Chapter 47 – Reactions

An emotionally drained Sirius Black left the Department of Mysteries after the executions, eager to return to Hogwarts and indulge in a glass of firewhiskey while avoiding everyone else for the rest of the evening. In fact, a bottle might be infinitely preferable, considering some of the things he had heard that day. It had certainly been a trying two days and he was looking forward to losing himself again in the routine of teaching and the pleasure of watching his godson grow, not to mention the possibilities for teasing that Harry's relationships with his beautiful ladies provided. But even such thoughts, though enjoyable, were not enough to improve his mood.

Of the events of the previous two days, he wished to think as little as possible, even while knowing they would dominate his thoughts for days to come. It was gratifying that some of the men who had caused so much evil had finally paid the price for their actions. Those particular men would never again perform their vile acts on another innocent—at least he could take solace in that. But on the other hand, one did not condemn a man to death lightly, much less condemn almost a dozen, regardless of how vile and deserving of death those men had been. A condemnation of that nature required thought and careful deliberation and though Sirius felt that the Wizengamot had acted with prudence and the appropriate seriousness in this case, the fact was that he had still been involved in committing men to death, and that would take its toll. How he wished he could just forget about it, or become as conscienceless as such a man as Lucius Malfoy. It would certainly have helped his peace of mind, regardless of how morally repugnant it would make him.

And Sirius was disturbed. He had known Lucius Malfoy, in particular of all the mean who had been tried, for quite some time—since before Hogwarts in fact. The man had been betrothed to his cousin Andromeda after all, or at least until she had managed to escape through her marriage to Ted Tonks. Because of that, he had been associated with Lucius through their families, though most of the time Sirius had avoided him, much as he had avoided the rest of his family. Even as a teenager Lucius had been self-absorbed and haughty, openly supporting the Pureblood crap that so many in their circle saw as being akin to the word of God.

But the simple fact of the matter was that regardless of how Sirius had always known that Lucius was scum and that he was undoubtedly a murderer and more—as all those who followed Voldemort inescapably were—Sirius had never truly imagined just how deep the man's depravity descended. Him and his associates. The testimonies they had been forced to give over the past two days were sickening, and though Sirius had managed to keep his composure and the contents of his stomach, at times it had been difficult. Hence his desire for solitude.

When the lift opened he stepped out into the atrium. It was quiet for the most part, the business of the day having been largely completed, and the scrums with the reporters also having concluded some time earlier. He did not envy Dumbledore or Bones, both of whom had been front and center after the executions had been carried out.

Crossing the tiled floor—and noting the still unrepaired damage from Dumbledore's epic struggle with Voldemort—Sirius made for the Floos. He was just about to step in, when he saw a familiar face.

"Sirius," Hestia Jones said as she caught sight of him.

"Miss Jones," Sirius replied, making an exaggerated bow.

Hestia giggled at his gallantry, and with a rather silly grin, Sirius offered her his arm, all thoughts of returning to Hogwarts now gone in favor of the prospect of some pleasant company. "Shall we depart together, Madam? I know of a nice diner not far from the Ministry where we can get some really great burgers."

Hestia smirked at him and took his arm. "You really do know how to wine and dine a lady, don't you?"

"Nah, that's for later. It's always been my policy that there is no wining and dining on the first date."

They laughed together as they started walking toward the exit. "So, is that what this is?" Hestia asked. "A first date?"

Instantly Sirius sobered—he had not meant to put it in such a way. "How about we call it two friends just spending time together? To be honest, I was going to go back to Hogwarts with a bottle of Ogden's to keep me company. But I realized that a friend is better company than a bottle of liquid. And I do have to teach classes tomorrow, after all."

She shot him a bit of a sidelong glance which he could not interpret, but she spoke and distracted him before he could give it any thought. "Rough day, was it?"

A pained grimace settled on his face. "Oh, all in a day's work. You know—bring in the bad guys; give them a fair trial—which I myself didn't receive; then listen to all the disgusting things they have done to people and gotten away with for the past twenty years. Finally, you sentence them to death and push them through the veil, all in time for dinner."

The venom in his voice almost surprised even Sirius himself, but Hestia merely looked at him with sympathy, before she glanced around. "Let's continue this discussion once we arrive at the diner."

Sirius nodded. Since they had exited from the building, he had been speaking a little too openly. There did not appear to be anyone nearby who was listening in to their conversation, but he had been an Auror for some time after the war and had grown up in the magical world—he should know better than to speak of it openly where anyone could overhear.

They arrived at the diner quickly and stepped inside. It was an old building, situated mere blocks from the entrance to the Ministry—between the Ministry and the Leaky Cauldron, to be truthful—but it was well maintained and clean. The walls were decorated with pictures of various well-known people of the Muggle world, and though Sirius with his limited exposure to the Muggle world did not know who most of them were, he did remember a few. Or, perhaps more precisely, he remembered those which were memorable to him, such as the gorgeous blond whose picture hung on the wall beside the entrance. Her name was… Marilyn… something or other. Perhaps he did not remember as much as he had thought.

As for the rest of the place, a long bar with red cushioned stools sat in the center of the room in a U shape, while tables with blue plaid coverings and benches with similar cushions to the stools, rounded out the décor. It was perhaps a throwback to such eating establishments from an earlier time and another part of the world—or so Lily had told them the first time she had brought the Marauders here during the summer after their sixth year—and the proprietors served the best hamburgers in London. It also had the distinction of being in the Muggle world and thus safe from most Death Eater depredations—Death Eaters were not known, after all, for being able to navigate the Muggle world, nor were they known for frequenting burger joints.

Sirius directed Hestia into the diner and they moved to the counter to place their order, Sirius guiding Hestia toward something he thought she would like—the food of this establishment was quite a bit heavier than what she would normally be used to, besides being fried or deep fried. After a wait of only a few minutes for their food to arrive, they made their way to a table located in the back corner, from where he could watch the door—old habits died hard, it seemed. There, Sirius covertly erected a very mild Muggle repelling charm, as well as a privacy ward. If anyone happened to overhear them, they would think they heard nothing more than a conversation about the weather.

They ate in silence for some time, and while Hestia threw Sirius some speculative and empathetic looks, he missed most of them. He was too busy brooding about the fact that although he had received the very best of treatment in the past nine months, he had changed from the time he had been a young man. Conversing then had been easy—effortless for the most part. He had certainly never had trouble speaking with pretty young women—or more correctly, hitting on pretty young women, he supposed. Now, he was no longer so certain what to say. Oh, he could still fake it and fall back on flirtation and innuendo, but it seemed hollow. No, what he really wanted to do was to speak to Hestia as an equal, and for once in his life, he wasn't certain what to say.

Still, it was not necessarily prison which had changed him so much. He was older, and infinitely wiser. At least he hoped he had acquired at least a little wisdom during those endless days and months spent in hell. Though to be honest, it was likely nothing more than a dog's wisdom he would have acquired, as he had spent the bulk of his time in his canine form, so as to avoid the tender mercies of the Dementors. Or at least what passed for such.

"A knut for your thoughts."

His companion's voice brought Sirius out of his melancholy thoughts, and he looked up into the eyes of the woman who sat across from him. She watched him with an expression which Sirius ascribed to be equal parts concern, compassion and friendship, as well as a few more emotions which Sirius could not even begin to define. She was a friend. Sirius fancied that a friend was exactly what he needed right now.

"Just about this crazy world we live in," Sirius admitted. "The years pass and the seasons change, and yet it seems we're still dealing with the same problems."

Hestia cocked her head to the side as she regarded him curiously.

"Voldemort," Sirius said with a shortness which was unintended. "You have to remember that I spent years tucked away in a very small cell, many of them as a dog. The passage of time had very little meaning. To me, it's like the first war and what we are dealing with now are one and the same."

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly and with some compassion.

"Well enough," Sirius replied with a shrug. "Though the past two days have been… distasteful, at least old Voldy has a few less toadies to do his bidding. And I would imagine it would set him back as they were his highest ranking followers."

Sirius leaned back in his seat, pushing the containers from his now- consumed meal to the side. "And how about you?" he asked, wanting to distance himself a little from the events at the Ministry. "How are you holding up?"

"The whole Ministry is in an uproar," Hestia replied with a wry grin. "With a new Minister at the top, I suppose it was to be expected, even without our action at the Ministry."

"No doubt," Sirius said with a snort. In his mind's eyes he was considering the events to which she referred, thinking about how the fight had come about. Or perhaps more particularly, how they had worked together so well as a team. "You know," he said aloud, not wishing to delve any further into such thoughts, "I don't believe I even know what you do for a living. I assume that you work in the Ministry?"

"Auror department," Hestia confirmed.

"You're an Auror?" Sirius replied with some surprise. Though it should not be quite so surprising, considering the considerable expertise she had displayed only a few nights ago.

"No, I'm not an Auror. I work in the resource department. I used to record Aurors' incident reports, record statements, the deposition of evidence—that sort of thing. Now I'm more involved with strategic planning, rapid response, duty rosters, and so on."

Sirius nodded with approval. "A very important role. I used to be an Auror myself, you know. I'm well aware of the critical role your staff plays in the operation of the department. I will say that you would make a good Auror yourself—you stood toe to toe with those Death Eaters and never even flinched."

Flushing lightly at the praise, Hestia directed a bit of a bashful smile at him. "I've had good tutors. Tonks and I are really close, and she's shared some of what she's learned with me."

"I can imagine how the two of you would be friends," Sirius replied with a smirk.

A companionable silence settled over them, and Sirius sat back, thinking about how different this had been from his life over the last many years. The silence in Azkaban could not be deemed comfortable in any manner. And even before, when he and the Marauders were thick as thieves, they had been more boisterous than quiet. Even Peter, who had been more in awe of the rest of them, had been exuberant more than introspective.

And there had been Lily, the only long-term female presence in his life after he had thrown off all affiliation with his family and, more particularly, with his harridan of a mother. They had all been at least a little in love with the fiery woman, Sirius no less than the others. But he had never begrudged James his good fortune—James had mooned after Lily for some time before he had finally succeeded in convincing her to go out with him, and Sirius had felt only happiness for his friend. But even Lily, though she certainly had her own periods of quiet introspection, had not exactly been a quiet woman.

Hestia was much very different from Lily. Whereas Lily had been a swiftly flowing stream, happy and bubbling, but dotted with shoals and rapids full of foaming, frothing tempests, Hestia was a calm and placid river, though given the display she had put on at the Ministry, was just as capable of tempests of her own.

"So what are your plans now?" Hestia asked.

Sirius eyed her with some trepidation. Though the question was innocent enough, Sirius retained enough knowledge of women, and a more particular insight when he watched her body language, which screamed interest, while she feigned the opposite. Apparently she could be just as forward as Lily too.

"Teach at Hogwarts, watch my godson grow up, and help him defeat Voldy."

Apparently, Hestia was not fazed in the slightest by his obvious obfuscation. "All very noble and worthy goals," she agreed. "But surely you have taken thought for your own life."

"I'm just getting used to the fact of being truly free and not on the run. I haven't really had time for things like that. Besides, why would I want to saddle a woman with an old convict like myself?"

"There must be plenty of women who wouldn't consider it a burden."

Sirius shook his head. "Hestia, I think we should end this conversation and move on to something else. I'm sure you can find someone better than me."

"I didn't just ask you to marry me, Sirius," Hestia admonished with a smile to take out any sting her words may have caused.

"No, and for that you should be grateful," Sirius replied with a roll of his eyes. "I wouldn't want you to run away screaming."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly faint of heart." Her manner was playful, but her eyes reflected nothing but her serious intent. "Look, Sirius, I know there are things you have to do. I know that Voldemort is back and threatening all you love. I'm not trying to muscle my way into your life. I am, however, trying to let you know I'm interested, and that I don't consider the age difference, the history with Dementors, or your obvious emotional scars something which should hinder us in any way.

"Or, are you perhaps trying to tell me that you're just not interested?"

There was a certain vulnerability to her final question, though Sirius still did not think that she would be overly hurt if he rejected her outright. At the moment, she did not know him any better than he did her—surely she could not have formed a strong attachment to him on the strength of so little interaction. On the other hand, she was certainly forthright. Most Pureblood women would not behave in such a fashion, sticking to time-honored traditions which stated the man had to make the first move.

"You remind me a little of my friend's wife," he replied wistfully. "I don't think I've ever heard, but I'm assuming you're not a Pureblood?"

"Halfblood actually," Hestia replied proudly. "Mum is a Muggleborn, and after her own experiences at school and the way she was sometimes treated, she taught me not to take crap from anyone and to fight for what I want. Dad's a Pureblood, though, so we lived in the magical world."

"That explains why you brought it up," Sirius muttered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied playfully. "Perhaps you'd prefer some pretty little Pureblood who will defer to you and be the good little wife in the kitchen."

Sirius snorted. "You don't really understand Purebloods if that's what you think."

A playful smile dancing across her features, Hestia responded, "I know that there are many strong-willed Purebloods, but I do know that they won't make the first move. But we've gotten a little off track."

She smiled at him a little sadly. "If you're not interested, just tell me—I can take it."

Sirius slumped back in his seat and regarded her. "It's not that I'm not interested. There's just so much going on right now—I'm not sure if I could do a relationship justice."

"Then we'll just have to take it slow," Hestia replied with a beaming smile. "I won't ask for anything that you are not in a position to give."

Sirius's own answering smile was tentative. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he respected this woman and found the prospect of candlelit dinners and long walks in the park to be appealing. In all his playful attachments to the opposite sex when he was younger, there had been no one to whom he had really connected on an emotional level. Perhaps he had not understood it about himself before, but regardless of the manner in which he felt that Azkaban… damaged him, he truly did want it. He wanted a relationship akin to that which his closest friend had found.

Did he want it with Hestia Jones? Now that was a question which he could not truly answer with any clarity at present. What Sirius did know, was that he would enjoy discovering the answer to that question. He would enjoy it very much. And so he answered in the only way he could, in a very non-Sirius manner, he was sure James would have teased him, if he had been alive to witness it.

"I think I would like that, Hestia."

"Very well, Alaric, you have my attention. Why did you request this meeting?"

Curiously, Albus watched the head of house Morgan, as he paced the room in some agitation. It was decidedly out of character for the usually composed and calm man to be pacing about in such a manner. Of course, all Albus could really base this impression on was the time they had spent together in the various Wizengamot duties and the occasions they had met at one official function or another, being, as they were, on completely opposite ends of the political spectrum. Alaric had the reputation of being a staunch supporter of the Pureblood agenda and a generally humorless, severe sort of man. Something significant must have happened to shake his equilibrium.

His pacing finally stopped and Alaric slumped into his seat, turning his attention to Albus, who was attempting to wait patiently. He was needed back at the school; his duties as Headmaster had been neglected rather grievously since the night of Harry's adventure, and he was certain the paperwork had piled up in his absence. And he had a most unpleasant duty awaiting him—he must break the news of the executions to those youngsters whose fathers had been executed that day. Furthermore, he was concerned over what form Tom's response to the executions of his minions would be, and was half afraid that it would involve an attack on Hogwarts itself, while Albus was engaged elsewhere. His presence was needed at the school, as a deterrence if nothing else.

"I believe I have made an error in judgment, Albus," Alaric said at length.

Albus raised a single eyebrow at this statement.

Alaric huffed slightly and fixed his eyes upon Albus. "You and I have been political foes for the entirety of our time in the Wizengamot, and I believe we both have the measure of one another." A sardonic smile came over his face. "The irony of it is, of course, the fact that you are the elder statesman and yet you espouse a much more progressive ideology while I, the relative newcomer, am very much the staunch conservative."

"Thank you, Alaric," Albus replied with a laugh. "'Elder statesman' is a much kinder title than what I am used to from most of the Pureblood faction."

A wry smile fell over Alaric's face. "I hope that I am not one from whom you expect to hear such epithets."

"No," Albus agreed. "You have always been at least respectful."

"I will not lie to you, Albus," Alaric continued. "I am a Pureblood through and through. I believe that Muggleborn have no place in our society and that the ideas they bring with them are dangerous and may one day result in the revealing of the existence of magic to the Muggles, or, at the very least, that they'll destroy our way of life with their radical ideas. I believe that all Muggleborn should be obliviated of the knowledge of magic and have their magic bound when they are discovered. If that is done, then eventually no more Muggleborn will be born, and the magical world can live peacefully, separate from the Muggle world."

"I guarantee to you that if that is done, then we will be signing the death warrant for the magical world," Albus rejoined, aware that this argument had been rehashed over and over, and perhaps now was not the time to bring this up, especially now that Alaric had, for reasons of his own, chosen to speak frankly. It was something which had never happened before, and Albus was intrigued as to the man's reasons.

"And I would counter by saying that you have no proof of such a thing," Alaric declared, though the rancor, which was such a major part of most discussions of this type, was notably absent. "But I did not ask to see you in order to have this argument again."

Albus peered at Alaric over his half-moon glasses. "Then why did you ask to speak to me?"

Sighing, Alaric pressed his fingers to his temples, as though his head ached. "Because regardless of my beliefs, I have never consorted with the likes of You-Know-Who and his followers. At least, until now."

That piqued Albus's interest. He had never truly thought much on the matter of whether Alaric had supported Voldemort in the past. His name had never come up in the Death Eater trials after Voldemort's first fall, and Albus had always assumed that he was a supporter—and perhaps even a monetary supporter—but was not a Death Eater himself. He would not be the only one, if he was.

"What exactly do you mean?" Albus prompted as these thoughts ran through his head.

"I was approached by Selwyn after Fudge's death, and he convinced me that I should be their candidate for Minister. I was hesitant, knowing of his affiliation with You-Know-Who in the past, but he convinced me. He fed me stories of how You-Know-Who had learned his lesson the first time and how he would change the world this time by persuasion, rather than all-out war the way he tried to do it last time."

"And you believed him?" Albus asked.

"I did." Alaric paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Now I wonder if there might have been a touch of compulsion involved." He waved his hand at Albus's interested look. "Oh, not from Selwyn. The man is brash, possesses no subtlety and is little more than a thug. I was thinking that it might have come from You-Know-Who himself—an enchanted object on Selwyn's person, perhaps, directed toward me.

"I'm not certain, to be honest," he continued with a shrug. "It was more a random thought which struck me. I consider myself to be competent, and as Selwyn is not one I would put on my level, I wondered about how he had managed to convince me. As I recall, I was rather easily persuaded."

"You may be correct," Albus replied slowly. "Voldemort—" he ignored Alaric's flinch at the mention of the name, "is very subtle and skilled. It would certainly be well within his abilities to arrange for such a thing."

Alaric inclined his head. "Regardless, I was persuaded and allowed myself to be nominated."

"Are you a Death Eater?" Albus knew his question was a trifle blunt, but it appeared that Morgan was about to throw Voldemort off at the very least, and Albus would need to know exactly what he was dealing with.

In response, Alaric rolled up his left sleeve, exposing the unblemished skin of his arm. "I am not, nor would I have been persuaded to accept it, especially had I been told what was required." Alaric grimaced. "I suppose the required 'sacrifice' could have been money donated for the cause in my case, which would not have been overtly offensive. Learning what some of the others—especially Malfoy—have done to gain their marks would have put me off them entirely."

He sighed heavily and once again massaged his temples with his hand. "And that is what prompted me to speak to you today. I suspect that Voldemort was trying to set me up as a puppet Minister, using someone who agreed—broadly—with his goals, who would be acceptable to others and have a chance at being elected. I suspect that that is at least part of the reason why you nominated Madam Bones."

Albus inclined his head.

"I'm certain, however, that I would have been a true Minister only for the time it would have taken for You-Know-Who himself to pay me a visit. Had I refused to take the dark mark, I would quickly have been Imperiused to do his bidding, and likely would have met an 'unfortunate accident' as soon as he felt he could get someone who would do what he was told elected.

"Regardless, my eyes were opened by the testimonies we've heard. I had always suspected that Malfoy and the others had committed crimes—they were known Death Eaters, regardless of how they claimed Imperius, and You-Know-Who's forces were not exactly gentle during the first war.

"But I never expected them to have descended to such depravities."

The haunted quality of Alaric's words came through in his voice, and Albus, even without the confirmation of passive Legilimency, could tell that Alaric was telling nothing but the complete truth.

"Nothing could have prepared me for what was said these past two days." His eyes darted from the floor to meet Albus's, and there was an almost wild quality to his expression. "I support a segregation of the magic and Muggle worlds, including Muggleborn in the Muggle world, and I believe that it is our best course for our future growth as a society. But Voldemort espouses a much different vision, and one I could never support. Regardless of how I believe the Muggles are intrinsically inferior to wizards and Muggleborn are not much better, they are still human! No one deserves to have the… the… vile acts perpetrated upon them that Lucius Malfoy and his ilk have committed. Their executions were well carried out—filth such as they do not deserve to live!"

"And this is why you supported their execution?" Albus queried. It was beginning to make sense, and though the man had not made a fundamental change in what he believed—and Albus doubted he ever would—at least he had now seen Voldemort for what he truly was. Hopefully, there were more in the Wizengamot who possessed the integrity of this man, regardless of the ideals they espoused.

"Yes, it is," Alaric confirmed. "I was sickened by the lot of them, particularly Lucius Malfoy. The world is a better place without the lot of them."

Taking a deep breath, Alaric seemed to gather himself, and he peered at Albus with an unreadable expression on his face.

"As for the reason I asked for this meeting, the first reason is that I wanted to inform you of my feelings on the matter. The second…" he paused briefly before again steeling himself. "Again, we are on the opposite political spectrum and in some respects I can hardly fathom what I am about to do. But Voldemort is the larger threat and he must be dealt with. You have my support until he and his followers are put down like the rabid dogs they are."

"A formal alliance?" Albus asked, though he thought that Alaric would not go that far.

Alaric shook his head, proving Albus's supposition. "I don't believe that is necessary, and it would raise some eyebrows at the very least. No, I simply mean that I will support you and the Minister in the prosecution of this war, and will not attempt to hinder you. I have not changed my political views and I believe that fact alone would make a closer alliance between us problematic at best. There are others who feel much as I do."

It was certainly better than Albus had hoped for before the Death Eater trials had begun, but also perhaps less than he might have expected from one who had made such a radical change in stance. Still, having one less foe in the Wizengamot chambers would only make passing Amelia's agenda that much easier.

"You do realize that this will make you a target, correct?"

Alaric sat back in his chair and nodded. "I am certain it will. But our family wards, though not as robust as those at Hogwarts, are still old and strong, and I have already arranged to have them improved, and my family will now all carry emergency portkeys." He stopped and smiled. "My oldest granddaughter is due to begin attending Hogwarts next year and I mean to see that she does."

Albus smiled—speaking of the children and of Hogwarts always filled him with the greatest pleasure. "Ah yes. That would be Briony—your eldest son's daughter, correct?"

"It is," the other man confirmed. "She's a happy child and sharp as a tack. I expect she'll go into Ravenclaw when she is sorted."

The weighty subjects covered, the two men spent some moments speaking of the upcoming school year, as well as Alaric's grandchildren, before parting. It was with a sigh that Albus's thoughts were once again turned to his coming duty with Alaric's departure. He would not have thought it, but the time they had spent in discussion were pleasant, proving once again that anyone, regardless of political or social leanings, were still people, and that he would do well not to judge them until he knew them well.

But Hogwarts awaited, and with that thought in mind, Albus made his way to the Floos. Four young Slytherins would become heads of their families in about a year when they came of age, but though Albus would have hoped that they would take their fathers' fates as a warning not to follow in their footsteps, he very much feared that it would have exactly the opposite effect. He feared it very much indeed.

Albus was correct in his estimation of the situation, not that Draco could have known such a thing.

Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, seething. He had received the news only a short time earlier, when he, Crabbe, Nott, and Goyle had been summoned to the Headmaster's office. He had been surprised to see his mother there, along with the mothers of his friends, and had expected to hear the news of his father's release. Nothing could have prepared him for the truth of the matter.

"Draco…" his mother began hesitantly. She stopped and broke down slightly, and Draco wondered what was happening. He had never seen his mother in such a state before—she had always been calm and in control of her emotions, not this pale, shaken woman standing in front of him.

They were sitting in an unused classroom not far from the Headmaster's office, its disuse evidenced by the haphazard placement of the desk and the layer of dust which coated the floor, and eddied in the currents which flowed through the room as they had opened the door. Narcissa Malfoy had cleared the filth from two of the chairs so they could sit, but her actions had been distracted. She appeared to be almost anxious.

"What is it mother?" Draco demanded. "Has father been released yet?"

Her reaction drove his concern almost to the point of panic—she closed her eyes and swallowed, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. Something was clearly wrong here.

At length she gathered herself and opened her eyes to gaze upon him, an almost fearful expression on her face. "Draco, your father was not released. There is no easy way to tell you this, but he was executed for his crimes."

"What?" Draco whispered. "That cannot possibly be true." In the confines of his head he screamed the denial, echoed it over and over again. His father was Lucius Malfoy! He was a leading member of society and a Pureblood of the highest standing! Dumbledore and his followers could not possibly have dared to put his father to death!

"Draco," his mother began again, and this time she appeared to have mastered herself to a certain extent, "your father is dead. They used Veritaserum, and he was forced to recount every crime they could discover. Some of the horrible things he did… I never knew…"

"I don't care what he's done!" Draco cried. "I'm sure he did what was necessary to serve the Dark Lord and promote our values."

A stern expression came over Narcissa's face. "Draco, if you knew some of the heinous things he did—"

"It doesn't matter what he did!" Draco yelled. "I'm sure I would have done the same in his place! I'm sure I will do the same thing, should the Dark Lord command it!"

Narcissa closed her eyes and she breathed deeply for a moment. Draco was nonplused at her behavior—surely she was as angry as he was. How could this have happened? Had his father's allies on the Wizengamot betrayed him by not speaking out in his favor? Had they all betrayed the Dark Lord and his father in the process?

"Listen to me, Draco," Narcissa pleaded. She reached out and grasped his shoulders, bringing him from his murderous thoughts and forcing him to look her in the eye. "The Headmaster offered to allow you and your friends to come home for a few days. However, the Dark Lord has commanded that you are to stay here."

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, appearing much older than her years would suggest. "Your father was pushed through the veil, so there is no body and therefore, no burial required."

"Surely you do not mean to simply let that lie, Mother," Draco protested. "Father's life should be celebrated. He was a great man."

His mother hesitated—it was not much, but it suggested to Draco that she did not agree with his words. He could not understand her. His mother had always been devoted to his father and he was sure that regardless of the fact that they had been married by contract, he had always thought that they shared a mutual affection, if not love. At least they had always been united in their common vision of the future, as well as their devotion to Draco himself.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing, Mother," Draco accused. "You are betraying father's memory by your behavior."

"Draco, your father has done many things in his service to the Dark Lord." Narcissa paused for a moment before continuing with determination. "I never knew even a fraction of it. Yes, I knew that his hands were not lily white, but I had never guessed the depths to which he had descended."

Draco huffed with annoyance, but his mother was firm. "I understand your skepticism, Draco, but now is not the time for such matters. We will erect a headstone in the family cemetery this summer after you return from Hogwarts. In the meantime, you will stay at Hogwarts as the Dark Lord has commanded—I cannot do anything about that. But I implore you—find out what your father's life truly was and carefully consider your own future."

"You would have me throw off the Dark Lord?" Draco demanded incredulously. "Should I betray everything my father stood for?"

"You don't know half of what your father stood for," Narcissa snapped. She then took a deep breath to calm herself. "Draco, I know very well what your loyalties and opinions are, and I know that I will never be persuaded away from them." Narcissa's eyes misted over and she appeared to fight for composure. "All I ask is that you act very carefully. Your father is gone. You are all that I have left of him. I do not want to lose you. Please do not do anything to put yourself in danger."

Even after the fact, Draco could hardly believe the way his mother had acted. She seemed almost condemning of his father's actions, and Draco felt that he hardly knew her.

He had intended to avoid the newspapers, wishing to consciously eschew any information of how the press and the Wizengamot had portrayed his father's life, but he found out that his curiosity could not be suppressed. To say that he was surprised at some of the things to which the newspaper alluded would be correct, but after he thought about it, he knew that his father had been right. Muggles and Mudbloods and the like—not excepting those who supported them—were a plague on society. They need to be exorcised in any way possible. In fact, he shared much the same problem as his father had, with respect to the existence of a certain infuriating Mudblood…

No, regardless of what the newspaper said, or what his mother would not come out and say, he, Draco Malfoy, would remember Lucius Malfoy as the great man and loving father he had been. He would give no credence whatsoever to the words his enemies had used. He would be true to his father and to the Dark Lord, and he would ensure, to the best of his abilities, that his father's vision of the future of the magical world was realized.

And that included his own personal vengeance. For he knew who was to blame for these events: Potter. It was time the Halfblood began to pay for his sins. About the only good thing to come of the day was the fact that the Headmaster had excused them from their detentions that evening in deference to their losses. It was perfect, as it allowed Draco the time to perfect his plan.

So that evening when his friends approached him, Draco put them off. Crabbe and Goyle had almost identical expressions of incomprehension mixed with anger, while Nott's eyes were visibly reddened. Draco did not begrudge him the release of his emotions, but he had refused to give in to them himself. Rage was a much more useful tool than sadness or despair.

"You lot will do nothing," Draco snapped when Nott asked him what they were going to do about it, for about the third time, though Draco had not been paying enough attention to count. "Dumbledore still controls Hogwarts, so the less you know of the matter, the better."

"We're not just going to let this slide, Draco," Theo said coldly.

"No, we're not. But I am the one who will respond. The rest of you need to keep your noses clean and make sure you don't jeopardize the plan."

His friends appeared to be less than happy with his insistence, but Draco did not care at this point. They would just have to put up with it. As for Draco, it was time he reminded Potter just who he was dealing with. Potter's education would be very painful. Draco knew just how to begin it.

Had anyone been looking into his eyes at that moment, they would have seen a startling resemblance to his father in their depths. Yes, Draco Malfoy was more like his father than anyone could have predicted.

"I can't believe they really executed them," Harry exclaimed as he read the headline emblazoned on the front of the special edition of the Daily Prophet.

Hermione threw her copy of the paper down with some disgust. "Given some of the things they did, they certainly deserve it."

"I know," Harry replied while gesturing at the paper. "But you know how corrupt the Wizengamot is. I thought they would just be sent to Azkaban. It wouldn't be the first time Lucky Lucy avoided paying for his crimes."

"I think that once they knew just exactly what the Death Eaters had done, no one in the chamber could risk voting for them," Fleur said quietly. "Any right thinking person would be sickened at the atrocities these men committed."

"I guess I know why Voldemort was so mad."

It had come just after dinner time—the intense feeling of rage and disbelief, which made its way through Harry's Occlumency. He had become proficient enough at it that generally he was able to shut Voldemort out, but he was still affected at times by intense emotions. There had been more and more of that as of late, to be honest, almost as though Voldemort was losing his carefully kept control of his emotions. It was a good thing he had not discovered this connection, though Harry was certain that it had been a close thing a time or two. He shuddered to think of what the man would do if he ever discovered it.

"Malfoy's going to be even more dangerous than usual," Ron commented quietly from the opposite side of the table.

Harry's eyes turned almost involuntarily to the Slytherin table, but Malfoy and his friends were not there. In fact, they had not come down to dinner at all, and had been very little in evidence since the fracas in the Slytherin common room.

"We'll have to watch him carefully," Harry replied, looking at his friends carefully. "Now that he doesn't have daddy to run to he might take matters into his own hands."

A murmur of agreement swept through those nearby and the matter was dropped for the time being, in favor of continuing to peruse the information contained in the prophet. It did not go into any specific detail, Harry noted, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Lucius Malfoy and his cronies had been sadistic, murdering bastards, and the world was a much better place without them.

But Harry would not lie to himself. Voldemort had plenty more sadistic, murdering bastards at his beck and call. There would be a response to this. It would happen soon.

Lord Voldemort prided himself in his intelligence, and his calm, rational manner, and his ability to think his way through potential problems. He was feared, it was true, and he did not suffer fools willingly, nor was he patient with egregious failure. His followers were aware of this, and it helped motivate them to complete the tasks with which they were entrusted quickly and efficiently.

However, he was also careful in distributing punishment to those who failed him, only truly punishing those who deserved it due to negligence or lack of effort. It did not do to overly terrorize those who had given him their allegiance. It was bad for morale and encouraged desertions, diverting valuable resources to hunt down those who deserted. He could not tolerate disloyalty, after all.

That was why the sight of a Dark Lord completely in a rage, distributing torture curses to all who came within his line of vision was so surprising to his underlings. Though in all honesty, it might have been predicted, given the events of the day.

Once his followers had learned not to bother him, Voldemort sat on his throne in solitary silence as he brooded, infuriated over the fate of his followers. He was amazed, frankly, that Dumbledore had played the situation in this manner. He would not have thought the old man had it in him to condemn so many men to death, despite their actions. Had Cornelius Fudge still occupied the Minister's office, he doubted that such a sentence would have been imposed. The fact that it had been his own impulsive action which had resulted in Fudge's tenure ending did not make the bitter pill any easier to swallow.

Voldemort's plan had been a simple one. Wait for the Wizengamot to convict the men, sentence them to Azkaban, and then swoop in and release them once again. He had done it before—he was supremely confident he could do it again.

Now he was left without most of his inner circle, as most of his senior Death Eaters had been involved in the Ministry operation. It was a serious blow to his efforts—men such as they would be difficult to replace, as their replacements would not have the history he shared with the men they were replacing. Their replacements would have to be trained to anticipate his desires. It was a headache, especially when he should be preparing to take over magical Britain.

But he would not allow this setback to stop him. He had faced greater challenges in the past and been able to overcome them—this was no different. The Ministry was still in flux after the election for the new Minister. Perhaps the time had now come to put into motion the plan he had conceived during his exile. Yes, the world must feel the effects of his displeasure, and know that to cross him was to invite his wrath.

He looked up and noted Bellatrix standing by the entrance watching him silently. With the deaths of the others, Bellatrix was now his closest and most trusted advisor. Severus was one other, but his position at Hogwarts demanded distance, and with the fiasco at the Ministry his information was now suspect. Oh, Voldemort did not doubt his loyalty—those who came to him did not escape—but it appeared that Dumbledore had perhaps caught on to the fact that his loyal spy was perhaps not quite so loyal as he had thought. Every piece of information Severus brought him from this time forward must now be handled with the greatest of care.

There was no such need with Bellatrix. She had always been his most loyal and fanatical follower. Even now, when the others had run from his righteous rage, she stood there calmly, waiting patiently for his control to reassert itself. He knew that she would accept a torture curse from him gladly if he deemed it necessary, even though she was still recovering from the injuries she had sustained at the Ministry. None other could compare with her.

"Bellatrix," he called softly.

"My Lord," she replied, as she approached him, almost seeming to float in the air.

"It is time to show the world the consequences of defiance. I believe the take over of magical Britain will now proceed."

Bella bowed her head her eyes alight with fanatical glee. "The Ministry will fall, My my Lord. I promise you."

"Very well."

Once more Bellatrix bowed and then turned to leave, her steps swift and sure—purposeful. If all of those in his ranks had been as competent and eager as Bellatrix, he would have prevailed long ago.

But they were not, and it would not do to forget that the lot of them were nothing more than tools to do with as he pleased. Now, that was true more than ever, as those who had been with him the longest had been put to death.

Forcibly, Voldemort turned his thoughts away, pondering what the Blood Traitor Sirius Black had said as Lucius Malfoy had been led to the veil. The allusion to the prophecy filled Voldemort with rage once again at being thwarted. It truly was unfortunate that the prophecy had been lost, for Voldemort was certain that it contained information vital to his cause. It was possible, perhaps, that one of Dumbledore's associates could be… persuaded to reveal what they knew of it. But that would mean he would need one of them to fall into his hands. Black was protected while he was at Hogwarts, and an abduction by one of his forces, while possible, was fraught with many risks for uncertain benefit, given Dumbledore's propensity for keeping his knowledge secret. Other than Black, Voldemort was not certain that anyone else would have been trusted with the information. No, despite how important the prophecy was, Voldemort would only attempt to have an abduction undertaken if the situation became untenable and the knowledge became obviously essential.

The fact was that those who supported Potter must be made to pay. They must all be made to pay, and the sooner, the better.

Updated 05/29/2014