Chapter Three
It was 8:39 in the morning when Hermione Granger arrived at her job that day in a puff of ash and green fire. She took a moment to smooth out her sensible, knee-length skirt with the hand that wasn't occupied by her bag, imbued with an extendable charm which years had yet to dilute. The tight bun at the nape of her neck was next to be sorted out, as the strands of what once might have resembled a curl were tucked into an elastic hair tie. Satisfied, she made her way through the grand entryway that was the lobby of the British Ministry of Magic, catching the elevator after her fast-paced walk and wave of a hand caused those inside it to hold the door open.
Exiting at the second level as she did every morning, she was surprised to find no one else getting off at her floor today—though she supposed she was a bit earlier than usual. "Good mornings" and "Hellos" reached her ears from the few people she passed who were about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at this time before the work day officially began. She took a right past the bullpen of the Auror's Office and continued into the Archives where she spent her days sorting, retrieving, and creating metadata for all divisions of the Department—the Auror Office, the Improper Use of Magic Office, Wizengamot Administration Services—and their various subdivisions.
"Good morning, Hermione," came the voice of Susan Fenwick, a motherly fifty-something year old woman with excellent memory and a generally kind disposition. 9 ½ inches. Apple. Phoenix feather.
"Good morning," she replied good-naturedly, turning around the side bend of the front desk, behind which loomed a massive quantity of folders upon stacks upon shelves of information. Hermione placed her bag on top of the desk on the left-hand side. "I thought Applebaum was supposed to be scheduled for desk duty with me?"
She tutted. "Poor dear's got the flu. It's the start of the season, you know. Can't be too careful."
"Of course, Ms. Fenwick," Hermione replied as she continued on past the desk to the leftmost aisle, retrieving a box labelled "Metadata needed - Granger's" from the shelf where the team kept their current projects. She returned quickly to the front desk, setting the box on the left side of its wooden top as she took her seat next to Susan.
Hermione enjoyed her job, mundane though it sometimes was. She had transferred out of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures three years ago. It was spurred by a personal request for her transfer from the head of her new department. He had heard of her efforts to restructure the department and decided he needed someone to take the position of head of the Archives, someone who he had faith could reorganize the small subdivision in a more efficient way. The rise of her salary and elevated position within a department were perks to this move, but ultimately she had been thinking of a change for a few months at that point, dissatisfied with the work she was currently doing in magical creatures' activism, which it seemed she simply was not good at. She enjoyed spending her time researching, reading, and organizing data files, case reports, court transcriptions, and the like. It was relaxing, in a way, and it gave her pride to know her work was an essential part of the functioning of the Department, something which she could not say about her previous position.
She frequently became lost in her work here. But having desk duty meant she would have to pause her current occupation and help those who came into the office. And so she did some few hours after she had begun once she heard the doorbell chime, alerting her to someone's entry. She had been so consumed she hadn't noticed Susan's removal to the stacks behind her.
"Mandy." She carefully slid her current papers to the side and folded her hands in front of her. "What can I help you with?"
"Just a question," was the other woman's response. "What department's archives would contain licenses for wandmaking? And wand registrations?"
She scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion. "Try Public Information Services. We have case reports here which deal with legal issues related to wandmaking if that would help?"
Brocklehurst frowned, and spoke quicker than was normal, even for her. "I'm not sure honestly, but if you'll give me everything you have on wandmaking, that would be fantastic."
Hermione nodded. "It's not something we sort by, so it will take me a while; I can get them to you tomorrow."
"Harry said today."
Hermione blinked in annoyance, but held her tongue and said nothing of the woman's tone. "Well, I'll see what I can find."
Brocklehurst nodded in a farewell gesture and spun on her heel, the door softly closing on its own as she pushed through it.
Hermione made the appropriate remarks on a spare bit of parchment so that she could pick up her current project later. She secured the note to the front of the box, filed away her papers neatly, and set to searching for the materials Brocklehurst requested.
Draco itched to tap his fingers. He was fighting the impulse with a disproportionate amount of effort, but restrained himself by folding his hands together across the sticky surface of the table before him. This is a hovel, Draco thought in disgust, looking around the old inn Potter had suggested. He knew why he suggested it, but it did nothing to lessen his distaste for the exposed beams of rotting wood, greasy, warped windows, and peeling paint. Draco was fairly certain he heard the bleat of a goat from the back room.
A petite girl with long braids and vaguely pretty features—shame really, she should at least be working at the Three Broomsticks—approached him and asked, again, if she could get him anything. 13 inches. Chestnut. Vampire fang. Her polite voice could not hide from Draco's mind the fact that she was beginning to get bothered by his lack of purchasing anything. As he was about to concede, Potter arrived, the only other patron. It was obvious the girl recognized him as she became more enlivened once he was within distance at which to speak and be pressed to take a beer, on the house. Draco wondered what it must be like to be a good sort of famous.
"That won't be necessary, Polly, you can just put it on my tab. And whatever he's having." Potter looked at him for the first time, though just for a moment. His gaze held relatively little emotion beyond a bit of veiled agitation, though at what Draco couldn't be sure. Him? He hadn't yet said a word to the man. The girl? Draco was certainly a little annoyed at that obvious shift in friendliness level, but doubted Potter even noticed. Work, then.
The girl—Polly, he rolled the name around in his head—angled her body so that it inclined towards him once again. She smiled and tilted her head in askance.
"Some sort of amber, then."
Polly nodded and retreated to the bar counter, while Potter turned his attention onto him. They studied each other for what must have been three seconds but felt triple that, before Potter inclined his head towards the other side of the booth. Draco shrugged with one shoulder, wondering why Potter bothered to ask to join him, being as it was Potter who organized this meeting.
"How're you doing?"
Draco snorted. "It's been six or so years since we've spoken actual words to each other, I figured you would at least have come up with something clever to say in that time. My mistake."
Potter grit his teeth and released a breath. "Civility really isn't your thing."
Impassive gray eyes stared hard. "What did you want to discuss precisely? What is this little plan of yours?"
"This 'little plan of mine' requires you to be willing to work with me and actually give me answers when I ask questions—"
"That sounds just like me," chimed Draco with false enthusiasm. "Whatever have you to be worried about?"
"Are you going to listen or not?" Potter's mostly present composure seemed to crack a little.
Polly returned with their respective drinks. Draco supposed Potter most come here a lot if she didn't even ask what he wanted. Nothing was said until she had vacated the front room. Draco took a sip of his drink and noted it was not quite as terrible as he had anticipated. There was condensation on the glass, which he began drawing aimlessly on with a long pointer finger.
After the silence had stretched long enough for Potter to be satisfied that Draco would not decide to open his mouth again, he continued.
"This is about a case I'm working." As he paused, Draco took the time to remind himself not to make a sarcastic remark. "I think you could be of some help."
"I thought the Aurors didn't consult amateurs."
"We don't." As if that should be perfectly obvious. "I'm not asking you in a professional capacity—that is, the Aurors aren't consulting anyone, officially. This is strictly off the books, me asking you, not an Auror asking an amatuer."
Well this was a bit more interesting. Draco ceased his doodling and picked up his glass, taking a few gulps before setting it down and folding his hands on the table in between he and Potter, hiding his wince at the sticky sensation that met the sides of his hands. "I'm listening."
"I'm breaching case secrecy here, I need you to understand that. This cannot go anywhere else." Potter waited for his nod before continuing. "There's been a murder. Forty-four year old man named Gray Rivers. We expect there to be more, but until then we can't establish any pattern."
"What's so special about this murder then?"
"The killer left a signature." Potter released a breath, his hand tightened around his glass as it lifted to his mouth. "It was a Dark Mark. Sort of. The symbol was made from wand wood and placed into the flesh of the corpse; it appears to have been postmortem."
Two reactions arose in quick succession within Draco. The first was physical. His body reacted to mention of the Dark Mark with a sensation that caused him to have to fight to keep the heat off his face and the twitching out of his hand. The idea that there were still supporters of that madman was disgusting, though it was unsurprising that they existed. What was surprising was that they were being so open about it as to kill and then defile the corpse with the Mark. Draco already did not want part of this endeavor of Potter's. His mind and body were in agreement on that point: he had to get away from anything related to that dark movement. Nothing good could come from involvement. The second reaction Draco had to Potter's words was something akin to irritation, more anger than the annoyance that was typically associated with irritation, but milder than the word anger would suggest. He almost wanted to laugh, though it would have been a mirthless one. He couldn't believe Potter really decided he needed his help just because the bloody Dark Mark was involved.
None of these inner feelings bled onto his physical appearance, so Potter had no reason to suspect he should not continue on. "I hope you understand I wouldn't ask anything of you if I didn't have reason to believe that your character would be well suited to the job I have in mind, or if I didn't have reason to believe that you'd completely turned against that part of your life."
Draco blinked at that. What? Then what the hell was the point? And where did Potter even receive such personal intelligence on Draco's character?
"As if you know me." These words were derisive, but his next were spoken levelly, carefully. "What exactly do you want, Potter?"
"I want you to infiltrate whatever remains of the Voldemort sympathizers."
What do y'all like and dislike so far? I know where this story is going, but as I'm still writing it I'm open to suggestions. On another note, I did not expect to be updating so much. I doubt it will continue at this pace, but we'll see how long this goes for.