Chapter 42: The New Information
Draco had been in England for approximately five minutes before he ran into someone he knew. Pansy Parkinson, surly faced as usual, sat at the receptionist desk in the Daily Prophet office. She was filing her nails, completely unaware that Draco had walked in through the fireplace. Not that she would recognize him. Draco had done quite a bit of Transfiguration on himself before leaving San Francisco. His hair was now a deep brown and curly, he had a large mustache, and his once-grey eyes were black. His nose was flatter, and his cheeks fuller. He was wearing brown slacks and a long sleeved-olive green button-up shirt, with a red vest. His brown leather boots added a few inches to his height, and over his shoulder was his black bag. He took a deep breath and strode up to Pansy.
"Hi, I'm Oliver Johnson from the Aldea News. I'm supposed to meet with a Mr. Thompson?" Draco's voice was an octave lower, and the American accent felt funny in his mouth.
Pansy rolled her eyes up at him. "Mr. Thompson's not here right now," she said boredly. "What are you here for?"
Draco almost laughed. Pansy must absolutely hate having to work for someone else. He composed himself and responded, "I'm here on an assignment about the Battle of Hogwarts-" Here Pansy visibly tensed. "-and I've been told that Mr. Thompson has some contacts for me." It took some time, but Draco had convinced his boss that he needed to go to England undercover, citing bias if he were to interview anyone there, or something along those lines. He was very persuasive. So Oliver Johnson had been manufactured, and Mr. Thompson contacted.
Pansy sat up in her chair and peered up at Draco carefully. "Do you have an appointment, sir?" The "sir" was added almost sarcastically.
"Yup," Draco responded, doing his best to sound as American as he could. Pansy glared at him, and then stood up and headed for the room in the back marked "EDITOR." She poked her head in, then headed back to Draco, now followed by a robust man in pinstripe robes, whose mustache completely obscured his mouth.
"Ah, Mr. Johnson. I was expecting you. I hope Miss Parkinson didn't give you too hard of a time." Here he looked pointedly at Pansy, who squirmed in her seat.
"Not at all," Draco boomed. "So, do you have those contacts for me?"
"Yes, of course," Mr. Thompson replied, pulling a slip of parchment from his breast pocket. "Here you are. Have you arranged for accommodations while you stay?"
"Yeah, I have," Draco said, struggling to hold onto the accent. "These are all people I can get a hold of easily?"
"Er, not exactly," came the answer. "I have informed them that you wish to interview them, but they are rather busy, most of them are."
Draco's heart sunk a little. "Okay. Thanks for your help!" He said as cheerily as he could.
"Of course! There's always time to help a fellow news writer. We need to keep the people informed! Good luck, and please let me know if you need any help, Mr. Johnson."
"Will do, Draco said, with a wave, as he headed out the door and into Diagon Alley.
As Draco strolled down the cobblestone streets, he couldn't help but notice how much the atmosphere of the Alley had changed. It was considerably cheerier, a far cry from the dark place that he had last visited. The shops were once again open, and people bustled to and fro. And they were smiling. It had been so long since he had seen people smiling in Diagon Alley. A chill came down Draco's spine as he walked by Ollivander's. He didn't want to be reminded of what had happened to that man in Malfoy Manor. Draco continued down the Alley and into the Leaky Cauldron.
A familiar smell of butterbeer and firewhiskey filled Draco's nostrils as he pushed open the door of the famous bar. Tom was still the bartender and, as usual, the place was packed. Draco managed to secure a table in the corner and ordered himself a butterbeer. When it arrived, Draco took a moment to enjoy the taste of the warm drink on his tongue. Oh, how he had missed butterbeer. While he sipped his drink, Draco unfolded the parchment that Thompson had given him. He scanned the list of names, and his heart sunk even further. Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Molly Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt- how was he supposed to get an appointment with the Minister of Magic?!- Aberforth Dumbledore, Madame Rosmerta, Tom the bartender of the Leaky Cauldron... the list went on. Draco sighed. This was going to be a tough assignment.
Once the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron began to thin, Draco headed up to Tom, who was cleaning glasses with a blue rag. He extended out his hand to the bartender. "Oliver Johnson, Aldea News, San Francisco. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"Are you a detective or somethin'?" Tom asked skeptically.
"No, sir, I'm a reporter." Draco could see the tired look in Tom's eyes. "Look, I understand that you've probably talked to a lot of reporters recently. But have any of them been from America?"
"Do you have any identification?"
Draco reached for his press pass, which was tucked into his shirt. He pulled out the lanyard and held it out to Tom, who examined it carefully. "Alright, I'll talk to you. What do you want to know?"
Draco breathed a sigh of relief, then regained his composure. "Right, so I was hoping you could tell me about the war and how it's affected your life, business, all that stuff."
Tom raised and eyebrow. "How it's affected me? Well I'm bloody glad it's over, that's how I feel. Terrible for business, having all those Death Eaters around. They don't pay for nothin'. Nasty folk, the Death Eaters. Good thing they're all locked up in Azkaban!"
Draco winced. "Anything else, sir?"
It seemed as though Tom couldn't stop talking. "Ah, it sure is nice seeing people smiling and all that. The whole place felt like a prison as late as May. People stayed at home, mostly. I had no customers in the inn. People were too afraid. I hated working then. I was always afraid they would come take me away, next, and seal the entrance to Diagon Alley or something. I have no idea what Death Eaters thought was a good idea... I'm sure glad it's all over," Tom repeated with a shake of his head. "Dark times, those were. If it weren't for the Order and Harry Potter, who knows where I'd be right now?"
The interview went on for sometime, Draco growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Finally, he took a few pictures of the bar, as well of Tom and his smiling patrons, then bid Tom farewell and headed out into Diagon Alley. He took some more pictures, of the people and the shops. Then he decided to pay a visit to his neck of the woods: Knockturn Alley.
Knockturn Alley was just as dark and dank as it had been before Voldemort's return, but now it was totally empty. The wind whistled through the streets, blowing open the creaky doors and broken shutters of abandoned shops. Draco walked by all the shops slowly, remembering his visits there with his father, who purchased countless Dark objects. As he approached Borgin and Burke's, Draco felt his whole body tense up. The things he had done all came back to him, wave after wave of guilt racking his body. He felt his breaths shorten, and he forced himself to look away. The store was totally empty, save for that damned Vanishing Cabinet, which still stood evilly in the back of the shop. Draco hunched his shoulders as his body began shaking uncontrollably. He felt himself sink to the floor as tears began streaming down his face. He gasped for air, struggling to regain focus and clarity as his vision blurred and his body went numb.
Draco woke up to the sound of footsteps. Suddenly alert, he scrambled backwards and into a tiny nook that was obscured by darkness. He watched as two men in swirling black cloaks strode past him. He recognized them. They were Death Eaters. As soon as they were gone, Draco hurried out of Knockturn Alley. He had been out for nearly an hour. Must have been the time difference.
As quickly as he could, Draco headed for the Leaky Cauldron. A few moments later, he stepped out into Muggle London. Draco watched as people hurried past him, and he found himself wondering for the umpteenth time what they saw instead of the Leaky Cauldron.
A quarter of an hour later, Draco checked into a Muggle hotel under another fake name, with another disguise. This time he had black hair, blue eyes, and a scruffy beard. Once in his room, Draco took a long, hot bath, then began planning the rest of his trip. He could knock out Luna and the Weasleys in one trip. Luna would be easy, but Draco was terrified of meeting Mrs. Weasley. A trip to Hogsmeade was in order. As was a trip to Godric's Hollow. He was sure the Potters' house would be a landmark by now. He would just owl the Ministry for an official statement from Shacklebolt. Longbottom... Draco would have to visit him at the Ministry, along with some other Hogwarts alums. Most of them seemed to be working as Aurors. That included Harry Potter, Draco was aware, and Weasley. And Hermione. Draco's heart panged as he read her name on the list. Well, he knew he wouldn't be interviewing her.
It was an uneasy night for Draco. He was extremely paranoid, and kept waking up in the middle of the night, imagining faces in the window and knocks on the door. He was very relieved when morning came and hurried to get dressed. By ten, he was in the lonely telephone booth, getting his visitor badge, listening to the cool female voice that filled the tiny room.
Draco emerged into the hustle-bustle of the Ministry of Magic. His press pass was now dangling quite obviously around his neck. He approached a security wizard, trying to seem as confused as possible when asking for the Auror Office. The wizard was polite, and guided Draco to the elevator and pointed him to the right floor. One crazy elevator ride later, Draco found himself outside the Auror Office. He would never admit it to anyone, especially not his father, but he had always secretly wanted to become an Auror. Childlike wonder overcame him as he entered the office and approached the wizard who was sitting at the receptionist's desk.
"Hello, sir, can I have your name, please?" The wizard asked politely.
"Yeah, I'm Oliver Johnson, from the Aldea News. I'm supposed to interview some Aurors for a story I'm doing. A Mr. Thompson from the Daily Prophet sent me here."
The receptionist checked the papers on his desk. "Ah, yes, here you are. Please, follow me. I'll walk you through the office. Feel free to take photographs and ask anyone questions, so long as they don't appear too busy."
"Thanks," Draco said, following the wizard further into the office, his camera at the ready. Wizards were hurrying about the room, searching through boxes and scanning documents. Draco snapped a few photos, then stopped behind the receptionist, who was speaking to Neville Longbottom. After a few moments, the receptionist turned to Draco and told him Neville was ready to speak to him. Cautiously, Draco took a seat in front of Neville and extended his hand. "Oliver Johnson, Aldea News. How're you today?"
Neville shook Draco's hand. "Neville Longbottom. I'm fine, how are you?"
"Doing well," Draco replied. "So, let's get started then. First question: How has your life or your family's life been affected by the events in May?"
Neville looked a little uncomfortable. Draco noticed how deep the bags under his eyes were; he was evidently quite overworked. "Well, I'm no longer hiding out in my own school...I suppose that's a big change."
"Can you explain that a bit?"
"Er, right, so while Snape, Severus Snape, that is, was headmaster at Hogwarts..." Neville went on to explain what Dumbledore's Army was, and how the students had hidden out in the Room of Requirement most of the year. Draco was quite impressed. He really hadn't noticed any of them missing while he was at Hogwarts in the spring. Not that he was paying attention.
"And your family?" Draco pressed. He had to seem as clueless as possible, but it was killing him seeing what his questions were doing to Neville.
"Er, yeah, well, my Gran's fine, she's, er, really proud of me I guess, you know, for cutting off Nagini's head and all..." Here Draco asked for another explanation. Neville continued, "Er, yeah, and well my parents, er, they've been in St. Mungo's... doesn't look like they'll get any better soon..."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Draco said. And he was. He really was sorry that Bellatrix had taken Neville's parents from him, and quite sorry that he was related to that crazy bitch. He was extremely relieved she was dead, to be honest.
Draco continued the interview, asking Neville about his job as an Auror and what kind of work he was doing.
"Well, right now we're focusing on finding all the Death Eaters who escaped and getting them to trial. Some of them are getting let off. Just recently, about a couple months back, we let Narcissa Malfoy go. She's under house arrest in Malfoy Manor. Rather uncomfortable for her that must be. So many people died there... Her husband Lucius Malfoy, was a Death Eater."
Draco spoke his next words with caution. "She wasn't?"
"No," Neville replied. "But she was in the Manor- that's Malfoy Manor- and she witnessed what went on there."
"So what happened to the rest of the family?" Draco asked, holding his breath.
"Well, Lucius is in Azkaban, serving five years- he was able to convince the Wizengamot that most of his actions were forced, owing to the fact that Voldemort was living in his house. Understandable, I suppose, but still rather horrible, if you ask me. And their son, Draco, he's missing. No trace of him. Seems to have vanished. All for the best I suppose, you know, he would be charged with the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore. But he was only sixteen...we all were, once, I suppose..."
"Do you have people looking for him?"
"A few," Neville admitted. "But mostly we just want information from him about what went on in Malfoy Manor. "Harry and Ron say he was there when they were caught by the Snatchers..."
Draco barely paid attention during the rest of the interview. His heart began beating faster, and he could feel blood roaring in his ears. After speaking with Neville, he talked to a few more Aurors, then headed back to the hotel, only two things on his mind.
One: Narcissa was in Malfoy Manor.
Two: They were looking for him.