The Abraxan Brand
It is nearly midnight; the library remains in the dead of silence. Still, a few patrons remain to tap into the vast resources of the National Library of Magic, an immense establishment around the corner from the Ministry of Magic. Draco Malfoy, Junior Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of Accounting, sits at a desk among the less-trafficked "Q" bookshelves (Quaffles, Q-tips, Quirky Quilt Patterns). A neat stack of papers, about two feet in height, sit at the right corner of the table. Extra sharpened pencils and cheap pens rest horizontally at the top of the desk, along with a large rubber eraser. Draco is disgusted with himself for resorting to such lowly utensils, but quills and ink are too expensive. Resting against the leg of Draco's chair is a leather briefcase, good quality, but peeling a bit at the corners. The former Slytherin himself sits erects, poised over a sheet with a pencil. His hands move quickly, exactingly. Suddenly, one can imagine the wand in his hand, tracing spells with equal precision. Draco's wand, instead, is tucked behind his ear, a constant snub to the ideology of Constant Vigilance!.
Minutes pass. Though fast, he has only gotten through the first inch of papers. He glances at his watch. Time for a five minute break. He takes off his glasses and puts his face in his hands. The darkness feels good on his strained eyes. Draco continues with his ritual. He turns, placing his hands on the back of the chair, stretching and cracking his back. Slowly, but methodically, he stretches his other limbs. Finally, Malfoy sits down, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose. There is somewhat pinched look on his face. If he smiles more, one assumes, a relatively good-looking man might appear underneath. Another quick glance to his watch. One minute left for his break. Draco groans loudly, staring at the endless paperwork and absently tugging at the silver bracelet on his right wrist. Who would have thought that he, the descendent of one of the Purest bloodlines in England, would have to resort to such menial and taxing labour? The unfairness of it all continually grates with him. Draco Malfoy, with the skill and cunning, should be up at the top of the ladder, not wasted at the lowest one. He grinds the pencil in his hand to the paper until the point breaks and his bracelet on his hand abruptly feels heavy.
Draco hates the damn thing. It tags him like an animal, as if he was inhuman as a werewolf. It reminds him of the mistakes of his youth, the fight in a lost war for an archaic ideology. It was supposed to be the side. Malfoy pulls derisively at the bracelet again. The permanent device also lets the Ministry watch him and ensure that no Unforgivables burst from the end of his wand. That would be a straight Dementor's Kiss or execution for him, regardless if it was in his own defence. Draco doesn't deny he hasn't been tempted, just to escape his mundane, worked to the bone lifestyle. Anything would be better than this.
Draco looks at his watch again and decides quite emphatically that he can take another minute to himself.
After the war, no one wanted to hire him. It was only with a little luck, and a touch of pity, that Professor Slughorn connected him to the Accounting Department. The man, aged twenty-three, stares at his work with weary bitterness. Not even at the peak of his life and Draco Malfoy is already ground to the bone. But there are no other options with this kind of pay, however meagre. Funny how life works.
Resignedly and hatefully, he picks up his pencil and continues to exact figures into the late hours.
-
Draco shuffles in to his office, around eight in the morning, the strap of his battered briefcase digging into his shoulder and his arms paining with the weight of papers. His office is a hole in the wall, at the Ministry – a closet converted into an office. It is so narrow, that Draco needs to make sure he was in good shape to squeeze into his deskchair, which barely fits between his abnormally wide desk and the wall. He throws his papers on the bare desk, sets his briefcase on the floor, and begins the five minute process of sitting down.
The Slytherin finally gets somewhat comfortable then—
"Malfoy!" Of course, someone has to talk to him just now. A bald, ruddy-faced wizard sticks his head into Draco's rathole of an office and continues talking, "You've got some visitors. Important ones. They're waitin' in the reception area." Lovett, the wizard, frowns suspiciously; why would anyone - especially them! – want to talk to Malfoy.
Draco reads the expression on Lovett's face perfectly. "Oh, visitors for me? Who could they be? My, I'm surprised as you are, Lovett," he drawls, awkwardly removing himself from his chair. "One of the oldest families in the Wizarding World getting visitors, who would have thought." Draco pushes past his superior (Senior Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of Accounting) and stalks to the reception room. Malfoy internally admits Lovett is right; Draco Malfoy and visitors were simply two words not put together. Especially if they are important.
A curt voice interrupts his thoughts. "Malfoy."
Oh. Him. Draco decides he doesn't particularly want important visitors. "Weasel." Pause. "Potty." Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stand in front of him, decked out in their Auror robes. They look new. Draco studies them for a moment. Potter seems more relaxed, but wary. There is a silver band on his left hand. Ah, married, right. The former Death Eater recalls with derision the five-page spread of the wedding to Ginevra Weasley. Potter probably paid for the whole event single-handedly; Merlin knows that the Weasleys couldn't even scrape enough change together for a single flower arrangement. Weasley is incredibly tense, and Malfoy is not surprised. It didn't take much to wind him up, and for that, the former Slytherin is pleased. 'And here I was, thinking my talents had wasted away in this fucking miserable office,' he muses. Malfoy spots Weasley's wedding ring. The Mud—Granger, oh yes. "What do you want?" Draco states, rather than asks. He crosses his arms, and gives the pair the most neutral expression he can manage.
"We need to talk to you," Weasley answers aggressively.
"You're doing that already," Draco points out. Weasley flushes a crimson red.
Potter looks around with mock interest. "Hey, Malfoy, can we just pop into your office for a chat? Wait, do you even have an office?" he glances disinterestedly at Draco's name-badge. "Junior Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of Accounting. Why am I not surprised; such a long title, but mostly full of hot air." Weasley bites back a snicker. Draco's hand goes immediately to his wand. They know his situation full well. After all, they are the ones who led him there! "Now, now, Malfoy, we can't be unleashing any Unforgivables so soon," Potter chides Draco, holding out his Auror badge.
His wand arm falls limply to his side. "No use wasting my energy on your sorry arses, anyway," he mutters under his breath. Then, Draco manages a tight smile, "I'm rather busy right now. Unlike you two, I do have a lot of work to do." He moves to walk away. "But send me an owl, sometime, maybe we can reminisce over tea," Draco adds with a snort. A firm hand stops him.
"Don't you want to know about your father?" Harry whispers urgently, fixing an intense stare on Draco.
The Slytherin pauses, startled. He quickly puts on an apathetic expression. "Not much of a father. After the war, he took the bottle. Died two years ago. Besides, I know everything there is to know about him anyway. I think that's the end of the story," he replies sharply. "Again, if you excuse me." Draco wrenches himself from Potter's grasp, only to find Weasley standing in his way. "Out, Weasel. Do you not understand English? I said, I have work to do. Just because you can't understand the meaning of 'hard work' and have Potter to pay your way through everything, doesn't mean everyone else is as blessed." The blonde wizard spits out the words with unguarded venom. Malfoy shoves past Weasley and squeezes into his miniscule office. He picks up a pen and starts on the first memorandum regarding Floo Finances.
"There's no way out of this, Malfoy," Weasley retorts. "You really think we'd willing talk to slimy git like yourself? Harry and I have been perfectly civil so far, but we do have a warrant." He takes a minute to study Draco's office with a wicked smirk. Draco sneers. "Lovely office, Malfoy. No wonder you have to keep the door open... the room is too small for your ego!"
He sits back in his seat and looks at the annoying pair. Deep down, he knows he can't fight their presence much longer. "It's charming, isn't." Draco absently pushes his sliding specs up his nose and taps his pen against the desk. Minutes pass. Potter waits relatively patiently; Weasley, not so much. "Fine, if I can't get you idiots away... I'll meet you in an hour or so?" He can get through about two inches of paperwork in that time. "You can treat me to lunch at The Eyrie. Now, go away." The blonde-haired man glares pointedly and waves his wand at the door. It slams shut and Draco briefly relishes the annoyed and gobsmacked expressions on their face, not to mention Weasley's colourful curses.
-
"Augurey egg and vegetable omelette, please," Draco orders, arching an eyebrow aristocratically. "A glass of your best Egyptian wine, too." He sits back in the plush seat. "I'm sorry, it's been a while since I have been here," he says, not sounding apologetic at all. "Thank you for generously offering to take me to such an excellent restaurant." Both Potter and Weasley flush with some sort of anger, but Draco doesn't particularly care. "Now, what is it that you want?" His voice is sharp, a bit suspicious.
Potter and Weasley trade glances, before Weasley begins, "Do you know the name, Elphias Doge, by any chance?" Draco nods. Who didn't know the man? He was the one who penned Dumbledore's obituary for the Prophet. Weasley hesitates, "Well, just yesterday, we received an anonymous message requesting Aurors at the residence; evidently something was brewing. Harry and I were on the team that Apparated there, but by the time we reached, it was too late. Doge was found in his bed, a hole through his forehead."
"Since Doge was a very old, learned wizard, we expected some trace of a powerful spell from his wand, but not even a Stupefy was cast," Harry adds, "Doge's wand was just sitting on his bed table. We assume that he was taken by surprise or in his sleep, by a Muggle bullet."
"Crude," Draco sneers.
"It did the trick, didn't it?" Weasley responds pointedly. "The wound wasn't very messy. Very small."
Draco leans back in his seat, looking between the two Aurors. "Fine, it's very unfortunate, and all that. What does it have to do with me?" he asks. An indescribable look – fear? hate? – crosses his face before he adds in a hiss, "And what does this murder have to do with Lucius Malfoy? There must be a reason you are disclosing such precious, and might I add, confidential, details to me." The waiter interrupts with Draco's meal, yet somehow the Malfoy is slowly losing his appetite.
There is a brief moment when Potter and Weasley again trade glances. Draco is getting weary of the beating around the bush. "There's another detail we missed. We found a strange mark branded on Mr. Doge's chest, presumably when he was alive. Very similar to the process Voldemort used to brand the Death Eaters." Draco flinches at the name, but continues listening intently. "This brand pictures an Abraxan horse, rampant, in the middle of a heavily ornate diamond," Potter pauses. "Does this sound familiar to you, Malfoy?"
Draco blanches and takes a large drink of his wine to steady his suddenly shaky nerves. "Y-Yes, it's the Malfoy crest," he responds. "It wasn't me, you know," Draco informs. "These last few years, I've been a good little boy." The blonde-haired wizard grimaces and gestures to the thick bracelet on his wrist. "I am quite sure that you would have noticed anything out of the ordinary."
"Yeah, yeah, we know you have no involvement," Weasley waves a hand impatiently. "And we know you haven't contacted anyone through owl or otherwise."
A hint of indignant colour appears on the Slytherin's face. "You were screening my post? That is a breach of privacy, thank you! I could take you to the Wizengamot for this, you know!" he growls, slamming his hands on the table.
"It wasn't like you were getting anything important," the red-headed Auror replies lazily.
Draco grits his teeth, restraining the urge to hex the impudent weasel to Hell and back. Potter, reading his expression, unsheathes his wand as a precaution. "And what do you think? There aren't many Malfoys alive these days; just Mother and I. Besides, Mother is currently residing in France for the next few months. It isn't her," he says and crosses his arms rather defensively. Draco was particularly fond of his mother, especially after discovering how she lied to Voldemort. The wizard suddenly frowns, something clicking. "Are you saying that—Lucius – he is—" He stares intently at the pair. "You guys are lying to me. You brought me out of work – and I will have to make up the time I missed, you know – for this ridiculous story?"
"Yes, we think dear old Malfoy Senior is indeed alive." Potter's specs reflect the light, his expression is unreadable.
"I saw him buried," Draco says finally, nerves feeling a bit numb with shock. He is unsure of how to act. "He died of alcohol poisoning, that's what our family Healer said. And really, Healer Nott is a perfectly trustworthy man. I have known him my whole life for Merlin's sake!" Draco is emphatic with his words.
"Healer Nott was a Death Eater," Potter retorts. "Besides, potions can imitate death. The Draught of Living Death, in example," Potter continues unsympathetically, "There is a possibility that your father had an old friend help him out of the coffin right before the funeral." He shrugs. "Your pop wasn't exactly the most honest man around town." Draco remains silent, brooding.
They seem unnerved by his silence. Weasley breaks the silence. "If it makes you feel better, we really aren't sure it is him, but he is our number one suspect. The only one that fits. And Malfoy, as much as I hate you, we – unfortunately – need your help to track the killer, especially if it happens to be your dad. He could target anyone next! We don't even know why Elphias Doge was murdered, yet."
The Slytherin stands up, nearly knocking over his seat. "I don't want to get into this mess. It's your own damn problem. Fix it yourselves," he says, slamming on the table with a fix. Shoulders hunched angrily, Malfoy stalks out of the restaurant before Apparating.
"That didn't go very well, did it? Hermione would have told us to keep our cool," Auror Harry Potter sighs. "This is going to be a bit harder than we thought, Ron."
"You thought it was going to be easy? Good riddance, anyway," Ron Weasley answers, mouth full of Draco's untouched Augurey omelette. "I didn't even want to work with that git."
Potter shakes his head hopelessly at his partner. "There has to be one way to convince Malfoy on this one."
Weasley snorts. "That's easy! What's one thing a Malfoy can't resist?"
Harry raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Power!"
-
Author's Note: This is with the understanding that after the war, Lucius Malfoy was not sent to Azkaban due to his fairly neutral position during the battle – he was mostly looking after his own self. Also, I hope to keep story only a few chapters long, but we will see how that goes! In any case, this is my first time writing Draco, so I would enjoy your thoughts and comments! With love, Zazu.
Addendum: Thank you, SouthCross, for the very helpful remarks.