A/N: Wow! I have never made it farther than a stand alone fic, and now I am at three chapters! Rock on!
Harry typed
away on his typewriter. The monotonous pounding of the keys echoed in his
brain, overwhelming the drone of his workplace. He slapped down a finished
sheet of parchment and leaned back in his chair. From the top of his cubicle
wall he could see a glimpse of red hair. Ronald was evidently working hard on
destroying the past. With two days until the start of Hate Week, he certainly
must have been tied down with work. Harry was dreading the next few days. He
knew he must pretend to be enjoying the festivities of watching THEM destroy
the free world. He worried about Ginny. What if THEY found out she was a
traitor?
Harry once
again glanced to his right, by habit. Ronald was not observant enough to
suspect his sister of anything. She had skipped one year of school so she could
be close to him, attempting, perhaps, to protect him. Ronald was oblivious to
life.
Harry knew
how they worked; weeding out the weak and vulnerable, making them work with
dangerous materials until they found out too much. Then, and only then, the
Death Eaters would take them away, backing noiselessly into the shadows. They
were erased from everyone's minds, just like everyone else. Harry shook his
head, and rocked forward in his chair. He sifted through the papers on his
desk, looking for something interesting to work on and stopping abruptly.
Under the
layers of envelopes and letters lay an old, crinkled photograph. Three men, apparently criminals, hung from the thick
ropes of a gallows, swaying in an unseen breeze. The executioner stood to the
side, smiling mischievously through his black hood and waving madly to the
crowd.
"Good
Lord!" exclaimed the boy in excitement, realizing to late that he had spoken
aloud. Ronald peered over from his right.
"What's
wrong, comrade?" Harry quickly regained his senses.
"Nothing,
I'm just extremely hungry, that's all, " he lied.
"Well,
lunch is in a bit. Hold on until then," the other boy said, disappearing again.
Harry wiped his anxious brow and dug out the picture. His quick eyes returned
to the faces of the prisoners. Instead of being caught in the grimaces of
Death, their lips and eyes lay impassive. He drifted over to their uniforms.
They were obviously prisoners, either of war, or convicted traitors of the
liege. The date of the photograph read February 8 of 1997. For
minutes, Harry stared at the black lettering.
THEY had
said the last traitors had been killed off before the war of 1995 had begun
against Africa. Harry rapidly flipped through his messages again. Someone had
accidentally sent HIM this picture, and now he knew too much. If he was ever
found out!
Something
in the corner of his eye grabbed at his mind. It was the name on the shirt of
the middle prisoner. In bold, black printing it read: Weasley. Harry's heart
pounded in his ears like a jackhammer, his palms filled with sweat, small beads
forming on his brow.
"Oh, God,"
he muttered carelessly. Arthur Weasley was Ginny's father who had disappeared
at her birth. THEY had said he had been reprogrammed and transferred, but
Ronald had sometimes told Harry of the letters they received from someone
claiming to be Arthur. A fraud, he had said. Harry uneasily propped his feet
upon his desk. His mind flew to several conclusions, each one taking Harry
farther and farther into regret. Now, he knew he was in too deep.
Arthur had
gone to join the Brotherhood that fought against Voldemort's liege. He had been
alive and the Brotherhood was still alive! Harry realized it had only been one
year since THEY had killed Arthur. There was still hope.
Harry
carefully folded the photograph, dropping it into the pocket of his robe as the
lunch bell rang to relieve the workers. He fell behind his co-workers,
attempting to escape from the massive crowd that filled the hallways. He
despised the way they all seemed to flow together; he did not understand how
their minds could work that way. He often stood alone and just watched them.
They would never bump or shove each other, but the occasional stand-out, a
person who did not move that way, would get pushed aside. Several times, Harry
was shoved into the cold brick walls of the hallway, each time patting his pocket
to make sure the photograph still remained.
He plodded
along the corridor, never bothering to actually pick up his feet. He continually
stared straight at the floor, as not to attract attention or accidentally look
into the hollow glares of the others. He slipped into a corner seat in the
dining hall, and placed his head on the cold wood of the table. He gazed at the
natural patterns, tracing his tired finger along the trails of darker oak. He
thoughts were interrupted by a tap to his shoulder. He found himself staring
into the face of a stranger.
"Uhh, can I
help you?" he said, almost crossly. The stranger smiled, brushing a strand of
gold hair out of his eyes.
"My name is
Draco… Draco Malfoy," he drawled. Harry frowned, waiting for him to continue.
"Yes?" The
stranger's grin grew even wider. His eyes sparkled as he leaned forward, his
lips almost touching Harry's ear.
"I have
heard that you are like us."
"I wish
people would stop saying that phrase," Harry exclaimed, pushing himself away
from Draco. The blond boy smirked, and then went expressionless.
"You will
learn to believe. Here," he handed Harry a small pocketbook with yellowed
pages, "read this, and you will know the truth." He walked away, not once
glancing back. Harry stared for a moment at the dark cover of the book,
imagining the stories that lay in its ancient pages. He tucked it securely in
his cloak pocket, next to the photograph, wishing the day would be over, so he
could explore the book that held such knowledge.