Cabin Fever
Draco hated being idle.
With his father's impending Wizengamot trial regarding his role in the Second Wizarding War, the press had been hounding him and the rest of the Malfoy family. As a result, his mother had ordered that he remain in Malfoy Manor for the entire summer. Draco saw it as nothing less than pampering. She still treated him like a child after all they'd been through. As if having Voldemort occupy their home for months on end was some sort of slumber party that had no influence over his character, and the press, of all things, would surely scare him, the poor innocent tyke.
Perhaps a few years ago he would have taken advantage of the press' attention and acted on his seething anger, accepting an offer from a journalist to give an interview that they promised would 'set the story straight'. Too foolish to be able to see through their self-interest, he would have gone on passionately about his honorable family and jumped to his father's defense. Now he knew better. He'd seen the way even newspapers deemed reliable would print cheap, sensationalist headlines that accused the innocent and glorified the guilty left and right, thanks to a few anonymous 'informers' who talked more with their purses and stacks of Galleons than with credible evidence. He'd made a few successful leaks of misinformation himself before, so he knew how easy they were to manipulate. Not that he cared where the innocent or the guilty ended up. He just knew he needed to keep from giving the journalists more reason to disparage his family.
So while his mother's reasons for keeping him confined to Malfoy Manor were understandable, he wished she knew he wasn't that daft. It was bloody torture, having to remain still and unstimulated for the entirety of the summer. He would rather take a visit to Knockturn Alley, perhaps find himself a new light and durable Quidditch uniform and then visit Theodore Nott to test it out. The Notts owned a large expanse of empty land used by the family to play Quidditch, often to entertain guests. Draco hadn't gone since his Fifth Year at Hogwarts, and he was surprised when Theodore had offered him an invitation to visit a few days ago. Draco didn't think Theodore would want to talk to him. Not so soon after the war. Plus, there was the press, circulating their manor like an incessantly-buzzing fly determined to come closer to whatever dirty, putrid-smelling secret lay within, making it undesirable for anyone to make contact with the Malfoys in fear of being stalked for associating with them.
He still hadn't brought up the invitation to his mother, who had been mulling in her office for days, attempting to prepare her testimony for the Council of Magical Law, with her and Lucius' representative in court occasionally visiting to sort out the critical information they would agree to offer in exchange for Lucius' release, if it was offered. Occasionally, she did leave the manor to go to the Ministry of Magic Headquarters, but she maintained that it was strictly business and forbid Draco to accompany her, not wanting him to be in the public eye 'until this is all swept under the rug'.
He now sat in an armchair by the unlit fireplace in the sitting room, throwing a small, black ball that he had magically charmed to bounce back to him no matter where he threw it. His blood grew hot at the thought of asking for permission to visit Theodore. Asking Mother for permission to play while she ran around with a sense of purpose and kept him shielded from the big, scary world? It was ridiculous. It would only confirm he was an infant. He ceased throwing the ball and squeezed it, hard. He hated feeling so useless.
With a sense of finality, he broke the charm placed on the ball and hurled it in the direction of a decorative vase on top of the fireplace, which sent it crashing to the floor. Though the sound of it breaking into a thousand tiny pieces of glass gave him some satisfaction, it wasn't enough to douse the fire burning in his chest.
He stalked to his room and changed into an old set of velvet robes. They were unassuming, what with their aged look and dark purple color. If his mother saw him wearing them, she'd scowl and order him to throw them out. Malfoys didn't dress in anything other than something that would affirm their social status in the world. That's exactly why he had chosen them. Where he was going, he didn't need to be a Malfoy.
Narcissa wasn't home. She had come into the sitting room, put a hand on his shoulder, and told him she would go to visit his father.
Because of his undeniable involvement with Voldemort's rise to power and his status as a Death Eater, the Ministry of Magic had interned Lucius Malfoy, along with other members of Voldemort's army. The Dark Mark branded on his arm had made it easy for the Ministry's authorities to pick him out and seize him until some semblance of order was reestablished. After Voldemort's followers had infiltrated the Ministry and set about making changes that sent the whole wizarding world into an unstable period of growing resistance to the new governing body, most of the previous government workers had been removed from their positions.
Because of how hectic and busy everything became with trying to put those workers back in their place and trying to make sure the wizarding community underwent a smooth recovery, the Ministry was forced to make drastic decisions. One of them, Draco thought with a bitter taste in his mouth, had resulted in the preposterous decision to imprison his father. Those who had supported Voldemort in his cause and were deemed a threat had fallen victim to the new Minster for Magic's decision to allow for internment.
Narcissa had fortunately managed to escape the radar of the authorities. Maybe Draco should have been grateful that the Ministry had enough sense to spare her, but he wasn't. They were nitwits, the lot of them. Couldn't they see that a man so well respected and prominent in the wizarding world shouldn't be grouped with the same lot that caused actual damage? The Carrows, Yaxley, Scabior- they deserved to be there. They were faithful to the wrong side until the end and had tried to escape. Only guilty people ran. But his father didn't try to run. He had defected to the right side. Before, he had only done what he had to do. What he was forced to do. But he wasn't a criminal. Didn't they see that?
When his mother had told him about going to pay his father another visit, he had avoided meeting her gaze, knowing it was pointless to ask whether he could come with her. She claimed she didn't want him visiting Lucius for the time being for the same reason she didn't want him leaving Malfoy Manor.
Draco suspected other reasons. Whenever he brought up his father, Narcissa's eyes began to shimmer and she spoke with a lowered voice, replying curtly to Draco's questions about his condition and the development of his trial. She seemed almost fearful, as if remembering him had caused her pain, and she didn't want any of it to pass on to her son.
Draco grew agitated as the weeks passed and images of his father locked away in some underground cell and robbed of his magic began to haunt him. It was as bad as he thought, or else his mother wouldn't keep him away. She thought she needed to spare Draco the image of seeing his father be humiliated. But Draco had already witnessed his father in this state.
During his father's last few months at Voldemort's side, he started to look aged and haggard, the wisps of grey hair among the blond ones more visible than before, the bags under his eyes prominent and the creases in his forehead permanently hardened. He became detached, as though he had forgotten who he was and what drove him.
Narcissa had to have known that Draco understood, so why was she firmly keeping him at arm's length?
After he had given her a curt goodbye, she left, and he had occupied himself with the charmed ball.
After changing into the velvet robes and pocketing a small leather bag full of money, Draco headed to the fireplace, placed the hood of his robes over his head, grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a box on the mantelpiece, and, with one brilliant burst of emerald fire, sent himself to the Ministry of Magic Headquarters.
As he had anticipated, the Atrium was buzzing with activity. Wizards were coming in and out and trying to squeeze their way through the bustling crowd, some with stern, determined expressions on their faces, some with exhausted ones, the latter usually heading to the fireplaces on the right-hand side to leave the headquarters.
Flocks of charmed paper airplanes whizzed above their heads and newspaper sellers hollered over the noise about the latest issues.
As Draco lowered his head and dove into the crowd, he paused by a stand for the Daily Prophet and scanned his eyes over the first page of the latest issue. The headline read:
SHACKLEBOLT TO PRESIDE OVER FIRST WIZENGAMOT TRIAL SINCE WAR ON TUESDAY
Curiosity getting the better of him, Draco handed the seller a Knut and took a copy, slipping it into a pocket in his robes.
His mother had stopped their subscription to the Prophet, saying they didn't need to see defaming lies and exaggerated truths about their family, particularly about Lucius. Though Draco agreed with her decision, it inconvenienced him. He was out of the loop on the happenings of the wizarding world. He didn't even know which Quidditch teams had made it to the World Cup and who was set to compete in the final match.
Draco considered heading to Level 2, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That's where his father was being held. But he risked running into his mother, and he didn't want that. However, there was no way he could stay in the Atrium. He needed to find somewhere quieter. Sooner or later someone would recognize him.
He took the stairs to Level 7, avoiding the crowded lifts. The Department of Magical Games and Sports, as Draco had anticipated, was much less crowded.
He entered into a wide, long hallway. Framed pictures of famous Quidditch players were strung up on the walls. The doors on each side were mainly offices, but as he walked to the end of it, he reached an open, circular area where golden, life-like figurines floated close to the high ceiling and reenacted the highlights of the most recent Quidditch games. A sports commentator's voice projected through speakers hung up on each corner of the ceiling.
Sitting areas were located directly below, where a few workers sat while on their breaks, sipping coffee and catching up on the latest Quidditch news. Where this lounging area ended, the department's offices continued.
On both sides of the lounge were a series of shops. Draco ducked into the first one he saw. It sold the latest Quidditch-related merchandise: mini-brooms, Quidditch-team-themed shirts with moving logos, books on every Quidditch match ever recorded. A woman manned the counter on the right side of the room. She had uncombed, frizzy hair and wrinkles lining her blotchy skin, and her lower lip was frozen into a pout, which complimented the suspicious glare she gave him through her rectangular glasses as he walked through the shop. The glasses magnified her eyes and made her resemble an insect. Despite her cold air, she didn't seem to recognize him.
Draco ignored the merchandise in the aisles and headed straight to the back of the shop, where he found a lone chair and began to flip through his issue of the Daily Prophet.
He started with the article on the first page, complete with a picture of Kingsley Shacklebolt and a detailed account of the actions he'd taken in order to reestablish order in the Ministry.
Malfoy snorted. 'Brave', 'sensible', 'determined', and 'capable' were some of the many adjectives the article used to glorify Shacklebolt in his new role as Minister for Magic. The bastard hadn't been in office for over two months, and already he was being praised. Draco didn't see what was so praise-worthy about him. He had been postponing the trials for an inexcusably long time. He somehow found the time to have the 'Magic is Might' statue taken down, replacing it with the old Fountain of Magical Brethren monument. Another thing the article applauded him for, saying it was an 'important and symbolic step towards reestablishing the Ministry as an upholder of peace both within the wizarding world and outside of it'. While Father was rotting away in a cage, Shacklebolt was occupying his time with kicking down statues. To what, appease the Muggles for something they knew and cared nothing about?
Regarding the actual trials, the article read:
The first of a long series of Wizengamot trials is set to take place on Tuesday morning, 11 August, a week from today. Though focus will not exclusively be given to trials dealing with accomplices to now-deceased Lord Voldemort in the Second Wizarding War, they will make up the majority.
This being Kingsley Shacklebolt's first oversight of trials as Minister, the task is unprecedented in its difficulty; the series of cases to be reviewed is an exponentially greater amount than the norm. The war and the immediate events preceding it have resulted in the accumulation of 120 cases to be settled within a month's time, as opposed to the usual average of 60.
Though the fates of the high-profile criminals are a popular topic of discussion in the wizarding community, most of their trials are not to take place until September. People are debating how severe and how long their sentences should be, though most agree that a life sentence in Azkaban, or even the Dementor's Kiss, would be just punishment. Whether to pardon the individuals claiming to have been under the influence of the Imperius Curse while working for Lord Voldemort from a sentence in Azakaban or the Dementor's Kiss is also being hotly debated.
Additionally, those who had defected from Voldemort's army during the course of the war are having their intentions looked upon with skepticism by many witches and wizards. One Lucius Malfoy, currently interned, has claimed that he had 'completely changed loyalties long before the war's conclusion'. While the candor of this statement is dubious to many who have known the Malfoys to be members of Lord Voldemort's inner circle for years, the Minister for Magic has voiced his desire to remain objective.
The article followed up with a brief interview with Shacklebolt concerning his approach to the trials, but Draco stopped reading, incensed. He eyes searched the page for the name of the journalist who wrote the article. After learning it some man by the name of Phineas Volt, he committed the name to memory and swore he'd see to it personally that his career came to a very unfortunate end.
He'd known he was bound to encounter something that would undermine his family just like this, but he couldn't help feeling frustrated. It was ludicrously biased content, singling his father out in such a manner. Of all the defectors to mention, it had to be him.
With a frown etched on his face, Draco continued skimming through the rest of the Prophet.
He learned that Germany and Morocco had been the ones to advance to the final match in the World Cup. He almost smirked, thinking of Theodore. Germany was his favorite team. That explained the invitation for a game of Quidditch. It was to celebrate Germany's advancement to the final round.
One of the smaller articles tucked away in a corner of one at the back of the newspaper caught Draco's eye just as he was about to pocket the paper and leave.
DEATH TOLL RISES TO THREE FROM UNKNOWN WIZARDING DISEASE
The article was brief, saying that healers were concerned to discover a small outbreak of an unknown magical disease in Edinburgh that has claimed the lives of a young boy and two adult witches, the boy accounting for the most recent death. This piqued Draco's interest. There hadn't been a wizarding disease that couldn't be identified for as long as he remembered. In fact, he was sure it hasn't happened for over a hundred years.
Deciding he was finished, Draco disposed of the newspaper, not wanting his mother to find it on him at home. The witch at the counter eyed him all the way to the door, as if she had suspected him of nicking a mini-broom and hiding it under his robes.
He returned to the Atrium, making sure to keep the hood of his robes tightly over his head so that not a single blond hair was visible. He was able to fight through the crowd and occupy an empty fireplace on the right-hand side of the hall before transporting himself to Knockturn Alley.
He ended up in Moribund's. The rising dust and ashes from where his feet landed sent him into a coughing fit, and he almost knocked over a stack of transparent, glass boxes containing the bones of various magical creatures as he tried to escape into an area with fresher air.
The shelves making up the aisles throughout the shop were stacked with items with no particular relevance to one other, though all were recognizable. Moribund specialized in selling popular items, but for a cheaper price than most. Draco hadn't come to Moribund's for that, however. Moribund always managed to get his hands on the latest assortment of Quidditch equipment before any other seller did. Draco intended to take Theodore up on his offer, so he figured he might as well ensure he was two steps ahead of him by buying a new uniform.
It took a while before Draco made it to the end of the shop, where Moribund sat behind a counter. The floors were just as littered with items as the shelves, so he had to put effort into not tripping, or else he would've been forced to buy twelve jars of human fingers if he had accidentally knocked them over.
Moribund was a short, round man with a shrubby red beard. His large, meaty hands held a newspaper, and he seemed to be engrossed in its content, because he hadn't noticed Draco approach the counter. He looked up and set it down when Draco called him by name.
"Ah, Draco, my boy. Haven't seen you in a long while." He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Lots of trouble for you, eh? I wouldn't be wanting to leave my house, neither."
Draco ignored his comment and stated, "I need a new Quidditch uniform. Something light."
Moribund huffed and went to the storage room, where he kept all of his 'exclusive' merchandise so that no one who didn't know how to ask for it could get their hands on it.
He brought out a forest green uniform with golden hemming. It had a black, silky cloth for the inner fabric that matched the color of the padding. When Draco scooped it up into his hands, it felt like lifting a bag of feathers.
Moribund placed his hands on his hips. "I guarantee you'll be flying a lot faster, and there ain't any less protection."
Draco paid 20 Galleons for the uniform (expensive, but reasonable), thanked Moribund, and left before the man could try to inquire more about his personal life.
When he stepped outside, a cold chill crept its way beneath the fabric of his robes and bit at his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. A gust of wind swept through the narrow alley and blew the hood off his head, tangling his hair and making him squint to prevent his eyes from watering. A blanket of shadow fell over the winding cobblestone street as large, grey storm clouds blocked the sun. When Draco looked up, his heart lurched.
He had forgotten that Borgin and Burkes sat right across from Moribund's. He could see figures moving inside, though it was too dark to make out their faces. All the painful, twisted memories associated with the place came back to him like a bludger knocking into his stomach, causing him to lose balance on his broom and forcing the air out of his lungs. Suddenly he was falling, and he clawed at the air, desperate to latch onto something, but to no avail. He never met the ground, falling for eternity, never quite able to get a satisfying lungful of air, never able to calm the jolts of fear shooting out of his stomach and paralyzing his entire body as he stayed rooted to the spot.
He could've sworn he felt the Dark Mark branded on his left arm searing his skin. He had to the urge to lift up his sleeve and look at it to make sure it wasn't real, but he knew it'd be foolish to do it in such a public place. So he lifted his hood once more and rushed away, focusing his thoughts on what purchases he could make.
When Borgin and Burkes was well out of sight, he slowed his pace and relaxed his hunched shoulders. He noticed that not many shoppers roamed the alley, and those who did paid him no mind, sticking to the shadows as much as he did. Now that he thought about, he hadn't seen a single other customer in Moribund's, which was odd. He wondered whether the slow business had something to the do with the repercussions of the war.
When he spotted a sign that read 'Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary' in neat, silver letters with a boiling cauldron painted underneath, he remembered that he had wanted to find himself a few texts on alchemy, which he was sure to find there. The study at Malfoy Manor held a few texts on the subject, but Draco had already read all of them, and most were only introductory pieces that didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. He wanted to delve deeper.
Plus, he needed to restack on his supply of potions. He had taken an interest in advancing his potioneering skills and experimented at home with an expensive chemistry set his mother had bought him for his most recent birthday, along with a guidebook. Surprised that she had even remembered and bothered to give him a gift so soon after everything, he had at first only used it as a sign of appreciation, but soon enough, he found himself more and more interested in the prospect of successfully creating the most complicated concoctions the guidebook had to offer. It's not like he was going to go back to Hogwarts to finish his final Potions class, anyway, so he wouldn't be doing double the work.
A bell jingled above his head as he entered the apothecary, and the smell of something sweet and floral permeated his nostrils. Shelves occupied each of the four walls in the room, filled to the brim with glass jars containing liquids of an array of colors and consistencies. Some were boiling or giving off steam and making hissing and bubbling noises that gave one the impression of being inside a cauldron. Unlike Moribund's, the shop was clean and well organized, with nothing blocking the aisles. All the vials and bottles of potions that could be dangerous or susceptible to easy breakage were either sitting behind glass cabinets or supported by rails along the shelves. Mrs. Mulpepper, Mr. Mulpepper's wife and assistant, was a thin, elderly woman with dark grey hair and violet eyes. She greeted Draco with a smile, albeit not a ordinary one, since some of her teeth were were missing while others were fake ones made of gold.
"Mr. Malfoy. It's a pleasure seeing your handsome face," Mrs. Mulpepper sad. A twinge of sadness shone in her eyes, but she mentioned nothing to Draco that would confirm it. "Will you be needing something for school again?"
Draco always came to their apothecary to buy everything he needed for Potions class, hence her recognition of him. He shook his head. "No, Mrs. Mulpepper. I'm looking for a few books on alchemy. I'll also need a few potions."
"Alchemy, eh? Are you planning to become a master potioneer, Mr. Malfoy? A fine profession, I dare say. It'll suit you. Gregory's in the storage room now. I'll ask him about the books. Now, what potions is it you'll be needing?"
Draco listed as many potions as he could remember needing, since his decision to visit the shop was spontaneous and he hadn't come prepared with a list. When Mrs. Mulpepper disappeared into the storage room to find what he needed, Draco wandered about the shop aimlessly.
That is, until he heard people shouting from somewhere outside in the alley.
The noise was muffled but grew louder and louder by the second. He couldn't make out any words, only knowing that there were a number of people yelling all at once, and that they were heading in the direction of the apothecary. At first, he thought there had been some sort of conflict, but then he listened more intently and identified the nature of the yelling to be more urgent than alarmed or fearful.
He watched through the window, standing by the aisle closest to it, until the crowd of people came into view.
It was the press.
The flashes of their cameras was unmistakable. Draco's eyes widened and he stepped behind the aisle so that they wouldn't spot him through the window. He swore under his breath. How the bloody hell had they found him there?
One thought comforted Draco. They weren't legally allowed to come into the shop to hound him (plus, he was sure Mrs. Mulpepper would chase them out with a broom). But his shopping trip had certainly come to abrupt end, whether he wanted it to or not.
He heard the jingle of the bell above the door before he had time to register that someone was coming inside. The shouts of the crowd turned into a roar before the door closed again. He crouched lower behind the aisle and hoped it was just another customer, not a daring journalist looking to get his arse kicked.
There was a shuffle of footsteps, then panting. A low mutter of, "Oh, God," and then a thud, as if the person had slouched against the wall.
The shouts outside drew closer until Draco was sure the journalists were pressing themselves against the apothecary, only a thin layer of wall away from flooding in. A cascade of aggressive tapping against the apothecary's window make Draco jump.
But then he realized this meant they were after whoever just got inside. Relief and curiosity swept over him. They weren't there for him.
He stood up straight and smoothed out his robes, then crept to the edge of the aisle to see who the press was chasing.
Draco's lip curled in disdain and he clenched his fists, bunching up the fabric of his brand new Quidditch uniform and not caring if he wrinkled it. His luck that day was un-fucking-believable. He could've laughed at the absurdity of it.
The demanding shouts of the journalists all made sense now.
The person they were after was Granger.
Author's Notes: I apologize if you found this chapter a bit slow. I know it was Draco-heavy, with practically no Hermione. I promise that'll change very soon. Also, though the story will remain with a T rating for now, it will likely change to an M rating in the future.
Please feel free to share your thoughts, good or bad. I'd really appreciate your feedback!