It is only in folk tales, children's stories, and the journals of intellectual opinion that power is used wisely and well to destroy evil.
Noam Chomsky
Lucius Malfoy walks into the central hub of the Ministry of Magic and he parts the crowds as Moses parted the Red Sea. Draco is at his heels, adjusting the sleeves of his slate gray robe and watching.
"I must admit, I am more impressed than I thought I would be."
"Money and notoriety are a potent combination," he answers, and his voice seems hollow. Draco gives him a sidelong look. His father is dressed sharply, which makes for a change – for the first time since his wife's death, his robes are pressed, his hair is combed and tied back, his shoes are polished – but there's no hiding the dark circles underlining his eyes, the pallidness of his skin, the weariness. He looks as though he's ready to collapse, though whether from exhaustion or heartbreak is unclear.
"I thought you were proud of your influence in government, Father," Draco says, recalling several instances throughout his childhood where he would go on longwinded diatribes about the importance of social standing.
"I have had a recent reassessment of my priorities," he replies quietly.
Draco does not say or feel anything.
They take an elevator that screams up through the Ministry, rattling and clattering and generally being far more terrifying than an elevator has any right to be, but it deposits them safely in a wide corridor bustling with people moving in all directions, all of them with files full of parchment under their arms and looks of determination.
At the far end, flanked by great marble columns and two armed aurors, is a set of wide, mahogany doors with brass handles and knockers. Together they stride right towards them, and the aurors let them right through with nothing but a cursory nod and a brief hello, Lord Malfoy.
Around a corner and through another set of doors (through which they are also allowed to pass without question), sits Cornelius Fudge at a wide desk, scribbling out a letter. He looks up when they enter, and his round face breaks into a startled smile.
"Lucius Malfoy, as I live and breathe!"
"Good evening, Cornelius," his father returns, with none of his enthusiasm.
He stands and walks around the desk to offer his hand.
"Good to see you, my friend, good to see you!" he says. "And this must be your son! Draco, isn't it? The spitting image!"
Draco smiles wanly and takes the Minister's hand when it's offered. His palm is unpleasantly sweaty but Draco doesn't let on.
"It's been far too long, my friend," he says.
"Since Christmas," his father says. "I'm afraid I've been rather busy these past few months."
"Oh, me, as well! You know how politics can be – a dreadful combination of mind-bending boredom and profound terror. And ever since all the nasty business with those dreadful rumors…"
"Yes," he says, voice flat. "The rumors."
"I've been doing all I can to contain them, of course, but they are saying…"
"Indeed," Draco interjects suddenly, "they are saying, frequently and with great ardour. So far your only response has been to stick your fingers in your ears and bury your head in the sand."
The Minister gives a start and looks at Draco again – this time properly, thoroughly. He seems more startled than anything else. Clearly he isn't used to the feeling and sensation of blunt honesty.
"I – ah – well—"
"No official statements," Draco continues, "no gag orders on the press, no nothing. You've been recklessly allowing panic to spread through your entire country, directionless, virulent, and absolutely unchecked."
Minister Fudge blusters. "I never—!"
"Have you heard about the riots in Bristol? Seen the spike of criminal activity? People are frantic. I am forced to wonder, Minister, if you actually have any plans of governing anytime soon while your country collapses under the weight of its own paranoia."
"I – that isn't – Lucius, your son—"
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Cornelius," his father says, voice cool, "but my son is by several orders of magnitude the most intelligent person in this building. A disposition like his only survives by being right almost constantly."
The expression on Minister Fudge's face can only accurately be described as flustered. Or perhaps purple. He's nearly as purple as he is flustered.
He spends a few moments staring at Draco, mouth working but with no sound produced.
"Why are you here?" he finally says.
Draco raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious?" he returns. "A rich man and a smart man have barged into your office during a time of national crisis. We're here to do your job for you."
