When Hermione arrived back at the Ministry, Rita Skeeter was nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't have surprised Hermione if she had been waiting around a corner to harass them again. She was able to make her way back to her section unbothered, and by the time she got back to her desk she was at least visibly unperturbed.
Emotionally, she was very perturbed and very worried about Pansy Parkinson.
Not Pansy Parkinson only or specifically, but about other witches and wizard like Pansy Parkinson. The witches and wizards that had been won at Auction. Was any checking on then? Was anyone ensuring their safety?
In many ways, she was lucky that it had been Draco Malfoy that had won her. She knew Malfoy well enough – at least well enough to know that she wasn't in any imminent danger. But what of the other Halfblooded or Muggle-born witches and wizards? Not everyone could have been as lucky.
It was disturbing to her that Malfoy hadn't so much as heard from Pansy since the Auction. It seemed they had been very close (closer than she ever wanted to know about) so for there to be complete silence between them seemed out of character.
As soon as she entered her office, she poked her head back out and looked for the first bored-looking Auror.
"Terry," she called, startling the young man in the cubicle to her right. "I need the Prophet for every day since the Auction."
"Right away, Miss Granger!"
When Terry returned, he had a stack of papers. Hermione thanked and dismissed him, and settled in at her desk. She scoured every paper since the Auction, taking note of the marriage announcements and gossip articles.
Not a single one mentioned Pansy Parkinson. Odd, considering she was from an old Pureblooded family of historical and magical significance. Something unsettling twisted in Hermione's stomach and she leaned back in her chair.
She hadn't seen the results of Pansy's auction – Parkinson had been alphabetically after her, and the Auction had not continued until after the room had been cleared, settled, and everyone had been readmitted. By that point, both Draco and Hermione had left the Ministry.
She needed the records from the Auction. She thought about asking Terry to run, but considering the class of document she was needing she figured the Marriage Department would send him scurrying back with empty hands. He was a nice fellow but not exactly persuasive or firm.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Hermione took the terrifying elevator system across the Ministry and walked into the Magical Marriage Department. She approached reception.
"I need the records from the Auction," she said primly. "Who won what bid. Quickly, please."
The receptionist looked up with aloof disinterest. "Can't."
"Excuse me?" Hermione sputtered. "I'm requesting on official Auror business as part of an ongoing investigation. Produce them, immediately."
"Can't," he repeated. "Can't release them to anyone involved. Conflict of interest."
"Conflict of – I'm Head of Auror Intelligence!"
"I know who you are, Miss Granger," the receptionist said. "But it don't matter. I can't produce them. Someone else has to request them."
Hermione stared at him stupidly for several long seconds. "So you're saying if I asked one of my married coworkers to come over here and ask for them, I could have them."
The receptionist looked confused for a moment as he thought it out, then said, "'Spose so."
"Right." Hermione turned on her heel and strode into the hallway, summoning her Patronus. "Tell Ronald or Harry I need them at the Magical Marriage Department. Immediately."
Ron and Harry were both apparently not busy enough, because within minutes they were there and looking very excited. Hermione explained her predicament, and their excitement increased tenfold. Clearly the boys needed some more fieldwork if the opportunity to obtain records was exciting to them.
"Oi," Ron said as he stormed into the reception area. "Do you know who this witch is?" He pointed at Hermione, who was surprised by the ferocity of Ron's approach.
The receptionist looked startled and, again, confused. "Uh, yes. Hermione Granger."
"Right, so you're not a complete bellend," Ron confirmed. "Want to tell me why you're denying the Head of Auror Intelligence records she's requesting?"
"It's a conflict of interest," the receptionist said, growing annoyed that he had to explain again. "I told that to Miss Granger, she can't request them."
"Bollocks," Harry said. "If this witch asks you for anything, you move mountains to get it. She's a professional, the Head of Intelligence. You don't deny Ministry Intelligence anything they ask for. You're hindering an investigation – do you want to spend a night in a cell thinking about that?"
The receptionist paled. "No, thank you, Mr. Potter sir."
"The records," Ron snapped. "Whatever she asked for, all of it, now."
Ten minutes later, the Golden Trio was leaving the department with a stack of paper each. She could tell that Harry and Ron were very pleased with themselves – they had left the receptionist a cowering mess and not for the first time Hermione was very grateful for her supportive friends.
When they all returned to her office, Hermione took out her wand and started to carefully move papers off her desk, arranging them into neat piles on the credenza behind her. She spread the records from the Marriage Department out, and Harry and Ron took their seats across from her.
"We don't have a ongoing investigation," Harry said. "You lied to him. What did you need this for?"
"I have a feeling," Hermione answered, staring to sift through the records to figure out how they were organized. "I think Pansy Parkinson may be unsafe."
"Pansy Parkinson?" Ron asked. "Why in the world are you looking into her?"
With a sigh, Hermione briefly recounted the day's events. She skimmed over most of her argument with Draco, only telling them the information that was crucial for them to know – the specifics of the argument with her fiancé were not fully necessary.
"Let me get this straight," Ron said. "You're worried about Malfoy's ex-girlfriend because he hasn't heard from her, and you couldn't find anything about her marriage announcement."
"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "She's an elite Pureblooded woman from an old family – her purchase and marriage should have been highly publicized."
"I agree," Harry murmured. "Something's wrong."
"Thank you," Hermione exhaled. "We need to find who won the bid for her, and perform a wellness check. I don't like this."
"Right," Ron agreed, reaching for a stack. "Let's get looking."
It did not take them long to find Pansy Parkinson's name and the rest of the information they were looking for.
"Duncan Dunn," Harry read. "Marriage completed the day of the Auction. I've got his address, there's an Apparation point at the end of the street. We can Apparate and make a quiet approach, scope it out and see what's going on before we go in. Are we going?"
Hermione was already on her feet, summoning her robes. "Get your things."
The Apparated side-by-side with Harry leading. Duncan Dunn lived in an area outside of Birmingham that left much to be desired. Hermione could not imagine Pansy Parkinson and her old-money and high-society personality living here.
Harry gestured with a nod to the south, and the trio walked quickly and quietly down the road. It was overcast and drizzling, and the street was silent save for the occasional bark of a dog and creak of a door. Their wands were up their sleeves, out of sight but accessible.
As they approached the Dunn residence, a dilapidated semi-detached home with a roof badly in need of replacement, Hermione could hear what sounded like muffled shouting. The three stopped and listened, trying to determine if it was coming out of the house in question or from nearby.
Their ponderance was answered by a great smashing sound, followed by an increase in shouting. They could make out two voices, one male and one female.
"You daft bint!" the man, presumably Dunn, shouted. "You've dropped by lunch! You're more worthless than a damned house elf!" They could not clearly hear Pansy's response, but the tone of her voice was obvious – she was panicked.
Hermione exchanged a brief glance with the boys, who were on the same page as she was. They approached the door and Hermione, who was always best at charms, unlocked it.
"Aurors!" Harry and Ron roared as the rushed through the door. "Drop your wands!"
As they entered the main room of the house, Duncan Dunn was struggling to his feet, wand very much still in his hand. It was all the justification Hermione needed for a quick and effective Petrificus Totalus. Duncan hit the floor like a pile of bricks.
"Homenum revelio," Ron spoke. They waited for a moment, but the rest of the house was empty save for Pansy Parkinson, who was quivering in the entryway of the kitchen in shock. At her feet was the remains of lunch – a tray, a shattered glass and plate, and what looked like ale seeping across the floor.
Duncan Dunn was a hideous man. He was tall and wide, with thinning hair and a patchy beard. He was clearly much older than any of them, too. Hermione noticed immediately that he smelled tremendously of alcohol and cigarettes. She looked down at him with a frown before moving forward to get a good look at Pansy. As she did, Harry and Ron took the liberty of securely binding Mr. Dunn before proceeding to search around the house for anything of interest.
Pansy Parkinson did not appear to be well. Hermione flicked her wand and the lights in the room increased in brightness, revealing what Hermione had feared.
Pansy's arms were covered in bruises, long thin ones indicative of fingers gripping tightly. Her lip was cracked. Her hair was unwashed. Her clothing was not clean. Hermione wordlessly cast an assessment charm, which thankfully revealed no internal physical injuries. Throughout all of it, Pansy stared at her in awe and confusion, seemingly unable to put together any words.
"I need to leave," Pansy said finally, and her voice was hoarse and uneven. "Please. I need to leave."
"I'm taking you," Hermione soothed, one hand gently resting on Pansy's shoulder. "I'm taking you right now. Harry, Ron," she shot her shoulder, "arrest him. Take him to the cells, and then draft a full report and bring it to Kingsley's desk yourselves. He needs to see what his Marriage Law has done."
The boys did what she asked in silence, though Hermione could sense their rage. Ron was not gentle with the spell he used to hoist Dunn aloft, and Hermione was certain she could hear Dunn's head hitting the door on their way out of the room.
"Where are you taking Pansy?" Harry asked. "We'll need to interview her, gather a statement."
"Do you still have your flat?" Hermione asked her. Pansy shook her head.
She needed to be somewhere comfortable, somewhere safe that she knew. Hermione knew the answer immediately.
"We're going to Malfoy Manor," she told Harry. "I'll be there with her."
It was freezing cold as Malfoy strode across the bridge. The whipping wind caused the sea spray to feel like tiny flecks of rocks driving into his skin. Draco could feel the strength of the wards as he passed through them – Muggle-repellants, detection, disguise-revealing, searching, combing through his brain to figure out why he was approaching Azkaban Prison. With the Dementors gone, Ministry security wizards had gotten inventive with their precautions.
At the end of the bridge, there was a single iron door that only opened if the wards did not detect any nefarious intent. As Draco approached it, it swung open and he stepped into the cold, damp room. A guard, grizzled and grey, looked up at him and stood.
"Wand," he demanded, holding out his gnarled hand. Draco dutifully handed over his wand, trying to ignore that his own hand was shaking.
"Business?" the guard questioned, using a stasis and elevation enchantment to seal Draco's wand from him and levitate it upwards, through a shimmering veil above their heads that Draco could not see past. He watched his wand go, feeling exposed.
"I'm here to visit Lucius Malfoy," he answered. The guard eyed him up, and then raised his wand. Draco felt a warm rush as what he assumed was a searching charm rippled through his clothes and hit his skin. He held very still as the guard analyzed him with narrowed eyes.
"Wait here." The guard vanished through the wall, an act which initially shocked Draco as he wasn't expecting the wall to give way like that.
He waited, terrified to move from the spot he had planted himself in. He listened to the sounds of the prison echoing dimly around him, realizing there must be multiple different doorways concealed within the walls. He could hear low murmurs, shouting, clanking, and the ever-present crashing of the waves outside. The air was frigidly cold and smelled of mold and mildew. The only light came from two enchanted lanterns.
Azkaban Prison was a wholly unpleasant place.
After a time, the guard came back – through a different section of wall this time – and motioned silently for Draco to follow him. He did, though his feet felt like lead.
He took in his surroundings as best he could because the guard was moving very quickly. They were in a dark, long hallway that was lined with cells that appeared to be empty. The farther down this hallway they walked, the louder the general ambiance of prison sounds became.
They started to pass cells that were occupied. Draco did not look at the witches and wizards in these cells, terrified that he would recognize a classmate, their parents, or any other former Death Eater. They were silent, save for a few that were loudly sobbing or talking to themselves. Draco shuddered.
"Visit room is in here," the guard said finally, pointing to a door that had seemed to appear out of nowhere at the end of the hallway. "Monitored room. Limited touching. No whispering. Come back out through the door when you're done. Prisoner can't move from his seat."
"Thank you." Draco's voice was distant and sounded muffled in his own ears. His father was on the other side of that door, the man he had been oscillating between admiring and hating for his entire life. The man he had been dreading disappointing, and then actively avoiding for years. His feet moved forward on their own, spurred on by the nasty look on the guard's face. Better the devil he knew, Draco supposed.
The door opened as he approached it, and slammed shut behind him once he was through. In a stark juxtaposition to the darkness and dampness of the rooms that Draco had just walked past, the visitation room had more lights, and one small barred window that overlooked the roiling sea. There were two chairs, both padded. The temperature was warmer than outside.
Draco supposed that it was really just another way of torturing the prisoners there – if they received visitors, they enjoyed them in a comfortable and warm room, only to have to return to their dark, cold, lonely cells afterwards.
Psychological warfare, his brain unhelpfully supplied.
Lucius Malfoy was staring out the window, just his head turned away from his son. Draco could tell immediately that what the guard said was true – Lucius seemed unable to move from the position he was in in the seat, uncomfortably stiff.
The man's hair, which for all of Draco's life had been long, platinum, and carefully maintained, was now dirty and tangled, streaked with dirt and greying. It had no shine, no luster. The skin on his father's hands was stretched thin over his fingers, pale. He was layered in multiple prison-issued outfits to ward off the cold.
When Lucius looked at him, Draco almost did not recognize his father's sallow, hollow face.
"Draco?"
His voice was hoarse, but undeniably his. Draco took a stumbled step forward and lowered himself into the chair across from Lucius, completely unnerved by the condition his father was in. This entire time, he had pictured his father as he always had seen him – strong, confident, in charge.
Lucius Malfoy was a shell of that man.
"Hello," Draco said.
The senior Malfoy was silent for a long time, looking at his son in disbelief. Draco forced himself to meet his father's gaze, forced himself to take in the condition of his father. He gripped the arms of the chair tightly to keep his trembling hands from betraying his nerves.
"I didn't expect to see you," Lucius finally spoke. "I didn't think it'd be you."
"I wasn't planning on coming. Ever."
"Your mother?" Lucius asked. "Is… is she here?"
"No." Draco's voice was flat. "She is not. She doesn't know I'm here. I would not anticipate seeing her."
His father's face fell, and he looked away from his son. Draco watched as his throat bobbed, and realized with dismay that his father was trying not to cry.
"Did you expect her to come?" he demanded, voice rising. "Did you really expect her to come to you? After everything that happened, everything you brought upon us?" Draco was angered by the audacity of his father. The man had no right to be upset or disappointed that Narcissa had not come to see him, after everything he had done to her and all the pain he had caused her.
Lucius sharp eyes looked back to him, face hardening into the sneer that Draco had mimicked his entire life. "Of course I didn't. It's easier for her to blame me than to accept her own fault in this. She's a coward."
Draco rose to his feet, chair scraping backwards. "Do not speak about her that way," he hissed. "You've no idea the hell you put her through – the hell you put me through!"
When Lucius did not immediately answer, Draco continued. "Do you get the Prophet here? Did you read about our trials, our punishments? Did you see the business pages, did you see the hole I've dug our family out of? The hole that you put us in to?"
Lucius sniffed, looking away. The anger in Draco churned and he rounded on his father, standing directly in his line of sight. "Did you?"
"There's very little other reading material here," Lucius scoffed.
"Did you care? Have you ever cared?"
Lucius did not look away from him this time, but he also did not speak. His face was unreadable, impassive and blank.
"The years that I have wasted trying to impress you," Draco breathed. "All I did to make you proud of me. The life I sacrificed. The friends and family I lost." His voice was rising again, flush creeping up his neck as he continued. "All of it was worth nothing, because nothing I was ever going to do would have been enough for you. I could have died for what you believed in and you still would have been disappointed that I hadn't done enough."
He stepped back from Lucius and paced the small room, chest heaving. "You say you have the Prophet here, yes? So you've seen the Marriage Law?"
Lucius seemed thrown by the sudden change of subject. "We don't receive the Prophet until two weeks after it's printed."
Draco laughed mirthlessly. "The Ministry has decreed that any Pureblooded witch or wizard is to marry and have a child with a Halfblood or Muggleborn witch or wizard to promote cooperation and eliminate blood purity. They had an auction. It was all very dehumanizing."
Lucius' eyes narrowed. "I imagine you had a rather rushed marriage with that Parkinson girl you were so fond of? To avoid being involved in that mess?"
"No. I did not marry Pansy Parkinson."
If it were possible, Lucius' pallid faced grew sallower. "What are you saying?"
Draco's face split into a malicious grin at Lucius's horror. "Exactly what you think I'm saying. I'm engaged, father. She's wearing the Black family ring. We're getting married in the Manor."
Lucius attempted to rise then, but was held in place by the charm on his chair. He struggled against it, jaw clenched and eyes flashing with anger.
"You'll do no such thing!" he bellowed.
"Oh, I certainly will," Draco responded, still grinning at Lucius' reaction. The man appeared like he was willing to climb out of his own skin to get at him, anger vibrating through his body. "Would you like to hear the best part?"
He moved closer to his father, face inches away from the other's. "I'm marrying Hermione Granger."
The sound that emitted from Lucius' mouth was almost inhuman, a combination of a gurgle and a furious shout. He attempted to move forward towards Draco, but was still unable to.
"I have spent too much of my life trying to make you proud. I have lost friends, and family. I have watched people die in your pursuit of power and I have stood by idly because you are my father, and I wanted nothing more than your approval." The word felt acidic on Draco's tongue. "But not anymore, father. Never again."
Draco turned on his heel and walked towards the door, which began to swing open in anticipation of his exit. He turned back to his father.
"Enjoy seeing the wedding photos in the Prophet," he said. "I'm sure it will make for riveting reading."