even if he managed to prove the existence of wizards.
"He won't cause us any trouble, what he finds out may even be useful," said Arthur, to the Head of the W.W's. Dot Coombs, at one of their regular meetings. "Just monitor his activities, Dorothy, it will be fine."
As time passed it became clear to the Ministry that the now ageing Professor was not about to make any startling breakthroughs, and they lost interest. So it was that some five years after the fall of Voldemort the Professor, who had never even considered the existence of someone like the Dark Lord, had a visitor. He thought at first it was a child standing there in his office, but by his speech the being was evidently older and thus by his stature must be a dwarf of some kind. Professor Fullbrook couldn't see his face, it was hidden by the hood of his cloak, but he did have an abnormally long nose which poked out past the edge of the garment. The visitor's voice was cracked with age and had a sibilant hiss.
"I was told to come to you muggle," there was resentment in his tone, "I have resisted but can no longer."
"Sorry, name is Fullbrook don't know anyone called Muggle," the Professor interrupted.
His interjection was ignored. "You are to have this." A hand with long bony fingers appeared from inside the cloak holding a stick. "It wants to come to you, Kreacher does not want to let it go but I have no choice," the voice was desperate, torn between the speaker's desire and obeying his orders.
The Professor was as oblivious to the opposing forces acting in the mind of the house elf, as he was to the fact that it was a house elf standing in his room.
Wilfred Fullbrook reached down and took the proffered stick, he had in his hand the most deadly wand known to wizard kind. He turned it in his fingers, examining the shaft and handle of the instrument that The Dark Lord had used to send a thousand souls away on the next journey.
"Umm," he said, as he considered it, "yew, very nice, thank-you."
To the house elf's chagrin he opened the top drawer of his desk and shut the wand away. Kreacher gave a guttural cry and turned and ran from the room. The Professor watched his departure with some astonishment, as he caught sight of the large bare splayed-toed feet slapping on the cold stone floor, visible below the hem of the cloak.
"Goodness," he muttered to himself, "what students will do for a prank these days."
The wand that lay in his desk drawer was forgotten.
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"Sarge," the young constable, accosted his superior in the Police Station canteen. "There is another load of kids outside the station waiting to be shown around."
He watched the shoulders of the burly sergeant sag; everyone understood that these visits from the local schools reminded the man of his own problems at home, and the constable knew his sergeant missed his daughter dreadfully.
Not that she was away all the time, but it was strange that at the moment when he needed his family near him the most, he sent her away to some boarding school in Scotland.
The sergeant's wife had died quite suddenly about three years ago, cancer they said, then uncharacteristically while the rest of the family gathered around to give support, the sergeant had sent his only daughter away with no explanations to her uncles and aunts, just like that. The young P.C. had only heard this second hand but it was not hard to imagine it all to be true, Sergeant Swan was a natural with the kids, but at times you could see the hurt in his eyes.
Gerry Swan straightened, "OK Joe, I'll be down in a tick, could you get them into reception for me."
"Sure Sarge, no problem," he said with a smile, nobody minded helping the Sergeant, he was the one who ran this station, whatever the Superintendent thought, and he was a bloody nice bloke.
The sergeant heaved himself up from his chair, picked up his paper plate and plastic knife and fork and headed toward the refuse bin. It always amused him that in a building full to the brim with burly policemen that Health and Safety rules decreed that they were not allowed metal implements to eat with.
He wondered how his daughter Julie was faring, the school sounded good; it was certainly good for her, a bit rocky at the start but then who didn't have problems in a new school. He was a very practical man and he did have, and truly was still having some difficulty in coming to terms with what his daughter had become.
A witch, to him that meant some green skinned crone covered in warts riding a broomstick like the one in the Wizard of Oz. Now he knew different, when he had collected Julie from King Cross last time there had been a young woman with her, my word, if only he had been twenty years younger. She had been introduced to him as Mrs Potter, and she had held out her hand.
"Hermione," she said.
"Sorry?" Julie's father had replied.
"Hermione Potter, my husband is one of Julie's professors." She had clarified.
"Oh err sorry," he said again, and managed to break the spell this wonderful young woman had him under, "Gerry Swan, err pleased to meet you."
They hadn't talked for long, but in that short time he realised that if Julie had friends like Hermione Potter in that other world, then he didn't have to worry about her. Over that summer Julie had filled him in on the story surrounding Hermione and her husband and what they had accomplished along with all their friends, he honestly hoped that his daughter would find friendship as tight as that. She certainly deserved something nice to happen to her.
He straightened his uniform as he descended the stairs to the reception room and readied to meet this next batch of show arounds.
They were the usual crop of kids that was sure, Gerry Swan may have noticed the boy who stood at the back of the group but he made no special impression on the Sergeant, but the Sergeant made an impression on him. From the day of that visit John Burford was sold on the job, he wanted to be a policeman and nothing was going to dissuade him from fulfilling his dream.
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If there was one muggle in the whole world who hated Harry Potter more than Draco Malfoy did, then that muggle was Vernon Dursley. Although he hadn't seen Harry in nearly ten years, his dislike of the boy and everything he stood for never diminished, in fact it had grown. In his own mind Harry had been the architect of Vernon's failures, and it had all started with that disastrous visit to his home by Mr and Mrs Mason. The drill order to top all drill orders, the order that was going to put Grunnings on the map, and make Vernon a wealthy man and of course it never happened.
Grunnings had begun to fail and Vernon had become vociferous in pointing out to anyone who would listen the reason for that failure. Generally he avoided the use of the M word and the W word simply for propriety sake, but at the last Christmas party, if you could call it a party, Vernon had become a little drunk, and somehow the whole sordid truth had come out. Fortunately most of his colleagues were drunk as well so nobody paid him much attention as he banged on about witches, wizards, magical schools, dementoes and the fact that someone had inflated his sister.
Unfortunately there was someone at the party that was not the least bit inebriated, not only that, he didn't work for Grunnings either. He did work for a certain Julius Magus who was in the market for a machine tool company. Now Magus' agent had initially written off Grunnings as a waste of time, but he knew that his boss had a thing for magic, and this Dursley fellow, unlikely as it seemed, appeared to know something about it.
So the word was passed on and Julius Magus, his interest stimulated, bought out Grunnings purely so he could talk to Vernon Dursley and show him a little souvenir that he had kept tucked away since he was a young boy.
Vernon was not surprised to be called to see the new owner; Julius Magus was obviously an entrepreneurial genius and he must have recognised the same qualities in him. To give Vernon his due, he did try to find out something about Magus, who it seemed came from a wealthy family but by judicious buying and selling of initially stocks and shares and then whole companies had made that wealth grow. Now, in his late fifties he was one of the richest men in the world, and he wanted advice from Vernon Dursley.
In his own mind, and in his mind only, Vernon thought he was the most important man in the company, and this summons merely inflated this importance. Physically it would have been impossible to inflate anything as he was so large no one else could ride in the lift with him, and in the office canteen he formed a queue all on his own.
Unfortunately for Vernon he had only scratched the public face of his new employer, and he was totally unaware that at the age of twelve Julius Magus had witnessed an act of savagery that had marked him for life and left in his possession the knowledge and physical proof that magic and wizards were real.
The interview started on friendly enough terms, polite inquires as to his family and their health, but Julius was a master at the soft hard technique of questioning and he watched with satisfaction as he manoeuvred Vernon to the topic he wanted. His agent had given him the trigger and so he used it.
Julius Magus saw Vernon's face redden, the question had been innocent enough, why had he not clinched the deal with Masons Manufacturing, it was the most important order that Grunnings had received in the last fifteen years, it would have turned the company into the top drill producer in the country. Something had put Mr Mason off, and his wife still needed therapy.
"Come on Dursley there must have been something, I can't imagine that it was your fault," encouraged Magus, "Or was it?"
"No, no, not mine, it was all his fault," Vernon had mumbled, "disaster, he caused it, exploding pudding then the owls, all his fault." His hate for everything Potterish flared up, and the palpitations started again. Vernon felt the room begin to close in around him and the sweat began to gather on his brow, he had obviously forgotten where he was, for he rambled on. "Thought that would be the end of it, Ministry of Magic involved, thought he'd be expelled but no, not him, not Potter."
"Potter?" asked Magus calmly.
"Umm… yes Potter and all his kind, unnatural." Vernon was on a roll now and he was unable to stop himself, so if Magus wanted to know, he would tell him. "Wizards, magic, all real," Vernon was becoming more incoherent as he babbled on, "did you know? Caused me so much trouble, …unnatural all of them, …popping out of fireplaces, …trying to kill my son!" Vernon was actually frothing at the mouth by this stage, and visibly shaking with rage.
"Yes, yes I understand now," Magus made his voice cold and unfriendly, he badly wanted all the information Dursley had, and he decided to provoke him a little bit more. "I know all about you and the way you feel about, well… this," he reached into his coat pocket and placed the object it concealed onto the desk between them. Vernon Dursley glanced down, then he couldn't look away, his eyes bulged and an incoherent gurgle issued from his throat.
"NO, NO you're one of THEM!" he cried, and then he gripped his chest, the pain was unbearable and it made him cry out once more, "POTTER!" At that moment Vernon's heart, so badly overstretched for so many years, decided that enough was enough and constricted tightly in a fatal spasm. Vernon slid off his chair collapsing to the floor; he was dead before he hit the ground.
Julius Magus eyed his former employee with horror; that was certainly quite some reaction; he hadn't expected it to be quite so severe, he tried to remember if he had ever interviewed anyone to death before, he didn't think he had. He picked up the wand from the desk and returned it to his pocket, then called for his P.A. The over manicured man in the sharp suit nearly tripped over Vernon's vast corpse as he rushed to do his master's bidding, then recoiled when he realised what was lying on the floor.
Magus had regained his composure, it wouldn't do to have the hired help think this was anything but a tragic accident. "Mr Dursley appears to be unwell, please deal with it." He turned to leave the office, and the P.A. was already scrabbling for the phone, Julius stopped, "For the record I was never here, and oh by the way, locate Dursley's son and find out any connection that Dursley may have had with someone called Potter."
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Dudley Dursley was miserable, he had never been particularly happy as a teenager and as he grew into adulthood that hadn't changed much. He knew when his unhappiness really started, that night in that alley near his parent's old home, the night he was attacked by those Dementors, and he knew whose fault that was, Harry Potter's. Those things had left him cold and stripped of all his happy thoughts, the thrill of beating up someone younger and smaller than he was, of getting one up on Potter and seeing his father take advantage of it, those feelings were gone, and now so was his father.
Dudley Dursley had never left home, he never has any wish to and now with the death of his father he had a good enough reason to stay. Strangely the company that had taken over Grunnings had offered him a job. His father had only managed to get him a clerking position in his old company, and when he had died Dudley thought he would soon be out on his ear, but surprisingly he was given a position at the parent company's head office. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing, in fact he actually did nothing at all most of the time. He signed a few papers and read a few reports, but that was all, and it suited him down to the ground. What Dudley didn't know was that he was watched, every minute of every day, there was someone there. Not that he realised, not that he probably would have cared, unless he had found out that the reason for the surveillance hinged on his father's dying word, naming the one person Dudley never wanted to meet again.
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Much to his annoyance Julius Magus found out very little about the mysterious Potter other than his first name was Harry. There were many Harry Potter's scattered around the country but none of them fitted the age or type of person Magus was expecting. Dudley Dursley had proved to be a complete waste of effort, Julius was surprised that he had enough intelligence to remember to get up in the morning, and any attempt to prise information from him regarding magic usually resulted in a rapid, and apparently genuine, rush to the toilet.
However, something did happen at about the same time that greatly interested the industrial tycoon, and made all those years of searching worthwhile. He had a visit, more a clandestine meeting, with a shadowy figure who only called himself Elf. And a shadowy figure he really was, because Magus never actually saw him in the proper light of day, this was a necessity because Elf was not human and he did not want the muggle to see the box he stood on to raise his height to that of a normal man.
This Elf led Julius Magus on a merry magical and wizardly dance, he told him many secrets that muggles should not be told, so many that Magus believed that Elf was a wizard himself. So certain was he, that on one occasion, he tried to capture him. The results were not pretty, three of his men were very badly injured, and Elf had simply vanished. What was worse was that he remained vanished for the best part of six months, Magus knew it was a punishment and he never tried to cross the Elf again.
The association with this strange being continued and over the years some fascinating projects came out of it. Magus Research was a complex of laboratories, mainly underground, near one of the Science Parks associated with Cambridge University, and in the secrecy of this station Julius Magus initiated his Magical Investigation Unit. The Elf provided plans for containment rooms and instruments of investigation, which were to be used when they actually captured a wizard, and then the drawings for a most ambitious undertaking arrived. Magus always handled these plans wearing gloves; the material they were drawn on was thick and yellow and crackled ominously if it became very dry, he knew it was skin of some kind and he had a horrible idea that it might be human.
The result of this last grand experiment was that three fifty ton blocks of Dolerite found their way into the largest of the underground laboratories and were set up as a Trilithon so that they looked like refugees from Stonehenge. This was to form part of the mysteriously named instability inducer, neither Magus nor his workers knew exactly what this machine would do, but Elf had assured them that their world would never be the same once they had perfected it. Oblivious to any double meaning in his words, they followed his instructions slavishly, it was not an easy construction to complete and it would be many years before the folly of their actions became clear.
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On the day that Voldemort died Draco Malfoy knew he had lost his last chance for redemption. After watching the Dark Lord torn apart and then incinerated, destroying all his hopes of power and glory marching at Voldemort's side, Draco had killed. Not bravely in battle but in a cowardly attack on an unsuspecting and defenceless child, his hate had made him do it. His hate had given his physically weak body the power to kill, his hate for Harry and Hermione and all that they stood for had condemned him forever.
Running for his life he skirted the edge of the forest, then turned down the far side of the lake through the scrubby trees that formed the west boundary of the grounds and out into the clear. He reached the muggle road it was as usual deserted, he glanced back once to see the castle on its hill at the far end of the lake, he willed it to take on the appearance that muggles would see from here, a crumbling pile of stones slowly decaying away to nothing, but it defied him. The castle was whole, standing proudly, a symbol of the wizarding world that Draco's actions had divorced him from for ever. His breath caught in his throat and he sobbed once, then turning from the sight he formed a vision of his home in his mind and apparated away.
The mansion that was his home had suffered in the time since his parents had realigned themselves with Voldemort. The house was damp; there was a coldness that even the blazing fire he lit would not dispel. He waited alone for two or possibly three days, at least there was some food in the kitchen, but he was not used to looking after himself and he burned most of what he cooked. Meagre though his rations were it did satisfy his hunger.
His parents had still not returned, they were certainly not involved in the debacle at Hogwarts or Draco would have seen them, so they must have been involved elsewhere in Voldemort's plans, and as the days passed he began to worry about their safety.
On the fourth day Kreacher returned, he was not behaving like a normal house elf, but then he had never been that normal. The elf carried himself with a haughty air and he was dressed in clothes, trousers and some form of jacket covered his skinny body, over these he was wearing a full length cloak, it was black and deeply cowled at the back. He regarded Draco with distain and threw a tattered copy of the Daily Prophet at him. The paper contained a vivid description of the battle in Glastonbury, the defeat of the dark wizards, and the capture of some of the Dementor horde that tried to invade Avalon. The article concluded with the names of the dead, no wizards had been captured, all had died, and as he read what was left of Draco's world collapsed around him for there in the list were the names of his mother and father.
Time passed without him being conscious of its passage, he was quite unaware that the day after he had arrived Kreacher left again, never to return. Draco sank into a depression full of despair and hate; he retreated away from the light and took to hiding in the basement.
Then one day in a garden, on a summer afternoon, six young people reaffirmed their love for each other and the power of that love was so intense that it spread out of that modest garden to reach every witch and wizard in the country, and all of them were touched by it.
Even Draco felt it, and he hated it. For he knew its source, and he could sense them at the centre of it, Potter and Granger then the others the Weasley's, the idiot Lovegood and the dolt Longbottom. Draco Malfoy knew was beyond the help of that power now, love meant nothing to him, he cried out denying it, all he wanted now was revenge.
His home would not be a safe place for him now, with the family irrevocably connected to that failure Voldemort, the Aurors would search and even Lucius' belated efforts to hide the house would eventually fall. There was little he wanted, some clothes, his wand and Kreacher to care for him. The clothes he found and he took the time to clean himself up, his wand was in his robe pocket, only now he noticed that the house elf was gone, he would have to survive on his own.
Draco studied himself in the mirror in his room, he could not travel safely looking like this, his appearance needed readjustment. He knew the spell, and he knew it would be difficult, but he had little choice. Drawing his wand he pointed it at his reflection, concentrated on the changes he wanted, and uttered the charm "mutatio". He hadn't expected the pain to be so severe and an involuntary scream left his lips. He was driven to his knees but when he looked again in the mirror the effect he had produced was satisfactory. His blonde hair was an inconspicuous brown, his long angular face rounded and his complexion darkened, he was definitely not as good looking any more, but no one would associate him with Draco Malfoy, he was free to go.
He left England far behind him; he travelled east and north to a land where the dark and arcane arts were given more credence. It was easier for Draco to hide out in this desolate, cold country, he may even find like minded wizards who would help him, but that was a minor concern. He wanted to be close to Durmstrang, there hopefully he could listen out for news of home and news of Potter. One day he promised himself, one day he would meet Potter and he would defeat him.
For now he bided his time, he found a room in Pustynja, the village that was close to Durmstrang, and as Draco considered his surroundings he thought the name of the village suited it well, 'Wilderness', it was certainly bleak and not very friendly. The mountain that held the school between its icy crags was perpetually covered in snow and clouds, a cold dampness hung everywhere. The village was not much better off, the trees that surrounded it were stunted, and those areas that were clear were covered in marsh grass that held a low mist for most of the day. It really was an appalling place, however he felt safe. To begin with Draco tried to work to pay for his room but menial tasks were not for him, perhaps he could use his not inconsiderable talents for deviousness to make a living.
He became a spy and took the name of Laska, which in the local tongue meant weasel. Draco thought it appropriate, he may look different but inside he was just the same, and it suited the type of work he did.
As Laska he learned of many things, some of which gave more benefit to himself than to those who gave him employ, and in doing so he made himself a lot of money, but he heard nothing regarding Potter or Granger.
If his time in Pustynja was not that pleasant it was well spent, as he aged he became more like his father he learned a deviousness that was unknown to him in his years at Hogwarts.
'Oh to be able to repeat those years with my new found knowledge, Potter and the rest would never have stood a chance' he thought to himself. 'Perhaps now I could return' he deluded himself 'Potter will not be expecting anything after so long, he will have grown weak and careless, I must go back.'
Draco made his return in easy stages, he was in no hurry, and he kept his ear to the ground for any news of home. He retained the persona of Laska and used the simple ruse of reversing his family name, and thus by the time Laska Yoflam stood on the shore of the English Channel he had decided what his next move should be.
James David Potter received his letter confirming his place at Hogwarts on the same day that Draco Malfoy returned to England. Draco knew that his disguise was almost foolproof and he needed information to discover the lie of the land, so he travelled to the place where gossip was always rife, Diagon Alley.
Finding suitable lodgings had not been that difficult, a side trip into Knockturn Alley had produced a cheap but serviceable room, and from this base he had wandered the length and breadth of the magical enclave listening for the news he wanted.
Draco was standing gazing through the window of Phume and Boiles, the potions supply shop, when he heard a vaguely familiar voice.
"James, Natalie, don't pester your father, he will take you to see Fred and George later, we need to sort out James' books first."
Draco stiffened, he knew those bossy tones, in the reflection of the shop window he saw four people, two adults with their children walking towards Flourish and Blotts, it was them he was sure of it, but he could only see their backs.
He moved up Diagon Alley to get a better view, and he slipped into a small alleyway opposite Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. Unbeknown to him it was the same dingy cut that he had dragged Pansy Parkinson into on the day the Tyr had first fought together and defeated his gang.
Draco watched as the family left the bookstore, there he was tall and confident, Harry Potter, and the woman beside him no real surprise, it was Granger, even Draco had to admit to himself she was a looker, and then there were the brats. Draco stifled a laugh they were so like their parents, so it was Mr and Mrs Potter now was it, so much the better, and his hand twitched towards the wand in the pocket of his robes. But before Draco could take this little meeting to its logical conclusion there was the touch of a restraining hand on his arm, long bony fingers digging into his flesh, stopping him from drawing his wand.
"Now is not the time… Master," the last word was grudgingly spoken, "listen to Kreacher,… Master Draco, you needs to hear me out."
Draco turned in rage and surprise. "How dare you! Why should I listen to anything you have to say elf, you have no loyalty to me, you made that clear when you deserted me. What could you possibly say that I would be interested to hear?" he spat it out, probably louder than he intended. Then it occurred to him that the house elf shouldn't have recognised him, how had he seen through his disguise?
The old house elf, his face hidden in the deep cowl of his cloak, stared up at Draco, and he knew without a doubt that it was Draco. It would take more than a simple transfiguration spell to fool the magic of a house elf, the wizards had never understood their magic and they never would, besides the voice inside Kreacher's head had told him who this rather unattractive person was.
"The Dark Lord speaks to me," Kreacher wheezed, "I can help you get revenge. Come…this way." The house elf pulled insistently on Draco's arm, and so with the reluctant wizard in tow they melted away into the maze of cuts and alleys, which branched off into the darkness.
In Diagon Alley the Potters turned to enter Fred and George's shop, Harry let his wife and children enter, then a icy feeling on the back of his neck made him stop and turn to look behind him. There was just the empty alley that had always been opposite the joke shop, but today there was something cold and unfriendly emanating from it. Harry shuddered trying to throw the feeling away, Hermione was standing in the shop doorway gazing after him.
"What's the matter Harry?" she grinned at him, "someone step on your grave?" she quipped.
The look that Harry returned to her wiped the smile from her face, then seeing her concern he forced a smile. "No, nothing to worry about, just a cold draught I expect." And he laughed it off. "Go on inside, Fred and George are waiting."
Draco was not sure why, but against his natural feelings he was compelled to follow the wizened creature as he shuffled quickly away from the immediate area of Diagon Alley, and was surprised to find that after several minutes of weaving in and out of the tiny passageways they emerged directly in front of the door of his lodgings. The elf pushed the door open and entered as if he owned the place. Putting aside his irritation with Kreacher's intrusion Draco was fascinated by the actions of the elf, for they were most un-elflike, in fact Kreacher was acting in a way Draco would have expected from his father, and it may have been for this reason that he had followed so meekly.
Once the door of his room closed behind him Draco turned to the house elf.
"You better have a good explanation for your behaviour elf," Draco said hotly, "you deserted me all those years ago then expect to carry on as if nothing has happened."
"No I don't, you will sit," Kreacher replied coldly, "I will explain, I am not myself sometimes, I listen and I obey."
"You know that makes no sense elf," Draco retorted, "listen to what? Obey who?"
Draco sat and the house elf stood in front of him and let his cloak fall away, Draco recoiled from the sight revealed to him. Kreacher's skin had paled it was almost white, unhealthy looking, and so thin that the blood vessels were quite visible beneath it, but it was his eyes that had changed and that held Draco's attention. Usually big and round with large central pupils, fixed with an expression bordering on fear and surprise, now Kreacher's eyes were slit like and burned with a red fire that Draco had only ever seen once before.
"On the day that the Dark Lord was destroyed I was called to the grounds of Hogwarts," the elf intoned in a voice that was remarkably similar to one Draco hadn't heard for a long time. "There was much confusion, and I was drawn to all that remained of Lord Voldemort. He was gone, and nothing could be done for him, but my new master was whole, he bade me pick him up and take him away and that I did. He is hidden and will not reveal himself until the time is right, until you are prepared."
Draco thought that he should feel heartened and encouraged that the power of darkness was still undefeated, but he felt apprehension and deep foreboding of what was about to happen. The elf was starting to sag as if the effort of retelling his story was draining him. Draco needed some answers, so he posed his questions quickly.
"What are we preparing for? And who is your new master?"
"My master will destroy his brother, my master will destroy Harry Potter." Kreacher sank down to his knees and then collapsed over on his side, he twitched and then lay still.
Not wanting to touch the revolting creature, Draco picked up the fallen cloak and covered him with it. He would wait until Kreacher recovered, then he would find out what was expected of him, knowing that the elf was under the control of a higher master, meant he would listen but he would only follow if the outcome benefited him.
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Solomon Aegis, headmaster of Hogwarts sat in his office drinking a cup of tea with the Minister for Magic Arthur Weasley. Their conversation, once the pleasantries had been attended to, centred on darker matters.
"How many are missing now then Arthur?" Solomon asked gravely.
"We think it is six but it was only with the disappearance of the Finch-Fletchleys that anyone took any real notice." Arthur couldn't help but see Solomon's disapproving stare. "I know what you are thinking, but it is hard to keep track of so many disparate characters, some witches and wizards want to remain anonymous, even to the Ministry."
"You mean, because of the Ministry, Arthur," Solomon growled, "more than a few of your predecessors have a lot to answer for, the office you took over was in very bad odour. At least you have improved matters there."
Arthur looked a bit put out by Solomon's comments, "It's all very well for you to sit here and criticise; I can see why Fudge had so many issues with Dumbledore." he said his face reddening to match his thinning hair.
"Calm down Arthur," Solomon placated the seething Minister, "I am only being Mordred's advocate. The changes you have made are laudable and I have no criticism of you. Your ministry is now better than most which rule our world and the muggle one come to that, but we cannot become complacent. These disappearances rather smack of the last little unpleasantness that Harry and his friends had to deal with."
"Well at least we know it's not Voldemort this time," said Arthur, "but I doubt we got all his followers and we certainly never found the younger Malfoy. It chills me to the bone to think that all that sort of thing could flare up again."
"I have a feeling that our problems come from a different quarter this time," Solomon mused, "you say that Hannah and Justin's disappearance has given you your best leads," Arthur nodded, "I suggest you get one of your WW'S to look at Justin's side of things more closely, probably better than letting ordinary Aurors loose on the matter, they will only consider the wizarding connections."
Arthur looked up sharply; "You suspect muggle involvement?" his tone was incredulous.
"Yes Arthur, I do." Solomon said, with a deadly finality.