Unofficial Portkey Archive

Blue-Eyed Angel

Chapter Two

Narcissa Malfoy hurried between one Ministry Official and another, shouting, taking things from them and setting them down, just to turn her back and have the item picked up and carried off again.

"Stop this! You have no right! Get out of my home!" she shouted, her usual crisp and proper voice faulting around the edges, anger close to the surface, sadness and frustration already there.

"I'm sorry, Madam, but we have Ministry orders to search your home and remove anything we suspect relates to Dark Magic," the wizard that stood vigilant over the scene said, unfolding a piece of parchment and offering it to Narcissa. Narcissa strode over to him in several long graceful steps, her ornately beaded silver dress clinking expensively as she approached. She snatched the parchment from him in a huff and looked it over while witches and wizards tossed the room, carrying things out.

"You have searched my home twice already! What do you hope to find this time?" she demanded, her pointed face hard with anger to mask her tears that threatened to come.

"Your husband, Lucius Malfoy, has just been sent to Azkaban, Madam. He broke into the Ministry under orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and attacked several young Hogwarts students. He bears the Dark Mark," he said, as though that somehow explained what the Ministry hoped to find in the Malfoy home.

Narcissa sobbed at that point, unable to deny what her husband was, and upon being reminded where he was. Her home was being torn apart by people she knew from the Ministry, people she had once considered associates or even friends! Without a word, she hurried from the room, still weeping, lifting the front of her dress so as not to stumble, while wizards used their wands to overturn furniture and search the undersides with charms and spells in hopes of finding things concealed.

Draco stood on the stairs about halfway up, his back to the wall where he leaned his bum against the railing, arms crossed, face flushed in anger as he watched his home be invaded and torn apart for the third time in recent memory, by strangers and family "friends" alike. The sixteen-year-old wizard glared at the unwelcome guests in his house from overhead. He saw his mother hurry into the Grand Hall where the stairs stood and his face fell, arms loosening slightly. He could see and hear her weeping and it made his chest tight with guilt and pain. He hated seeing his mother cry.

Hurrying down the stairs, Draco joined his mother under the chandelier, hugging her slender body protectively.

"It's all right, Mother," he comforted.

"They can't do this. They can't," she sobbed into his shoulder, the Order of Decree crumpled in her perfectly manicured and delicately jeweled hand as she wrapped her arms around her son's shoulders.

"We cannot stop them," he said, hating that. Hating that he could not ease his mother's pain, free his father from Azkaban, clear their family name, and protect and defend his home. He felt powerless, and that made him positively livid.

"Oh, your father would be at the Ministry now, raising hell if he were here. He would not allow this; he would not stand for it," she said, unintentionally comparing Draco to his father like she often did, only making Draco all the more angry, angry that he could not be the man his father was no matter how much he wanted to be, or how hard he tried.

"Our name is no good anymore, Mother. We have no standing with the Ministry with that new Minister," Draco said, trying to make it sound as if it weren't simply because he was inept that he couldn't smooth this over like his father had so many times before, with threats and with gold.

"Oh, God," Narcissa cried. Draco just soothed her softly and rubbed her back, glaring over her shoulder at the wizards that had just entered the hall.

"Check the upstairs, starting with the boy's bedroom," one called out to the others as they filed up the stairs. Draco's eyes narrowed and his chest tightened again in outraged violation.

Draco pulled away from his mother to look at her straight on.

"Mother, go lay down in Father's study," he said.

"Draco,"

"Go, please, they are done in there. Just lay down before you give yourself a nose bleed from stressing," Draco said, giving his mother's hands a squeeze before turning and following after the wizards on their way to his bedroom.

He took the stairs two at a time and caught up with the men just as they started on his room in the same fashion they had the rest. Draco appeared in his doorway in time to see his mattress flipped over onto the floor and his dresser drawers being pulled out, their contents carelessly thrown out.

"Excuse me!" Draco shouted, watching as his privacy was not only violated but as his belongings were so disrespected. "Excuse me, you can't..." he tried but the wizard closest to him produced a Ministry Order of Decree from somewhere in his robes, about to assure Draco they could.

"We have an Order…"

"Sod off, I'm not talking about that, I…HEY!" he shouted, distracted from the Ministry Official before him, as one of the wizards in the room took his wand to the pillows and split them open, tossing the downy feathers out and searching through them, clearly in hopes of finding something hidden. Draco turned to see his closet being pulled apart and his belongings tossed about. Two wizards, knowing Draco was watching them, each grabbed the sleeve of a shirt and pulled, ripping it down the middle. Draco turned again and saw the pictures on his walls being pulled down and checked over, their backings ripped away to expose their canvas backs, but nothing hidden.

Draco's bottom lip trembled and his hands clenched in rage. The wizards knew there was nothing to find in his bedroom; there was no need to be so destructive. They were just being cruel.

"Alright, alright, there is nothing to find here," the wizard who had spoken to Draco already announced, stopping the fun. The wizards slowly filed out, mean, yet satisfied smiles on their faces at Draco's expense. The wizard in charge grabbed Draco's hand and slapped the Order of Decree in his palm and closed his fingers around it.

"Happy birthday," he said with a harsh smile.

Draco glared at him with angry bitter tears brimming in his eyes at that last remark.

The wizard turned, and left to join the others as they tossed the rest of the upstairs.

Draco balled his fist around the parchment until his hand shook and his nails bit crescent marks into his palm. He threw the parchment away with an angry yell and faced his room.

It was a mess, more than a mess, it was a disaster.

Walking through the white feathers that littered the floor like a fresh snowfall, Draco approached his bed. The four-poster was pushed aside, the deep green curtains in tatters, the mattress on the floor slashed into ribbons, the pillows emptied, and the bedding torn away and thrown aside. Draco squatted down and dug through the feathers, looking for something.

Tossing aside an empty pillow, he found what he was searching for. Falling backwards onto his butt and scooting across the floor until his back was against the wall, he hugged it tight.

Draco was not going to cry. He was not. But this was not how he wanted to spend his sixteenth birthday.

In all actuality, he had turned sixteen on the fifth of June just three weeks before, but this was his first day home, and since he had first started attending Hogwarts, his first day home had always been his birthday celebration.

There would be no celebrating today.

Draco hugged what he had rescued from the ruined bedding. The battered, but well-loved bunny with button eyes that lived under his pillow and only came out when Draco needed comfort was there with him now, offering him much needed comfort.

It was not fair.

He hadn't done anything to deserve this.

Draco woke up from his restless sleep feeling stiff and very cold. He let out a sigh of breath that faintly clouded around his mouth; it was that cold in his room. Not even in his sleep was he safe from his memories. Not for a moment could he be at peace, it seemed.

Getting up and dressing slowly, he walked stiffly, readying himself for another day at the Ministry. He hated getting up so early, but felt he had no choice as he would rather get out of work early and spend his afternoons and evenings relaxing, as opposed to cooking dinner and going straight to bed. He had better things to do with his time.

Walking with a stiff limp, he brushed out his long hair, washed up, and left without eating. His stomach was unwell this morning. He locked up behind him after making sure that all the curtains were drawn and walked to the bus stop. He would ride the Muggle bus, with its Muggle passengers, all the way into London. He had no other alternative.

He missed having a wand …he missed magic, but he had learned to get along without it. Not by choice, but out of complete necessity.

He had never completed his schooling. He had not attended his seventh year (for obvious reasons), and his sixth year, well, he had been a little too distracted to fully benefit from any classes that year. With only a fifth year education, he really was a bit of a substandard wizard, but he was an excellent study, and working in the Hall of Records he had a lot of time bone up on all he had missed, and then some. He couldn't do any practical magic, but he knew more spells than most wizards his age, and he knew best how to apply them in any given situation.

Unfortunately, he would never get the chance to utilize such knowledge.

He had spent ten years in Azkaban and had been out for three. He would never be allowed a wand again.

Learning to travel without magic, learning to cook, to clean, to sew…it had taken some fortitude and resolve on his part, but he had picked it all up rather quickly. It was not just that stubborn Malfoy determination in him to excel in everything he attempted, but that he had had to. He had gone from a life where house-elves and servants catered to his every whim and need, while having magic as a back up, to having nothing, and no magic to fall back on.

This early in the morning, the bus was near deserted. The bus driver bid him a cheery good morning and Draco paid his fare without a word, but a single nod. Sitting in the back of the bus, he absentmindedly looked out the window while his forehead leaned against the glass. Oh, how his life had changed.

"Malfoy…Malfoy," Coderdale said, trying to get Draco's attention. Draco looked up from his desk, blinking. He had been at work for two hours and the entire time he had been in a daze while filling out paperwork.

"Sorry?" Draco said, blinking to clear his mind. He had been overtaken by yet another memory, and without anything to actively distract him from it until Coderdale had yelled just then, he had been unable himself to pull out.

"I asked you a question," Coderdale said, shaking his head.

"Forgive me, I…I was drifting. What did you ask?" Draco asked, while straightening his papers before him like it had a purpose, other than to ease his embarrassment.

"I asked you if you have the volumes on Gretchen the Ghastly. I need them and I couldn't find them shelved," he said, looking worried about Draco but not letting that be heard in his voice.

"No…no, I don't have them," Draco said distractedly at first, looking around his cluttered desk quickly.

"They are not on the list of checkouts; did you not shelve them properly?" Coderdale asked. Draco heaved a sigh.

"Probably not," he answered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What's with you today, Draco? You are more of a flake than usual," he said, letting his concern finally surface in his voice.

"I'm just tired. I have not been sleeping well," he explained, remembering his dream, a dream that had just been a terrible memory.

"You been eating?"

"I don't think that is of any concern of yours," Draco snapped.

"Draco, I worry."

"And it is not necessary," Draco said, cutting the man off while standing. "I'll seek out those volumes I misplaced," he said, already turning and walking away, leaving Coderdale to worry by himself. He did not need the man's concern.

Prideful creatures, those Malfoys.

Draco drifted off into the towers of books, glass lanterns shelved periodically to provide soft light. As he walked, though his footsteps soft, echoes rose up around him. He limped into the section that contained texts on everything from Goblin Gold to Geisha Witches. Surely Gretchen the Ghastly was somewhere around there.

He found Gretel of Gadsdorf and Gunther the Terrible but no Gretchen.

"Bloody hell," Draco said, holding a lantern up and turning in full circle to look around. Where had he put it?

Sighing loudly in irritation, he reached over and grabbed one of the sliding ladders that were attached on a track to the shelves. He pulled it over, hooked the lantern in the bend of his elbow, and started climbing stiffly. His joints screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, or at least did not let it hinder him.

About halfway up, he stopped to hold the lantern out and read the titles of the books. What had he been doing while shelving the books? Surely if he could remember what he was thinking about, he would be able to backtrack his way to the section where he had misplaced them.

"Damn it," Draco grumbled, preparing to climb down when a familiar name on the spine of a particularly massive volume caught his eyes.

Granger.

Of course she was in there, and of course she had her own volume. She was a renowned and "brilliant" witch. She had been a part of the Dark Lord's fall and had since built her career further with her work in the Ministry. She was a "clever" and "intelligent" Healer now.

Draco glared at the book. His tongue darting out to moisten his lips, he put his lantern down on the wide shelf and pulled the dusty text.

Turning around carefully on the vertical ladder so that he could sit partially on one of the rungs, Draco opened the book to a random page and was immediately presented with a picture of the book's namesake herself. She stood tall, bright, and waved. Draco narrowed his eyes at her and read the caption.

"Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, rose to fame early in life due to her contribution to the Order of Phoenix at the mere age of seventeen. One of her most notable achievements was the capture of the Death Eater, Draco Malfoy… (for more information on Malfoy see Dark, Deadly and Dangerous Death Eaters)…"

The book read on, but Draco snapped it shut with much suppressed anger causing a cloud of dust to billow. He re-shelved it with more force than was necessary.

"Slag," he muttered bitterly, insulting her.

"Hello?" a man's voice distantly echoed. Draco looked away from the shelves, towards the direction of the voice.

"Hello?" the disembodied voice called again after a moment.

"Coderdale, where the bloody hell are you?" Draco muttered to himself, climbing back down towards the floor. He could hear the man calling, and he had expected Coderdale to be right there to offer assistance, but he appeared to be misplaced at the moment. Draco could only hope the ancient one had not wondered off and died in some dark corner of the library. It would be weeks before he found him and the smell would be terrible.

Draco pulled up his hood as he moved towards the front of the vast room, covering his long hair and tucking it out of sight. The man's calls could still be heard, closer than before, but still echoing from the high ceiling.

He paused at the end of the row and carefully leaned around the shelf, looking to see who it was that had wandered all the way down into his awful pit of a Ministry department.

A young wizard stood alone, looking around, a few paces from the desks. His hair was the color of old gold, smooth and long enough that it was nicely slicked back with oil. His robes were a charcoal grey and nice, though not too fancy. Simple business robes. A cornflower blue tie at his throat, polished shoes on his feet, he looked like just about any other wizard his age in the Ministry.

The man was looking away and called out, "Hello?" again, before glancing back to see Draco silently peeking out at him from about twenty feet away, looking timid.

"Oh, hello there," the man said with a strong Irish accent. "I thought for a second that I was alone in here, but given the size of this place…wow…I figured I would linger and maybe give someone the chance to reach me," he rambled, friendly, fresh, fake.

Draco said nothing. He simply stared at the man as he leaned around the shelves, his hood up so that his pale face was in dim shadow. His face was not hidden, but his identity was.

The man looked at Draco for a long moment before clearing his throat and shifting.

"I came looking for some volumes," he announced. Draco said nothing. "Then again, I suppose everyone that comes down here is looking for volumes," he said with a smile. Still, Draco said nothing. "I tried sending a note down this way, but owls are all backed up on the seventh floor, and no one can get any messages past until the mess is cleared up, so I had to come all the way down here to…" he said, drifting off to look right at Draco. "You really don't care do you?" he asked, abruptly dropping all pretenses, his voice suddenly so much less friendly and his shoulders so much less squared.

Draco just shook his head.

"I'm looking for some texts on Dark Magic. I had a list, but it's lost somewhere up on the seventh floor."

"There are a lot of volumes here on the Dark Arts, but most are restricted," Draco finally said, still partially hidden behind the shelf. Where the hell was Coderdale? He was the one that dealt directly with the people that wandered into the hall, not Draco.

"I have a note," he said, holding up a finger as though requesting a moment, reaching deep into his robe's pocket and feeling around with his other hand. Draco watched him pull out his wand and then keep searching. Draco looked at the wand for a moment before the man spoke again, and drew Draco's attention away from the slender piece of wood.

"Aha, here it is," he said, unfolding a piece of parchment and levitating it towards Draco. Draco watched the bit of parchment bob in front of him before plucking it out of the air reluctantly. Looking down at it while the man placed his wand away, Draco read.

"This says you are from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the Office of Misinformation," he said, looking back up at the man, pulling his reading glasses away from his faintly confused face.

"That I am."

"Forgive me, but why would you need texts on the Dark Arts? You work with Muggles," he said, knowing the extent of the man's job being that he helped wizards of other Departments of the Ministry understand Muggles when their cases overlapped Muggle jurisdiction, or needed Muggle Ministry cooperation.

"I cannot really talk about it. You can see there on the note that I have the signatures required…"

"You have this signed by the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Draco commented, looking back down at the note.

"Is that a problem?"

"What are the Aurors doing with the Department that works with Muggles where they would then need such detailed volumes on Dark Magic?" Draco asked, studying the parchment with his glasses back in place. He found there was a list of volumes on the back, something the man had apparently not been aware of.

"Do you think it's forged? You can perform a Proboiaceo Charm to see that it's authentic," he said. Draco looked back up at him.

"I cannot," he said, looking angry rather than embarrassed.

"Oh, oh…sorry. I forgot. I was told just before coming down that the Ministry employs Squibs down here," he said, looking as though he wanted to slap his hand over his forehead, but refraining.

"Yeah, something like that," Draco grumbled.

"I'm sorry. I do assure you, the note is real, and I do have pressing matters I have to get back to, and it is such a long trek down here that…"

Draco just disappeared into the shelves again.

"Um, excuse me, hello?" the man asked, following after where Draco had disappeared to. He saw Draco walking towards the back, grabbing a lantern as he went. The man followed after him, as Draco knew he would, and he eventually caught up.

"Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Reamann Rossiter. You are?" he offered. Draco said nothing but kept walking. Reamann looked at him to answer, but after a moment started talking again.

"There are a lot of books here. How many are there?" he asked.

"A fair few," Draco muttered. Did the man actually expect him to have any idea the exact number?

Reamann cracked his knuckles and swung his arms from side to side with a sigh, walking and looking around as they progressed down the row. He noticed Draco's limp, and chewed his tongue so as to not to inquire about it.

Draco eventually stopped and set his lantern down on a shelf. He made to climb up the ladder when Reamann reached out to stop him.

"I could do it, if you like," he said and Draco just looked at him, already with a foot on the ladder. Reamann was not overly tall but he was taller than Draco, though that was not hard, as Draco was only five foot nine. Reamann was probably about six feet tall, but he clearly outweighed Draco by an arm and a leg, a testament more to how little Draco weighed rather than how much Reamann did. The man looked lean, sun kissed, and healthy, Draco looked pale and a tad too skinny.

"I noticed your limp and…" he said but Draco just started climbing while still looking at the man with fierce eyes. "Alright, that's fine too," Reamann muttered to himself, feeling awkward.

Draco climbed about halfway up and started skimming the volumes, looking for the first one on the list after replacing his reading glasses. Not being quite the style statement for him as it was for Harry Potter, Draco's eyesight wasn't what it used to be not so long ago, and his rectangular black rimmed glasses were all he had to aid him. He was too damn young in his opinion for his eyesight to be going, but without magic he could not correct it.

Reamann remained below him, looking a little unsure of what to do with himself.

"So how long have you been working down here?" he asked, finally giving up on amusing himself with his glances around and restless shifting.

"Three years," Draco said simply, pulling a volume from the shelves and setting it aside while looking for the next.

He may not have been a wealthy Malfoy for the past thirteen years, but he was still a Malfoy, and he had maintained his upper crust drawling accent.

"Three years? Wow. How does one end up with this job? In all honesty I did not even realize your job existed until today. I thought the courtrooms were the lowest level…but then, I suppose the Ministry needs a place of records and such, and what better place to have them but below the courtrooms?" he said. Draco said nothing. Reamann waited, but eventually moved on. "So, um, do you enjoy it down here?" he asked.

Draco let his head fall back so he could stare off at the dark ceiling for a moment, thinking to himself what a stupid question that had been, while rolling his eyes as though looking for some heavenly aid or intervention at that point. There was a reason why he did not interact with anyone that happened to find their way to the hall, and it wasn't just that he lacked social niceties. Draco chose to ignore the man further as he pulled another heavy volume.

"I suppose if you like books then it would be a nice job," Reamann muttered, turning in place once. "You work alone down here?"

"No," Draco said flatly.

"Really? Where are the others?" he asked.

"Dead in a corner somewhere, for sure," Draco said in an unconcerned tone, tucking several volumes against his chest as he slowly climbed down and offered them to Reamann. Reamann took them and Draco immediately climbed back up to get more. It was quite the balancing act to carry texts -often large and heavy- up and down in his arms, but the ladders, flush and perfectly parallel to the shelves, were fixed with charms to prevent him from falling even if he tried.

Reamann didn't seem to know what to say to Draco's remark so he was quiet for a handful of minutes. Draco enjoyed the silence, but Reamann clearly didn't because he started talking again shortly.

"I'm relatively new," he announced.

"Are you now," Draco said distractedly, climbing up and a little further, readjusting his lamp to search more.

"Yeah, I'm not exactly straight out of Hogwarts or anything, but I haven't worked for the Ministry long. I'm Muggle-born you see, and my parents had their hearts set on me going to Medical School and becoming a doctor," he explained. Draco made an indifferent noise of encouragement to show he was listening, although he really wasn't paying any attention. "Yeah, well, after nearly six years of that, I realized that I was just not meant to be a doctor."

"Took you that long, huh?" Draco muttered.

"Well, it had been a growing feeling for a while and I finally just acted on it. I came to the Ministry, and with my knowledge of Muggles I was able to get a position with the Misinformation Office, specifically the Department of Muggle Relations," he said, sounding proud.

"Well done," Draco said flatly, shelving a book and looking for the more recent edition. He did not envy the wizards and witches that worked in the Department of Muggle Relations. They had to deal directly with Muggles that marveled at magic if they even knew about it, and wizards perplexed by Muggle ways. They were something like translators between the two worlds. It took a good sense of humor and a lot of patience; two things Draco lacked entirely.

"Thank you," Reamann said, and Draco rolled his eyes again, the man clearly having thought Draco was being sincere. "Yeah, now with this case, and working with the Aurors? It's really exciting. I could get a major promotion," he said, beaming again.

"Couldn't happen to a better bloke," Draco muttered, hugging some massive volumes to his chest with his left arm while climbing down the latter.

"That all of them?" Reamann asked, taking the books Draco offered in his other arm, suddenly laden with so many heavy texts he looked like he would either drop them or fall over, or drop them and fall over.

"What case are you working on?" Draco asked, and Reamann shifted his weight, hoping to balance the books better in his arms.

"The attacks on Muggles in Manchester," he said, before looking up at the realization of what he had just absentmindedly revealed. "You can't mention that!" he said, looking at Draco with panicked eyes. The man was obviously new, to have let slip his first big case to a stranger that had just happened to ask about it.

"So what the papers have been reporting is true then, there have been Muggle attacks. Wasn't it just last week that the Minister publicly denounced such rumors?" Draco asked with a smirk, glasses pushed down his nose slightly so he could see over them.

"You cannot say anything," Reamann pleaded, shifting again, the corner of one of the books digging harshly into his left inner arm.

"Why would the Ministry be covering up such a thing?" Draco inquired.

"I can tell you I don't know, but I have been told not to say a word to anyone about this," he said, as Draco turned and climbed back up the ladder. "Where are you going?" he asked, hoping there weren't more volumes. He wouldn't be able to carry anymore hefty volumes.

Draco glanced over the books quickly while holding up his lantern.

"Here," he said, pulling a smaller volume and climbing back down.

"What's this?" Reamann asked.

"If someone is attacking Muggles -and using Dark Magic to do so- then this text could be of some use," he offered, holding out the book.

"This was not on the list?"

"A lot of good volumes I think would help were not, and a lot of useless ones are," Draco said with a smirk, before setting the book atop the rest with a pat and grabbing his lantern. "I'll check you out," he said, implying Reamann should follow.

With Draco's increasing limp and Reamann 's heavy load, it was a slow progression back to the desks.

"Are you alright?" Reamann asked.

"Splendid," Draco said dismissively as he sat with a grinding pain in his hips and knees, placing his glasses on his face once again as he started copying down the names of the volumes to be checked out. Reamann set the texts down on Coderdale's desk and looked down at Draco for a long moment, while Draco worked.

"You seem awfully familiar," he finally said. Draco froze for a second, but otherwise gave no indication of the sudden dread he felt.

"Do I?" he asked, managing to sound bored rather than uneasy. Malfoys were accomplished in such deceits.

"Yes, I can't place your face though."

"I can't say that we have met before, so you must be mistaken," he said, being honest but not mentioning that Reamann probably recalled him from the papers, not from a personal encounter.

"No, no, I know I have seen your face before," he said, looking more closely at Draco. Draco sighed and pulled his glasses off his face to look up at Reamann in annoyance.

"I do not like being stared at," he said flatly. Reamann narrowed his eyes and considered Draco for a long moment before looking away. Few could hold a Malfoy glare for long.

"You never told me your name," he said.

"It is of no never mind to you what my name is," Draco said looking back down at the books, and writing "Dark, Deadly and Dangerous Death Eaters" down on the note with a hand clenched a little too tightly on his quill. "The Aurors really think Death Eaters are involved? They are all locked away in Azkaban or dead," he said conversationally for once on his part.

"They have been letting them out for the last three years, don't you know?" Reamann asked.

"I did know that," Draco mumbled.

"I don't think a Death Eater out on probation for three years or less is gonna start attacking Muggles for no apparent reason, but the Aurors want to look into it as a possibility," he said, and Draco looked up at him.

"I wish you luck," Draco said, smiling in a pleasant mask as he held out Reamann's list of checkouts to sign.

"Thank you." Reamann nodded, whipping out his wand to shrink down the volumes so that they could fit in his pocket for easy transportation. Draco's eyes remained fixed on the magic before him before he blinked his mind clear and took a deep breath.

Reamann walked out with one last bid goodbye, and Draco nodded vaguely at him.

Who was attacking Muggles?

Surely, no Death Eaters…Lord Voldemort was dead; there would be no point. That, and no one in their right mind, however bigoted they were, would risk going back to Azkaban over some stupid Muggles.

Still, he needed to make a few calls.

Who else was out other than him?

-------------------

Reamann Rossiter hiked up flight after flight of stairs on his way to the lifts and back up to the Department of Muggle Relations.

"Reamann, how are you?" Arthur Weasley called out, as Reamann nearly walked by him in the hallway, his mind a million miles away at the moment.

Arthur Weasley was aged, but still so friendly. He had become entirely bald but the fact that he was a redhead was not lost. His eyebrows were still red and the beard he had grown was mostly red with some white streaks running its length.

"Mr. Weasley, sir. It's good to see you down here. I'm a right bit exhausted with all that is happening and those flights of stairs I just took on, but I'm good," he said, apologizing for nearly walking past him while so distracted.

"Reamann, how many times must I insist you call me Arthur?" he laughed.

"Every day, it seems. Sorry, sir," he smiled.

"Will we be seeing you for dinner tonight? Molly is at home right now making some of her famous beef stew," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir…Arthur…but I have so much reading to do that I really need to just work through the night," he said, wishing he could drop everything for a spot of Mrs. Weasley's wondrous cooking.

"That is a real shame. My daughter will be most disappointed," Arthur said with a slightly fallen face.

"I will make it up to her on one of my free evenings, I promise," he assured.

"You busy now? I was about to take my lunch," Arthur offered, revealing the reason why he was down there and not in his own department. "A little early I know, but dinner will be early, too."

"No, I can't, I'm sorry. I just came from the Hall of Records and I have all these texts I need to start barreling though…"

"Molly won't like it if she hears you're not eating."

"It's just lunch, and I'll be sure to get something a little later," he promised with another smile.

"Alright, alright, off to work with you then. Send me an owl later on your progress, and if you can possibly make it to dinner."

"Will do," Reamann said with one last grin, while walking backwards on his way to his office.

Small, cramped, and bright, his office had a wonderful view of London…except for the fact that they were underground. The window was fake, just a clever spell.

"Oh dear…oh dear, oh dear…" he sighed, rounding his desk and collapsing into his chair. He put his elbows up on the desk and rested his face in his hands. Rubbing his face up and down vigorously for a moment, he then smoothed his hands over his slick hair while taking a deep breath.

"What am I gonna do?" he asked no one in particular. He loved the Weasleys, but they were treating him like he was already part of the family. He was dating their daughter, yes, but if Molly inquired one more time into when he was going to "pop the question" and, thus, when she can start expecting some more grandchildren, he was going to scream.

Looking across his desk his eyes fell on a picture frame. Inside was a photograph of him and Ginny, embracing and smiling, giggling and rocking, autumn leaves falling all around them. His picture self stole a quick kiss from Ginny, and she giggled and nudged him affectionately with her elbow while pulling on her scarf.

Reamann looked away.

"Knock-knock."

Reamann looked up to see Harry Potter standing just outside his office.

"Harry," he said, smiling, wiping away all his conflicted thoughts to be dealt with later.

"Hey, I was making my rounds and thought I missed you. Arthur assured me you were back. Where were you off to? It was awfully early to take lunch," he said, stepping in.

"I went down to the Hall of Records. That mess on the seventh floor got everyone in a tizzy and I had to head down in person," he explained, pulling out his miniaturized books and setting them on the desk before restoring them to actual size. Harry moved over to the desk and picked up the top book -the book Draco had picked out just for Reamann - and opened it.

"This is a lot of reading," Harry commented, as though the fact were not painfully obvious to Reamann already.

"I know…I won't make it to dinner tonight."

"Really? Molly will be disappointed," Harry said.

"Her favorite son-in-law will be there, don't worry about her," Reamann teased.

"Ex-son-in-law," Harry corrected. "Unless you have forgotten that Ginny and I divorced," he said with a smile.

"You what? I had no idea," Reamann said with good-humoured sarcasm while absentmindedly opening one of his books. Harry was still loved by the Weasleys, even though he was no longer married to their daughter. He was, and always will be, a son to them. It was fortunate that his and Ginny's divorce was pretty amicable and they had remained friends.

"You sure you won't make it?" Harry asked, flipping through the book he had in his hands.

"Look at these books. I have to have a report written up by tomorrow morning," he said, waving his hand over the pile.

"Hermione would be excited over the prospect of staying up all night reading these books and writing up a report. It would probably end up being three scrolls, too."

"Well, we all know she is totally mental," Reamann laughed.

"You know, I would disagree with you on principle, and her defense, but you have said nothing untrue," Harry laughed. "You catching lunch?"

"No," Reamann sighed.

"I'll bring you back something then," Harry offered, smiling and walking towards the door, after tossing the book he held onto Reamann's desk.

"Thanks, mate, you're a real life saver."

"Yeah, well, I would hate to think what Molly would do to me should I let you starve," Harry teased, disappearing into the hallway. Reamann laughed softly to himself while looking down to his book. Harry was a good bloke and he was lucky to have him as a friend. Molly was a lovely woman too; it was unfair how much they teased each other at her expense.

His laughter immediately ceased, however, upon seeing a very familiar face glaring up at him from the pages of his book. Harsh silver eyes, pointed pale face, thin sharp lips, now topped off with platinum blond hair.

"What the…" he said to himself under his breath. "It couldn't be," he said, not so sure.

He quickly looked down for the caption that went along with the picture.

"Among the Death Eaters tried in the year following the war's end, Draco Malfoy, a werewolf, was the first to be sentenced and, thusly, achieved the most notoriety. It is said that he cursed his captors before sentencing, the years following the likes of which Harry Potter have suffered misfortune. (To learn more about Harry Potter, read: The Greatest Wizard Who Ever Lived.)"

Reamann looked up at the picture -the picture of the man he had met down in the Hall of Records- with his eyes wide and just stared.

"He's a Death Eater?" he asked in disbelief after his brain was able to register it all.

"Rossiter," came a sudden, very serious man's voice. Reamann snapped the book closed with a jump, and rested his elbow on top of it, his chin in his hand, trying to look innocent. "Rossiter, you get those books?" his boss bellowed. He was not an angry man; just a man whose voice always carried such authority that people got to work swiftly around him.

"Yes, sir," he said quickly, holding his hands out, gesturing to display the volumes before him.

"Very good. I like that you got that done right away and didn't let that little mess on the seventh floor get in your way," he said.

"Of course not, sir," Reamann assured with a shit-smear grin.

"Alright. I look forward to your summary in the morning during the meeting with the Aurors," he said, walking away already, not giving Reamann the chance to say anything more.

"Yes, sir…" he said quietly to himself, his boss already gone.

Looking down at the cover of the book, Dark, Deadly and Dangerous Death Eaters, Reamann swallowed hard.

Had he met Draco Malfoy down in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic?

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