Coffee: black. Music: blaring. It was some Muggle tosh that Draco barely understood, but it was loud and it was angry; perfect for mornings that were sure to be shit. His nightly terrors hadn't left him alone the previous evening, not that he had expected they would. His father had made an appearance, screaming at him for being beaten in tests by a Mudblood— a word that Draco couldn't bring himself to say, even in the safety of his own thoughts. Lucius' features had morphed into the snakelike visage of the Dark Lord, who had released a high pitched laugh that forced Draco to wakefulness.
Traces of poor sleep were visible on his pallid features. Dark smudges of purple beneath his eyes, premature lines on either side of his mouth. You look so much like your father, his mother would always say. Draco was seized with the sudden urge to put his fist through the mirror. Instead, he made a quick pass over his head and shoulders with the tip of his wand— white blond hair darkened to rich brown, almost black, while facial hair sprouted across his chin and cheeks.
The Transfigurement lasted for the duration of his journey to the Ministry, and remained in place until he removed it himself just outside Granger's office. Past Auror Headquarters, second door on your left, her instructions had read, in handwriting that was… adequate, Draco supposed. Avoid the press, they stalk the Atrium lifts. Not a single reporter had even glanced his way as he strode past in his simple disguise. Not even Rita Skeeter, who bragged in her columns that she had an intimate insight into the psyche of the Malfoy heir.
Granger's office was small but not cramped, Draco noted as he entered without knocking. There were no personal effects in the room save for a bizarre, empty fishbowl on the rosewood desk, though he assumed that most of the books crammed into a bookshelf on the far wall were hers. It was a clean and impersonal space— Draco could appreciate that.
The witch in question had her back to the door, fretting over a board that was attended to by pieces of chalk writing out her theories of their own accord. She did not seem to have heard him enter, but whirled around with her wand drawn when the door clicked closed behind him.
"A bit on edge, are we, Granger?"
"You would be, too, if you had Death Eaters to catch." Granger had recovered quickly, and now seemed more annoyed than anything else. "In the future, I would appreciate it if you knocked."
"I do have Death Eaters to catch— or have you already forgotten our agreed upon conditions?"
The witch huffed air through her nose and turned away from him. Ordinarily, such a response would leave Draco bad tempered, but he merely felt amusement as he watched the back of Granger's bushy haired head. The pieces of chalk continued to scrawl out lines of text in front of her nose.
"No, I haven't forgotten," she murmured quietly, but did not turn to face him. "Your role in this will be kept quiet, as promised."
"And?"
"And, the Prohibemus enchantment on both yourself and your mother will be lifted."
"And?"
"And you can have your sodding potion ingredients! Five of your choosing from the Restricted Register is what we agreed on."
Draco paced forwards, smirking, until he and Granger stood next to one another with a metre of space between them. The blackboard spanned that distance, covered in tacked-up photographs and lines of slanted script depicting names, places, and theories that he could scarcely make sense of.
"Why don't you fill me in?"
Granger still had a crackling aura of frustration about her, but she gave a short, professional nod and pointed to a line of eight photographs at the centre of the board. The faces that loured down at him were chillingly familiar; he didn't need to be told their names, but she rattled them off anyway.
"Lestrange, Greyback, Dolohov, and the Carrows all escaped from Azkaban in mid-August. They have likely reconvened with Rookwood, Yaxley, and Macnair," her finger strayed to the latter end of the photographs, "who have been evading Ministry capture since the Battle of Hogwarts. Neville suspects that remaining Snatchers may be sympathetic to them, and we all agree that every Slytherin student who finished Hogwarts in the late 90's is worth investigating."
She must have caught sight of his affronted expression, for she went on with very pointed eye contact. "Yes, every Slytherin. In sixth year, Harry was adamant that you were a Death Eater, but Ron and I wouldn't listen."
Draco felt his throat sting with sudden bile. It was a legacy from which he could never escape, yet to hear her speak of it so frankly in her close, clean office was somehow much more confronting than hearing wizards whispering in the streets. His mother bore the gossip, never breaking her serene manner, and continued with her high society functions as though the Malfoy family had never witnessed a fall from grace. Draco had learned to ignore the hisses, the hurried crossings of streets, and the protective holding of childrens' hands, but Granger's words caused a lapse in his perfect, porcelain façade.
She seemed to realise it, too. Her lips tightened at the corners and she looked away, but Draco was relieved to note that not an ounce of pity shone in her eyes.
"Yes, well," he began, in a voice that was strangely hoarse. "I wouldn't know what any of my schoolmates are up to these days."
"You haven't kept in touch?" Granger seemed surprised— there was likely not a single witch or wizard from her time at Hogwarts that she didn't write to regularly, or see on a daily basis. Draco wasn't quite certain if he envied or pitied her. "What about Pansy Parkinson?"
The personal question caught him off guard. He could see that a pink flush had risen to Granger's cheeks, and suspected that the question had slipped out before she had a chance to catch it. The thought sent a spark of mirth through him that roused a rare smirk.
"Parkinson? No." As amusing as her embarrassment was, he spared Granger the weight of his gaze and instead looked to the line of photographs. They were a sobering sight; his smile soon slipped. "I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts in four years, except for Blaise."
"You're going to have to become reacquainted."
She shoved a manila folder into his arms with enough force to send him stumbling back a few steps. It wasn't enough to knock the wind from him, but he felt just as disgruntled. Granger was the same, then, and compensating for her personal prying with an excessively brusque demeanour. Opening an identical folder, she cleared her throat and arched a brow, urging him to do the same.
"What we need you to do is track down fellow Slytherins and subtly cross them off the Ministry's suspect list. You'll find all relevant information— addresses, places of work, spouses, et cetera— in this folder. Do you have any questions?"
"You've covered everything quite comprehensively," Draco said in a sardonic drawl. He thumbed through the folder, which contained well over two dozen sheafs of paper. Each one had 'Private' scrawled down the side in red ink.
"Perfect." Granger paced to the door and held it open for him— a clear dismissal. "If you need any help, or have any questions, you know where to find me. Oh, and Malfoy." Draco paused in the doorway. "You'll be required to attend Auror training."
"I'm not planning on becoming an Auror."
"We know." A prim sniff. "The next one is on Friday. You're expected at 9 o'clock."
Draco made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, then strode from her office and out of sight.
Auror training, he thought with a sneer, with half a mind to refuse. The corridors were deserted, leaving him with a clear path to the Atrium; just before stepping into the cavernous space, he remembered to hastily re-Transfigure himself. It was a small change, merely enough to disguise his white blond hair, but again he went unaccosted. If Granger kept her side of the deal, there would be no need for him to learn to duel. His aunt Bellatrix had already done as much over his sixth and seventh year, in any case; granted, her methods and techniques were far more brutal than any of the spells the Ministry would employ.
But he would humour the idea, Draco decided as he flicked through the folder once more. Those Restricted Register ingredients were far too tempting to do anything but. Most of the names, he skimmed over with idle boredom. Bletchley, Bole, Bulstrode, Davis, Derrick. Boring names for boring people— he couldn't imagine a single one of them to be embroiled in what was going on. It was the sixth name that gave him pause: Flint. Marcus Flint, a savage Quidditch player who would have done more damage in the corridors of Hogwarts if he could perform the hexes. Perhaps he had learned a thing or two since graduating after the third attempt.
Far above Draco's head, the ceiling shifted. He could see it reflected in the polished, dark wood floor just before he Apparated to the address specified in the Ministry file. As his long legs carried him up a short, dark path through an overgrown garden, he distractedly wondered at being given unhindered access to private information without constant supervision. Either Granger trusted him completely (highly unlikely), or the Ministry really was desperate to make headway in this case. Caught up in his thoughts, Draco didn't immediately comprehend what was so strange about Flint's cold, dim house. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, wand tip already alight with blue, and peered around a cramped and musty kitchen.
That's when it struck him. He had been able to enter the building unhindered. Flint hadn't set up any enchantments… or perhaps there had been wards, once, that were now long since broken.
His Lumos cast the contents of the house in a ghostly light. There wasn't much of note, merely a few shabby pieces of furniture with used plates littered between them. Animated, black and white pamphlets decorated a table which was, quite frankly, disgusting. Coated with grime, old food, and Salazar knew what else, Draco levitated one of the pamphlets to his hand as opposed to picking it up himself. As soon as the parchment touched his skin, the flowery script advertising Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover transformed into words that caused Draco's lip to curl. Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society.
It was an old publication, from Umbridge's time in the Ministry, but the simpering rose petal face remained as fresh as the day it was printed. Draco picked up another, then another, shoving each into the inside pocket of his robes.
Pureblood Protection League. How to Protect Your Bloodline from Infestation. Hunting Half Breeds: A Beginner's Guide.
He had seen more than enough. A Homenum Revelio charm revealed that neither Flint nor anyone else was in that shithole that somehow passed as a house, so Draco pocketed the last of the pamphlets and stepped out onto the street. After the gloom of Flint's hovel, the midday sun seemed unnaturally bright. Draco had just lifted a hand to shield his eyes when a searing pain suddenly shot through his arm. He made to rip away his sleeve, crying out as the limb gave another alarming throb, before loosing a harsh curse.
The Dark Mark, which usually lay pink, scarlike and dormant on his forearm, now burned jet black.