The musty, dust-filled air smelled like a thunderstorm. A purple Quick Quotes Quill was skipping briskly over a parchment, leaving a trail of dark green-tinted ink. The old, gray-haired Unspeakable—Mr. Long—was dictating methodically in an empty, expressionless voice: "the most recent observations indicate... do not contradict the presence of... the subject states..." Every now and then he smoothed down the short hair sticking out at the back of his head and adjusted his glasses nervously.
Lucius was not listening to him. He stared mindlessly at the wall opposite—he would have to re-read it all in any case, before putting his signature on the parchment. He decided that looking directly at the Unspeakable would be excessive. The man was already ill at ease, alone in the company of a former Death Eater, without a guard.
"You can roll down your sleeve, Mr. Malfoy," Long said, "we are done for today. I'll show the results to the..."-he hesitated-"the researchers. We will ask you to come back, if necessary."
Lucius buttoned his cufflink and straightened the sleeve of his robe. His participation in the research of the Dark Lord's Mark was an unpleasant obligation. But the results could have a positive effect on how the wizarding world viewed him, and also influence the fates of many of his less fortunate colleagues.
He didn't quite understand what the Unspeakables were searching for. The Mark disappeared after the Dark Lord's death. And yet they were still checking something, tracing the scar with their wands, asking questions about the Marking ritual, about the sensations in the Mark when the Dark Lord summoned him... how he himself could be summoned... the rumors about the Mark among the Death Eaters... what the Dark Lord himself said about it. A single day should have been enough to learn all this, and yet they called him back to the odious Department of Mysteries again and again, and asked him the same questions over and over, only rephrasing them slightly. Apparently something was not adding up for them.
"Mr. Malfoy, can you check if I recorded everything correctly?" Long turned the parchment towards him.
He had to read everything carefully—a single wrong word could mean a death sentence for an innocent man. Although... was there anyone innocent among the Death Eaters? With rare exceptions, they all came to the Dark Lord themselves, willingly, no—eagerly. They took the Mark, believing it to be a symbol of his absolute trust, and then slavishly fulfilled his every command. Fools.
The report was scientifically dry and dispassionate—as it should have been. And yet for some reason, as Lucius read it, his vision darkened and his breathing became labored. At one point he even gave in, and, disregarding the rules of decency, opened his shirt collar. He had never been able to get rid of his fear of the Dark Lord, just as he could never get used to his presence. The words swam in front of his eyes, the lines began to dance... it was so hard to concentrate!
"The scar looks the same as usual, residual manifestations of Dark magic are gradually diminishing. It has been suggested that the influence of the Morsmordre could increase if the bearer began to practice Dark magic. Unfortunately, due to the Wizengamot's decision, this is currently impossible to verify." Interesting... but most likely it meant nothing. He read to the end with some effort, then glanced over the whole report again.
"Everything is correct, Mr. Long." Lucius took the quill and signed.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy." The man checked the parchment one more time, and put it away in a desk drawer. "We are finished for today. I will walk you out."
The dark corridor looked as if it had been cut out of a cliff. The black stone walls were free of any decorations, save for a few torches. Their flames burned steadily, but did not produce enough light. Lucius could barely make out Long's back as he walked behind him. They kept going, as if through a labyrinth—endless turns, mysterious passageways, and doors with no distinguishing signs on them. It was all arranged in such a way as to confuse anyone who would end up in the Department of Mysteries. There was a noise somewhere to the right of him, and a huge black dog jumped out in front of Lucius; for a moment their eyes met. The dog froze, raised its hackles, bared its enormous fangs, and growled deeply.
His heart skipped a beat, but not from fear. It couldn't be—Black! The dog growled again and ran on down the hallway. But it didn't have time to get far—it was grabbed by the collar by the Unspeakable who was hurrying after it. The silence of the corridors was shattered by yelps and barks. The dog twisted its head, braced its paws, and tried to bite the Unspeakable, but all in vain—he held on too tightly, and dragged it slowly into one of the side corridors.
It seemed that the Unspeakables had been able to get Black out of the Veil and were keeping him here against his will. Obviously doing research, as usual. A shudder ran through Lucius. Who knew, maybe they had similar plans for him as well. To put him in a cage and run experiments on him, analyze him, cut him to pieces, crack open his memories. He felt like the walls were closing in on him, the ceiling seemed to press down, and there was suddenly not enough air. His knees trembled traitorously, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Lucius took a deep breath with difficulty.
"Come along!" Long called back to him.
The claustrophobia attack ended just as quickly as it began. Lucius wiped his brow with a handkerchief and hurried after Long. After a few steps he was next to him.
"Mr. Long," he mustered his courage to inquire, "I didn't think that the Unspeakables performed experiments on domestic animals..."
The other man glanced at him sideways with his transparent, pale-blue eyes.
"Sometimes it is necessary. Besides, that is not just a dog..."
It's an animagus, Lucius continued in his thoughts.
"It's a Grim. Perhaps you recall the legend?"
"I remember it." He almost smiled. "It's believed to be a mythical being, a harbinger of swift death to anyone who sees it."
Long laughed nervously.
"You could say that. Sometimes they call it the servant of Death. But the reality is much more prosaic. It's just a black dog, endowed with certain magical properties. It feels the approach of death and can instantaneously move through space. Something like Apparition, only more crude—it seems that it never knows in advance where it will end up next time."
"And in all other respects—it's just an ordinary dog?" Lucius raised an eyebrow.
"We are still investigating," the other answered dryly, signaling with his whole demeanor that the conversation was over.
He's lying. Definitely lying. It's Black. Lucius was absolutely certain that he would be able to recognize his wife's cousin in any guise. And besides, it all fit together too neatly-Black Dog, Department of Mysteries, and Death. I wonder, was Harry Potter informed of his godfather fate?
Long came out into a dark circular chamber with a multitude of closed doors, and turned to face him.
"Well then, Mr. Malfoy, good-bye. If we have any new questions, we will send you an invitation."
An invitation that you can't refuse. Lucius smiled bitterly.
"Thank you, Mr. Long." He bowed slightly.
The other man opened a door, and Lucius exited into the empty corridor which led to the lifts. The door shut silently behind him.
Fortunately he was alone in the lift. He had almost got used to the sideways glances, but it was still unpleasant to listen to the whisperings and to subconsciously expect an attack. Out of all the known Death Eaters, he was the only one that potential vigilantes could get their hands on. The rest of them were either on the run or in Azkaban. He was able to convince Draco to go on a trip abroad right after their trial. He had no business staying here. Too dangerous.
"Atrium," announced the melodious feminine voice.
The grate of the lift opened and Lucius stepped out. Now he had to hurry—there were too many people. Doing his best to ignore everyone, he picked up his wand at the security desk. A surly witch in round glasses almost threw it at his face. A useless piece of wood—there were so many tracking and restricting charms on it that he had to account to the Ministry for practically every Accio and Colloportus. He took a fireplace leading out to the street, turned into a quiet alley and, making sure that no one could see him, activated a portkey. He wasn't allowed to apparate.
All these restrictions were driving him out of his mind. He understood that barely any time had passed since the end of the war, and that he should consider himself fortunate to have any freedom of movement in the first place. They didn't really want that much from him—money for the restoration of Hogwarts, information about his former colleagues and an opportunity to research the Dark Lord's Mark. And even his punishment wasn't that bad—the restriction on his magic, the need to provide explanations for the spells he used, the prohibition from working at the ministry and the ban on apparition. Mere trifles compared to even a month in Azkaban. But in reality it was all so unbearably degrading that he was beginning to doubt this.
He ended up right in front of the Malfoy Manor porch. The protective charms touched him and drew back immediately, recognizing him as the master of the house. Lucius took a deep breath, absorbing the familiar scent of flowers: roses, dahlias, asters... Narcissa always took special care of the garden, and even the war could not prevent her from looking after the flowers. Lucius slowly went up the steps to the porch, ran his hand over a marble column and turned to glance over the park in front of the house. No one would believe that only three months ago complete destruction reigned here, but traces of it were visible to anyone who had seen the Manor before. Many of the old trees—some of them planted back in the time of Brutus Malfoy—had perished. It still wasn't clear what happened to them—maybe the mere presence of the Dark Lord destroyed them, maybe someone had used them to test some curses or potions. Narcissa had ordered new saplings at the first opportunity, but the traditional appearance of the park was irreparably altered. Malfoy Manor would never be the same.
The door opened in front of Lucius, and he entered the house. The usual silence reigned all around. The clock across from the door struck three in the afternoon. He had to change for dinner. Custom dictated that it should have been served an hour ago, but not when the master wasn't home. He went upstairs to his bedroom and took off the distasteful official robes. They were too simple for his liking, but it was indecent for someone in his position to flaunt his wealth. Right now it seemed to him as if the millennium-old dust of the Department of Mysteries had eaten into the fabric. Lucius glanced at a mirror and immediately looked away. He couldn't bear looking at himself. He was so much thinner, older, haggard. But it's all right, soon this nerve-wrecking business with the Ministry will be over, and he could regain his previous luster. But how could he escape the haunted look in his own eyes? Sometimes he would get the feeling that he died in Azkaban after all, and the Dark Lord dragged out nothing more than an empty husk, which continued to impersonate Lucius Malfoy out of habit.
This is all nonsense... he is alive, free, and these moping thoughts are utter drivel, and nothing more. He just has to get ahold of himself. Finish this business with the Ministry once and for all, get permission to leave the country, take Narcissa with him and go on a trip around the world. So that he would no longer have to see the repulsive snouts of the mudbloods and muggle-lovers who were currently ruling the wizarding world of Britain.
