McGonagall was chewing on the end of her quill with her head bowed over the desk when Harry entered, Rennon and the guard following close behind him.
"Professor," started Harry in a strained voice, his mind devoid of an idea on how to begin this painstaking task.
She looked up, thoroughly startled. Had she not heard the fireplace whizzing?
"Potter," said McGonagall, holding the desk with two withered hands to push herself off her seat. She glanced at the party behind him, her eyes bright with curiosity. "What has happened?"
"We're on Ministry orders," replied Harry, regaining some of his composure now that he had her attention, "we need to ... ", he could not say any further.
Charles moved to stand beside Harry. "We should like to speak with a member of your staff, ma'am," he said.
McGonagall looked at him guardedly, her eyes moved to his badge.
Charles seemed to realize her confusion. "I'm Charles Rennon, ma'am. Acting Vice-Chancellor at the Wizengamot," he said before McGonagall could read the word Deputy on his chest.
"Acting?", repeated McGonagall. "You don't mean—" she looked back at Harry, her eyes wide, and if possible, even brighter.
"I resigned, Professor," Harry confirmed.
McGonagall gasped, and then beamed at Harry. "Oh, Potter," she said, crossing the distance between them hastily, "what terrific news! Lifnick will be so pleased."
She grasped Harry's forearms and looked up at him. Joy made her look ten years younger. "Of course, I never once doubted you would agree," she continued, "I'm so glad you wrote to him, Harry ... now we just wait for his visit and ... "
Harry could not reply, caught up with how untimely McGonagall's delight was when placed with his own anxieties. He could not smile back at her and wished she could read his mind because he did not think he could even voice the actual reason for their visit. Would she have congratulated him still on his swelling career, Harry wondered, if she knew he was seconds away from halting someone else's?
McGonagall's smile froze as she assessed the situation. Charles and the guard stood with steely eyes, their mouths hardened. Harry forced a smile and pushed her away gently.
"I'm afraid it's urgent, Professor," he said.
She nodded and walked back to her desk. "What do you need, Potter? Who is it you want to speak to?"
"Dra—" his voice caught, and he cleared his throat, "Draco Malfoy."
McGonagall halted and turned around slowly to face Harry again.
"I believe he teaches ... Defence Against the Dark Arts," said Harry awkwardly when McGonagall did not reply.
It took a moment for her to respond. "Yes ... " she said at last, "yes, he does."
Charles fidgeted behind Harry, and the Ministry Guard huffed with impatience.
"I'll send for him," said McGonagall briskly, moving to the door, "can I ask the nature of your visit, or is it confidential?", her voice sharpened at the end.
"The latter," said Charles, in the same tone.
She moved out without another word.
Harry paced anxiously across McGonagall's office, the evening light elongated his shadows across the stone floor. The guard sat opposite McGonagall, oblivious to the tension rippling in the air. He amused himself with the tin of biscuits, rattling it incessantly and earning McGonagall's stiff glares.
More than an hour ago, Malfoy had inquired who was heading the party, and on Charles' answer, had refused to see anyone else. Harry had gone over every possible scenario that Charles could have initiated in Malfoy's office, distressing himself with the curt reality of the situation. Charles was not known for his pacifism, and Malfoy would hardly embrace him like a brother once he knew Harry had accompanied Charles.
Harry was next to Dumbledore's portrait, watching him sleep, when Charles entered, pale-faced and defeated.
"Potter," said Charles, "I think you had better ... go talk to him," he cast a glance towards McGonagall, who stood up quickly, her face set.
"Certainly not," said McGonagall. "I will not have you alarm my students—"
"Professor, it pains me," replied Harry, in a less discourteous manner than he would have liked, "how little faith you have in my composure. I am on official Ministry business. Whatever qualms Malfoy and I have, or ever had, are not to be a part of this!"
McGonagall looked at him silently, her eyes growing duller. "Very well," she turned away, "why the Ministry chose to bewilder a young man when he finally manages to land a promising profession is beyond me—"
"The young man you speak of," started Charles, more discourteous than Harry, "is no chaste, blameless saint. He is guilty of every charge I listed before him just now! He denied nothing, ma'am."
"Oh, hush, Mr. Rennon! Hasn't the Ministry got better things on their schedule than harassing Hogwarts' staff?"
Harry stared at her, aghast at how little she thought of the establishment he worked in. If he was honest with himself, he would have believed that McGonagall would have handed over Malfoy to them without a moment's thought. He had not expected her to defend him, disregard his charges, and choose to argue against Harry and his Deputy for him. Was this simply how she treated all her staff, regardless of if they were Death Eaters or not?
He moved to the door wordlessly, nudging Charles along with him.
"Wait," said Charles, "the guard ... "
They looked at the dismal man, who was now drawing abstract shapes with a spare quill on McGonagall's desk, unaware of the proceedings around him. Harry shook his head, and Charles nodded in agreement. The plague in Malfoy's office was not depending on the guard's presence to come to an end.
They exited McGonagall's office side by side, their minds heavy and unrelenting.
"Why is he in chains?", Harry exploded at Charles in an anguished whisper after taking one look at Malfoy through the crack in the door.
"He wouldn't hand over his wand!", Charles shot back.
"To hell with his wand! He wasn't going to duel a Ministry Official, Rennon."
"Well, you never bloody know ... "
Harry groaned in disgust. Any hope of a mild interrogation was out the window. Rennon had managed to go beyond any of the torturous scenarios Harry had conjured up upstairs, choosing to wreck the case to pieces before it had started. How was he to work with this?
With speed, he decided. As quickly as it was bloody possible. That's how.
He pushed open the door. Malfoy looked up.
"No," he stated at once, turning to the window, "only Rennon."
"Really?" said Harry, "even with how he shackled you? Can't believe you've struck up a scandalous romance with my friend in the one hour I left you with him."
Malfoy looked at him then, and their eyes locked for the first time in who knows how long. Harry had forgotten how pale they were. Malfoy's irises stretched over the whites of his eyes, almost transparent in the torchlight of the office. Harry tried to recall when they had last looked at each other directly, and nothing came to his mind. It was baffling. How had they managed to work in the same building for years, and cross paths a few times, with no memory of eye contact?
"You're not funny, Potter," said Malfoy.
Harry shrugged indifferently. "Where's your father, Malfoy?", he asked.
Malfoy snickered. "Never mind what I just said. That's your plan? You've got me in stitches." He chortled openly, the metal on his arms clinked with the movement.
Harry flushed with anger. "It was just a courtesy. You think the Ministry expects us to weed out your father's location by just asking you?"
Malfoy tried to stand up, but the chains bound him to the chair, it seemed. "That's exactly what they thought six years ago," he seethed, "and don't think for a second, Potter, that they held out with their questioning before they finally brought me to trial because they fucking didn't!"
Harry was suddenly at a loss for words. He had been assured numerous times that the interrogations were over and that Hermione's Act was honored when treating the prisoners. He knew for a fact, that no one was questioned once brought into captivity, but then, what was this terrifying bit of news Malfoy had just burdened him with?
"What did they do?" asked Harry, barely audibly.
Malfoy clenched his jaw and looked him right in the eye. "I'm immune to Veritaserum," he replied, and the words struck Harry like a Crucio spell.
He swallowed. "But that's—"
"Illegal?"
Harry nodded wordlessly.
"Not for a Death Eater," said Malfoy, his voice low.
Harry narrowed his eyes. What were the chances Malfoy was being truthful? It was immoral, but Harry was sure Malfoy would try and play for Harry's sympathy if he knew he would succeed. It was a dangerous accusation to throw at the Ministry too, and Harry knew that all charges against Malfoy would drop if the Ministry was proven guilty of questioning him outside of trial, that too with Veritaserum, and who knows what else. But how to know for sure?
Harry dug around in his robes. Malfoy eyed him curiously.
Finally, he pulled out a small vial of the potion in question. "Let's put it to test then," he said to Malfoy, "your immunity."
"That's ten years or more in Azkaban, Potter, just for having that on you," said Malfoy. His voice shook in the end, and Harry was pleased to see fear flicker in his eyes.
"No one in their right mind would tell on the Vice-Chancellor," said Harry.
"Why do you have it? And don't think of using it on me, Potter, I'll tell McGonagall, on Merlin—"
"You didn't tell on the Ministry," snapped Harry, leaning over the desk, "and you won't tell on me. Now, are you immune or not?"
Malfoy did not answer for a moment, his eyes moving from the potion to Harry. "I am," he said at last.
Harry smiled. "Then open up."
It took a bit of a scuffle, but Malfoy could hardly move anything besides his neck, and Harry had to pry his mouth open to shove the potion inside. The room wailed with the sound of the chains rattling together. He stood back when it was over, watching Malfoy's face carefully.
Harry waited a whole two minutes. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Draco Malfoy."
"Who am I?"
"Harry Potter," he spat out.
"Where's your father?"
Malfoy smirked, his eyes bright. "Under this table, you've tied me to."
Harry's heart thudded, and he looked reflexively under the said table, that had nothing but stone beneath it.
Malfoy laughed, his voice uncaring and loud. "What cheap potioneer cooked up that Veritaserum for you, Potter?" he asked, breathless, "I knew I was immune, Merlin, but it's never been this easy to resist!"
Malfoy's taunts flew past Harry, who was still finding it hard to believe what the Ministry had done. How had they dared to keep questioning Malfoy, despite direct orders, and what else had they done to get a response out of him? Harry was desperate to ask, but he was not sure if he wanted to know.
He decided to ask something different. "Why'd you never ... expose what they'd done? You could have, at the trial."
Malfoy looked down, the laughter died in him. "I'm a prisoner," he said, "and I'm Draco Malfoy."
Harry disregarded this. "You still can," he said, "through me, I mean. I'm Vice-Chancellor—"
"You're not Vice-Chancellor, Potter, you're just a failed Auror."
Harry swung around, a retort ready on his tongue. But Malfoy was looking at him strangely, his chin jutting out as if waiting for Harry to break composure any moment, and go off on a raging tantrum that would throw Malfoy into a laughing fit again.
"I can't disagree with that, Professor," said Harry evenly.
Malfoy bristled at the title. "There's no need for that. You just pushed an illegal potion down my throat—"
"Because you refuse to disclose anything on a case that should have been closed and done for years ago!"
"What would you know about family, Potter?"
"What's that supposed to mean?," snarled Harry, "What's daddy got on you, Malfoy, that you had to turn Veritaserum-resistant for?"
Malfoy tried standing up again. "You know nothing!"
"What are you so afraid of?"
"Enough," said Malfoy, his voice breaking.
Harry turned away, ignoring the frantic beating of his heart against the pain flaring in his chest. He debated between closing the interrogation or calling Ren—Charles in to help. The latter idea died as soon as it surfaced. There was no one Harry could bring into this, that would not worsen the situation.
"The Wizengamot has always thought highly of Hogwarts ... and its staff," Harry began mannerly.
Malfoy scoffed, ruining any attempt at civility.
"We're also aware of your privileges under the Tolerance Act—"
"Pity the Act wasn't introduced three months earlier. Your little vial wouldn't have gone to waste today."
Harry gritted his teeth. "As I said ... you're welcome to report everything—"
"Don't stand there and try to convince me, Potter," barked Malfoy, "that the Ministry grew a softer spot for Death Eaters since the six years I've crossed it."
"What they did to you was vile and it disgusts me to no end ... "
Malfoy paused, reclining back in the chair as much as his shackles would allow. "You don't think ... it's accounted for?"
Harry took his time in answering. "No."
"It's not bothering you as much as I would like it to, though," said Malfoy.
"It's vile like I said—"
"And what?"
Harry could not think of anything other than how it was Malfoy who was in chains, yet Harry felt as if he was the one tied up. How had the dynamic shifted so? Less than moments ago, Harry was the one with Malfoy's jaw in his hands, forcing truths out of him that he had embarrassingly failed to reveal.
"And it's insanely hard to believe, that's all," he managed to say at last.
Malfoy flexed his wrists and the chains clanked loudly in the dim room. Harry winced.
"Well," said Malfoy, as the sound faded, "seeing is believing, Potter."
They did not speak for a few minutes. Harry sighed and waved his wand desolately. The chains disappeared from Malfoy's hands. He looked down at his arms, as if not daring himself to believe it, and then folded them dispassionately across his chest. Shackled or not, the movement seemed to say, Harry had got nothing out of this hours' worth of interrogating. Malfoy still held his secrets.
Harry tried not to think of how he could have done so as soon as he had entered the room. He tried not to think of how he was hardly any different than the Wizengamot guards who had tortured Malfoy away from everyone's eyes. After all, Harry too had waited until Malfoy had the upper hand, to release him from the cuffs that had never belonged on him in the first place.