Chapter 5: Rita Skeeter

Draco had only two nights left in Nuovo Nora. Low-lying panic settled in his gut. He would go home with Mum and Father on Wednesday, and Blaise wouldn't be along to Britain until nearly a week later.

"We should probably tell the other boys before Theo's birthday," Blaise said to Draco while they walked hand in hand around the village. "Mamma told me we'll have to be considerate at the party."

"Yeah," Draco agreed, since Nott always had a sleepover. "My parents said we should sort out what the dorm is going to be like too. I hope the others won't care if we ever sleep in the same bed."

"If even just on weekends, or after they've left in the mornings. . ."

The days leading up to Wednesday morning dissolved like candy floss in water. Draco's chest had started to feel raw at dinner the night before, and he didn't sleep very well. He and Blaise stood apart from their parents in the front courtyard, fingers entwined as the last few minutes ticked away.

"You'll write me?" Blaise asked.

Draco nodded. "I'll let you know what everyone says. I don't know if there'll be much point to replying, for time."

"Probably not," Blaise said. "But I might write anyway."

Draco pressed his lips in a smile, wishing they weren't in view of their parents. "Maybe you could come visit Monday."

"I'll ask, but I don't know." Blaise glanced toward the adults. "Mamma wants to spend time together before I'm off to school. Theo's birthday and the Quidditch World Cup already cut into that."

"But your family is coming to the Cup."

Blaise glumly shrugged.

"Maybe it would be different if I came to yours?" Draco asked.

"We'll see—"

"Draco," Father called. "You've one minute for the Portkey."

"Fuck," Draco quietly whispered to Blaise, squeezing his hand.

"I'll miss you," Blaise said.

"I'll miss you too. I'll be thinking about you."

Blaise started to smile, but it disappeared when Father spoke again: "Thirty seconds. Come on."

Draco decided he didn't care what any of their parents might see. It was more important that he and Blaise get one last kiss. Blaise was of similar mind, melting into it with him.

"Ten seconds!"

The kiss broke, and Draco jogged across the courtyard. He very carefully avoided meeting any of the adults' eyes. After grabbing the metal hoop his parents held onto, Draco looked back at Blaise. He'd only just raised his hand for one final farewell when he was yanked away by that spot behind his navel.

It was raining at the manor, and didn't seem like it would stop any time soon. Draco felt as unmotivated with his summer homework as Father probably did poring over ledgers in the office. The ink on Draco's quill ended up drying as he stared blankly out the window. The raindrops that washed up against it sounded in mirrored patters against the chamber skylights. Draco's fireplace crackled, and he sighed. It would have been a perfectly dreary day to spend laid up with Blaise.

Thinking about him, Draco gave up his homework as a bad job. He pushed his Herbology aside and dug out some writing paper. He made three copies—one each for Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle:

My parents and I are back from Italy. I've too much to tell you about everything Blaise and I did to put into a note, but you ought to know that we've decided to go together.

Draco took the notes to the owlery and felt bad for sending some of the owls out into the downpour. Juno was the first to return.

"Come inside," Draco told her.

With a grateful coo, Juno headed for the perch above Draco's fireplace. Draco read Nott's reply: That's cool. In that case, do I WANT to know what you and Blaise did while you were there?

Draco laughed to himself. He quilled his response: Don't be stupid. That would be private if we HAD done anything like that. Prat.

Crabbe and Goyles' responses weren't much different, although were delayed. They had family in from abroad, to be hosted at the Crabbe household until they were all due to head for the Quidditch World Cup. Draco only had a chance to skim their notes over while he dressed on Friday morning to head into London with his parents.

Mum and Father waited for him in the lobby. Both looked Draco over, then softened as Draco apparently passed the bar on having made himself presentable for the function they were due to attend.

Father took Draco by the elbow to Apparate. They arrived somewhere about as white as the manor lobby, although much brighter. Next to where they had appeared was a sign:

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Sixth Floor - Administration

A hubbub sounded from ahead and around a corner. Someone turned it from the other direction. It was Mr Fudge, who lit up and removed his bowler hat. His steps turned more purposeful, the click of his shoes echoing off the blinding walls.

"Lucius." Mr Fudge extended his hand to shake. "I was hoping to greet you upon arrival."

"Cornelius," Father replied.

"And Narcissa, always lovely, always lovely," Mr Fudge said to Mum as she was greeted with a clasp of hands and pair of air kisses. When Mr Fudge turned next to Draco, he beamed. "And, of course, the young man of the hour! Your father intimated to me that the Firebolt due to be won today was initially meant as a gift to you!"

A shadow of the guilt that led to this situation reemerged.

"Yes, sir," Draco said as his arm was wrenched.

Fudge steered Draco toward the din of conversation ahead. "Only fourteen years old, and already a philanthropist in the making. You've followed rather closely in your father's footsteps, haven't you?"

Draco looked over at Father, whose warm smile and raised chin spelled pride. "Yes, sir."

The adults kept on speaking, and Draco separated from them as they arrived at the conference hall. It was about the size of the manor's ballroom. There were around a hundred people present. All of them seemed to be Mum and Father's age or older. Except—

Grinning, Draco took a roundabout way to the other side of the room. Standing over by the food and drinks were Daphne and Astoria. They idly chatted, although Daphne perked when she spotted Draco.

"There you are!" Daphne said. "We knew you couldn't be much longer."

Draco slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. "All right?"

"Bored, honestly," Astoria sighed.

"Then go bug Grandma," Daphne pointedly told her.

"But!" Astoria frowned indignantly. "Ugh!"

She stomped off toward Mrs Greengrass. Daphne resumed her easy smile and turned back to Draco, idly stirring her sparkling juice with a straw. "How was Italy?"

"Good." Draco hesitated, then looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Really good."

"So. . .?" Daphne's grin was audible.

Draco fended off shy excitement. Daphne was Blaise's best girl friend, so it mattered to him that she approve. "Blaise and I are going together."

"Ooh, I'm so happy for you!" Daphne brought Draco into a one-armed hug. "You'll have to tell me—!"

Click!

A light flashed very close by, leaving spots in Draco's vision. He knew a camera when he saw one, although didn't know the man holding it. Draco was about to make a remark about whether or not the man had actually been invited when someone else's hand shot out to him. The nails on it were very long and painted a deep green.

"Hello," said the woman attached to the hand, her grin wide and framed by blonde, curly hair. "Rita Skeeter, special correspondent with the Daily Prophet. You must be the boy of the hour!"

Draco blinked at her, then looked at Daphne. Her smile had disappeared. Draco's went with it, for it shouldn't be broadly known that the Firebolt was meant to be his.

"Says who?" he asked, although he had a feeling that he already knew.

Rita's grin remained as she lowered her hand. "A source told me there was a story behind this contest—or, they almost told me. Then they realized they'd perhaps said too much."

"My father purchased the Firebolt." Draco carefully chose his words. "All the money people spent on tickets to win it is going to the hospital."

"And what compelled your father to purchase the Firebolt in the first place?" Rita popped open the clasp on her handbag. "This is a break from his usual giving patterns. It seems notable to me, given that his only son plays Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Did your father not want to levy an even chance against your competition? I've heard that Harry Potter in particular is quite the capable player."

Daphne looked just as uncertain as Draco felt in how she held her straw between her lips. Draco didn't think she was actually drinking.

"I fly a Nimbus 2001," Draco said. "It's a good broom."

"Of course, of course." Rita sounded like she no longer cared about that. An acid green quill floated in midair over a levitating piece of parchment. Rita's gaze shifted to Daphne. "But this does give me déjà vu, seeing a young Malfoy run around with a pretty little blonde—"

"Daphne isn't my girlfriend," Draco retorted, starting to grow cross. "She's a Greengrass, and you don't know why she's at St Mungo's? What kind of reporter are you?"

A few things happened in quick succession. Rita's grin fell, her green quill stopped moving, and the parchment it wrote on went suddenly flying past the left side of Draco's head. He stiffened when a hand came to rest between his shoulder blades.

Mum stood at Draco's side, her other hand curled up at her sternum. The piece of parchment was crinkled in her grasp, reduced to a small ball.

"Hello, Rita," Mum greeted her with a strange coldness to her genial tone. "It's so lovely to see you."

Rita's grin returned, although her quill had vanished. "Why, Narcissa! It has been such a terribly long time!"

"It has," Mum confirmed. "I didn't realize you were back in the country already. I would have expected Helsinki to provide much more material for you than the articles I've read."

"Well, the ICW General Assembly only runs for two weeks," Rita replied, seeming more at ease. "It's very much a blink-and-miss-it affair, although I have more yet to submit for publication. Today is a fun little break. Lucius must be around?"

"Trapped in conversation with the Minister, Stella Haywood, and Claudia, by the looks of it," Mum said, craning over that way. "They were just discussing the final numbers for how many tickets were purchased for the Firebolt. Do you think Claudia will wonder why you aren't getting that information? Presumably that's where the story is today, unless Draco and Daphne are doing something more interesting?"

With the small sort of smile Mum might wear while opening a gift, she unfolded the parchment in her hand. Draco looked down at the even, neat cursive left behind by Rita's quill, and was surprised by how much it had written: Young Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and spitting image of his allegedly-redeemed father Lucius, already slates to follow his footsteps in another regard. He has taken a hard and fast fancy to the eldest of Gareth and Aquila Greengrass' granddaughters—

Mum crushed the parchment back down before Draco could read any further.

"The usual rot, I see," Mum said as nicely as she had anything else. "I trust there are no photos of my son on that camera roll, Rita?"

"Oh—no! No, of course not!" Beside Rita, the photographer jumped slightly and winced; Draco looked down to see that she had stomped on his foot. "He might have been captured in the background of one—simple crowd photos—"

"But surely you must have taken enough photos of the adults present to field your piece's needs?"

"Undoubtedly—"

"Then I shouldn't keep you any longer." Mum's smile broadened, and her eyes squinted the same way Father's did whenever he and Dumbledore were within glaring distance of one another. "Neither shall Draco."

"Yes, thank you." Rita glanced at her photographer. "Let's go, Bozo."

The two of them bustled away, Rita's rigid curls bouncing and her heels clicking with the speed and intent of her. Mum blocked sight of Rita by standing between them. Her hand remained on Draco's arm, and all pretence of her false niceties had vanished.

"Do not speak to that woman," Mum told Draco. "Not a word—not even to deny whatever questions she's asked you. Just walk away, should she ever confront you again."

"Erm. . ." Draco glanced at Daphne, who looked a little awkward. "All right."

Mum gave him a genuine smile then, along with an affectionate squeeze. She left, and Draco's confusion deepened. Daphne was back to sipping idly at her straw, her gaze across the room to where Rita Skeeter now stood with her arms crossed while Bozo did something with his camera.

"That was weird," Draco said.

"Really weird," Daphne agreed. "That woman is scared of your mum."

"Think so?" Draco pursed his lips. "That might be wise, honestly. I've seen my mum in a protective mood. I wonder if she's run into her before."

"She must have." Daphne walked beside Draco as he migrated toward the refreshments, intent to get a drink for himself. "They sounded like they knew each other, and I've heard of Rita Skeeter before. My mum said something about treating her like you would the fey, but now I'm not so sure she was joking."

"The fey?" Draco repeated, thinking back to the silly bedtime tales he'd been told as a child. "Like not giving them your real name, and—? Oh, I suppose that makes sense."

"What had she written, anyway?"

Draco sipped the sparkling juice he'd gotten, the ice cubes clinking together. "That I fancy you."

Their gazes met, and they both snorted.

"You slag," Daphne said, then paled slightly. "That could have been really bad if she published that and Blaise saw it."

Draco's stomach took a nasty tumble, so bad that the aftertaste of his juice turned sour. "Yeah."

Daphne looked past Draco's shoulder when someone else approached the table. "Let's find somewhere more private to talk."

"Not too private." Draco couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Next thing you know, we'll have eloped."

"Don't even joke!" Daphne said.

St Mungo's' administration level had two storeys. The upper level overlooked the main floor. Draco and Daphne ended up leaning on the railing outside of Daphne's grandmother's office. Daphne grinned and occasionally gasped with excitement as Draco gave her the blow by blow about his time in Nuovo Nora. She blushed along with Draco when he told her about Dante's party (although skimmed the greater details on him and Blaise kissing afterward, as per Blaise's request).

"Wow," Daphne said with a sigh when Draco finished. "That's so romantic."

"It's the whole place, really." Draco flashed her a grin. "I wish I was still there. I could've stayed forever."

"No kidding!" Daphne looked to her other side as Astoria sidled up. "You couldn't stay with him until Sunday?"

"No. . ." Draco sighed. "Mrs Zabini wanted time with him."

"What's all this about?" Astoria asked. "Blaise Zabini? He's hot."

Draco smirked, chin raised. "And off-limits."

Daphne snorted, while Astoria blinked fuzzily at Draco. She spread into a slow, teasing grin. "Ooooh, you've been snogging!"

"Something like that," Draco replied with, which he immediately regretted as Astoria giggled red-faced behind her hands. "We're going together, is what I mean."

"Oh!"

"If I could have your attention, please!" came a voice from below. Mr Fudge stood on the small stage that had been set up, along with Father, Mrs Vane, Healer Haywood, and another woman Draco recognized as Willow Sweeting from Wizarding Wireless News. "The time has come to make the draw, to see who will be collecting on the prize at hand. Whenever you're ready, Willow."

Miss Sweeting stood at one end of the table, where a radio transmitter had been set up. "My cue should come shortly, Minister."

Draco watched her along with everyone else in silence, and had to admire how little all of that focus bothered her.

A small puff of red smoke emerged from the transmitter, and Miss Sweeting started to speak. "Thank you, Liv. In just a few moments, the strike of noon will be upon us, and the Daily Prophet's Firebolt raffle will be considered officially closed. I'm joined here at St Mungo's by Cornelius Fudge, our Minister for Magic; Claudia Vane, Editor-in-Chief for the Daily Prophet; Stella Haywood, Chief of Staff at St Mungo's; and Lucius Malfoy, who donated the Firebolt in question. Claudia, would you please tell our listeners what the response to the raffle has been? And to what result?"

Miss Sweeting had been holding something in her hand, which she passed over to Mrs Vane. Although it didn't need to be spoken into to broadcast the holder's voice, Mrs Vane still held it near her sternum. "The response has been rather overwhelming, to say the least. With tickets priced at five Galleons a piece for a broomstick valued at seven-hundred and fifty, it offered someone the chance to own something they might otherwise never have the opportunity—spare their landing a spot on a national or international Quidditch team. The final total of tickets sold was twelve-hundred and forty-two—for a grand total of six-thousand, two-hundred, and ten Galleons raised."

Draco clapped along with everyone else in the room, and had to agree when Daphne let out a low, impressed whistle beside him. When they all subsided, Miss Sweeting spoke again. She'd taken the handheld back from Mrs Vane.

"Thank you, Claudia," Miss Sweeting said. "Lucius, you must be very proud to have sourced this much in funds for such a good cause."

"Well, of course," Father said when he accepted the handheld from her. He spoke in that light tone that always made Draco smile, and this time was no exception. "I'm humbled by the interest this contest has drawn, although I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. The prize is a much-coveted one, and proceeds going to a worthy institution is always an extra push for those who wish to participate. That said. . ." He paused. "I am not a man to be outdone, and that includes by the generosity of others. In addition to having provided the Firebolt up for grabs, I will match the Galleon amount raised."

Draco hadn't expected Father to do that, so his jaw was one of many in the room to fall. He grinned while clapping with everyone else.

"Then I suppose," Miss Sweeting said, since she had the handheld again, "that puts the total amount raised to twelve-thousand, four-hundred, and twenty Galleons."

There was more applause, which Miss Sweeting waited to subside.

"Stella," she addressed Healer Haywood, "would you like to tell us what these funds will be going toward?"

Because Draco didn't know the ins and outs of St Mungo's, his attention drifted as Healer Haywood talked about things like rare ingredient procurement, floor expansions, research funding, and the Janus Thickey Ward. He stood up a bit straighter when finally the time came to draw the winner of the Firebolt. Draco experienced a ball of fear that someone he might play against in Quidditch at school would win it.

The name announced wasn't one Draco knew, though. He sighed in relief.

Daphne nudged him. "We might as well go down, huh? It'll all be over now."

People started to file out. Mum and Father were still up by the stage with today's other big names.

". . .you simply must," Mr Fudge was saying to Mum and Father as Draco came into hearing range. "I refuse to take no for an answer! It's the least I could do, and I would think it a reward fitting for the occasion!"

"Now, now, Cornelius, we didn't do this for a material reward—"

"Of course not," Mr Fudge said. "Regardless, those seats will have your names on it. I expect them to be filled."

Mr Fudge wordlessly shook Draco's hand when he approached. Then, he was gone.

"What was that about?" Draco asked Mum and Father. "Seats for what?"

"The Quidditch World Cup." Father laid an arm around Draco's shoulders as they headed for the Apparation exit. "He's reserving us three seats in the Top Box."

Draco perked, and then deflated a little. Of course Blaise would take one of the other ones. How would Draco pick who took the third, though? He'd hate to leave any of his friends out. On the other hand, which of his friends wouldn't mind playing third wheel? Probably not Nott after the fuss he'd made about Draco and Justin meeting up over Easter. . .

Father sighed when he and Draco had returned to the manor house lobby. "Well? How do you feel?"

"Good," Draco said. "I think."

"You think?" Father glanced at Mum when she popped into the room.

Draco shrugged. "No—I feel good. I'd have liked the broom, but. . .I did the right thing."

"You did a good thing." Mum held Draco's head while pressing a kiss to his temple. "That was a substantial amount of money that St Mungo's wouldn't have had otherwise."

"Come with me a moment, Draco." Father took a step toward the office. "There's more for you to learn yet, today."

Curious, Draco followed. Grandfather's portrait stirred, watching as Father led Draco behind the desk.

Father pulled the chair out. "Sit."

Draco hesitated. "There?"

"Yes."

Father smirked, and Grandfather's portrait looked on with intense curiosity. Draco sat down, and Father pushed him up flush to the desk.

Father leaned over the back of the chair. "Open the August ledger, there. You'll need a quill."

Draco couldn't believe Father was going to let him write something in it. His right hand shook a little as he opened the ink.

"Do you remember last summer, I showed you how donations are tracked separately from everything else?" Father asked, indicating that labelled column. It was thus far empty for the month. "Find the box for the twelfth."

Each date for the month filled the left-most column. Draco followed the row with his finger until he came to the donation column.

"And now write '6-2-1-0' in there," Father instructed him.

"Galleons?" Grandfather's portrait piped up.

"Go on," Father told Draco when he hesitated.

Draco dipped his quill and glanced up at Grandfather's portrait before neatly writing the number. The ink dried, and some other numbers in the ledger rearranged themselves. At the bottom, the number that Draco remembered was called net income turned red.

"What's that mean?" Draco asked.

"It means more money has been spent than earned, considering August as a whole so far."

Draco's stomach soured. "Is that bad?"

"No," Father replied. "It's all right to happen once in a while. It's when you have month after month of negative net income that one must begin to grow concerned. Of course, our total vault amounts are so large that it would take decades to run out of gold, even at this rate. Charity is practically an investment, anyway."

"How?"

Before Father could speak, Grandfather's portrait did. "What a relief that Draco is more inquisitive than you ever were, although it pleases me to discover you were actually listening when I walked you through all this."

Father briefly closed his eyes, face tense. He kept on speaking to Draco as if Grandfather hadn't said anything: "Donating money gives people a positive opinion of you. They're more likely to do business with you, which means you make more money."

"Right," Draco quietly said. At Father's mention of a positive opinion, he remembered a snippet of what Rita Skeeter had written: allegedly-redeemed. "Because people used to not think much of our family?"

Father raised an eyebrow, like a silent enquiry.

"You told me that," Draco suddenly recalled. "Before I went away to school."

Father idly rubbed his left forearm through his sleeve. "That's right. Our reputation was damaged after the war."

"Why is Rita Skeeter scared of Mum?" Draco asked. "Does that have something to do with it?"

"Scared of your mother?" Father repeated, furrowing his brow again.

"She was trying to talk to me and Daphne," Draco said. "Mum came over and scared her off."

Grandfather's portrait made a noise of disgust. "Rita Skeeter. I told you, Lucius, you ought to have poisoned her when you had the chance—"

"That's enough," Father snapped at Grandfather. "One more word, and you'll be Silenced."

With a scoff, Grandfather walked out of his portrait.

"We give a lot of money to the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly. . ." Father pinched his nose, irritated, "the publications that normally host Rita's writings. She would know it less than prudent to cross me or your mother for the possibility we cut back on those givings. It wouldn't be difficult to lean on Claudia Vane, or on Zoe Carter at Witch Weekly, to blacklist Rita."

Draco considered all of that, trying to make it line up with what had happened at St Mungo's. "So why would she even try to write something about us that wasn't to do with the Firebolt?"

"Knowing her, she was probably just digging." Father scoffed, which sounded similar to Grandfather's. "Dirt is dirt, even if she doesn't publish it."

That made Draco nervous. He could think of a few family secrets that could not, under any circumstances, ever get out.

"Is there anything I need to be quiet about?" Draco asked. "Mum said not to talk to Rita, and I won't, but are there any family secrets I've been told that need to stay that way?"

The longer Father considered him, the more antsy Draco grew.

"The only thing really coming to mind is what I used to do for the Dark Lord," Father said. "It's common enough knowledge, but it doesn't need attention drawn to it."

"Ginny Weasley wrote in her diary that people say you lied about being in a trance."

"People like her father, is what she likely meant." Father scoffed again.

"Is that what you're talking about?"

Father gave a small nod.

"So you did lie about the trance?"

"Yes," Father said. "Because doing so was the only way to avoid spending the rest of my life in Azkaban."

Draco tried to imagine what life would have been like, if Father had. That Draco wouldn't have ever heard Father's voice or seen his face outside of portraits brought a lump to his throat.

"They would have sent you there?" Draco asked. "You did things bad enough to deserve it?"

That Father paused wasn't a good indication toward the answer. "I never killed anyone with my own hand, but I was associated with a group that did a lot of terrible things. I served someone who killed, tortured—you name it, the Dark Lord did it. I certainly had my part in why some people did not survive the war. Some names I know, because I could see how things unfolded from my actions."

"So. . ."

"So there was no mercy to be had," Father said. "At the same time, no real interest in dismantling how the Death Eaters came to exist in the first place. Put them all away, lock them up, and forget about them. That was the goal."

"Just. . .make them sit in Azkaban with the Dementors?"

Father nodded. "Like plenty of Death Eaters have done, for the last thirteen years. Make them sit there. Make them suffer. Destroy what remains of their humanity. Leave them a shell—a husk—with no hope of ever being well enough to live free again. Not that they would be allowed, mind."

Draco's face had drawn up into a grimace. "What's the point of that?"

"To be cruel."

"Nothing else?"

Father shook his head.

"Why not just kill them then?"

"Because you can't suffer if you're dead."

Try as he might, Draco couldn't get past the lack of point. To punish, obviously, but Draco walked away from his punishments with a lesson and opportunity to do better. He very rarely ever repeated a mistake. When he did, he caught himself. Draco corrected himself.

"There's a great irony to the whole thing," Father said. "I probably deserved some sort of punishment following the war. However, walking free was more conducive to becoming what would be deemed a better person. I had the chance to divorce myself from Death Eater ideology—rather, to realize there hadn't been one to begin with. It was whatever any of the Dark Lord's followers brought to the table, so long as it mutually benefited him."

Draco hummed. "But then what about the people in Azkaban? Isn't that just. . .a waste?"

"It is."

"I really don't get it."

Father chuckled, although it leaned toward mirthless. "Humans fall into the trapping of being human all the time. People can be cruel, but they're also capable of recognizing that. They're capable of feeling guilty about it. Given the proper opportunity, they can be truly remorseful. They can then do something with that remorse."

"Maybe it's harder if you've hurt people," Draco said. "If you've killed."

"Certainly," Father agreed. "Do you want to know another sad part about it?"

Draco shrugged, unable to say yes for his curiosity or no for his discomfort about the topic.

"Despite my having realized this, I can't say a word about it in a public setting, or within the Ministry." Father's smile was thin. "When I was allowed to walk free, our justice system effectively bought my silence. Do you understand why?"

"Because if you said anything about remorse or whatever, they would know you lied about being in a trance," Draco said. "And they would just toss you into Azkaban."

"Exactly."

"So then there's no hope for the people who did go to Azkaban."

"No."

"They just go mad, and then they die."

"That's all they have to look forward to."

"So you think they'd be better off if they'd gone free too?"

"Well, sure, although society is better off with them kept separate from us," Father said. "But we could do better, don't you think?"

Draco couldn't imagine being locked up like that. It had been bad enough that summer between first and second year. That was two months. What would Draco have been like after years of that?

His continued attempt to make sense of it all was cut short by Father sighing.

"This wasn't what I meant to discuss with you," he said. "I only meant for you to add today's donation to the ledger."

Draco shrugged. As dismal and confusing the topic had been, he didn't mind talking about it. He liked it when Father was this open and honest with him.

"I might go for a fly," Draco replied as he stood. "See you."

It wasn't until later that Draco realized he'd never asked Father why he joined the Death Eaters in the first place. Maybe, came the thought to follow as Draco ruminated further on everything to do with Azkaban, there were some things better off not knowing.