Chapter Ten: Figure/Ground Reversal

They landed in the dusty living room of the Shrieking Shack, where all of the furniture had been torn apart by violent unseen forces, and Draco felt a thrill of fear in his spine. He wasn't afraid of ghosts anymore, but he took a moment to check around anyway with his wand at the ready.

"You know this place isn't really haunted, right?"

"I don't care, either way," he said. "Of all the places you can Apparate, this is where we're least likely to be watched or disturbed. I made a list." He wasn't exaggerating – he'd even estimated percentages for the likelihood of visitors to each location. Somewhere along the way, Draco had become a pretty paranoid guy.

After checking the preexisting magical locks, he added a Silencing Charm. Then, he looked around carefully once more for good measure before producing the rolled-up stack of notes from a large pocket in his robes. He handed it to Hermione, and she sat on the floor and spread the pages in front of her.

"Is Shacklebolt in here?" she asked, after looking over the first page.

"There's some information on his work for the Order and the Ministry in '97, but no more than any other Auror, and he never cooperated with Death Eaters," he said. It was lucky that Shacklebolt was innocent, or Draco would have probably destroyed the evidence against him. Accusing the Minister of Magic of ten-year-old war crimes had two possible outcomes, and both of them sucked:

1. Shacklebolt would lose his job and someone would have to replace him, which would be a big fat mess, especially since half the department heads would get sacked on the same day. OR

2. It would be too little, too late, and he'd manage to worm out of it and keep his position. But hey, Draco, congratulations on the cool new enemy.

"Either they couldn't find more information about him, or they didn't know how important he was," he went on. "He must've been a pretty good Auror."

"He was exceptional," Hermione said.

When she was finished reading, she arranged the parchments into a neat stack and folded her hands in her lap. Draco was too jumpy to sit down, so he paced instead, cutting a wide path through the large room.

"First things first: who else knows about this?" she asked.

"No one who's still alive."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "My father is trying to access the original documents, but it will take him some time, and he doesn't know what's in them."

"Hm. And is there incontrovertible proof of this information?"

"Yes," he said, not wanting to elaborate. He felt uncomfortable reminding her of the fact that he'd been a Death Eater by displaying his extensive knowledge of the subject.

"Could you describe the nature of the proof?" she asked, and Draco almost wanted to laugh. Mainly as a nervous defense mechanism, but also because she was in complete Magical Law Enforcement mode, talking like a law text.

"Photos and signed statements," he said, and her eyes lit up and then narrowed with determination.

"Describe the photos," she instructed, and he looked away. He'd gotten himself into this, and now it was hard. It hit him how silly he'd been a month ago, thinking that he could achieve his simplistic goals and be happy. Here he was with more than three friends and a job, and all it had given him was an invitation to start living.

"There are different kinds," he said after a tense pause. "Most of the Ministry officials in here have their own blackmail folders, and that's just photos of them breaking the law or doing embarrassing things. The other kind is something I didn't know existed: there is one photo per year of service for everyone who ever helped the Dark Lord. For Death Eaters, there are pictures of them getting the Dark Mark and at meetings. For informants and sympathizers, there is a picture of each one meeting with Bellatrix, Pettigrew, or Yaxley. Those people are all dead, and the informants are never looking directly at the camera, so I'm pretty sure that means no living person knows that this evidence exists."

"That depends," Hermione argued. "Who was behind the camera?"

Oh. "I don't know," he admitted. "The Dark Lord wasn't much of a photographer, so that's out."

He thought about everything he'd noticed about the photos. Yaxley made unwavering eye contact, and Pettigrew looked scared but only regular scared – no more so than he had been full-time, back in the day. In her shots, Bellatrix winked at the camera and smiled rapturously with each and every one of her teeth, her head lolling carelessly from side to side.

His first thought was that the three representatives took turns shooting the photos that they weren't in, but that was highly unlikely in light of his aunt's theatrics: she wouldn't have smiled like that at either of the two men. On the other hand, he knew that there couldn't have just been one photographer. He surmised that each of them probably had a partner by whom they were always photographed, and the teams were not aware of one another's existence.

"In that case, we have to operate under the assumption that at least one other person knows about this," Hermione said. "Do you know who took the blackmail photos?"

"Those came from a lot of different sources."

"All right, so that's not helpful. Was there anything unusual about any of it? That includes any photos that you did not expect, any photos that you think should be there but aren't, or any that stood out in any way."

He wasn't going to tell her this, but there was something unusual about the shots that featured him: in each one, either his face or his Dark Mark was visible, but never both. In fact, the picture of him receiving the Dark Mark was so misleading that he wasn't sure how it had escaped the Dark Lord's notice – not only was it taken before the Dark Lord even touched his arm, but his face was obscured, and the image was blurred.

Blurry wizarding photographs were a strange sight: it was like watching an earthquake, with the ground trembling as the figures struggled to maintain their equilibrium. Anyway, the bad photos probably just meant that one of the photographers was a high-ranking Death Eater who didn't care about Draco and therefore wasn't trying very hard, which didn't narrow things down much. The whole thing was pointless, of course, because Draco did have the Dark Mark. All anyone had to do was roll up his left sleeve and check.

Since the day he'd gotten it, Draco had spent his daily bath time staring at it and thinking the same thing: what a ridiculously impractical idea. There was no way to hide it, no way to turn it off, and no way to remove it. Also, they clearly hadn't sprung for a pro when it came to the design work. Really?, he'd asked his arm each morning. Did we really have to make this thing so bloody cheesy? It had been fading steadily since the fall of the Dark Lord, but the branding spell had been so powerful that it was still visible from a couple of metres away.

"No. Nothing stood out," he lied.

"All right. I'll need to go over these notes more thoroughly, but I'm already seeing some connections with my previous research. May I make a copy of this?"

She absolutely could not just whisk off with his information and use it to get herself killed and throw everything all out of balance. She had completely missed the point of this entire meeting. "No, I'm only showing you this so you know what you're up against. You can't use it."

She gave him that oh-so-charming "you're an idiot" look again. "Of course, I can. You thought that proving me right about even my most outlandish suspicions was the way to stop me?"

"Well, you don't have any proof," he said, bending to seize the pile of notes, and she stood and gaped at him.

"You know something, Malfoy? For a few seconds there, I thought maybe you cared about something. Would you believe it – I actually considered the possibility that you were coming forward with this because it was the right thing to do. How foolish of me," she said. Her eyes made him feel dirty.

He stared down at the manuscript in his hands, trying to block out what she was saying and remind himself that this was for her own good – for the greater good, even. She positioned herself directly in front of him, and at such close range he could feel the wild energy inside her body.

"If no one's going to help me, then I'll do this myself, but all of you cowards are going to be sorry if I fail. It's a good thing you read those books while you still could," she added, and he knew she was waiting for him to rise to the bait. He didn't want to, but he'd started thinking about Montag again: Montag and Granger, stepping bravely into the barren future at the end. He knew that if someone had done something in time, it would have been better.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Don't you ever read the news?" Well, not the real news, but he looked at the pictures and checked out the Quidditch section. He didn't have to respond, though, because she was already berating him again. "Don't you understand that something really big is going on right now? How could you possibly have –"

"All right, I get it," he said through his teeth. "Say what you have to say, if it's so important."

"Where shall I start, nine years ago?" she asked, but he deliberately overlooked her sarcasm.

"Yes, actually – just the highlights, if you would."

She sighed and brushed her fingertips across her forehead, but now that she had his attention, she wasn't about to let her anger ruin the opportunity. "Fine," she snapped. "From the beginning: Voldemort fell. Or did you happen to hear about that part?" He chose to ignore that, staring silently at a spot over her left shoulder, and she started speaking again.

"The Order veterans secured important positions at the Ministry. We made impossible progress in two years, but then it began to get slower, and then it nearly stopped. Some people started feeling too comfortable about what we'd already achieved. Those people were less-than-coincidentally offered retirement packages or lengthy vacations, and they weren't even being replaced – their positions were being deleted. Everyone thought I was paranoid for seeing these things as suspicious.

"At that time, the Muggle culture invasion was just beginning. I noticed that some of the old-guard Ministry employees didn't like it, but for some reason they did nothing to stop it, and that puzzled me. More time went by, and I was tearing my hair out just trying to pass a single bloody piece of legislation." She paused, and then forged ahead.

"Six months ago, Harry's daughter was born, and he used that as an excuse to quit, but really the fight had gone out of him. Ron was already long gone – he was one of the first to jump on the buy-out packages. It hadn't seemed so bad with Harry around, but after he left, I looked around and saw that, with the exception of Shacklebolt, I was the only Order member left. It was insidious, what they did – they came to all these veterans who were still in pain, and they whispered in our ears that we didn't have to do this anymore. 'You're working so hard, child soldiers, why not take a break? You've earned it.'

"Finally, I got moved to my new position as head of the newly-minted Department of Internal Reforms, recommendation courtesy of John Dawlish. He told it to me like he was giving me this huge prize, and I have never been so insulted in my entire life. That they could think for one second that I didn't know exactly what they were up to –" She had to stop and collect herself again, taking a few deep breaths.

"Anyway, they dissolved that department almost immediately, and with it went every remaining person who worked to pass the early reforms. I suspect that they want to reverse them now, and they've already begun to campaign against the Muggle stuff. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office is trying to remind people that Muggle books are simply curiosities from a primitive race, and they shouldn't be taken seriously. I don't think it will be long before they start falling off the shelves, especially books like the ones I gave you. And believe me, I haven't missed the irony in that," she said, with a humourless smile. "It's just so sad, you know? I was guilty of it, too – we all let ourselves get lulled into this false sense of security in those first few years. It was such a high after the bad times, and by the time we were finally coming down, they had everything in place to get rid of us."

She stopped speaking, and the silence stretched on. Almost everything she'd said had been news to Draco, and he certainly didn't have any words of encouragement. He'd been under the impression that Order members were supposed to be brave and true or some such nonsense. In reality, all it took was some flattery and a couple of days on the beach to distract them, just like anybody else.

On the other hand, Draco was aware that he'd never done anything worth doing in his life, and some part of him had allowed itself to be stirred by her speech. He saw his choices laid out before him, and he saw that important thing glimmering at arm's length, and he could either try to reach it or go back to bed. He wondered idly if he'd been born a coward or just raised to be one, but either way he was terrified.

"You can make a copy," he said, "but I'm hanging onto the photos and the rest of the documents. If you want to use any of the information, you'll have to ask me first."

She smiled then, and the worst part was over. She took the notes out of his hands and used her wand to duplicate them before handing back the originals. Then, she stood and looked at him the same way she used to do from the other side of the counter. "Thank you for showing this to me, Malfoy," she said. "I never thought I'd say this to you, but you're doing a good thing here. And I never thought I'd say this either, but you can help me if you want."

It seemed like she was going to stop talking, but then her mouth opened again, and some extra words spilled out of it rapidly: "Look, you told me all this stuff, so I might as well be fair and tell you something, too. Those times at the Raven, I was coming back to see you. Everybody else is so burnt out, and it's made them timid, but you still have some life left in you. It sounds really stupid now that I'm saying it out loud, but when we had that fight the first time I came in, that was what put the spark back in me. It's funny that you thought you were trying to stop me today, because I don't even know if I would've started if it wasn't for you. Maybe I'd just lie down like the rest of them."

"I don't think that's what would have happened," he said. "And I don't think I'm going to help you anymore, either."

"We'll see," she said. "This won't be your last chance to do something good, but it would be a fine place to start."

When he couldn't meet her eyes anymore, he Disapparated.

Back at the manor, Draco resumed his favourite activity once again: brooding.

He was in a very sticky mess now, and the farther he traced it back, the more it was Hermione's fault. For example, if he hadn't read her book, he never would have been nice to Gully, and Gully never would have told him that his father wanted that box, and no one would have even known about it until it was too late.

It was like she had a special kind of magic that allowed her to force her own righteousness into other people without their consent. Maybe she even gave him those stupid books on purpose to try and ignite his determination and long-dormant, hypothetical courage. Well, it wasn't going to work.

His plan to scare her into safety had failed, as he should have predicted, and now the objective was to get out of this unscathed, as quickly as possible. When she came for the photos, he'd give them to her, but he wasn't going to think about this anymore. Most importantly, he'd have to get over his awkward crush. It was in the back of his mind when he saw her now, challenging his ability to make grammatically-correct sentences, and that could get embarrassing. There was one more thing he had to check before he put this all out of his mind, though: Lucius's study.

After stepping cautiously into the room, he was relieved to note that the box was still there. He started moving closer to see if the curses had been worked on at all, when suddenly a small projectile launched itself at him from behind a bookshelf, and he dove for cover under his father's desk.

"Hello, Master," said the projectile, as though throwing himself under furniture were perfectly normal behavior for Draco. "Gully has been waiting and watching, and she is pleased to tell you that Master Lucius cannot open the box."

He let out the breath he'd been holding and crawled out from under the desk. "What did he try?"

"Master Lucius is casting spells on the box just like Master Draco did last night, but he is yelling so loudly that Gully's ears is still hurting. He is casting more and more spells, and getting more and more upset. Then, Master Lucius is banging his fists on the desk." As she spoke, Gully waved her own tiny fists around and stomped her feet in an imitation of one of his father's temper tantrums, and he thought it was pretty accurate. "Then, he is leaving, but Gully thinks that he will come back."

"I think so, too. You can trade off with the other elves, but make sure someone stays to watch the study. When my father makes another attempt, report it to me." He cast the Curse-Finding Charm on the box again, and the magical chains hadn't even budged, as he'd anticipated. When the Dark Lord cursed things, they tended to stay cursed.

Gully huddled behind the shelves again, and Draco took the opportunity to have some lunch prepared and to read the Daily Prophet more carefully than usual. On the second page, it featured a lengthy opinion piece about the importance of magical culture. The writer expressed his concerns that wizards were being "distracted" by Muggle entertainment, especially music and books, and failing to watch out for their own world. He put the paper aside and scowled at his untouched food.

He knew this was related to everything else that was going on, but he'd already decided not to worry about it anymore. He'd done what he had to do, and now it was up to her. After all, he didn't have a history of caring about Muggles – that had been a very recent development, if it were even developing at all, and it should be easy for him to stop it in its tracks.

"I don't care about Muggles," he said aloud to his empty dining hall, just in case it helped. "And I don't care about Mudbloods."

It felt strange to say that word now, like maybe he should go and brush his teeth, and he took a drink of pumpkin juice and swished it around in his mouth. Grandpa Malfoy voiced his agreement from a nearby portrait, and Draco couldn't help but cringe. Abraxus Malfoy was the meanest person he'd ever met in his life. Of course, for someone like Draco there had to be different categories: Bellatrix was the most deranged, the Dark Lord was the most evil, Fenrir Greyback was the most dangerous, and his father was the most controlling. Grandpa Malfoy hadn't killed or tortured people or anything, to Draco's knowledge; he was just plain mean. He was a complete jerk to everyone, all the time, and Draco had always hated him, and now they were agreeing with each other about hating the same group of people.

From Draco's experiences as a person who didn't give a damn about anything, he'd learned that caring was the tricky one. Once you started, it was difficult to stop: you couldn't actively not care about something, no matter how badly you wanted to, because that meant thinking about it, which was the first step on the road back to caring.

The only possible cure was to put it out of his mind permanently, but that meant that he would have to find enough other things to occupy his thoughts for the foreseeable future. He wondered if thinking about thinking about it counted as thinking about it, but then he realised that he was now thinking about thinking about thinking about it. This was getting out of hand.

He decided to distract himself by heading to the CD store before work; he'd finally started to tire of his first one, and it was time to buy more. He remembered his lunch, forced a few large bites into his mouth, and took the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron.

People were laughing and eating as usual at the pub, and the situation couldn't possibly be so bad when everyone was still so happy. Draco walked down the sunny street, enjoying the mild weather. He smiled at passerby, congratulating himself on his newfound likeable disposition, and most of them smiled back. Everything was going to be just fine, as long as he didn't go poking his nose into matters that weren't any of his business.

He arrived at the Basement and surveyed the store, but he didn't see any other customers around. Tremlett stepped out from behind the counter.

"Ah, I remember this'un! Good to see you, mate," he said, clapping Draco on the back.

"I wrote down the songs I liked best. Can you bring me more like these?" he asked, handing Tremlett his list.

"Of course, of course. You got good taste, my boy, very good taste."

Draco wandered aimlessly around the shop as he waited. Tremlett returned soon with a large stack, and they weren't homemade compilations: they were real CDs, with real artwork on the covers.

"That's quite a few," he said, as he took the pile.

"You'll want 'em," Tremlett assured him, which was probably true.

"All right, I'll take the whole lot," he said. They walked together to the counter, where Tremlett began to tally the price.

"I'd like to give a discount to a loyal customer such as yourself." Tremlett gave him a kind wink as he said this, but it didn't sit right for some reason.

"I've only been in here twice," he pointed out, and Tremlett looked uncomfortable for a second.

"I know," he recovered, chuckling softly, "but I can bet you can't stay away."

Draco looked around the empty store again. He reminded himself that it was none of his concern why the thriving business had lapsed. Maybe an aging rock star just wasn't cut out for running his own shop, he reasoned. "Yes." He pushed his unease aside. "I'll be back."

Tremlett seemed relieved, and he put the CDs in a bag.

On the way to work, he thought about blue skies, birds, and beautiful women; racing brooms, Quidditch, and letters by owl. There were just so many nice things to think about that weren't that other thing.

Bianca practically vaulted over the counter to pounce on him the second he walked in. "Hi, Draco!" she said, eyes wide. "What's going on with you today?"

"You know, this and that," he said with a shrug.

"Nothing exciting?" she pressed.

"No," he said. "Oh, actually I did buy some new music," he added, holding up the bag. She didn't bother to look at it.

"Are you sure there isn't anything really important happening that would have made you and Hermione disappear mysteriously from the back room for ten hours, without telling anyone where you were going?" she asked, louder this time as the frustration became evident in her tone.

"Oh, that," he said, as though he'd just remembered. "I thought I'd heard something important, but it turned out Granger already knew about it. In fact, it wasn't even true," he lied smoothly, and her eyes narrowed.

"I don't believe you," she said. He shrugged again – it was her prerogative to believe whatever she pleased, and this was even less her business than it was Draco's. She stared at him for another moment, trying to intimidate him into talking, but eventually she gave up. "Fine," she huffed. "You don't have to tell me what's going on, but I bet Hermione will."

Draco pretended to be very interested in cleaning some glasses behind the counter. He hoped she wasn't going to go digging around – the last thing he needed was to be responsible for dragging another person into the fray.

She left him alone then, with his whole shift ahead of him.