"No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any
given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning -
its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream
- alone..." - Marlow, Heart of Darkness
*
The world had changed a great deal in ten years. But the world always stayed the same, in a great many ways. There was no more Voldemort - people spoke his name, now, those who didn't fear of invoking the dead - but there would always be dark wizards. There was no question as to whether the Dark Lord was dead or not - he simply was.
She had been there for the preparation, though Anara Warren had conveniently died ten years ago. It had not been her idea, of course, no one fancied the pain and pressure of going through dying. Especially when she had thought that was what really was going to happen. Perhaps if she had really died, then, it would have made things easier.
Dying changes a person.
Today, her name was Sahra Nigels, Her hair was darker and still straight, and her eyes did not shine as brightly as they had in her younger days. Her glasses were simple with black wire frames, as simple as her ash-grey robes. She had tied her hair back in the usual bun, but her lips were firm and thin when she looked at her reflection in the window across the room. She felt as tired as a dead person, she supposed. Too often she associated herself with that. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was looking at her grimly, and almost warily as she absently tapped her wand against her right thigh.
"Miss Nigels," the man said again, and she shifted her gaze to meet his. This one would not last long, either. The position had been difficult to fill after the incident of He Who Must Not Be Named raiding the Ministry, and none stayed long. After the second war, not many politicians could stand in the same room with weathered Aurors and not be intimidated. This one had a tick in the corner of his mouth. The last one had developed a tick in the corner of his eye three weeks before resigning.
He had said nothing further, and she raised an eyebrow. That was all she did. Her wand remained tapping out a stable beat against her robes, her shoulders were set, feet apart, and head tilted slightly as if she were eyeing him like her next meal. Perhaps that was what he thought he would be. She would have smiled if she found any humour in the situation. The man seemed to have gathered his thoughts enough to steeple his fingers over his desk and clear his throat. Her tapping remained unchanging. "Something's been brought to our attention." He paused, shifted his eyes a bit uncomfortably. "We need you to investigate someone." He started before she could speak. "Someone, who, I might add, has not shown any signs or motives of intending harm to anyone. It is simply..."
She knew where he was going. She did not stop her tapping. "You would like me to pay a visit to someone suspected of being a Death Eater during Voldemort's second rise. Someone who has probably done nothing more then look sideways at another since then." She hated this. She hated the check- ups that Aurors were usually designated to now. There were still dark wizards out there, but few were even comparable to even the most minor Death Eaters of the past times. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been degraded to a group of baby-sitting coddlers. The man actually expected her to go knock on a door where the worst that would happen to her would be someone not offering her a cup of tea.
She felt slightly ill.
And she had stopped tapping. The man had leaned back in his chair, trying to act as though he were just relaxing. He was trying to edge away. Tentatively, he reached out and pushed a file of papers towards her with his fingertips, before leaning back, hands tight on the arms of his chair.
She flicked it open with the tip of her wand, intentionally singing the corners of the papers with her sharp gesture. She noted the tiny flick and slight widening of his eyes. It was not difficult to not smile.
Well. At least he hadn't given her something boring, like paying a visit to Macnair's son in Surrey. That boy had been scared witless at finding out his father had been in Voldemort's inner circle. It had been slightly interesting to watch the horror creep across his face, followed almost instantly by the grief at being informed that he had been killed. No one was quite sure who had killed him, still. It had been quite a messy time, and no one counted the lives they stole away. It would ruin too many of the lives of those still living.
There were no pictures attached to the file. She knew who she was going to visit. She knew of them. She had never run across them, really. Perhaps she had passed by in Diagon Alley or the like in her younger years, but she did not remember. Everyone, though, remembered this family.
She flicked the folder shut as quickly as she had opened it, swept it up into her hands and slid it inside her robes, and was walking toward the door by the time the man's eyes finished widening for a second time. She had thought about sending him a look over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, but she thought it better she give the man a rest. After all, it was only morning and he had to deal with at least a half dozen more like her, today. She hated the monthly visits to the people. They could stay locked away in their own little worlds, for all she wanted.
Just in case she wasn't offered tea on her trip this morning, she stopped the large, long desk in the Atrium. Her timing had been about right. One of the secretaries had just sat down, a steaming cup set down beside him as he dug around his drawer for a quill. She swept it up with her left hand and strode a few feet away without a care. It would take the young man another minute to notice it was gone, and he would only sigh and go fetch another one. It was quite common for her and the other Aurors to snatch up a cup if they were paying a visit in the mornings. She wondered dimly what the budget for teacups was in the building.
Apparating wasn't all that interesting. Once you did it for effortless travel, it lost any and all the flair it had before you were allowed to do it. Besides, she wasn't too keen on flying, and she did not know many Aurors who could not apparate. In fact, she doubted that anyone who couldn't Apparate would be an Auror. She gave a shake of her head at wandering thoughts as she stared up the long and dusty path, winding its way through the moors to a manor house rising up from a copse of trees. Adjusting her glasses, she hitched up her robes and began the long walk up to the front gates.
They swung open with a bang as soon as she began reaching into her pocket to draw out her wand. Well, that was inviting. Haven't come across gates opening that quickly. It had occurred to her, however, that she was expected. With this family, they were told practically everything before it happened. She gave a sharp smack to a creeping vine that tried to wind about her leg when she knocked on the door. She supposed she had been the one sent because she wasn't prone to chatting, nor was she prone to be overly cruel. In fact, she considered herself chatty if she spoke more then a dozen words in a day. Well, today, she might just have to get cruel, as well.
The door swung open silently just as the vine shrunk back to its proper place. She had already straightened, and tipped her head forward to peer at the man at the door above her glasses. He did not look overly pleased, but he still stepped back and swept his arm out. His voice was rich, and carried a drawl reminiscent of an Unspeakable she had worked with once who had hailed from Texas. She expected the American had a speech impediment. She was not to keen on people who did not speak well. This one, though, spoke with as much class and elegance as shown in the entrance hall. Far too much. "Do come in. I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?"
She gave the tiniest shake of her head. She usually only accepted a beverage from people she was sent to check up on if they looked nervous. She did not put this one off his stride at all, so she would not accept a drink. She had more reason to worry over things like that them most Aurors.
After all, most Aurors had not been held captive by a Death Eater in Voldemort's prime. "No, thank you, Mister Malfoy." She drew the folder from her robes, flipped it open and folded the cover over. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looked between him and her papers. "This house is listed under the name of your father, Mister Malfoy. I assume he is not able to attend this interview?"
It was a dig. A cruel, malicious dig. The fleeting thought of ten years ago had soured her mood.
She saw his eyes tighten briefly. "Your mother is listed, as well, though she has no holdings of any properties. Would you mind if I asked her to sit with us this morning?"
This time it was his mouth that thinned slightly. "My mother is unable to join us today. If you'll accompany me to the drawing room, we'll finish this matter quickly." He was already walking away when he finished speaking, and she snapped the folder shut again and followed, unhurriedly. He was holding the large ebony door open for her when she arrived, a good half-minute behind him.
There were quite a few tactics she used in interviews, and they were all labelled in her mind, according to the way she was greeted. If they were nervous, she would be curt, but polite, and would stay quite a while. If they were very welcoming, she would take her little shots at them, referring to those who had passed on or were otherwise detained. To the cool, unemotional kind like this, she usually incorporated both.
She moved inside and seated herself behind the desk before he could get there, himself. In her younger days she would have smirked at the anger that dashed through his eyes as he closed the door and moved to sit in one of the chairs stationed infront of her. They were much lower to the ground then hers, and lent a feeling of inferiority. Judging by the information she had read of the family, Draco Malfoy had probably sat in one of those seats for a great deal of his life. And it probably irked him to no end to be sitting there again. Good.
She opened the folder again and picked up a quill from the desk beside her. It was long, glossy, and black, probably coming from a raven. And by the way the man's fingers twitched in his lap, it was probably his favourite. She dipped it in the inkwell infront of her and began jotting down notes. "Have you, in the last month, purchased any artefacts from one Borgin and Burkes, or through any means not associated with the Ministry of Magic?"
She watched him mull it over for a moment. She had no picture of him as a young boy in Hogwarts to compare him to, ten years older. She had often wondered what Harry Potter would look like, now. The last time she had seen him, he had been pale, worried, and tired. And far too young for what he was facing. She had been too young. Even now, at the age of thirty-four, as she looked over at the man nine years her junior, she realised the pain each and every child of that age would have gone through. The same she had gone through the first time Voldemort had risen. Far too much for anyone to experience.
This one was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a robe as sleek and dark as the quill in her hand. The collar, cuffs, and hem were all woven in silver thread, and his hair was lush, white-blonde and slicked back. "I have made no purchases, Miss Nigels. Your records would have shown as such."
She gave a firm nod. None had been reported. And he had been informed of her coming, as he knew her name. There were still people in the Ministry who were either funded, or worked for, previous Death Eaters. She would have to give the new Minister a stern talking-to about that. Hopefully none of the other Aurors would be put in the position of being compromised. Some would not settle at giving the man a talking-to. "Have you, in the past month, made any unscheduled trips out of the country?"
"I have made none, either scheduled or non." He paused, clasped his hands together over his thighs, sending her a dark look that seemed to even dim the grey of his eyes. "Nor have I met with any of the people who you are going to list off. I visited my father once, on May third, for one hour in the afternoon. I signed in and out, and was thoroughly searched before and after." She nodded again. Unlike the others, she appreciated when people answered the questions without her having to ask them. But she had grown tired of jotting things down herself, so she drew her wand from her pocket, touched its tip to the tip of the quill, and returned her wand to her pocket. The quill continued writing as she folded her hands atop the desk and looked at him sternly above her glasses. "Do you have any plans in the future to hand your mother over to St Mungos, as has been requested by the Ministry? Or do you continue to insist that she has perfect mental capacity and is able to care for herself completely? Or do you insist that she is in good care in your house?"
His voice was sharp and had lost any hint of drawl. "My mother is perfectly comfortable here, at home, with her family."
"Then you will not object to St Mungos sending an in-home care person to take care of her? There are no ifs, ands, or buts, Mister Malfoy. Either you accede your care of her completely and send her to St Mungos, or you will agree to a caretaker being placed in your house, twenty four hours a day and seven days a week."
She knew it hurt him. She had not spoken to her own parents in more then ten years. It was best that they, and the rest of the world, thought her as dead as everyone else did. She sometimes passed by the old house in Ireland, and was glad to see them smiling in the windows. They had grieved, and they had continued on, though they had not forgotten her. That was how it was done best.
"You will give me some time to consider my options," he said cordially, pursing his lips.
"I will," she agreed, "but the time allowed is only the amount of time it takes to complete this interview. Your decision must be made by the time I leave."
He did not seem pleased at all. She got up, began to wander the room while she spouted off the usual questions and he answered curtly. She ran her finger over titles on the spines of books, unamused and unaffected when some made noises or moved in return. She thought he was watching her as she spoke, but she wasn't sure how. She had been looked at in every way during the course of her life. In the last ten years there had been mostly fear, anger, speculation, hate, and sadness. She had not taken many lives in her work - in fact, she had taken most before she took up the post of Auror, but she had still caused tears.
Did Draco Malfoy cry when his father was taken away, and his mother was, as well? To visit his father in such a fetid place; to try and find his mother in the dark regions of her mind where she had locked herself... how difficult would that be? As difficult as living the life of a different person, because you died ten years ago? It was hard to tell.
"What House were you in at school, Miss Nigels?"
The question surprised her, enough to allow a book to nip her finger when the man drew her attention away. She pulled her hand back, lifted her finger, examined the small bead of blood from different angles. She considered ripping the spine of the book that caught her, but she would probably be kindly asked to leave the house if she damaged property because she was not paying attention. "I was in Ravenclaw while I attended, Mister Malfoy. You were in Slytherin. The self-proclaimed and well-known arch enemy of Harry Potter when it came to school, I believe."
She had stopped looking at her finger, had not wiped off the blood. Her hand hung at her side, while her other rested on her hip, looking at him sternly. Did his face pale slightly, just then? "That's over and done with," he said shortly.
"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head much like she had earlier that morning. This time, though, the man looking at her showed no fear, at all.
He was getting angry, pushed himself to his feet.
"Sit down, Mister Malfoy."
"That was a very long time ago, Miss Nigels. I have not seen or spoken to Harry Potter since I finished school."
She cleared her throat, sharpened her tone. "I said sit down, Mister Malfoy." She paused, sent a look at the quill moving fluidly across the papers. "Take note that Mister Malfoy is ignoring my request. I will ask one more time before I will choose to either terminate this interview and continue it at the Ministry, or I will use force so that I may finish this with no danger to myself."
The man all but fell back into his chair, craning his neck around to stare at her. She tilted her head the other way, then moved back across the room and seated herself at the desk. She lifted the quill from the paper, where it had halted. "Off the record, Mister Malfoy, I am about as amused as you in doing this interview. In my opinion, you should all be placed under supervision until you can prove beyond a doubt that you have changed. You, however, Mister Malfoy, garner a bit more attention. Anyone who so openly disliked Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore during the war should, in my own opinion, be placed in Azkaban."
"What would you know?" he said it quietly, heatedly. Almost as if he were hissing the words. His hands were white-knuckled over his knees. "You weren't there. You were living in Tokyo with your family, at the time - I do my research, as well."
The man was half right. Sahra had been living in Tokyo ten years ago. She had died a year later - a New Years celebration had gotten out of hand and a Chinese Fireball had lost its temper upon a crowd. The poor, wonderful woman had died that day, though the Ministry had quickly erased that record, given the name to Anara under the sharp eye of Albus Dumbledore.
She had an urge to go over there and shake the man, to tell him that she had been in deeper then him, but she had dealt with the same condescending manner before. In the first few years, a lot of the Death Eaters had said the same. She had lost it a few times, in the beginning, and had to resort to adjusting their memories. She was not overly skilled at that charm, and it left everyone feeling rather uncomfortable.
"I know quite enough, Mister Malfoy. You forget I was a child when Voldemort first ran wild, before he killed the Potters. Things were different, then. Things were more dangerous. The second time, the world was aware of the threat and had some time to prepare. I don't need you telling me what I should and should not know. I do not spend all my time asking silly questions."
She stopped then, flipped though some pages to one she had written herself. A jumble of notes she had put together specifically for this interview. "Ah, yes," she said, more to herself, "here it is." She peered at him through her glasses, lifted her papers, tapped them on the tabletop, and cleared her throat again. "Bole. Montague. Derrik. And... let me see... Ah, yes... Parkinson."
He was looking at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, a dazed, slightly bewildered look on his thin, pale face. She licked her lips. "I seem to have lost you, Mister Malfoy. I just read off a list of acquaintances of yours."
"You... did." He managed, whispering.
"Do you know what they all have in common, Mister Malfoy?"
He nodded, a quick, crisp bob of his head. She had unsettled him, now. "They're dead."
"Half right, Mister Malfoy. Do you know what else they had in common?" he shook his head, and she let a breath spew out from parted lips. "Well, that should conclude our interview for today, Mister Malfoy. I'll be getting in touch within a few days for a follow-up. Have you made a decision concerning your mother?"
She had stood and put her things away - including the man's quill - tucked inside her robes, and he still had not answered. It seemed that the question she had left him with had befuddled him. She stepped over to him, pressed a hand into his shoulder, squeezed hard, and leaned forward to place her mouth close to his ear. "Your mother, Mister Malfoy. Or I may have to list you as incompetent, and take her with me myself."
That snapped him back, his head jerked and she had to pull her own away to avoid being hit in the chin. "I, ah, believe I would like a caretaker to come here." It was still barely loud enough to hear, but she acknowledged him by squeezing his shoulder again and stepping back.
"Good choice, Mister Malfoy. Expect an Owl by the end of the week. I'll see myself out."
"Wait," he said when she'd reached the door, placed a hand on the doorknob. It had taken him longer to ask then she expected. "What did they all have in common?"
He had pulled himself together quite quickly, and it made her approve slightly. He was not a stupid man, nor one to wallow in pity or fear. For the first and only time of that day, she showed him her teeth in a quick flash of a crude grin. Inside, though, her stomach turned over. "I killed them, Mister Malfoy. I killed them when we were still allowed to use fatal force on suspected Death Eaters, when we felt threatened. When others were threatened. I haven't killed in five years, Mister Malfoy. Do not make me do it again. Reply to my owl promptly. I believe I will set up another meeting, concerning your parents and your attitude."
*
The world had changed a great deal in ten years. But the world always stayed the same, in a great many ways. There was no more Voldemort - people spoke his name, now, those who didn't fear of invoking the dead - but there would always be dark wizards. There was no question as to whether the Dark Lord was dead or not - he simply was.
She had been there for the preparation, though Anara Warren had conveniently died ten years ago. It had not been her idea, of course, no one fancied the pain and pressure of going through dying. Especially when she had thought that was what really was going to happen. Perhaps if she had really died, then, it would have made things easier.
Dying changes a person.
Today, her name was Sahra Nigels, Her hair was darker and still straight, and her eyes did not shine as brightly as they had in her younger days. Her glasses were simple with black wire frames, as simple as her ash-grey robes. She had tied her hair back in the usual bun, but her lips were firm and thin when she looked at her reflection in the window across the room. She felt as tired as a dead person, she supposed. Too often she associated herself with that. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was looking at her grimly, and almost warily as she absently tapped her wand against her right thigh.
"Miss Nigels," the man said again, and she shifted her gaze to meet his. This one would not last long, either. The position had been difficult to fill after the incident of He Who Must Not Be Named raiding the Ministry, and none stayed long. After the second war, not many politicians could stand in the same room with weathered Aurors and not be intimidated. This one had a tick in the corner of his mouth. The last one had developed a tick in the corner of his eye three weeks before resigning.
He had said nothing further, and she raised an eyebrow. That was all she did. Her wand remained tapping out a stable beat against her robes, her shoulders were set, feet apart, and head tilted slightly as if she were eyeing him like her next meal. Perhaps that was what he thought he would be. She would have smiled if she found any humour in the situation. The man seemed to have gathered his thoughts enough to steeple his fingers over his desk and clear his throat. Her tapping remained unchanging. "Something's been brought to our attention." He paused, shifted his eyes a bit uncomfortably. "We need you to investigate someone." He started before she could speak. "Someone, who, I might add, has not shown any signs or motives of intending harm to anyone. It is simply..."
She knew where he was going. She did not stop her tapping. "You would like me to pay a visit to someone suspected of being a Death Eater during Voldemort's second rise. Someone who has probably done nothing more then look sideways at another since then." She hated this. She hated the check- ups that Aurors were usually designated to now. There were still dark wizards out there, but few were even comparable to even the most minor Death Eaters of the past times. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been degraded to a group of baby-sitting coddlers. The man actually expected her to go knock on a door where the worst that would happen to her would be someone not offering her a cup of tea.
She felt slightly ill.
And she had stopped tapping. The man had leaned back in his chair, trying to act as though he were just relaxing. He was trying to edge away. Tentatively, he reached out and pushed a file of papers towards her with his fingertips, before leaning back, hands tight on the arms of his chair.
She flicked it open with the tip of her wand, intentionally singing the corners of the papers with her sharp gesture. She noted the tiny flick and slight widening of his eyes. It was not difficult to not smile.
Well. At least he hadn't given her something boring, like paying a visit to Macnair's son in Surrey. That boy had been scared witless at finding out his father had been in Voldemort's inner circle. It had been slightly interesting to watch the horror creep across his face, followed almost instantly by the grief at being informed that he had been killed. No one was quite sure who had killed him, still. It had been quite a messy time, and no one counted the lives they stole away. It would ruin too many of the lives of those still living.
There were no pictures attached to the file. She knew who she was going to visit. She knew of them. She had never run across them, really. Perhaps she had passed by in Diagon Alley or the like in her younger years, but she did not remember. Everyone, though, remembered this family.
She flicked the folder shut as quickly as she had opened it, swept it up into her hands and slid it inside her robes, and was walking toward the door by the time the man's eyes finished widening for a second time. She had thought about sending him a look over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, but she thought it better she give the man a rest. After all, it was only morning and he had to deal with at least a half dozen more like her, today. She hated the monthly visits to the people. They could stay locked away in their own little worlds, for all she wanted.
Just in case she wasn't offered tea on her trip this morning, she stopped the large, long desk in the Atrium. Her timing had been about right. One of the secretaries had just sat down, a steaming cup set down beside him as he dug around his drawer for a quill. She swept it up with her left hand and strode a few feet away without a care. It would take the young man another minute to notice it was gone, and he would only sigh and go fetch another one. It was quite common for her and the other Aurors to snatch up a cup if they were paying a visit in the mornings. She wondered dimly what the budget for teacups was in the building.
Apparating wasn't all that interesting. Once you did it for effortless travel, it lost any and all the flair it had before you were allowed to do it. Besides, she wasn't too keen on flying, and she did not know many Aurors who could not apparate. In fact, she doubted that anyone who couldn't Apparate would be an Auror. She gave a shake of her head at wandering thoughts as she stared up the long and dusty path, winding its way through the moors to a manor house rising up from a copse of trees. Adjusting her glasses, she hitched up her robes and began the long walk up to the front gates.
They swung open with a bang as soon as she began reaching into her pocket to draw out her wand. Well, that was inviting. Haven't come across gates opening that quickly. It had occurred to her, however, that she was expected. With this family, they were told practically everything before it happened. She gave a sharp smack to a creeping vine that tried to wind about her leg when she knocked on the door. She supposed she had been the one sent because she wasn't prone to chatting, nor was she prone to be overly cruel. In fact, she considered herself chatty if she spoke more then a dozen words in a day. Well, today, she might just have to get cruel, as well.
The door swung open silently just as the vine shrunk back to its proper place. She had already straightened, and tipped her head forward to peer at the man at the door above her glasses. He did not look overly pleased, but he still stepped back and swept his arm out. His voice was rich, and carried a drawl reminiscent of an Unspeakable she had worked with once who had hailed from Texas. She expected the American had a speech impediment. She was not to keen on people who did not speak well. This one, though, spoke with as much class and elegance as shown in the entrance hall. Far too much. "Do come in. I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?"
She gave the tiniest shake of her head. She usually only accepted a beverage from people she was sent to check up on if they looked nervous. She did not put this one off his stride at all, so she would not accept a drink. She had more reason to worry over things like that them most Aurors.
After all, most Aurors had not been held captive by a Death Eater in Voldemort's prime. "No, thank you, Mister Malfoy." She drew the folder from her robes, flipped it open and folded the cover over. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she looked between him and her papers. "This house is listed under the name of your father, Mister Malfoy. I assume he is not able to attend this interview?"
It was a dig. A cruel, malicious dig. The fleeting thought of ten years ago had soured her mood.
She saw his eyes tighten briefly. "Your mother is listed, as well, though she has no holdings of any properties. Would you mind if I asked her to sit with us this morning?"
This time it was his mouth that thinned slightly. "My mother is unable to join us today. If you'll accompany me to the drawing room, we'll finish this matter quickly." He was already walking away when he finished speaking, and she snapped the folder shut again and followed, unhurriedly. He was holding the large ebony door open for her when she arrived, a good half-minute behind him.
There were quite a few tactics she used in interviews, and they were all labelled in her mind, according to the way she was greeted. If they were nervous, she would be curt, but polite, and would stay quite a while. If they were very welcoming, she would take her little shots at them, referring to those who had passed on or were otherwise detained. To the cool, unemotional kind like this, she usually incorporated both.
She moved inside and seated herself behind the desk before he could get there, himself. In her younger days she would have smirked at the anger that dashed through his eyes as he closed the door and moved to sit in one of the chairs stationed infront of her. They were much lower to the ground then hers, and lent a feeling of inferiority. Judging by the information she had read of the family, Draco Malfoy had probably sat in one of those seats for a great deal of his life. And it probably irked him to no end to be sitting there again. Good.
She opened the folder again and picked up a quill from the desk beside her. It was long, glossy, and black, probably coming from a raven. And by the way the man's fingers twitched in his lap, it was probably his favourite. She dipped it in the inkwell infront of her and began jotting down notes. "Have you, in the last month, purchased any artefacts from one Borgin and Burkes, or through any means not associated with the Ministry of Magic?"
She watched him mull it over for a moment. She had no picture of him as a young boy in Hogwarts to compare him to, ten years older. She had often wondered what Harry Potter would look like, now. The last time she had seen him, he had been pale, worried, and tired. And far too young for what he was facing. She had been too young. Even now, at the age of thirty-four, as she looked over at the man nine years her junior, she realised the pain each and every child of that age would have gone through. The same she had gone through the first time Voldemort had risen. Far too much for anyone to experience.
This one was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a robe as sleek and dark as the quill in her hand. The collar, cuffs, and hem were all woven in silver thread, and his hair was lush, white-blonde and slicked back. "I have made no purchases, Miss Nigels. Your records would have shown as such."
She gave a firm nod. None had been reported. And he had been informed of her coming, as he knew her name. There were still people in the Ministry who were either funded, or worked for, previous Death Eaters. She would have to give the new Minister a stern talking-to about that. Hopefully none of the other Aurors would be put in the position of being compromised. Some would not settle at giving the man a talking-to. "Have you, in the past month, made any unscheduled trips out of the country?"
"I have made none, either scheduled or non." He paused, clasped his hands together over his thighs, sending her a dark look that seemed to even dim the grey of his eyes. "Nor have I met with any of the people who you are going to list off. I visited my father once, on May third, for one hour in the afternoon. I signed in and out, and was thoroughly searched before and after." She nodded again. Unlike the others, she appreciated when people answered the questions without her having to ask them. But she had grown tired of jotting things down herself, so she drew her wand from her pocket, touched its tip to the tip of the quill, and returned her wand to her pocket. The quill continued writing as she folded her hands atop the desk and looked at him sternly above her glasses. "Do you have any plans in the future to hand your mother over to St Mungos, as has been requested by the Ministry? Or do you continue to insist that she has perfect mental capacity and is able to care for herself completely? Or do you insist that she is in good care in your house?"
His voice was sharp and had lost any hint of drawl. "My mother is perfectly comfortable here, at home, with her family."
"Then you will not object to St Mungos sending an in-home care person to take care of her? There are no ifs, ands, or buts, Mister Malfoy. Either you accede your care of her completely and send her to St Mungos, or you will agree to a caretaker being placed in your house, twenty four hours a day and seven days a week."
She knew it hurt him. She had not spoken to her own parents in more then ten years. It was best that they, and the rest of the world, thought her as dead as everyone else did. She sometimes passed by the old house in Ireland, and was glad to see them smiling in the windows. They had grieved, and they had continued on, though they had not forgotten her. That was how it was done best.
"You will give me some time to consider my options," he said cordially, pursing his lips.
"I will," she agreed, "but the time allowed is only the amount of time it takes to complete this interview. Your decision must be made by the time I leave."
He did not seem pleased at all. She got up, began to wander the room while she spouted off the usual questions and he answered curtly. She ran her finger over titles on the spines of books, unamused and unaffected when some made noises or moved in return. She thought he was watching her as she spoke, but she wasn't sure how. She had been looked at in every way during the course of her life. In the last ten years there had been mostly fear, anger, speculation, hate, and sadness. She had not taken many lives in her work - in fact, she had taken most before she took up the post of Auror, but she had still caused tears.
Did Draco Malfoy cry when his father was taken away, and his mother was, as well? To visit his father in such a fetid place; to try and find his mother in the dark regions of her mind where she had locked herself... how difficult would that be? As difficult as living the life of a different person, because you died ten years ago? It was hard to tell.
"What House were you in at school, Miss Nigels?"
The question surprised her, enough to allow a book to nip her finger when the man drew her attention away. She pulled her hand back, lifted her finger, examined the small bead of blood from different angles. She considered ripping the spine of the book that caught her, but she would probably be kindly asked to leave the house if she damaged property because she was not paying attention. "I was in Ravenclaw while I attended, Mister Malfoy. You were in Slytherin. The self-proclaimed and well-known arch enemy of Harry Potter when it came to school, I believe."
She had stopped looking at her finger, had not wiped off the blood. Her hand hung at her side, while her other rested on her hip, looking at him sternly. Did his face pale slightly, just then? "That's over and done with," he said shortly.
"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head much like she had earlier that morning. This time, though, the man looking at her showed no fear, at all.
He was getting angry, pushed himself to his feet.
"Sit down, Mister Malfoy."
"That was a very long time ago, Miss Nigels. I have not seen or spoken to Harry Potter since I finished school."
She cleared her throat, sharpened her tone. "I said sit down, Mister Malfoy." She paused, sent a look at the quill moving fluidly across the papers. "Take note that Mister Malfoy is ignoring my request. I will ask one more time before I will choose to either terminate this interview and continue it at the Ministry, or I will use force so that I may finish this with no danger to myself."
The man all but fell back into his chair, craning his neck around to stare at her. She tilted her head the other way, then moved back across the room and seated herself at the desk. She lifted the quill from the paper, where it had halted. "Off the record, Mister Malfoy, I am about as amused as you in doing this interview. In my opinion, you should all be placed under supervision until you can prove beyond a doubt that you have changed. You, however, Mister Malfoy, garner a bit more attention. Anyone who so openly disliked Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore during the war should, in my own opinion, be placed in Azkaban."
"What would you know?" he said it quietly, heatedly. Almost as if he were hissing the words. His hands were white-knuckled over his knees. "You weren't there. You were living in Tokyo with your family, at the time - I do my research, as well."
The man was half right. Sahra had been living in Tokyo ten years ago. She had died a year later - a New Years celebration had gotten out of hand and a Chinese Fireball had lost its temper upon a crowd. The poor, wonderful woman had died that day, though the Ministry had quickly erased that record, given the name to Anara under the sharp eye of Albus Dumbledore.
She had an urge to go over there and shake the man, to tell him that she had been in deeper then him, but she had dealt with the same condescending manner before. In the first few years, a lot of the Death Eaters had said the same. She had lost it a few times, in the beginning, and had to resort to adjusting their memories. She was not overly skilled at that charm, and it left everyone feeling rather uncomfortable.
"I know quite enough, Mister Malfoy. You forget I was a child when Voldemort first ran wild, before he killed the Potters. Things were different, then. Things were more dangerous. The second time, the world was aware of the threat and had some time to prepare. I don't need you telling me what I should and should not know. I do not spend all my time asking silly questions."
She stopped then, flipped though some pages to one she had written herself. A jumble of notes she had put together specifically for this interview. "Ah, yes," she said, more to herself, "here it is." She peered at him through her glasses, lifted her papers, tapped them on the tabletop, and cleared her throat again. "Bole. Montague. Derrik. And... let me see... Ah, yes... Parkinson."
He was looking at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, a dazed, slightly bewildered look on his thin, pale face. She licked her lips. "I seem to have lost you, Mister Malfoy. I just read off a list of acquaintances of yours."
"You... did." He managed, whispering.
"Do you know what they all have in common, Mister Malfoy?"
He nodded, a quick, crisp bob of his head. She had unsettled him, now. "They're dead."
"Half right, Mister Malfoy. Do you know what else they had in common?" he shook his head, and she let a breath spew out from parted lips. "Well, that should conclude our interview for today, Mister Malfoy. I'll be getting in touch within a few days for a follow-up. Have you made a decision concerning your mother?"
She had stood and put her things away - including the man's quill - tucked inside her robes, and he still had not answered. It seemed that the question she had left him with had befuddled him. She stepped over to him, pressed a hand into his shoulder, squeezed hard, and leaned forward to place her mouth close to his ear. "Your mother, Mister Malfoy. Or I may have to list you as incompetent, and take her with me myself."
That snapped him back, his head jerked and she had to pull her own away to avoid being hit in the chin. "I, ah, believe I would like a caretaker to come here." It was still barely loud enough to hear, but she acknowledged him by squeezing his shoulder again and stepping back.
"Good choice, Mister Malfoy. Expect an Owl by the end of the week. I'll see myself out."
"Wait," he said when she'd reached the door, placed a hand on the doorknob. It had taken him longer to ask then she expected. "What did they all have in common?"
He had pulled himself together quite quickly, and it made her approve slightly. He was not a stupid man, nor one to wallow in pity or fear. For the first and only time of that day, she showed him her teeth in a quick flash of a crude grin. Inside, though, her stomach turned over. "I killed them, Mister Malfoy. I killed them when we were still allowed to use fatal force on suspected Death Eaters, when we felt threatened. When others were threatened. I haven't killed in five years, Mister Malfoy. Do not make me do it again. Reply to my owl promptly. I believe I will set up another meeting, concerning your parents and your attitude."