Blue Eyed Angel
Chapter Four
Draco was perched atop a ladder in the Hall of Records. A book was open across his knee as he sat there. He was feeling better than the day before; the potion his mother had given him was finally taking full effect and he was able to move about without a limp. That alone was enough to put him in a fairly decent mood.
His mood was quickly compromised though, thanks to the material he was reading. While shelving Dastardly Doers of Dark and Devious Deeds, and some old texts on some terribly Dimwitted and Delusional "Dragon Trainers," he had come across a detestable and downright disgraceful text.
His "biography."
Some sorry piece of garbage had written about what they thought his life had been, what his intentions were, what his beliefs were.
No one had interviewed him for the book, his mother had never spoken to anyone about him, and his father was in no state to talk to anyone. Other than them, there would be no reliable sources. Draco had the right to ponder if the book was even legal. He had not agreed to have a book written about him. It was a Ministry transcript, an "official record" so they claimed, so he supposed it wasn't a "book" and therefore not "illegal," but that wouldn't be the first or last time the Ministry did something questionable, particularly when it came to him.
Legal or not, it didn't prevent the text from being terribly inaccurate and him being extremely irritated and insulted by it.
There were a few accredited sources; Draco noticed while reading through the acknowledgements, most of who had worked in the manor while he had grown up.
They painted, of course, a very unflattering picture of him.
Yes, he had been a spoiled little rich boy accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, while prone to a temper tantrum or two. He had been taught to think of himself better than those that served him, and of Muggles, and of "Mudbloods," but that hardly made him the bad person the book portrayed.
It made him a git, it made him a less than nice person, it made him hard to get along with…but it did not make him a bad person.
With narrowed eyes, he slowly ripped a page out of the book, folded the paper in his hands, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Hello?" a man called. Draco looked up from the book he was in the middle of defacing and looked off in the direction of the call. He knew the voice.
"Bugger," he said as the man from yesterday came into view. Draco remained where he was high atop the ladder, watching the man approach, suspicious of what he was doing back there. If he needed more volumes than the ones he had gotten the day before he could have just sent a note down like everyone else. No one ever walked all the way down there by choice.
"Hey," Reamann said. Draco remained silent. "I understand it's a little odd for me to be back here, but I was hoping you would be able to help me again," he shouted up to Draco.
"You read through all those volumes already, and none helped you?" Draco asked, his tone bored, knowing the answer was obviously no, the man had not read through all seven massive volumes. No one, not even him, could read them so quickly and expect to get any benefit out of the material.
"No…" Reamann said slowly, "but that volume you picked out for me helped the most of any I looked through, and I was hoping you could point me in the right direction again," he said, being honest then, making his lie that much more easy to believe. He had gone home and skimmed over the texts, and the only one that gave facts more clearly than first hand accounts of extremely biased material on how "evil" the Death Eaters were, was the book that had not been on his list at all, the one Draco had given him. He wasn't even sure Death Eaters had anything to do with the attacks and so the massive volumes had proven to be most unhelpful…for the case.
Draco heaved a sigh, making it clear he was not exactly jumping at the prospect of helping the man out.
"Please?" he asked.
Draco took a deep breath and held it, snapping his book closed and climbing down. He stepped down onto the floor and turned to find himself facing the man and feeling suddenly very small. Some days he really resented being only five foot nine.
"I really appreciate this," Reamann said, holding his hand out in the small space between them like he wanted to shake on it. Draco looked at him, not wanting to shake the man's hand and making that obvious by the cold expression on his face.
He had not yet agreed to do anything.
Réamann's hand twitched slightly and Draco pulled his arm away quickly, sensing the man was going for it but unable to escape in time.
Reamann grabbed Draco firmly around the wrist, and yanked his sleeve back in one quick motion, exposing a tattoo on the back of his right forearm. It was a serpent-like dragon twining around a long sword that bore the Malfoy family crest. It was stark black against his nearly white skin, and distinctive.
"You are Draco Malfoy," he said with a smile, as he reached up and pulled Draco's hood back to allow his hair to tumble freely, positively identifying him further than the tattoo alone had. Draco yanked his arm away and stepped back, replacing his sleeve while glaring. "I knew I recognized you from somewhere, but I had not been able to place your face, let alone think of your name…until I read those books last night," he said, and Draco did not let up on his glare. He had had the feeling the man would have recognized him after reading the damned books, but he had not expected him to come back to see him because of it.
"I read in one that you had that tattoo, some Malfoy family thing. If I had grabbed the other arm and pushed that sleeve back, would I have seen the Dark Mark? The books never definitively say whether or not you had one," he said, and Draco's glare managed to intensify.
"If you have come down here to make a side-show of me, then be done with your heckling over my fall from grace, and bugger off," Draco said coldly.
"I'm not here to mock you," Reamann said softly, easing up after seeing Draco's offense.
"This is not a petting zoo, either," Draco said, rubbing his hand on his jeans compulsively, while forcing his sleeve down further to cover his hand.
"I really came down here looking for your help," he said.
"Great job at going about that, I really want to help you now," he said harshly.
"I'm sorry…"
"Sure you are."
"I just hoped you would be able to aid me…I let my inquisitiveness get the best of me, I'm sorry."
"I'm just a librarian," he said flatly.
"But you seem to know a lot about what I'm looking into…"
"Do not dare insinuate that I would know anything about the Muggle attacks," Draco warned.
"You're a convicted Death Eater…"
"Convicted is vastly different than guilty," Draco seethed.
"Your father was convicted of torturing Muggles," he said, trying to show his way of connecting Draco then to the Muggle attacks.
"My father was a good man and father, but he was guilty of torturing a great many things in his time: Muggles, wizards, small animals, sons."
"Yes, but, you seem to know these books so well…" he attempted, not missing Draco's scornful words about his own father, and not sure if he was being serious or if it was some sick joke to try and make him feel even more uncomfortable. Something told him he wouldn't really like the answer either way.
"Do you seriously believe that accused Death Eaters straight out of Azkaban, without the presence of their Dark Lord, would attack Muggles at the risk of being sent back to that hellish place?"
"Well, no…"
"Why are you here if it is not to heckle me, or accuse me of attacking said Muggles?" Draco asked, stepping back a little more.
"You have knowledge of the Dark Arts," he said.
"Did one of your books tell you that?"
"No, you did yesterday, when you offered me that text. Even if you had only just read books on the topic, as opposed to having practiced the Dark Arts yourself, you still have more knowledge than me, knowledge that I'm in desperate need of at the moment," he said.
"What's your name again?" Draco asked, eyeing the man carefully.
"Reamann Rossiter," he said.
"You said you were Muggle-born?" he asked, recalling the man's friendly, and thus, terribly irritating ramblings from the day before.
"Why does that matter?" Reamann asked, eyes darkening. Draco brushed him off.
"What incentive do I have in helping you?" he asked, showing then why it "mattered" and getting Reamann to glare at him.
"Stopping the attacks, and soon possible killings, of innocent Muggles is not enough?" Reamann asked. Draco turned away and started walking.
"Not incentive enough," he said dully, his bored drawl in place. He might no longer dress like a selectively bred, rich, wizarding aristocrat, but he was what he was despite his monetary standing at the moment. He could still speak down to people in a way that only careful breeding could produce.
"Malfoy!" Reamann shouted in outrage at his back.
"I have stuck my neck out for people before…to do good, to help the innocent, to do the right thing…and it didn't turn out so good for me in the end," he said, nearly shouting as he spun around to face Reamann from several feet away, his hair flaring out and then settling around him, covering his face like a partially parted curtain.
Reamann was taken aback. "When have you ever done the `right thing'?" he asked. Draco looked fed up.
"You have read the damn books about me, I won't be able to make you think different of me or better of me…and I don't intend to try, but I have never been a part of the torturing or killing of Muggles. That was not one of the charges brought up against me, so I do not understand why you are here now," he growled, walking away again.
"Because I'm offering you a chance to do the right thing," Reamann offered.
"My only concern now is myself, my family, and my livelihood," Draco said, still walking away. He could recall so clearly a conversation almost identical to this one, shared between him and Harry Potter thirteen years earlier, and knowing the outcome of that agreement did not make him jump at an altruistic opportunity a second time.
"You weren't a Death Eater," Reamann suddenly said, some distance between them now. Draco paused but didn't turn. "The texts all say you were, but no one could prove anything…right? You were sent away on Attempted Murder, Conspiracy to Commit Murder, Terrorist Acts, and were implicated, but not proven responsible in the still unsolved murders of several people. You were also accused of having used more than one Unforgivable, but there was no one to testify to the fact," he said, and Draco turned slowly.
Draco could hear in the back of his mind, "Avada Kadavra!"
He shouted the curse, pointing his wand steady despite his nerves, green light flashing over his face as the man before him fell, leaving Draco panting and shaking slightly, with the guilt of the only option he had had left.
He had had no choice…
Draco shook his head to rid himself of the dizzying memory. His wand had been destroyed in that final battle, and with it, all evidence was lost of what spells he had cast. The only thing that saved him from a lifetime stint in Azkaban was the decree that no witch or wizard could be sentenced on a confession drawn out by Veritaserum alone. It was known by some that he had cast such spells, but without any evidence, (a wand to prove what he cast) they could only incarcerate him for intent.
"You say you never were a Death Eater?" Reamann asked.
"No, I was not," Draco answered, his back still to the man while he stood rooted in his spot.
"Then prove it," Reamann said firmly. "Help me help others."
"I can't," Draco sighed, looking back at Réamann.
"Why not?"
"Because no one would trust me to," he said.
"I trust you."
"You say as much, only because you have a meeting with a bunch of Aurors in a little over an hour and you didn't write up a report for them. You fell asleep reading up on me rather than the case at hand, and your arse is on the line. You don't trust me, you need me," he said. Réamann's eyes widened.
"How do you know all that?" he asked.
"Your mind is wide open. You are a very trusting person, I'll admit that. You are willing to see the good in everybody, a commendable trait. Foolish, but commendable," Draco said, looking right into Réamann's eyes.
"Occlumency?" he asked, sounding breathless and looking a little intimidated.
"Legilimency," Draco corrected.
"I read that you had been taught Occlumency…"
"Occlumency is the defense to Legilimency," he said.
"And that's…?"
"The extraction of thoughts, feelings, and memories from another person's mind, typically through eye contact," Draco said, still lock-eyed with Reamann. Reamann looked away quickly.
"I did not realize you could do that without a wand."
"It is an ancient craft that has more to do with the mind than magic," Draco said flatly. Legilimency was one of the few things he could still do…something he used more often than he sometimes consciously realized…but he typically did not abuse it like he was now, and he most certainly did not reveal to anybody his ability to use it. But he found great joy in intimidating Reamann with it at the moment.
"You, you can read my mind?" he asked.
"Something like that," Draco said, that not really being true, but unsure about how to otherwise explain it to someone who had not studied it and practiced for years like he had while sitting in a cell with nothing else to do but try and see into the minds of those around him, mostly Azkaban Guards.
"Help me," he said again.
"Why?"
"Because you know it's the right thing to do."
"No good deed goes unpunished," Draco quipped.
"You can't seriously be this cynical."
"Oh, I think I can be," Draco laughed bitterly, walking away.
"What if I can get you out of here?" Reamann suddenly said, sounding a little desperate for Draco not to leave. Draco didn't. He actually froze and turned again.
"What?"
"What if I offered you a way out of this dark pit?"
"You do not have the authority to."
"I know those that do."
"They wouldn't do me any favors."
"I would…if you help me," he said.
Draco looked at him for a long time, a great space between them.
The silence was heavy, and thick, and Reamann was not sure if he should plead his case more or just wait for Draco to make a decision.
Draco finally spoke.
"What do you need to know about the Dark Arts…exactly?" he asked, a smile breaking across Réamann's face.
-------------------
"You have no idea how much this means to me," Reamann said as Draco sat at his cluttered desk, writing down quickly a summary for Reamann to present to the Aurors. With a little information about the case, Draco was able to get a fairly decent statement out by the time Reamann needed to leave.
"Yeah, well, don't mention it. And I'm serious about that. I don't need people thinking I'm some Muggle-sympathizing goodie-good," he said, not looking up from his writing, his words a little detached like his thoughts were focused on other things.
"Wouldn't dream of tarnishing your reputation," Reamann said, not sure why Draco liked his bad reputation so much if he resented being called a Death Eater.
He moved around the desk so he was on Draco's right and paced for a bit, then stopped to look at Draco's left forearm. He could not stop looking at his left arm. It was like he was drawn to it. Draco's sleeves were tight and they covered his arms completely. They were long enough that they actually reached down over his hands and so they were bunched at his skinny wrists. Reamann had not fully appreciated how thin Malfoy was just from looking at him until he had grabbed his wrist and felt his fingers overlap this thumb, his hand completely encircling it.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Reamann discreetly drew his wand and silently cast the incantation that would allow him to see past Draco's long sleeve.
He needed to see if it was really there.
Slowly, like frost being rubbed away from a windowpane, he exposed Draco's forearm as Draco reached in front of him to hold a book open, his attention down on the parchment he was writing on.
Trying not to react to what he saw in any manner that would give away what he had done, Reamann laid eyes on the Dark Mark staring back at him. It was not black like it had been pictured in the books. It was pink-ish white, like scars, like new scars. The Mark did not look healed. The outline of the skull; the jagged teeth; the serpent, all looked like raised and rough scars, only a faint dark discoloration remaining from the long faded stain. It looked almost sore, painful and raw.
There were some other scars, jagged but not part of the mark, but there was one that caught his eye and drew his attention to it. A scar clearly healed…white and old looking…not part of the Dark Mark either. It was long, thin, and vertical up Draco's inner forearm, starting at his inner wrist and ending to just overlap the Mark.
Réamann, with shock and fright at the sight of such a scar and the Dark Mark, attempted to reverse the spell before Draco's attention transferred back to the book where he would see what was happening, but then felt his heart stop for a second.
Draco shifted as though about to look back at the book and Reamann panicked, flicking his wand. Draco looked at him first, the movement catching his attention, noticing the wand now as Reamann swished it, but he immediately looked over to his desk area to see what he was casting a spell on. Draco saw the last of his sweatshirt's sleeve fill itself in and his head snapped back over at Reamann to glare.
"Something got you curious, Mr. Rossiter?" Draco seethed, looking over at him from over the tops of his glasses only intensifying the glare.
"I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…"
"If you wanted to see it, you could have asked," he said, eyes cold with fury, voice strangely calm.
"Would you have really shown it to me?" he asked timidly.
"No," Draco said flatly. "But you would have seemed so much less of an arsehole," he said, snapping his book closed with his left hand without looking away from Réamann.
"I'm sorry, really. I really am thankful you are doing this for me," he said, trying to get Draco to understand his sincerity.
"I'm not doing this for you, or the damn Muggles, or because it's the right thing to do…" he fumed, "I'm doing this for me," he said firmly and Reamann felt some sort of sagging disappointment at Draco's admission, not able to fool himself into thinking Draco's motives were anything less than selfish at that point.
Draco stood from his desk, stacking volumes with redirected aggression, tossing his quill down and taking off his glasses. He snatched the piece of parchment he had been writing on and without waiting to see if the ink had dried he rolled it up and swung his right arm over to slap it against Réamann's chest.
"There," he said simply, fiddling at his desk in a determined fashion, not wanting to look over at Reamann for fear of what he might say in his anger upon looking at the man.
"How…" Reamann started to say, his resolve to quench his curiosity faltering for a moment. "How did you get it?" he asked, speaking of the Mark. The books he had read did not definitively say whether or not he even had it, let alone how he had gotten it. He did not, however, want to know about the other scar he had seen. The obvious cause being something he did not want to think about.
Draco froze in his fussing.
He picked himself up off the ground where he had been thrown, but two hands -one on each shoulder- immediately pushed him back down so he was kneeling with his forehead nearly resting on the ground, his knees tucked under him.
"You failed, my young Malfoy," Lord Voldemort said, standing before Draco as he was pressed down by two masked Death Eaters in their black robes.
"I'm sorry my Lord, I tried…"
"What did I tell you of the consequences should you fail me?" Voldemort asked smoothly, calmly, his spider-like hands clasped behind his back in the dim, cold, torch-lit stone room.
"Dumbledore is dead my Lord. Your task is completed," Draco pleaded, not allowed to raise even his head to look at the Dark Lord before him.
"Clearly you misunderstood the purpose of the exercise I had laid before you, young Malfoy," he snapped, Draco hunching his shoulders in fright, head still down.
"My Lord,"
"If I wanted Dumbledore dead I could have killed him myself, or had Snape do it from the start. Sending you in to do it was not just because I wanted it done…oh yes, I did want Albus Dumbledore dead…but it was a test. I needed to know your loyalties…"
"They are with you my Lord, they are with you…"
"SILENCE!" Voldemort hissed and Draco fell silent with a recoiled flinch. "I needed to know you were willing to do what I asked, no matter what it was. I needed to know you were willing to kill for me," he said.
"I couldn't my Lord. I tried. I tried! I got the Death Eaters into the school, I had the Headmaster trapped…but I…"
"You buckled under the pressure," he finished for Draco. "You were sloppy with your attempts all throughout the year, you dawdled and wasted precious time, and you couldn't even finish off an unarmed old man, by far the easiest part of the task I assigned you!" he shouted. "You are weak, like your mother is weak. You are not a killer, you are not a man, and you are not a faithful servant. You are a dog, a pathetic dog that cannot even do the simplest of tasks," Voldemort berated and Draco sobbed, being called a "dog" because of his condition only twisting the metaphorical blade still in his wound.
"I tried. I tried…" he sobbed. "Please, don't kill my mother. Kill me, punish me, I have wronged you, shamed you, but please…"
"I have punished you once already," he said. "I could give you to Greyback again…this time he would kill you," he said and Draco started to shake uncontrollably. He feared Greyback so. The Dark Lord, of course, knew that. "But what good would that do me? With so many of mine in Azkaban again after that debacle last night at the school, that worthless father of yours already there still, and you incapable of following through on orders, I am seriously lacking in suitable followers at this time. To rid myself of you, your mother, and your father, would be cleansing, but a little counterproductive at this time with the Order so weakened by Dumbledore's death."
Draco dared a glance up at the Dark Lord and was immediately kicked in the back of the head by one of the Death Eaters, his gaze forced down to the floor again with a splitting pain.
"I will make this up to you, please, my Lord," Draco begged.
It was only the night after Dumbledore's death.
Snape had helped him escape the grounds of Hogwarts where he had then been able to Apparate away to safety…but safety from what? Lord Voldemort's all-seeing eye and reach was extensive, he could not hide from him or his wrath. He was furious upon learning that Draco had not killed Dumbledore himself. Draco had been tracked down and brought before Lord Voldemort within hours. He did not fear death as much as he feared any other alternative punishment the Dark Lord could dispense.
The Dark Lord was cruel as well as creative.
"Make this up to me?" Voldemort laughed.
"Please, I will do anything for you. Anything," he said, fighting not to sob while he begged and assured.
"I can't help but feel that you serve me only to protect your mother, Draco, not because of loyalty," he said. Draco flinched. "I cannot see into your mind. You learned your Occlumency well, but what are you trying to hide from me?" he asked, stepping close enough that Draco could see the hem of his black robes.
"Nothing, my Lord! I hide nothing from you, and I wish nothing more than to serve you," he said, using his Occlumency to block out the memory of Dumbledore offering to help him, offering him a chance to fight for the "right" side, that had popped into his head at that moment. He kept the Dark Lord from seeing the brief moment before the Death Eaters had burst in on them…when he had actually, for a moment, maybe, considered the offer.
"To serve me?" The Dark Lord repeated with a nasty smile that exposed small narrow teeth.
"Yes."
"You are seventeen now, Draco," the Dark Lord said and Draco started to shake. It was mid-June, he had just recently turned seventeen.
"My Lord…"
"You are a man now in the wizarding world. You are willing to serve me, to pledge yourself, your service, your life to me?" he asked. Draco dared to look up at him and he was not struck or pushed down again that time.
What was he to do?
He could refuse, and Voldemort would just kill him on the spot, but then there would be no one to protect his mother.
Becoming a Death Eater almost guaranteed his death, at someone's hands, but he would be given more time…time to come up with a plan and a way of saving his mother and maybe even himself.
Draco kept these thoughts from the dark wizard before him and swallowed hard.
He knew the Mark could not be given to the unwilling…
"I pledge myself to you, my Lord," Draco said, swallowing again, shaking and feeling as though he were going to faint, or vomit, or both…in no particular order.
"Say the words Draco, I know you know them," Voldemort demanded.
"I pledge my heart, mind, and soul to the service and honor of you, my Lord. My wand, my will, my body is yours to command," he said, having to force the words out, hoping tears would not come with them. "I pledge my undying and devoted service to you, my Lord. Your will is my will, your glory is my glory, your desires my own," he said, tears falling down his cheeks at last.
"Say the words Draco," Voldemort encouraged.
"I give myself to you. Ask what you will of me; demand what you must of me. My heart, my service, is yours," he said, looking up at Lord Voldemort with eyes as sincere as he could manage with the tears still brimming in them and their tracks running down his cheeks.
"Very well, young Malfoy," the Dark Lord said with a satisfied smile, as though getting exactly what he wanted all along.
Draco was looking at Voldemort before him and missed the Death Eaters coming at him until it was too late to react. He was grabbed, one hooking an arm under each of his armpits, lifting him up.
"Hey!" he shouted, another masked Death Eater coming up to his front and looping a rope around his thin left wrist like a noose and pulling it just as tight.
"Just relax, Draco; this will only be mildly agonizing," the Dark Lord assured with an amused smile, as Draco was practically carried over to a low wooden chopping block, like one used for beheadings. Draco started to panic as he was carried over to it.
"Wait, no!" he shouted, struggling.
"We are not going to take your head," came the familiar voice from behind the mask of the executioner in question, the Death Eater, Walden Macnair. Draco couldn't say that he was feeling all that reassured, and he was a little surprised. Macnair had been captured the night before…hadn't he?
Being thrown against the slab his head was not what was aligned and neck stretched, it was his arm. His left armpit was crammed into the edge of the block painfully as he was pinned down by the two Death Eaters at his back. The third that had spoken to him, Macnair, pulled the rope tight so that Draco's arm was fully extended and he was actually in fear of it being dislocated. A wooden dowel was jammed into his mouth, between his teeth, to give him something to bite down on, or gag him to prevent him from screaming, likely both.
The Dark Lord was unmoving so far, but now that Draco was situated, he approached. Draco's sense of dread was ever-increasing with each step the Dark Lord took and Draco felt his stomach clench as the he withdrew his wand from his inner robe pocket.
"I'll ask you only once to remain still," he teased, the Death Eaters all around chuckling, all having endured the pain of the Mark themselves at some point.
"Please," Draco tried to beg with his teeth clenched around the piece of wood as the Dark Lord's wand slowly pointed down at his arm, the tip mere inches from Draco's white and smooth inner arm, marred only by the ragged scaring from Greyback's attack almost exactly one year before.
"Don't scream," he said mockingly, suddenly jabbing the wand tip into Draco's flesh.
Draco screamed.
When Voldemort started to draw the wand down, creating a searing red line of blood Draco's scream became a shriek. The Dark Lord did not try to silence him, but instead just focused on drawing out the skull, the snake, and the gaping mouth it was crawling from, all the while reciting the incantation in his head.
Draco screamed and shrieked at the pain, his whole body involuntarily jerking and fighting the hold the Death Eaters had on him, anything to try and make the pain stop. His left wrist was bloodied from the rope as he pulled at it, so desperate to free his arm.
Voldemort withdrew his wand and then whispered something, jabbing the tip in the direct center of the bloody mess he had made of Draco's arm.
Draco's scream was high, loud, and long as the hot searing pain gripped his arm, blackening the skin, forcing him to freeze for a moment, unable to struggle.
Letting go of him all at once the Death Eaters backed up to let Draco fall sideways to the floor, clutching his left wrist, wanting to hug his forearm to his chest but the pain being too great.
Voldemort watched with terrifying red eyes, clearly enjoying the pain he was inflicting.
Draco scurried onto his knees and one hand and scrambled out of the center of the room to rip the dowel from between his teeth and then vomit on the floor near the corner. None of the Death Eaters present tried to stop him, or said anything about it. They understood the amount of pain Draco had just endured in those brief moments.
"Congratulations, Draco," the Dark Lord said, signaling somehow silently to the rest in the room to leave them. "You are now officially one of my followers. One of my Death Eaters," he said, smiling, though not in a proud way. Something had him pleased though.
Draco was panting, trying to breathe past the pain, his stomach contorting because of it.
"You love your mother very much," he said and Draco looked up at him, sweat making his face slick and shining. "And she loves you so very much," he said.
"My Lord…"
"Know this, Draco…" he then went on to say darkly, "You ever fail me again, no matter how minor the task, I will kill her, and I will make you watch," he said in a whisper that was almost vulgar in its intimacy. Draco looked up at his Dark Lord with wide fearful eyes, knowing Voldemort was being completely honest, one of the few times in his "life." The Dark Lord did not understand love but as an exploitable thing, a weakness…like compassion.
His arm burned and Draco looked down at it as the Dark Lord left him alone in the dungeon. Draco saw, beneath the blood, the raised scars and utter blackness the Dark Mark left on his once pure skin.
"What am I gonna do now?" he asked, no one there to hear him. "What am I gonna do now?" he repeated, sobbing now while hugging his forearm to his chest, the realization hitting him right then that any hope of getting away from the Dark Lord, any hope of taking up on Dumbledore's offer, any hope at all, were now gone.
He wanted his mother right then.
"The Dark Lord gave it to me…when I was seventeen," Draco said simply, answering Réamann's question, blinking away the vivid memory that had swept through his mind in only a moment's time.
"You really volunteered to become one of his Death Eaters?" Reamann asked sounding shocked.
"I was foolish and misguided," Draco said, looking over at Reamann with darkened eyes.
Reamann swallowed.
"Leave now," Draco said.
"I will make this up to you, I swear it," he promised.
"I'm not honestly expecting you to come back," Draco said, and Reamann looked hurt.
"Draco," he tried, having meant it when he said he would trade a favor for a favor, but seeing Draco did not believe him hurt somehow.
"Just go," Draco said firmly, his renowned temper flaring to the surface. Reamann did not linger. With Draco's report in hand he left the hall without as much as a glance back.
"Draco…" Coderdale said softly, coming from around the bookshelves at the sound of Draco's raised voice.
"It's nothing, Coderdale," Draco said, flopping down at his desk. He opened a low drawer and reached in, pulling out a bottle before kicking the drawer closed with his foot and twisting the lid off, tossing it onto his desk top. He took a deep swig of the amber-colored hard liquor and sighed.
It was not a good idea to get completely pissed while at work, but he needed to be right then. He really did.
-----------------
"An impressive report," the head of the Auror Committee said, reading over the parchment Reamann had handed over to him upon arriving at the meeting. He had been nearly late, caught up on the sixth floor, but able to bypass the mess to make it just in the nick of time. The sixth floor was always a mess, but some days were worse than others.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
"It shows an impressive knowledge of the Dark Arts," another very old wizard wheezed, leaning over to see the parchment from his seat. Reamann was standing at the far end of a long table. He was alone while the committee sat at the head of the table, quite a distance away.
"I did the best I could manage given the time I was allowed," he said, careful not to say too much, something he was not exactly accomplished at. He did not want to admit he hadn't written it, but did not want to outwardly lie either.
"I say, you could have passed the written to become an Auror, given the knowledge you display here," praised another slightly younger, but still vastly old wizard with an approving grin.
"I doubt I would have passed the practical," Reamann said bashfully. He was not sure what to make of the complements. Surely if it were Draco Malfoy standing in his place, and them looking over his notes and theories, they would have accused him of being a practitioner of the Dark Arts, and a Death Eater, possibly the one responsible… but certainly not a good candidate for an Auror.
"Ah yes, a difficult test it is, but important. Can't have wizards who can't properly cast a Qurisfodio Hex, or something," he laughed. Reamann returned a soft laugh and a nod but then swallowed hard.
When did Aurors need to use a spell against someone that was like a jabbing spear?
"These attacks are extremely serious, and we hope to work hand in hand with the Muggle police force and the Muggle Ministry to stop these most egregious offenses," one of the Aurors said.
"That means we will be working with the Department of Muggle Relations and we are so far very impressed with your candidacy. You have proven a strong knowledge of the situation, and your familiarity with Muggle ways will be invaluable in this," each wizard said, taking turns commending Réamann.
The guilt was getting to him but he would not crack. He would not. He needed this job.
"Well, I have to admit, I had a little help," he said, trying to smile, cracking under the pressure, cursing his honest ways.
"Really? Who? Ron Weasley?" they asked, knowing the closeness he had with the Weasley family and assuming maybe he had turned to Ron, an Auror himself, for help.
"No," Reamann said vaguely.
"Then who?" the eldest Wizard asked, looking up from the parchment.
"A source of mine. I cannot reveal their identity at this time, but I think they will prove to be an invaluable informant," he said.
"You trust this, this uh, informant?" the youngest asked, his hair a dark grey while all the rest were white or bald.
"Yes," he said firmly. "Yes I do." It was almost like he was trying to convince himself with that.
"Any significant information this informant gives you must be cleared by us through our channels."
"I don't understand…"
"There is at least one witch or wizard out there attacking Muggles, Mr. Rossiter. How do we know this informant isn't the one going the attacking, or working with them?" he asked.
"He isn't," he said, realizing he had revealed too much at that point. Closing his eyes tight for a second in dread, he tried to salvage the situation. "What I mean is, I trust my informant's general knowledge of the Dark Arts, but…if I feel, for any reason, they might know something about this case they shouldn't, I will bring them to you immediately."
"And this informant, you have not told him about the case have you? Shared details?" the head Auror asked, eyeing Reamann in a way that reminded him of Draco down in the Hall of Records: deep and penetrating.
Was the Auror reading his mind right then? Would he know that he lied if he said no?
"I know better than to jeopardize this investigation," Reamann said, looking away from the wizard, hoping his mind was safe from intrusion without the eye contact.
The Aurors considered him for a long moment.
"We will contact your department supervisor and let him know that you will be working on the case full time along with us until further notice," he said and Reamann smiled wide.
"Thank you sirs. Thank you," he said, nodding his head respectively to each of them, excited over finally getting fully assigned to the project.
"Of course, Mr. Rossiter."
----------------------
"A toast!" Ron said, holding up his bottle of rum. He had always been tall, now he was just massive. His freckles had not faded with time like Ginny's had and they left his face and arms a little red looking. His hair was choppy and a touch too long, but not in a way that was fashionable, in a way that suggested he just hadn't gotten a trim in a while. He had "filled out" more than anyone else had since Hogwarts, his arms strong and thick, shoulders wide, body strong and a little heavy.
"Yes, a toast to Réamann, for the promotion that is bound to come!" Harry added on happily, holding up his own drink.
"Come on, guys, stop. I got a good assignment with an awesome department," he said inclining his head to Ron, the Auror of the group, "but it is far from any sort of promotion," he laughed. They were in the Leaky Cauldron after work, happily drinking and conversing loudly. Tom was good enough to close off a section of the pub so that they could drink and talk in relative peace.
Ginny and Hermione made their way over to the table, talking between them excitedly before then raising their glasses as they joined the group.
"To good books and research in the Ministry!" Hermione toasted and everyone laughed at her predictability. She was still the same bushy-haired girl from Hogwarts, only now a woman. She could be so much prettier if she put more effort into the idea, but she stubbornly refused to fuss over such things, saying any man that could not see her for her mind because he was hindered by her shaggy hair, was not a man worth her time. Ginny agreed, but felt Hermione should get off her soapbox every now and then and pamper herself a little. All girls, not matter how accomplished or smart they were, liked feeling pretty and desirable. Hermione was too proud to acknowledge she had a vanity streak.
"To the opening of new doors and exciting opportunities and possibilities!" Ginny said with a grin, allowing Reamann to lean her into his side in a one armed hug.
"Cheers!" they all said together, downing their drinks. They sat with a collective, yet amused sigh and continued talking.
"I'm really, really excited for you Réamann," Ginny said, leaning into him more.
"Couldn't have happened to a better chap," Harry quipped.
"I heard the head Aurors talking after you left the department," Ron said, taking a swig of his drink. "Really impressed by you they were. Why, I never heard them go on about someone like that before. The rookies get browbeat for years, then after that there is just this silent standard you have to meet. You just hope you are impressing them, as opposed to just doing well, because the only time they ever say anything is to berate you or point out your mistakes. To hear them talking about anyone in such a way…it was just amazing," Ron said, face a little red from his drink, his hair clashing badly.
"Yeah, well, you know…" Reamann said looking down and blushing, but not from modesty. He had never thought that he would get so much recognition for a prepositional paper. He was glad he had Draco write it since, clearly, it was good and therefore should help the case and save lives, but he felt guilty for taking the credit, and a little stupid for having not read the report over completely himself before handing it in. He had run out of time before the meeting.
Would he be asked specific things about it?
Would they be disappointed in him if he couldn't give brilliant theories to their questions on the spot as they sprung them on him or would they get suspicious if he could not produce another phenomenal report?
"I have always said you were brilliant," Ginny beamed. Reamann felt a little queasy.
"How about we talk about something else," he said.
"Aw, we are embarrassing him," Hermione giggled.
"He is just modest. And humble. All good qualities to have," Harry laughed.
"Alright, alright…" he mumbled.
"You know who I ran into yesterday?" Ginny said, setting her beer down, ready to shift the conversation to ease her boyfriend's discomfort.
"Who?" Harry asked, Ron looking over and Hermione taking a sip of her drink.
"Draco Malfoy," she said. Réamann, who had been taking a sip of his own drink, inhaled a tad of it and started coughing. Hermione set hers down too and whipped out her wand, charming Réamann's coughs away.
"You okay, chap?" Ron asked, looking over at Réamann.
"Oh yes, fine," he croaked, blotting his chin with a napkin.
Talking about Draco Malfoy was not the change of topic he was looking for.
"Draco, huh?" Harry said, sipping his beer like he wasn't thrilled by the topic either.
"Yeah. Why didn't you tell me he was out of Azkaban?" she asked, looking around the table, but obviously talking to Harry.
"We thought you knew," Hermione said.
"Yeah, he made the Daily Prophet a few years ago…first page," Ron said. "There was a big stink about him making probation. He was supposed to serve a maximum of twenty, but was eligible for parole after ten. Honestly, no one thought he would ever get paroled, but he did," he said.
"But why all the upset over him? Other people have gotten out since then, right? They all make the papers too?" Ginny asked, feeling terribly out of the loop now.
Trying so hard to ignore the fact that she was a mini-celebrity had caused her to be completely in the dark of all other things, apparently. Gossip about the "Death Eaters" had often been on the minds and tongues of those around her for years, and though she had always been curious, she had largely ignored what was whispered and muttered around her.
She felt silly for doing so now.
It wasn't her own fame she was hiding from, but guilt and shame.
She did not realize that was what she felt until after seeing Draco yesterday and having that lifted from her.
She had not realized she had closed herself off from that whole time in her life so as not to deal with it.
That wasn't fair since others, like Draco, did not have the luxury to just pretend none of it had happened.
He could not ignore the gossip and go about his life like nothing was, or ever had been, wrong.
Ginny was feeling guilty again.
"Well, no one else has gotten a real mention about their release…you know, just minor notes in the Prophet announcing their release," Ron said.
"But why?" Ginny pressed. "Why did Draco cause such uproar?" She did not understand, why him of all of them?
"Well, none of the other prisoners were…you know, werewolves," Ron said, swigging his drink again, becoming a little redder. "People seemed to think he was gonna get out and come after their children or something as vengeance, like the new-generation Greyback," Ron explained. "The Ministry knows he used Unforgivables, but they couldn't prove it without his wand, so they couldn't keep him on that account, but still, everyone found out and fears him for it. Last I heard he was tucked away in some murky corner of the Ministry, poor as dirt and doing his best to be unnoticed."
"A small blip on the radar, in Muggle terms," Hermione added. "I haven't seen him since he got out," she confessed, looking guilty herself. Ron mentioning Draco's struggles did not help her feel any better. "I tried contacting him, but I only got back a two-word reply that I will not repeat here," she said, rolling her eyes just a touch at Draco's vulgarity.
"Yeah, I wonder what the little git is up to," Ron said, obviously too drunk to remember at that point that he didn't really care what Draco Malfoy was up to.
"I need another drink," Reamann said suddenly, excusing himself and standing like there was a bee on him. Ginny looked up at him as he moved past her and Harry was left beside her, (Reamann having been between them) looking just as puzzled. Ginny used the opportunity to scoot over to Harry in the booth and drop her voice to talk to him while Hermione and Ron chuckled at Réamann's exit.
"Harry," she said, Harry looking over at her with very serious eyes, "why did you not tell me Draco Malfoy was out of Azkaban? You know I avoid the papers and all other publications like the plague, and I wouldn't have known otherwise," she said.
"I didn't think it would matter…" Harry said dismissively.
"Wouldn't matter?" Ginny repeated in an outraged whisper. "Harry, he didn't deserve to go to Azkaban in the first place…"
"And thus, why I made sure he made probation," Harry said flatly, like that was the end of the conversation. Ginny had been married to Harry for five years, she knew his tone, but she didn't put up with it anymore. He hated talking about the war and the events after it, but she wanted to discuss it. They were going to.
"You should have told me," she said just as firmly.
"I didn't want you seeking him out," he said.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Because."
"That's not a reason, Harry," Ginny whispered.
"Because, though I know he shouldn't have been sent there, that doesn't mean I trust him," he said, never having told anyone about the last conversation he and Draco had shared in private before the final battle. Doing so would have gotten Draco locked away for life. "Malfoy has always been on his side and his side alone. He is one to hold a grudge, and I think ten years in Azkaban is a long time to let a grudge stew."
"He isn't like that…"
"You think you know him?" Harry snapped, Ginny not knowing about the conversation either, the one where Harry got the very strong impression that Draco's ambitions were not all that dissimilar to those of the young Tom Riddle's he had once met back in his second year of Hogwarts. She did not like being reminded of that incident and he was not loyal to Draco in any way, but he felt he owed Draco enough to not divulge such details out of spite.
"A right bit better than you do, I should think," she barked back just as harshly.
There was much left unsaid between them in regards to that last night before the final battle of the war.
Harry wouldn't talk about what he and Draco had spoken of those years ago, and Ginny refused to talk about what Harry had seen the night before the final battle in regards to Draco and her. Harry liked to bring that up in their rows, but they were not going to talk about that right now, not if Ginny had any say in the matter.
"Azkaban does things to people, Ginny," Harry said, giving up on the argument, knowing he could not say all he needed to get Ginny to understand, knowing he would not win the argument, and not wanting to fight while out with their friends. "Some make it out able to deal with life, only those hollow eyes as evidence of their time there. But some can't handle it. Some go crazy. Draco had hollow eyes going into that place. I have seen him since he got out; I was there when he was released. I wouldn't say he is raving mad, but he is not right in the head, Ginny," he said.
"How would you know?" Ginny asked angrily, having seen Draco herself now and feeling he was perfectly sane and relatively well-adjusted.
"He saw a lot of terrible things during the war…we all did, but Draco then got sent to that place with nothing to do but dwell on those terrible things, a place that makes you relive those terrible things over and over again. Few wouldn't go mad from that," he said, again not mentioning anything he had sworn to keep to himself. Ginny wanted to think Draco was just some poor lost soul, he was not about to invalidate that by telling her that he was pretty sure Draco had been insane long before entering Azkaban.
Reamann returned with a round of drinks and Ron smiled greedily.
"Ron is completely pissed," Hermione laughed as Ron took another drink.
"I am not!" Ron laughed, nearly sloshing his drink across the table in attempt to set it down.
Ginny and Harry's conversation had to stop there, and she scooted back over for Reamann to sit between them again. They would talk more later, if either of them was up for another throw down fight. At the moment, they would cool it. They were there for Réamann, it was his night and they would not ruin it by having a row.
"Well, a new topic then?" Reamann said, grabbing a drink for himself before Ron spilled them all.
"I think Ron is gonna need help getting home tonight," Harry chuckled.
"Don't drink and Floo, that's what mum always used to say," Ginny said a little dully, still angry, the whole table laughing at her joke, Ron joining in who then spilled his drink across the table with his elbow.
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Author's Note:
There was a Pirates of the Caribbean reference in this chapter, even though I wrote the scene in question a year before I ever saw said movie. It is really just a coincidence that the scenes resemble each other, but I don't want anyone getting in a tizzy over it, so I acknowledge the similarity here and now.
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