Author name: 1 Eyed Jack
Author email:
Category: Drama
Sub Category: Action/Adventure
Rating: R
Spoilers: all books
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Some canon information in this chapter comes from the Lexicon.
Summary: Harry Potter is one of the few who remain skeptical when Lucius Malfoy emerges from Azkaban with a full pardon and a plan to start an evil-fighting organization. Exposing Malfoy as a fraud won't be easy amid lies, fights, and hidden agendas. One motorway accident, two definitions for SPEW, three levels of Ministry alert, and lots of four-nication. Chapter 2: Lucius Malfoy unveils his evil-fighting organization, Harry gets in a fight, Draco gets ass, and Pansy does not get to see the topiary maze.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Special thanks to emerald123, Oli and co., and Viola for the betas. Naodrith and Alissa Raboin also looked over earlier versions of the fic.
Diagon Burning
Chapter
2:
Sometimes on Thursdays
"This is an opportunity for you, Pansy," her father said as their Rolls-Royce ground to a halt outside the Manor.
She pressed her face to the window, surveying the Manor through tinted glass. "I know."
The car door clicked open. The Malfoy family house-elf was far too well mannered to introduce itself, so it waited silently as they climbed out of the carriage before it went in after her luggage. Its legs were too short to reach up to the open door, so it scrambled comically against the side of the carriage, finally grabbing the frame and pulling itself up like a pole vaulter. Pansy snickered. It emerged several moments later, staggering under the weight of her valise.
She followed Father up to the Manor. The door was made of a rich, dark wood and framed by two statues—a rearing snake and a young witch. She was dressed in a loose tunic, hair and garment blown askew. Her face was carved in great detail, the breadth of her forehead, the curve of her nose, and the notch in her lip as precise as Pansy's own. Her eyes, however, were blank and pupilless—smooth, untouched marble. Her hands reached upward over her head, fists entwined in a stone banner protruding from the snake's mouth. It ran the length of the doorway, from statue to statue, and was carved with the words:
LUCIUS MALFOY, 1801
AURO
QUAEQUE IANUA PANDITUR
Before her father could raise his hand to the knocker, the door swung open by itself, and another silent house-elf beckoned them in as it bowed back into the shadows of the entry hall.
The room didn't end. Instead, it stretched flat for at least fifty meters, finally curling up into a grand marble staircase. Even so, it seemed twice as tall as it was long. Pansy had no doubt that the vaulted ceiling stretched even higher than Hogwarts's Great Hall. Near the top, the walls broke into elaborate, blown glass windows, flooding the entire room with light. The floor was black marble and the walls the same light gray stone as the exterior; every few meters hung a portrait of people who must have been Malfoy ancestors. None of them looked at her directly. They were far too polite.
That wasn't true, however, of all Malfoys. Draco stood at the foot of the marble stairs, leaning casually against the banister and staring at her intensely. She had put off packing in order to be purposefully late. He had probably been waiting for her all this while, but from his indolent pose, hardly anyone would have been able to tell. She chose not to look at him, and instead smiled at her father. He looked down at her and stroked her hair.
"Cheswick, welcome!" A pair of double doors swung open and Mr. Malfoy wheeled himself into the lobby.
"Lucius!" Her father inclined his head. "Your hospitality is, as always, most generous." He walked away from Pansy, taking the handles of Mr. Malfoy's chair. "Let me help you. How are your legs?"
"My legs? Oh." Mr. Malfoy looked down rather ruefully at the wheelchair. "I'm afraid I find their condition much the same."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Tell that to my legs, Cheswick," Mr. Malfoy replied. "Perhaps they will make a better show of it in order to alleviate your grief. Back into the study, if you would." He looked back significantly at Father. "We have a few last minute things to discuss, about the visit and other business. I'm glad Pansy could make it out here. Draco's been asking me if she could come for the past month."
Her father looked at her. "Pansy's very pleased to be here."
"Why don't you take Pansy on a tour of the house, Draco? Show her the topiary maze." Mr. Malfoy shot his voice down the hall. Draco was still lounging at the base of the stairs. Mr. Malfoy turned back to Pansy's father. "I always wanted a topiary maze. It was Narcissa's out-of-Azkaban present."
"What a thoughtful gift." Pansy's father met her gaze above the wheelchair and raised his eyebrow.
"I thought so," Mr. Malfoy replied as Pansy's father wheeled him into the study. The door slammed shut behind them.
Pansy turned her attention to Draco. He stared at her for a moment before taking off up the marble steps. She chased after him. He didn't wait at the top of the staircase, but took off down a side corridor. She lost sight of him until she rounded the bend and he was there, waiting to slam her up against the wall and kiss her on the mouth. "You made me wait," he whispered. She felt his breath on her face.
Pansy smiled, and kissed his bottom lip. "Is this the topiary maze?" She hooked her fingers under the waistband of his pants.
"Shut up," he replied. "You can look at it on your own bloody time."
----
When they came down for dinner, Pansy's father was gone. Draco looked surprised, though, when Mr. Malfoy said he wanted to speak to Pansy alone. "What do you want?" he had snapped.
"Go talk to your mother," his father replied.
"Brandy?" he asked Pansy as she wheeled him into his study and clicked the door shut behind them. He unlocked a cabinet next to his desk and pulled out a decanter.
"Yes," Pansy said as he filled two glasses and offered her one.
He gestured to a brown leather sofa opposite his desk. "Sit down. I find myself doing it frequently these days." When he was trying to be charming, Mr. Malfoy smiled just like Draco.
She sat. "I was glad to hear of your release, Mr. Malfoy."
"I'd imagine I was infinitely gladder. But I appreciate the sentiment. Your father did much to arrange it."
"Out of love," she said.
"And loyalty. I do not as a rule, trust, Miss Parkinson. But I trust your father more than any man. Cheswick, as I hope I have made clear over the years, is my most valued friend and associate."
She had never been comfortable responding to compliments. "You are being polite."
"I am not." There was a vaguely uncomfortable pause. Mr. Malfoy stared at her intensely. "I was inordinately pleased when I heard that Draco was taking an interest in you. I would hope that someday the two of you would make the bonds between our families somewhat more permanent."
Pansy couldn't help but smile. "That is as dependent on Draco's wishes as my own."
"And parental consent." Mr. Malfoy leaned forward, out of his wheelchair. "I will not lie to you and say that Cheswick and I haven't discussed this. But I haven't been quite so blatant in my response as I am being now, because I want you to season my gesture of goodwill with one of your own."
Pansy drank some brandy before replying. "What can I do for you?" She drew her finger around the rim of her glass and brought it to her lips.
He surprised her when he put his drink aside and leaned so far forward he almost left the wheelchair. "Watch Draco."
She didn't want to ask if that was all, but the question must have shown on her face, because he continued, "Draco has yet to learn patience. That, more than anything Hogwarts could teach him, is something that he could stand to learn. You, Miss Parkinson, have an overabundance of patience. I should hope that, over the next term, you'd place your gift at Draco's disposal."
"And that's the favor?"
Mr. Malfoy smiled.
"Do you think," Pansy said after a moment of consideration, "Draco would keep me so close if were not already entirely at his disposal?"
Mr. Malfoy leaned back into his wheelchair, still smiling.
She downed the brandy, and looked at him. He hadn't yet touched his drink. "You're wrong about Draco," she said, suddenly angry.
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"He's learning."
Mr. Malfoy started to laugh. "Maybe."
"What did he want?" Draco whispered over the soup, when both his mother and father had turned away to scold a house-elf for bringing it too cold.
"He asked me for sexual favors," Pansy said, taking a sip. "I said yes." Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy turned back to the table.
"He only likes blondes," Draco finally replied, later that night when she snuck into his room.
"I'm going to charm my hair," she whispered, stepping out of her slip.
He surveyed her from his bed. "I only like brunettes."
She climbed in beside him. "Would you still want me if I was blonde?"
"You'd look too much like me. I might as well wank off."
----
After about an hour of listening to Harry pretend to sleep, Ron gave up and went downstairs to the breakfast table. His mother stood by the stove, flipping bacon with calm wand strokes.
"You're awake early," she said, directing the latest batch of bacon onto the already-heaping platter.
So was she, but the reason for that was obvious, and rhymed with "scary," which certainly described her degree of devotion to her practically-adopted son. Whenever Harry stayed at the Burrow, she made certain to attend to his every need, real or imagined. Ron doubted that it would do him any good to mention that Harry didn't like bacon.
"I woke up a while ago and couldn't fall back asleep," Ron said.
"Did Harry wake you up?"
For someone who was utterly convinced that Harry loved bacon, his mother could be incredibly observant at times. "Harry?"
"I heard him walking around upstairs a couple of hours ago." She added more bacon to the pan. It sizzled greasy-hot.
"How do you know it was him?"
"Harry is the only person I know who can manage to step on every single squeaky board in this house. For all his flying skills, that boy is amazingly clumsy."
Ron considered for a moment and realized that it was true. Even Hermione knew which boards to avoid, although he suspected that with her it was more a matter of memorization than instinct. Harry, however, had footfalls recognizable from the ground floor when he was all the way up in the attic.
"True enough," Ron said. "What do you think he was doing, getting a glass of water or something?"
"Unless getting a glass of water means pacing along the second-story hallway for an hour and a half, I doubt it," his mother said. "Do you want some bacon?"
Ron selected a piece and began to crunch on it.
"Harry's wandering at night, all the time. Nearly every night this summer I've heard him. Haven't you?"
"Sometimes."
"You have to have heard him. He walks so loudly I'm amazed he doesn't wake the whole house. Sometimes he's up half the night. It's a wonder the boy's still alive, what with how little he sleeps."
"Harry seems fine." This was a lie and they both knew it, but he had to say it.
"During the day, yes. But at night, I—"
"Good morning, everyone!" Ginny bounced into the kitchen, far too cheerful for this hour. "How are you, Mum?"
"Fine," his mother said, but her eyes never left Ron. I'm worried about Harry, they said. I want to help him but I don't know how.
Ron nodded in reply. None of what his mother had said was news to him.
He had been awake since well before sunrise and Harry was the reason he'd been up so early. Ron had been dreaming about riding the elevator in the Ministry of Magic up to Dad's office, only in the dream, it was scarily quiet. He was alone in the elevator. Only a few straggling memos clustered around the lamp at the top of the lift, flapping at each other angrily in an effort to get closer to the light. When the elevator finally ground to a halt, Ron reached forward to open the door, but at that instant, the bedroom door creaked open, and Ron nearly fell through the bed. That was how he felt when he was surprised awake—like he was tumbling through a crevasse of pillows and bedclothes.
As Harry stumbled into the room, Ron nearly lashed out at him, but hesitated. Even in the gray pre-dawn darkness, Harry's shape was stooped, shoulders down and weary. Five o'clock would do that to a person, but early mornings typically agreed with Harry, most likely because that was the time of day when the Dursleys were least likely to bother him.
Ron knew what this was. Harry had always been prone to sleepwalking. When they'd first come to Hogwarts, Ron assumed that it was the novelty of the place. Later, once Harry had grown accustomed to Hogwarts, the walks had only increased in frequency, especially before Quidditch games, after fights with Malfoy, and whenever Harry was under a lot of pressure or had a lot on his mind. Ron figured sleepwalking was Harry's way of calming himself down, of diffusing all that extra magic that made him want to break things. That was how Ron dealt with stress, breaking things, but when he suggested it to Harry, Harry just laughed and said, "No, thanks." Ron wasn't sure how it was possible that Harry hadn't exploded yet. Maybe the explosion was just biding its time.
"Did you see the Prophet yet?" Harry said through a yawn as he stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen. There were circles under his eyes. Ron exchanged a glance with his mother.
"No, dear," his mother said, smiling so quickly Ron would have never picked up on her worry, had he not been here earlier. He wondered if she ever acted that way with him. "I made bacon."
Harry looked through the food as if he didn't really see it. He spread the paper out on top of his plate.
Mrs. Weasley frowned.
"Lucius Malfoy is speaking in Diagon Alley today." Harry looked straight at Mrs. Weasley. "I want to go."
Her lips tightened into a thin line. "Absolutely not."
Harry rounded on her. "Why?"
"Why?" She blinked at him. "Never mind why. Have some bacon."
Harry remained standing, hands holding the Prophet down on the table.
"I'd like to go, too, Mum," Ginny piped up.
"Neither of you are going anywhere." Mrs. Weasley spun around, heading back to the stove. "You don't really want to hear anything Lucius Malfoy has to say."
"Yes, I do," Harry cut in quickly.
"If we don't hear him, how will we know what he's planning?" Ginny piggybacked.
"You can read it in the Prophet."
Harry rolled his eyes. "And I'm sure the Prophet will give us an accurate version of events."
"Well, it's as good as you're going to get. You can't go out on your own, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, stirring furiously something on the stove. "It's too dangerous."
"Go with me."
"I refuse to listen to anything that man has to say."
"I'll go," Ginny volunteered.
"You will not," Mrs. Weasley snapped. "You're too young."
"I'll go," Ron cut in before Ginny could protest. "We should, Harry's right. Hermione will come with us. She'll make sure we don't do anything stupid."
"No," Mrs. Weasley said. "It's not that I don't trust you or Harry. It's everybody else. You never know who might be out there—"
"And if we don't go, we'll never know who we're up against!" Harry yelled. "You can't protect me forever."
Mrs. Weasley stared at him. The silence in the room was only broken by the popping grease. "Harry, I said no."
"Sirius would have let me go."
She flinched as if he had slapped her. "Sirius was not your father, Harry."
"You're not one of my parents, either."
Her lips tightened. She turned away quickly to face the stove.
At her reaction, Harry's face tensed. He stepped towards her. "Mrs. Weasley?"
"You can go, Harry," she said. "And Ron, and Hermione, if she wants. But not you, Ginny, you are too young. Come back immediately after the speech."
Harry stared at her. He didn't look happy at all. "Mrs. Weasley—"
She turned, wiping her eyes. "Eat your bacon."
----
The announcement in the Daily Prophet hadn't mentioned where the speech would take place, but it needn't have: as soon as the street widened out around the first turn, Hermione could see the gathered crowd. It spilled out of Diagon Alley's main plaza, which must be where Lucius Malfoy was speaking. It covered the street to a few blocks out. Hermione paused; surely the public broadcast system would be loud enough that she could hear what Malfoy had to say from this far away.
Harry and Ron, however, began to push through the outskirts of the crowd. "I want to see his eyes," Ron said. "I want to watch the slimy bastard's face."
A quick glance at Harry proved that he agreed with Ron.
They began to sidestep and shove their way through the crowd. Even Hermione abandoned the "excuse me's" after a large man who bore a distinct resemblance to Harry's Uncle Vernon trod on her foot so heavily she squealed.
Once they got past Flourish and Blotts, the street widened slightly. One more twist of the road and Gringotts loomed overhead. Overshadowed by the bank's marble dome, the platform in front of it seemed almost an afterthought. Just then a tall, weedy man with a drooping moustache stepped forward and tested the Amplifying Charms, which were loud enough that Hermione, Harry, and Ron could have heard them from the entrance to Diagon Alley. She wouldn't have been surprised if a good part of Muggle London heard the weedy man's "Check, 1-2-3, check." The sound alone blew her hair back from her face. The crowd whispered excitedly, as if they were at a concert that was about to begin.
A door on the Knockturn Alley side of Gringotts opened and an entourage of Aurors cleared the way to the stage, followed by Cornelius Fudge, an enormous woman who had to be his wife, and the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy, Hermione was flabbergasted to see, was in a wheelchair. Sirius had been in Azkaban over a decade and his legs had been healthy enough to keep him on the run for over a year.
Draco was at the handles, pushing his father up onto the stage. He wore a disgustingly smug smile that the Prophet was sure to term "cherubic." Two of the Aurors followed the Fudges and the Malfoys onto the stage; the rest held back the crowd. Hermione recognized Tonks among them. The bright purple hair made it rather easy. She could have sworn Tonks looked up and winked at her.
The tall man with the wilting moustache returned to the podium. "Please join me," he said, "in welcoming Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge." The crowd applauded politely. Harry and Ron's hands remained resolutely by their sides, as did Hermione's own.
The mustached man slid into the background as Fudge stepped up to the podium. He was wearing an absolutely hideous lime green shirt under his black robes. His wife had on a citrus-print dress to match. Fudge placed his hands on the podium and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Cheswick." Fudge nodded toward the mustached man. "And an even bigger thanks to all of you for joining me here today on the behalf of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a model citizen—" Someone near the podium let out a wolf-whistle and the crowd started to cheer. Fudge reddened and Malfoy waved appreciatively from his wheelchair. "A model citizen," Fudge began again, shouting over the cheers, "and good friend who was greatly wronged by recent events."
The crowd started to boo and someone near the front shouted, "Impeach Fudge!" but they all quieted when a few Aurors pulled out their wands and moved into the audience, looking for the discontents. Hermione frowned.
"Because of his awful mistreatment," Fudge said, after a severe look at the crowd, "I would not blame Lucius if he were to become angry and resentful, but he stands tall, a more forgiving human being than any man I have ever known—"
Hermione snickered. Fudge continued, blithely unaware of the irony of attributing the adjective "tall" to a wheelchair-bound man.
"He is a man who has proven that completeness of spirit can overcome any obstacle, bridge any gap, and repair any misunderstanding. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, Lucius Malfoy." He began to clap enthusiastically, continuing to applaud along with the crowd as he stepped back from the podium and Lucius Malfoy wheeled forward.
Malfoy wheeled to the left side of the podium, stopped, and said, "I could have this podium reduced to my current stature." He wheeled in front of the podium. "But I won't. I want you, the wizarding public, to see what I have become as a result of my time spent in Azkaban. Not an idiot, not insane, but a cripple. I am a paraplegic because of the time I spent there. However, this is not a speech against the conditions in Azkaban or any other wizarding prison. It is a speech against the misunderstanding that led me to be unduly incarcerated. That misunderstanding was caused by bad people, bad timing, and, most importantly, evil."
He was laying it on a little thick, even for a Malfoy. Draco Malfoy's flair for the dramatic was obviously an inherited trait.
"Evil exists in our world," Malfoy said. "There is no denying that. For hundreds of years, Muggles burned innocent witches and wizards at the stake. Even today, Muggles are killing their own kind. In Bosnia, Muggles are killing Muggles because of their ignorance and prejudice. Innocent people around the world are dying because of evil.
"I, too, nearly died as a result of evil. I certainly would have died in Azkaban, had justice not been served. I am particularly familiar with this plight. I understand the danger that evil poses to us all, and I have a strong personal interest in working towards a world in which people do not have to fear evil, in which people do not die because of evil in the world.
"As my great-grandfather Pecunius Malfoy once said, 'With great power comes great responsibility.' Until recently, I did not fully comprehend the magnitude of my responsibility towards the world. Now I understand that I not only should but, indeed, must use the resources at my disposal to work towards a remedy for the evil in the world.
"Thus, with the full support of Minister Fudge, I would like to unveil my plans for a new organization that will work towards this goal. It will help to increase awareness of the danger that we face because of evil, combat the ignorance that allows evil to spread unchecked, and attack the roots of evil so that it will never again be fostered in our world. Ladies and gentlemen, I am very pleased to share with you in the creation of the Society for the Prevention of Evil in the World."
The crowd burst into applause. The Society for the Prevention of Evil in the World… Hermione counted letters. Oh, he hadn't…
A lighted logo appeared above the stage, depicting a blue and green globe with the letters S.P.E.W. arching over it in red.
S.P.E.W. Society for the Prevention of Evil in the World. He had.
The same thought seemed to have occurred to Harry. "SPEW?" he said.
"S.P.E.W.," Hermione corrected automatically. Draco Malfoy must have done it. He must have told his father about S.P.E.W.—she could just see him doing that, and of course they would find a way to use it; they probably created the organization just so that they could use the name. All they wanted was a fake organization, anyway, something to make Lucius Malfoy look legitimate, give him a front that wasn't "Dark Arts Practitioner And Generally Bad Man," and they'd taken her name and—
Hermione suddenly realized that she'd been saying all of this aloud, and that Ron was trying not to laugh at her. "It's not funny," she said shortly. "How can you think that any of this is funny?"
"I don't—it's not," Ron smothered a laugh, "that I think the situation's funny. It's just—Hermione, don't you think maybe you're giving Malfoy a little too much credit?"
"Giving Malfoy a little too much credit?" she echoed. "Don't tell me you think this is random chance. There is just no way."
"It might be a bit too much of a coincidence," Ron said, "but honestly, Hermione, SPEW—I mean S.P.E.W.," he corrected himself hastily, "wasn't really that well-known."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well—it's just that Malfoy only knew about it because he goes out of his way to bother us. He's Malfoy. It's what he does. But even he doesn't go on about SPEW anymore."
"So? That doesn't mean he doesn't remember it! What makes you think Malfoy wouldn't save something like that and bring it—"
"Will you two shut up already and listen to the speech?" Harry snapped. "You can argue about SPEW later. Hermione's SPEW, I mean. We need to listen to Malfoy's SPEW now."
Hermione closed her mouth and turned towards the stage, still fuming.
"…with the help of the Aurors," Malfoy was saying, "we will hold Protection Against Terrible Evil Seminars"—P.A.T.E.S. Pâtés. Someone in Malfoy's publicity department had apparently enjoyed himself way too much when he invented the names of these things. Or rather, when he stole them. S.P.E.W.? Random chance? Not likely.—"during which wizards and witches can become educated about the evil we all face during our lives. Without education, we cannot overcome evil.
"And we must overcome evil. Evil in this world must not be tolerated any longer. Like so many of us, I used to believe that the evil in the world was not my problem. When it did become my problem, I had to make a choice: I could choose to lie down and die in Azkaban, or I could believe in the power of good and believe that the good in the world will triumph.
"I choose to believe that we can overcome the evil in the world. I am a paraplegic because of my time spent in Azkaban, but I am not going to waste the rest of my life in bitterness because of the misunderstanding that sent me there. I am not going to harbor resentment towards the people who misinterpreted certain events, or towards the authorities who believed this interpretation. I am, however, going to do all in my power to ensure that such misunderstandings never occur again."
His hands dropped to the front of his robes. They were buttoned all the way down to his shoes. Unusual, and she should have noticed it before. He began to undo the buttons.
"Until such misunderstandings no longer exist in the world, however"—this was apparently a cue for Narcissa Malfoy to step forward, as she did—"we must help each other where we can." Narcissa knelt and began to unbutton the robes near Lucius's feet, where he could not reach. She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. He continued to unbutton his robes. "We must support each other in the daily struggle of our lives." Draco Malfoy stepped forward and knelt at his father's right side. Lucius began to wiggle out of his wheelchair. He gripped Draco's shoulder with both hands and pulled himself up, straining heavily. It took him three tries to manage it. As he moved up, Hermione saw a glint of metal beneath the now-open robes. As soon as he was fully standing, most of his weight resting on Draco's shoulder, if the look on Draco's face was any indication, Narcissa knelt quickly in front of Lucius and fiddled with something beneath his robes.
"That looks so wrong," Ron muttered. Hermione blanched in agreement.
Narcissa stood up to Lucius's left. Lucius's fingers relaxed on Draco's shoulders and Draco stood up as well. Lucius was standing of his own accord.
"This is not magic," Lucius said. "I am not miraculously healed. I am still a paraplegic. But with great effort and willpower, I can overcome—we can overcome—the evil in this world." His voice gradually grew louder. "Through solidarity of all mankind and faith in each other, we can ensure that evil will not succeed in this world." He was nearly shouting now. He shrugged out of his robes. They fell onto the wheelchair behind him, and Hermione could see the shiny metal leg braces he wore over his pants. He threw his hands into the air. "Good will prevail!"
The crowd roared. A beefy man next to Hermione yelled, "Yes it will!" as his wife burst into tears of joy. "We love Lucius! We love Lucius!" two teenaged girls were chanting a few people in front of them. The taller one started to unbutton her robes.
Lucius Malfoy was alternating between waving and throwing his fists into the air. Every time his hands went up the crowd roared. Draco and Narcissa waved steadily the whole time. A woman to Ron's right held her newborn baby in the air and screamed, "Thank you for making the world safe for my baby! Lucius Malfoy saved my baby!"
"You have got to be kidding me," Hermione said.
"She's a plant," Ron said decisively.
Malfoy would do that.
"Don't you agree, Harry? She's a plant," Ron said. Harry didn't reply. Ron turned to his side. "Harry?" But Harry wasn't there. "Where's Harry?"
"I don't know, I thought he was right next to you!"
"You don't need to get all defensive about—oh shit."
Hermione turned around just in time to see a dark head fighting his way through the crowd clustered around the stage. "Oh no," she said, "he's trying to get to Malfoy!"
"Go get him, Harry!"
"No, Ron! Don't go get him, Harry! What's he thinking?" She shoved the people in front of her out of the way. Ron followed close behind her, shouting vague encouragement at Harry; she couldn't hear him over the crowd. She saw Harry dive onto the stage—a woman beside her screamed, "Look, Earl! Even Harry Potter loves SPEW!"—they're already calling it SPEW; the thought seemed to be coming from far away, through a water or a tunnel—she couldn't see, the people in front of her were too tall; she shoved them aside—Harry was on the stage—the people were in front of her again—a woman screamed, maybe Narcissa Malfoy—cameras flashed wildly—Harry's voice exploded over the crowd: "Lucius Malfoy is lying! He's a fraud! SPEW's a fake! Don't believe anything he says, he's a Death—" Harry's voice stopped—she could see again, just as Draco Malfoy grabbed him by the shoulders—he was trying to pull Harry away from the podium, but Harry wasn't budging—she pushed a tall boy out of her way, only to realize it was Ron—Malfoy was punching Harry—one of the cameras exploded—Harry grabbed Malfoy's shoulders and pulled him down, she couldn't see—"That's right, Harry, show that little shit!" Ron yelled—they were almost at the stage now, but Aurors were on the stage, pulling someone up—Harry reappeared, then Malfoy, both snarling, but she couldn't hear what they were saying—Harry had a bloody nose, Aurors had them both by the shoulders—it was over.
Hermione couldn't force herself any closer to the stage: the Aurors were holding the crowd back, and the people in front of her simply wouldn't budge. It didn't matter that it wasn't their fault that they were packed so tight that Hermione couldn't squeeze through. Why wouldn't they move? She wanted to punch something, and almost did start whacking the back of the person in front of her, but then arms wrapped around her from behind—Ron's—and he said, "Calm down, Hermione."
She stared. Where had his calm been a few minutes ago when he'd been screaming, "Go get him, Harry"?
He must have sensed her incredulity, because he said, "There's nothing we can do about Harry right now, Hermione. I think the Aurors have it under control."
And maybe they did, but it was strange to be hearing reason coming from Ron's mouth. It was so unfamiliar that she let down her guard in surprise and Ron's arms pressed tighter around her at the slackening of tension.
"Harry'll be okay," he said. Again, "Harry'll be okay."
"Where are they taking him?" The Aurors were escorting Draco Malfoy and Harry from the stage, under heavy guard. They disappeared into the doorway from which the Malfoys and the Fudges had come.
"To the Ministry, probably. Dad says they have a few cells by the Auror offices. We should get someone from the Order to go post his bail."
Hermione was about to ask about the jail, but just then, a woman screamed. "What's that, Elaine?" a boy asked his older sister.
Elaine didn't answer, but they could all see for themselves. Orange flames rose high from the middle of the press pit, sending the reporters scattering, albeit just far enough away to escape danger. Cameras flashed wildly from an angle that, Hermione was sure, would give them a view of the blaze with the stage in the background.
"No pictures!" someone screamed. "A camera explosion started it!" But then the voice was swept away in the call to put out the fire. A few people tried "Disincindio," but it wouldn't work. The flames only flew higher.
It's a non-magical fire, Hermione thought and yelled, but no one heard her. The woman beside her even said, "What kind of charm makes flames do that?"
"It's a non-magical fire," Hermione yelled again, but someone seemed to have realized that now, and there were emergency response wizards dousing the flames with water.
"Pity," Ron said, reaching into his pocket to show Hermione some of the Floo Powder his Mum had given them to get back to Grimmauld Place. "We could have used that to go home."
"What? Are you crazy? It's not on the Floo Network, Ron. There's no telling where an unregistered fire like that would send us."
"I was just kidding," Ron said. "We'll go to the safe, registered fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron."
"Good," Hermione said firmly.
They both finally realized that his arms were still around her. She detached herself quickly and followed him through the crowd to the Leaky Cauldron.
----
When the Aurors had manhandled them into separate cells, locked the doors, and left them alone, Malfoy turned to Harry and hissed:
"I am going to kill you, Potter. I am going to punch your stupid face until you bleed out of your eyeholes and then I'll knife you in the gut and grind that dumb scar into the ground."
"I am going to bash out your brains with a fork," Harry replied.
Draco pressed his face to the bars. "Why a fork?"
"Because I'll want to have cake and tea afterwards."
Draco flipped him the finger. "I broke your nose," he said, in the self-satisfied manner of high-achievers.
Harry touched it gingerly. "I gave you a black eye," he responded.
"If you don't charm it soon, it will heal crooked."
"Too bad when the swelling goes down, it will still be your face."
Draco sat Indian-style on the floor. "That was childish, Potter."
Harry stuck his head against the bars. "You just aren't fast enough to come up with a good insult."
"I know you are, but what am I?" Malfoy sneered in a passable imitation of Harry's Midlands accent.
"Stupid," Harry muttered.
"You are nothing," Malfoy hissed, pressing his face against the bars again. "And you're dead."
Harry started at him. "Dead bleeding out of my eyeholes?" He turned and sat down facing the wall.
Malfoy flipped him the finger again, propped himself up under the sink and began to play pinochle with half a cover somebody had torn off a Gideon's Bible. "I fuck Pansy every night and sometimes on Thursdays."
Harry ignored him and began to count the number of stones in the ceiling.
"I have two bells free on Thursdays, and Pansy skips Divinitation when she feels like it. She comes to my room and comes in my room and—"
"That's nice, Malfoy," Harry said. "But you're interrupting my count of the ceiling tiles. Why don't you finish the conversation with someone who cares, like the wall?"
Malfoy scowled and actually fell silent. "Then," he continued, apparently incapable of self-restraint, "I take off all her clothes and fuck her against the wall."
Harry laid down on his back to get a better view of the ceiling.
"Sometimes Weasley joins in."
"I'm fairly sure Ginny has better taste than that," Harry mused.
"Ron screams like a girl when he—"
"That's enough out of you, Malfoy."
"—gets punched in the face, Potter. What did you think I was going to say?" Malfoy flashed a toothy smile. Harry wondered if Lockhart and Malfoy had ever practiced their grins together.
"You scream like a girl when you break a nail," Harry said.
"I still broke your nose," Malfoy replied. "You're going to look like a pug when it heals."
"That's nice." Harry continued to count the ceiling tiles.
----
Attaching the badge reading Narcissa Malfoy—Concerned Parent, Draco's mother cut through the front lobby of the Ministry of Magic. Pansy had to run to catch up, trying to stick her own Pansy Parkinson—Concerned Girlfriend pin to her cardigan at the same time. She hoped the stickpin wouldn't make a hole in the cashmere. Draping herself all over the reception desk, Mrs. Malfoy announced, "I am here about my son." She tossed her cloak on top of the counter and placed her wand on the counter for identification.
The wizard behind the desk looked up from his Quibbler crossword, blinking at them from behind round lenses. "Seventy-eight down, permanently horizontal, four letters, second one E."
"Dead." Mrs. Malfoy handed her wand to him. "Inspect me, please." He wrote in the answer, stuck his quill behind his ear, and took her wand with the air of one suffering a gross imposition. Putting it behind his other ear for safekeeping, he stuck his head below the countertop and began to rummage through his desk.
"Do you have a quill?" Mrs. Malfoy whispered to Pansy.
Pansy reached down and pulled one out of the jar sitting on the receptionist wizard's desk. "Yes."
Taking it, Mrs. Malfoy grabbed the wizard's Quibbler crossword and calmly began filling in wrong answers. There was a large crash and a muffled expletive from behind the desk. Mrs. Malfoy rolled her eyes at Pansy. "Incompetent Mudbloods," she whispered.
She put the Quibbler back just as the receptionist's head popped up from under his desk. He slammed a small golden scale down on the countertop, pulled Mrs. Malfoy's wand out from behind his ear and dropped it onto the scale. It promptly emitted a shower of silver and green sparks. The receptionist fiddled with a few dials on the scale and the wand let loose a few weak coughs of fragrant purple smoke. Squinting through his glasses, he read, "Narcissa Malfoy?" off the scale.
"It's on my badge, too," Mrs. Malfoy said, pointing to her chest. She took her wand off the scale. "Is that sufficient?"
The receptionist pointed his wand over his shoulder. "Accio," he said, without looking. A door flew open. The room behind was filled wall-to-wall with file cabinets. A drawer shot open, spilling its contents all across the floor, but one file marked "M" zoomed above the rest, flying through the hall and landing on the receptionist's desk. Papers flew everywhere. "Please give me your height, birth date, current residence, and criminal history so I can cross-check and confirm everything." Mrs. Malfoy made an annoyed noise. "It's extra security," he informed her. "Ever since You-Know-Who's return, the Ministry has been on Code Purple status."
"Well that explains everything," Mrs. Malfoy said dryly. "5'8", April tenth—"
"Wait a moment," the receptionist snapped. He gestured angrily to the folder. "I have to find the right spot." He flipped it open. Mrs. Malfoy's expression stiffened as he leafed through the papers one by one. "All right then," he said, stopping at one with "Ma" labeled at the top. "Carry on."
"5'8", April tenth, Malfoy Manor, Monkton Farleigh, Wiltshire—"
"England, the world, the Universe," the receptionist said, following along in the file.
Mrs. Malfoy made a face. "Did you make that up yourself?"
He stared blankly at her.
She frowned at him and cleared her throat. "I have been arraigned three times on charges of capital murder, conspiracy with intent to depose the Ministry, and underage Apparition. I was acquitted on all but the latter, for which I was charged a fine of fifteen Galleons."
The receptionist slammed the file shut. "That all seems to be in order. Now what can I do for you?"
"I am here about my son."
The receptionist looked at her blankly. "Your son?"
"Draco Malfoy. He was picked up earlier this afternoon."
The receptionist flipped through the "M" file. "It says here he was taken into custody at 15:32 GMT—must have been that blond they dragged in about half an hour ago, screaming his head off."
Mrs. Malfoy smiled. "That would be Draco."
"He's been charged with aggravated but excessive brawling in a public forum and disruption of the peace," the wizard read from the "M" file. "That's at least three days in jail."
"There must be a mistake." Mrs. Malfoy smiled benignly at the receptionist. "Draco isn't being charged with anything."
The receptionist pointed at his file. "But it says right here—"
Thump. The receptionist looked up, startled. Mrs. Malfoy had dropped a newly papered thirty-Galleon roll on his desk. "Draco's bail money," she said sweetly.
"But bail is only fifteen Galleons," he said.
Mrs. Malfoy smiled. "I appreciate your understanding in this delicate manner, and our family lawyer will be sure to keep in mind that it is Ministry policy under Code Purple to take into custody all participants in an incident even if they are innocent victims of an unprovoked attack."
The receptionist blinked. "Are you bribing me?"
Mrs. Malfoy looked shocked. "For what? You're only doing your job." She dropped another roll on the desk. "By the way," Mrs. Malfoy leaned forward so there was no way anyone other than the receptionist and Pansy could have heard her, "the answer to 73 down is yes."
The receptionist actually looked at his crossword. Mrs. Malfoy exchanged a glance with Pansy. "I know, from personal experience, how utterly damning a criminal record can be. I've had so much trouble getting Apparition licenses. I really appreciate the fact that Draco is going to be cleared of any unjust charges—oh dear," she leaned over the desk, fumbling with and dropping a bag of Galleons, "I seem to have lost my purse. Would you pick it up for me?"
The receptionist took the slip of paper listing the charges against Draco from the file. He handed it to Mrs. Malfoy. "Here you go, ma'am."
She gave him a genuine smile.
The receptionist escorted them down two floors to the Auror offices to unlock Draco. He was sitting in the front corner of a cell that stank of blood and piss, head pushed against the bars. His hair was matted with blood, there was a bruise on his left cheek and his collar was ripped. He didn't look at all surprised to see them. When Mrs. Malfoy bent down to coo over Draco, Pansy's gaze was drawn across the hall to the cell where Potter was locked.
He was leaning against the far wall of the cell, so far back he was cast in a strange gray mixture of light and shadow. The only color in the room was the blood drying under his crooked nose. Pansy hoped Draco had broken it.
When they went out through the Ministry lobby, Pansy noticed Professor Lupin walking toward the reception desk down the opposite side. Mrs. Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "He's coming for Potter."
"Dirty werewolf," Draco said.
Almost at the desk, Lupin paused. He turned around and looked back at them. Draco bared his teeth.
"What did Potter say to you?" Pansy asked Draco when they were finally alone in his room at the Manor. She dipped a cloth into the steaming bowl of water the house elves had set up and wiped at his head.
He drew a sharp breath. "I didn't pay attention."
"I mean in the jail."
"Nothing," Draco said, pressing her hand into his head. "We have nothing to talk about."
Just then a house-elf opened the door with an armful of clean towels.
----
"An arraignment?" Mrs. Weasley rumbled. "He's having an arraignment?"
"Molly, please," Professor Lupin said, leaning against the mantelpiece. "He got through it fine last year."
"Yes, last year," Mrs. Weasley fumed, glaring at Harry. "This is becoming quite a trend."
Harry felt his face grow hot. "You should have heard what Malfoy was saying. I couldn't just stand there—"
"You very well should have!" Mrs. Weasley exploded.
"Mum, you weren't there," Ron yelled back. "Harry should have punched him harder!"
Mrs. Weasley's mouth was set in a tight line. "Ronald, Hermione, go to your rooms."
Ron's jaw dropped. "But Mum—"
"I want to speak to Harry alone."
Lupin walked away from the fireplace and opened the door out to the hallway. Seeing the Professor so calmly support his mother seemed to drain the fight out of Ron. Casting an apologetic glance at Harry, he filed out with a white-faced Hermione in tow.
Lupin shut the door, and sat down in a chair near the window. There was a deathly sort of silence. Mrs. Weasley's face turned progressively more purple.
Harry didn't feel like talking. He figured he'd just let her yell at him and then try to forget all about the arraignment until the day of. He'd feel most comfortable if it was tomorrow, instead of a whole five days away. That way he could just fumble through the next twenty-four hours and at the end he'd know one way or another what would happen—if he'd be expelled or sent to Azkaban or any of the other horrible things Malfoy would invariably insist upon.
"I can't believe that you would be so absolutely stupid, Harry," Mrs. Weasley finally began, her voice deadly quiet. Intellectually, he understood her point. Running up onto the stage and beating the hell out of Draco Malfoy may not have been the best course of action. It had seemed like the only thing to do at the time. And really, he wasn't sorry at all. He would do it again. It was typical of the Ministry to believe Malfoy's turnaround, but that the public would accept the true version of Voldemort's return and then swallow Lucius Malfoy's claim that he'd been framed a month later was horrifying.
"I don't think stupid's quite the word, Molly," Lupin said. "I think it's more along the lines of, Congratulations, Harry, you could not have done more to guarantee Lucius Malfoy's success if you had personally endorsed him."
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, sending his chair skittering backward. He stood up too fast and blood pounded through his temples. "All I did was tell the truth. I had to do it. People were listening to Malfoy. A girl was taking off her robes. People were screaming his name and bursting into tears and they all believed him."
"I've told you before, Harry," Lupin interrupted. "People hear what they want to hear and believe what they want to believe."
"But it's not the truth. Why can't we make them see that?"
"You could, Harry, but Imperius isn't the kind of thing you want to be using, is it?" Lupin's voice was quiet.
"We're just trying to tell you that you need to consider the consequences of your actions," Mrs. Weasley said.
"The consequences?" Harry was suddenly angry again.
"Hold on, Harry. Before you get mad at us, listen to what we have to say. Molly is exactly right. You act on impulse, and that is one of your greatest strengths, but it can also cause a lot of problems."
"You just need to learn to control your impulses, is all, dear," Mrs. Weasley said. "You have to admit you have a bit of a history of being rash."
"I can control my impulses," Harry bristled.
"No, you can't," Mrs. Weasley said. "If you could, you wouldn't have gotten in a fight with Lucius Malfoy's son in front of dozens of flashing cameras. In fact, you wouldn't have been on stage at all."
"I had to do something!" Harry argued. "No one else was doing anything to stop Malfoy."
"And that's exactly what they should have been doing! But you—"
"Molly," Lupin held up a hand, and she fell silent. "May I say something here?" She nodded. "We're not doing nothing to stop Lucius Malfoy. It's just difficult. We can't publicly denounce him and his organization because he has the Ministry behind him. They are very firmly our allies now that they have admitted that Voldemort has returned. We can't alienate the Ministry as soon as we gain their support. Fudge's enthusiasm for Malfoy and SPEW guarantees that denouncing Malfoy would equate to denouncing the whole Ministry."
Harry couldn't suppress the sarcasm. "So what are you doing, then? Planning? Gathering intelligence?"
"The Order of the Phoenix is taking what appropriate measures we can at this time to ensure that Malfoy remains a manageable threat," Lupin said.
"You sound like a bloody press release."
"Harry! Language!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.
"Sorry." He wasn't.
"That's another thing, the press. Harry, the Ministry has the Daily Prophet in its back pocket and Malfoy has just a bit of clout around the Ministry these days. With all those cameras going off, I'd say they have the entire fight documented and you can bet that the picture that runs on the front page tomorrow—"
"The front page?"
"SPEW was big enough to warrant a front page spread all by itself, Harry, before your fight ever came into the picture. But the picture they'll be printing tomorrow won't be of Draco Malfoy throwing the first punch, you can be sure. It will be of you decking the kid, with a crazy expression on your face."
"Remus," Mrs. Weasley said, "That's enough. Don't upset him."
Lupin looked at Mrs. Weasley. "I'm not going to lie. Malfoy's PR people will spin this so he and Draco look like the victims and Harry the deranged teenager the Prophet's been saying he is all along."
Harry shook his head. "I couldn't let him stand there."
At that moment, a dignified-looking eagle owl exploded out of the fireplace. Mrs. Weasley screamed. It dropped a letter in Harry's lap, gave a disdainful little hoot and shot back up the chimney and into the night. To Mr. H. Potter, the parchment read in expensive-looking black script. There was no return address.
"Who's it from?" Mrs. Weasley asked, extending her hand for the letter.
Harry slit it open himself with his thumb and unfolded it.
August 24th, 1996
Dear Mr. Potter,
As Malfoy family solicitor and managing partner of Parkinson, Avery, and Bloom I am very pleased to inform you that I, at the discretion of the Malfoy family, have spoken with the proper authorities and that there will be no arraignment to discuss your conduct this afternoon as previously scheduled for August 29th at 11:30 am.
The short and skinny of it is that due to the overwhelming emotional damage done to young Draco, which would only be compounded further by the insatiable media frenzy of a trial, the Malfoy family has no desire to press changes. They are quite firmly convinced that shock and trauma put you from proper control of your faculties and that, had you been fully aware, you would have been loath to behave as you did. They hope, as do I, that one day you will come to embrace the light and authority offered by SPEW.
The Ministry, however, was not so forgiving. Mr. Malfoy had to employ every connection at his disposal to convince them to look favorably upon your case. They have placed you on a six-month probation, any violation of which will be met with the most immediate and dire consequences.
You will be pleased to hear that Draco is recovering well and although he is too weak to move from his bed and address a letter himself, he sends his most forgiving regards. I think you should feel very fortunate, young man, for the courageous clemency shown to you by the Malfoy family. Lucius has given you a second chance. Make the most of it. Perhaps anger management classes are in order?
Cordially,
Cheswick G. Parkinson, esq.
Malfoy Family Solicitor
Director of Legal Affairs, Society for the Prevention of Evil in
the World
Managing Partner, Parkinson, Avery, and Bloom
Harry handed the letter to Lupin, who glanced at it and passed it on to Mrs. Weasley. He felt his face heat up. Reading that was like being faced with Umbridge all over again—condescending, rigid, and unquestionably wrong.
"It's genius," Lupin said. "Not pressing charges puts Malfoy absolutely in the position of the victim. He's milking the martyr role for all it's worth."
"And I'm the lunatic aggressor that needs anger management classes."
Lupin exchanged a glance with Mrs. Weasley.
"I already know the answer is yes," Harry snapped.
"You have to be quiet, Harry," Lupin said after a small silence. "Or else you'll confirm Malfoy's slanders."
Harry looked directly at him. "I'm not going to be quiet when someone needs to take a stand. I'm not like that."
Lupin's mouth tightened. "The Order cannot afford a loose cannon right now, Harry."
"I'd be more sympathetic to the Order's problems if I were in the Order."
"You're not of age." Mrs. Weasley looked at Lupin for support.
He held out his hands. "I've already expressed how I feel."
She rounded on him. "Remus, now is not the time."
Lupin looked at him. "Harry, would you excuse us for a minute?" As he closed the door, Harry could hear Lupin saying, "He's done as much as any of our members, Molly—"
He sat down by the wall to wait.
After a few minutes, the door opened and Lupin sat down on the floor beside Harry.
"I don't regret beating up Malfoy," Harry said.
"I hadn't noticed," Lupin replied with just a hint of sarcasm.
Harry half smiled at him but didn't say anything.
They sat like that for a few minutes until Mrs. Weasley came out of the parlor and told Harry she was going to heal his nose.
-----
Notes:
AURO QUAEQUE IANUA PANDITUR—"a golden key can open any door"
"With great power comes great responsibility." –Spiderman
"I know you are, but what am I?" Malfoy sneered in a passable imitation of Harry's Midlands accent. We asked a Britpick group a while back, and they said that Harry's accent is a "Midlands" accent, which Draco would be able to imitate because it's middle class and someone who's rich would conceivably make fun of it.
Monkton Farleigh is a real place.
