Valour and vigour,
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VII. Consensus
Gideon Cunningham had a particular disdain for disorganisation. He was a man who found satisfaction in order and structure. He had learned from experience that last-minute assemblies of the Sacred Coven were seldom auspicious.
The owl arrived the previous night at twenty-two minutes past ten, just as he was preparing to sleep. In keeping with his life's strictures, Gideon adhered to a stringent evening ritual. He brushed his teeth, set aside fifteen minutes to converse with his wife, Catriona, read a few pages of his current book, and then snuffed out the candle that lit the room before falling asleep.
Gideon received the late-night missive sealed with the Minister of Magic's official stamp. The word 'Urgent' was stamped on the envelope, summoning him to a mandatory meeting the next day at precisely fourteen hundred hours. His meticulously crafted evening ritual had been thrown into disarray. He found himself needing to make drastic changes to the next day's schedule to accommodate the meeting. Consequently, he spent the remainder of his evening contemplating the necessity of such an urgent gathering.
Gideon spared little thought for Catriona, who seemed irritated by his indifference towards her recent excursion to Scarlet Promenade. She had declared as urgent the search for a perfect coating for the aviary on their sprawling Yorkshire estate.
The following morning saw Gideon rising an hour ahead of his usual time. Upon entering the headquarters of Magicore, the company he led, he was met with curious glances from employees at every turn. Bereft of surprises, Gideon's life was governed by inflexible rituals—a fact well-known to all who interacted with him.
His anxiety lessened slightly after a brief meeting with his assistant to reschedule his various appointments. By late morning, he allowed himself a brief repast in his spacious but minimally adorned office. Gideon loathed busy interiors. He preferred to work in a clean, bright, and uncluttered environment. The room's only decoration was a striking family portrait of himself, Catriona, and their son Magnus. Beneath the portrait, spaced letters spelled out the Cunningham motto:
- Through Labour, Everlasting Solace -
A few hours later, Gideon made his way to the Ministry of Magic's Hall, escorted by two Aurors. He found his responsibilities as Governor particularly burdensome. He allocated only the minimum necessary hours to it, focusing instead on Magicore's grand and revolutionary work. He was eager to hand over this mantle of responsibility to his son, Magnus.
In contrast to his father, Gideon had never taken pleasure in politics. It was his sister, Cressida, who had inherited the inclination for the subject. From a young age, she had been attracted to the corridors of power and had eagerly hoped to become a Governor herself one day. The opportunity had presented itself sooner than expected for Cressida. By marrying Casparus Warrington, the heir to another sacred dynasty, she had gained the coveted status through a change of family allegiance. Unsurprisingly, Cressida steered the course of her marriage just as she did in all other facets of her life.
The meeting took place in a secret chamber within the Department of Mysteries. Typically, the Coven convened no more than once per quarter, primarily to ratify new legislation. However, in recent months, these gatherings had become more frequent, mirroring the turbulent political landscape.
Upon entering a spacious chamber in the Department of Mysteries, Gideon found most of the Coven's governors already seated around an impressive burnt-wood table. He seated himself between his older sister, Cressida Warrington, and Georgius Greengrass.
"Pure be the blood," Gideon murmured by way of greeting.
"Victorious be his coming," Greengrass replied, his attention distractedly fixed on a two-way mirror.
As he absentmindedly stirred his teaspoon in the teacup, he furrowed his thick black eyebrows. With his closed-off face and harsh features, Georgius Greengrass's perpetually cross expression left no doubt that he was a busy man. A titan in the realm of real estate, he commanded the country's most influential property company.
"What has prompted this unscheduled meeting?" he grumbled, his thick fingers tapping impatiently on the edge of his two-way mirror.
To Georgius Greengrass, time was nothing less than currency. When it came to enriching himself, he showed unparalleled creativity. His latest masterstroke involved capitalising on the housing bubble, acquiring extensive tracts of land in modest London neighbourhoods. He had erected towering buildings, filled with tiny flats akin to Hippogriff cages. Unbloodeds were relegated to these squalid constructions, enduring precarious conditions for the illusion of affordable rent.
"Must be something major," Gideon said, shooting an anxious glance around the room.
Given the governors' hectic schedules, assembling them all was no mean feat. Last-minute meetings of this type often brought their share of problems. Especially so when summoned by Kingsley Shacklebolt.
The door swung open abruptly to admit the Minister for Magic himself, followed by Bellatrix Lestrange, the Prosecutor. Kingsley took his seat at the head of the table and cast his dark gaze over the assembly. Upon entering a room, he commanded respect. His peers had often lauded his unflappable composure and steadfast, fair leadership. However, an unusual expression of fatigue marred his typically impassive face.
Bellatrix took her seat between the Minister and her husband, Governor Rodolphus Lestrange. Gideon observed them from the corner of his eye as they exchanged a few words. They were likely the most detestable couple he had ever encountered. If one thing was certain, it was that they were well-matched. Their motto suited them to a tee:
- Through fear, inspire respect -
Governor Rodolphus was the Head of the Auror Office at the Ministry. His iron-fisted leadership, noted for its severity towards crime, was purportedly a deterrent. His wife, Bellatrix, held the position of Prosecutor, representing the government's interests against judicial bodies, notably the Wizengamot. Hers was the regime's second most important role. Undoubtedly, her views on blood purity were the most extreme within the Coven. Bellatrix had spent her entire life blindly idolising Lord Voldemort, sometimes acting as though she had personally known the Dark Lord, who had disappeared long before her birth. She championed extreme measures, such as public executions for Muggle-borns and Dissidents. She also initiated the policy of enforced terminations for Squib pregnancies.
Bellatrix Lestrange was an unfeeling megalomaniac. Gideon regarded her as a high-functioning psychopath, skilled in managing her disorders to maintain a semblance of societal normalcy. Most of the time, this was the case, at least. He had once witnessed a nervous breakdown from her, and the experience had led him to fear this particularly unstable woman.
Whereas his sister Cressida found delight in the political machinations of the regime, Gideon had little patience for the Sacred Coven's political machinations. He was content to fulfill his duties and then retire home to focus on his true calling—his enterprise, Magicore, whose magical innovations grew in significance with each passing year.
"Thank you for accepting the invitation at such short notice," Kingsley intoned, his voice calm yet commanding.
"Invitation?" Cressida murmured skeptically beside Gideon. "Seemed more like a summons to me."
"Nevertheless, the circumstances call for crisis management," Kingsley continued gravely.
A tense silence fell over the room as governors exchanged questioning glances. Kingsley turned his head towards Bellatrix, as if to give her the floor. With a nonchalant yet graceful flick of her wand, an elongated, transparent figure materialized on the long meeting table, hovering inches above the surface. Gideon sat up, straining to recognise the face hovering a foot away.
"In the past week, three Death Eaters have been found dead," Bellatrix stated.
"And is this supposed to be news?" a voice croaked.
Gideon turned his head towards the voice's owner. It was Governor Walburga Black, infamous among her peers for her unwavering negativity and skepticism. As usual, half her face was concealed by an opaque veil, worn perpetually in public since the death of her husband, former Governor Orion Black III. Gideon had had limited dealings with Walburga, known to be a rather unpleasant matriarch. The Blacks were one of the original families of the Sacred Thirteen, and their motto proudly attested to it:
- Toujours Pur -
However, the Black dynasty had lost much of its lustre over the decades, beset by a myriad of scandals. The most recent scandal involved the sudden disappearance of Walburga's son, Sirius. Rumours, never confirmed and vehemently denied by his parents, suggested he had joined the Dissidents opposing the regime.
"She's had no luck with her offspring: a traitor and a sodomite. It's likely the end of the line for the Blacks," Cressida had once confided in Gideon.
Walburga's pride, however, had compelled her to strive to save face. Gideon knew that only the Blacks' illustrious past and bygone grandeur had secured them the Coven's indulgence. It was more diplomatic to await their evidently imminent extinction than to attempt to eject them from the Sacred Thirteen. The other branch of the Black family was now extinct. Walburga's nieces, Bellatrix and Narcissa, had married into other sacred families, automatically transferring their loyalty to their new clans.
"The autopsy reports suggested foul play; the Death Eaters in question had been assassinated," Governor Rosier responded coldly.
Evan Rosier, head of the Security Section — colloquially dubbed the S.S. — led a faction of Death Eaters specialised in identifying and punishing crimes related to blood purity. Gideon noticed Evan clench his jaw, presumably in annoyance.
"The culprits left an inscription on the third Death Eater's body," he continued.
Bellatrix Lestrange waved her wand once more, causing the arm of the translucent body hovering above the table to lift. Above the Dark Mark tattooed on the forearm, words had been carved into the pallid skin.
"Liberty and Dignity," Governor Amara Zabini declared.
Immediately, astonished exclamations erupted from around the table. 'Liberty and Dignity' was a phrase attributed to the Dissidents.
"Enough," thundered Kingsley.
Instantly, the room fell silent.
"Please continue, Rodolphus," Kingsley urged.
"Our spies in the Department of Mysteries have successfully identified and apprehended one of the terrorists after a protracted operation," Rodolphus explained. "We managed to obtain some information before his death."
Gideon surmised that the torture session had gone awry.
"My apologies for the interruption, Governor Lestrange," Cressida began, "but might it not have been wiser to keep the captive alive?"
Her tone was polite, but Gideon clearly caught a hint of condescension in her words. His elder sister was a master of veiled criticism. She had a knack for passive aggression and could deliver veiled barbs with such finesse that they barely registered as insults.
"We had no intention for him to die," Rodolphus retorted icily. "After three days of torture, he finally spoke—yet he died before revealing more. Experts believe a variant of the Fidelius Charm was responsible."
This was presumably a strategy employed by the dissidents to preclude betrayals upon capture, Gideon mused with interest. He would look into getting the autopsy information on the prisoner. His company, Magicore, was at the forefront of magical research and innovative spell and device development.
"According to information obtained from the captive, several dissident factions have recently formed an alliance and appear to be reorganising," disclosed Rodolphus.
"How can that be?" inquired Governor Lucius Malfoy, his tone laced with perpetual disdain. "It is common knowledge that they have never been in accord and are riven by their internal strife."
After the Great Conflict ended, wizards opposing Voldemort's regime went into hiding to evade execution. In the following decades, wizards from regions overrun by the purified empire followed suit. However, these factions were diverse and did not align on common causes or claims. Despite a series of isolated terrorist acts, the operations executed by the Dissidents had a comparatively minimal impact.
"According to the captive's intel, a new leader has risen, uniting the factions under the banner of the F.L.I.P.," Rodolphus continued.
"The F.L.I.P.?" echoed Georgius Greengrass, his eyebrows knitted together tightly. "What does that stand for?"
"It stands for 'The Freedom League of the Insurgent Phoenix'," Rodolphus said grimly.
"Do we have any intelligence on this alleged leader?" Lucius queried, his voice drawling.
"'The captive died before he could provide further details,' Bellatrix said, rolling her eyes.
Her words carried an air of ennui, reminiscent of a petulant child denied her promised gift.
"As you've surely gathered, we are confronting an unparalleled threat," Kingsley said, his weariness palpable.
"What's our next move?" Lucius Malfoy inquired.
"Stay undetected for now. Governors Rosier and Lestrange will orchestrate a covert operation. We must prevent any inkling of a gathering or threat from leaking. The public must be kept in complete ignorance," the Minister insisted.
He turned to Pius Parkinson, the patriarch of the family controlling the nation's press. Pius nodded in understanding. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up, surveying the Coven representatives with an intense look.
"We are navigating uncharted waters requiring our utmost diligence. But rest assured, our Ministry stands as strong as ever," he stated firmly.
He crossed his arms over his chest, a decisive gesture forming the sign of Voldemort, to which the others promptly mirrored.
"May Voldemort preserve us. May his strength illuminate our path in these troubled times," he declared confidently.
"Voldemort Victorious!" they intoned in unison.
/
Draco Malfoy's footsteps resounded across the impeccably polished floor of Witch Weekly's imposing headquarters, nestled in Magipolis, London's bustling business district.
Near a security booth, a queue of visitors and employees had formed, all waiting to present their wands and access the upper levels. Draco didn't pause at the security post, heading straight for the door under the watchful eyes of two guards.
"Welcome, Mr. Malfoy," one guard said, quick to open the door for him.
Flanked by the Death Eater assigned as his escort for the day, Draco made his way into the magazine's grand entrance hall before heading toward the elevator.
"Third floor. Recording and Technical Department," the elevator announced upon reaching the designated level.
Draco navigated a spacious room, alive with activity. Floating quills and enchanted parchment flitted about, seeking out their destinations, while animated portraits of past editors whispered the latest news and gossip from within their frames. He approached a room encased in transparent glass. Inside, a round table took center stage, strewn with an array of recording equipment. His gaze settled on a dark-haired young woman seated at the table. She was speaking through a levitating microphone that followed every movement of her face, like a magnet. Draco quickly glanced at the illuminated sign, warning that a live broadcast was underway. The system barred any intrusive or disruptive entry that could interrupt the broadcast. He quietly opened the door, signalled for the Death Eater to remain outside, and slipped into the studio. He discreetly took a seat and observed the host as she spoke.
Pansy Parkinson was the voice behind the hit radio programme 'Once Upon a Witch,' crafted for young to middle-aged women.
"We're taking our last call of the morning. Who do we have on the line?" Pansy asked cheerfully, her attention briefly flitting to admire her perfectly manicured nails.
"Valour and vigour, Pansy. Petronilla here," came a voice from one of the enchanted devices on the table.
"Power and purity, Petronilla," Pansy responded enthusiastically. "Could you introduce yourself to our listeners?"
"Of course! I live in Bury St-Edmunds, and I'm 43. I work at the Ministry. I listen to your show every day, Pansy, I can hardly believe I'm actually speaking to you," the caller gushed.
"Your loyalty warms my heart, Petronilla. What brings you to us for advice today?" Pansy inquired, her tone clearly delighted. "Please, do tell."
"Lately, there's been some distance between my husband and me. We're both very busy with our respective jobs and our two kids. A few weeks back, I observed frequent owl post from a female colleague of his. I want to know if I should be worried," the caller said nervously.
"How often does he receive these owls?" Pansy asked patiently.
"Every two or three days, I'd say," the woman replied.
"And what's the tone of these messages?" inquired Pansy, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"I haven't read anything inappropriate yet," the woman admitted. "She mostly complains about their boss and seeks advice from my husband."
"She's playing to his 'knight-in-shining-armour' instincts. Classic," commented Pansy, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"We've been somewhat distant these past few months, I must admit," Petronilla added in a concerned tone.
"How often are you intimate?" Pansy asked bluntly, pulling no punches.
"Somewhat infrequent lately," the caller replied softly, her discomfort evident in her voice at the probing question.
"Listen, Petronilla. From your account, it's clear you and your husband are navigating a rough patch – a not uncommon scenario in many relationships. Do you still love him? Do you want to stay in this marriage?" Pansy questioned.
"Yes, absolutely," the caller confirmed.
"At 43, and having experienced two pregnancies, you're entering a new phase of life. You may not feel as vibrant as you did at 25, but that's irrelevant, Petronilla. Focus on self-care, embrace exercise, and dress to impress. It's crucial that your husband is reminded of what he could lose at home," Pansy affirmed.
With a swift wand movement, she summoned a crumpled parchment.
"Whenever you step out, make sure to put your best foot forward. Whether you're escorting the children to Quidditch practice or browsing for new cauldrons in Diagon Alley, spare no effort in looking elegant. But don't stop there, heavens no. Make it a point to drop by his workplace, looking absolutely stunning. You're bound to score points if his colleagues or even his boss find themselves captivated. It's important for him to recognize that you're not only desirable but also have options besides him. Mark my words, that meddlesome colleague of his will think twice before crossing you," she asserted.
Pansy let out a sigh.
"Petronilla, always remember you're the one with the upper hand. After all, he chose to marry you. Take control. Would you really consider ending things over a few persistent owls from some hussy? I think not. You were busy, your husband needed a bit of attention, and this woman was there to provide it. Fine. That's all in the past. Now, you're reclaiming your place, and it's high time he realized it," she declared with conviction.
Draco listened to the remainder of the conversation, feeling a mixture of amusement and fatigue. Pansy's advice, often blunt and occasionally extreme, mirrored her vibrant personality. Yet her readers and listeners seemed to relish every word. Her show enjoyed remarkable success.
When the show came to an end, and the recording light turned off, Pansy pushed her microphone away. The microphone floated towards a shelf, settling down with a soft grace. She turned her head towards Draco and flashed him a radiant smile.
"Still playing armchair psychologist and saving marriages, I see," Draco teased.
"I'm far more affordable than couples' therapy. Psychomages charge an arm and a leg. And I would know, I've got two therapists," she added.
"They earn every galleon. I don't know anyone who could endure listening to you for an hour without ample compensation," Draco retorted.
"Your barb might sting if I weren't the reigning favourite British witch columnist for two consecutive years," Pansy replied haughtily.
Draco nodded, momentarily at a loss for a witty comeback for his best friend. It was hard to get the last word in with Pansy. She hailed her assistant, who was tidying up the recording studio.
"What's on my schedule for the afternoon?" she asked.
"You have a meeting with Poppy Chapman at 1:30, then a photo session for the rest of the afternoon," the assistant informed her while checking her agenda.
"I shall lunch with Draco. Reschedule my meeting with Poppy for tomorrow," Pansy said, her thoughts already elsewhere. "I'll return for the photo shoot."
"Understood, Miss Parkinson. I have reserved a table for you at the Royal Medusa," the assistant said, quickly assisting her into her luxurious pink puffskin coat.
"Did I not make myself clear about booking a table at Charmed Cuisine?" Pansy remarked, her voice saturated with ennui.
The assistant looked mortified.
"But Miss Parkinson, you told me last week..." she began.
"I've changed my mind; try to keep up," Pansy cut in, trailing after Draco and dismissing the assistant's reply.
Suddenly, Galileo, Pansy's personal security agent, materialized beside them—an even more astonishing feat considering Galileo's unmistakable towering presence. At the sight of Galileo, the Death Eater accompanying Draco recoiled.
"Another assistant? Seems there's a new one every time I visit," Draco commented as they neared the elevator.
"All of them are hopelessly inept. I could handle their tasks with my eyes closed," Pansy declared dismissively.
"I've no doubt. You're your own best match," Draco remarked with amusement.
He had never encountered someone as finicky and difficult to live with as Pansy Parkinson. Years of parental adoration and a society that consistently kowtowed to her status had rendered her exceedingly particular. Moreover, she was well aware of this fact and appeared to relish it. Draco knew that Pansy was a smart, resourceful woman. However, she was cognizant of the strategic advantage in playing the spoilt princess, as it caused many to underestimate her.
Narcissa and Adrina, Pansy's mother, had shared a close bond during their Hogwarts years. It was even Narcissa who had introduced Adrina to Pius Parkinson, an heir of the Sacred Thirteen. They had experienced their first pregnancies simultaneously. Naturally, their children had grown up together and had become inseparable over the years. Pansy often said that Draco was like the older brother she never had.
They took the private Floo from Pansy's office to travel to the Royal Medusa. They were greeted effusively by a waiter who promptly escorted them to a more secluded, exclusive section of the restaurant, away from prying eyes.
"A Lemon Triton with a double shot of pure-ice vodka and a slice of lime," Pansy told the waiter.
Draco shot her a weary look as the waiter departed, making a note of their order.
"What?" she enquired, meeting her friend's gaze.
"Isn't it rather early for liquor? It's barely noon, Pansy," Draco pointed out.
"Exactly," Pansy retorted as if that answered the question. "Blame it on my new assistant. My nerves are frayed due to her blunders—I'm in dire need of some relaxation."
Her eyes sparkled with excitement as her cocktail was served, adorned with a trident-shaped straw.
"Actually, I just realised I can't even remember her name," Pansy continued thoughtfully.
"I'm not sure it's worth learning. She'll likely be sacked before my next visit," Draco jested.
Pansy nodded, apparently agreeing with his comment.
"It feels like ages since we've caught up, just the two of us," Pansy lamented after taking a long sip of her drink. "I've missed you dreadfully."
"Since the inauguration, to be precise," Draco replied, rolling his eyes at her dramatics. "That was only five days ago."
Pansy shrugged and waved her hand, as if that made no difference.
"What can I say? I have serious co-dependency issues. But I am addressing them," she assured him.
Then she turned towards Draco, a sly smile forming on her red lips.
"Speaking of that evening… By Voldemort, you truly outdid yourself, darling. All that was missing was a serpentine dancer," she complimented.
Her comment elicited an amused smile from Draco. He nodded with satisfaction and settled into the comfortable chair, which was shaped like an open shell, in line with the restaurant's maritime theme. The inauguration was a roaring success. The excitement surrounding the hotel's opening, set for three days later, was at its peak.
"You seem well on your way to climbing the corporate ladder at Malforescent Machinations," Pansy noted calculatingly.
As the evening drew to a close, Narcissa had offered him a knowing smile, a token of her approval. Even Lucius had refrained from making any snide remarks following the event, apparently finding nothing to criticize.
"And to work with my father? I would sooner swallow an entire brood of wild Doxys," Draco retorted, pulling a face."I have other plans in mind."
Pansy's eyes sparkled with curiosity at his mysterious tone. After an especially indulgent lunch on Pansy's part, Draco headed to the Ministry of Magic.
The lift announced in its crisp, disembodied voice, "Level Five – Department of International Magical Cooperation."
On reaching the Business Registry office, the receptionist greeted him promptly.
"Your documents are prepared, Mr. Malfoy. If you would be so kind as to wait a moment," he said. "Might I offer you a cup of tea whilst you wait?"
"I'm in a hurry," Draco replied icily.
The man nodded, proceeding to one of the booths to retrieve the requested documents. Narcissa had tasked Draco with finalising the registration of the Imperial Augurey with the relevant authorities, ahead of the hotel's grand opening.
A vibration against his thigh prompted him to retrieve the two-way mirror from his pocket. The mirror's edges flickered, signalling an attempt to reach him. He exited the office hall and made his way down the corridor in search of more privacy. Draco placed the tip of his wand on the two-way mirror. His reflection gave way to Pansy Parkinson's face, although she appeared distracted, loudly chastising unseen individuals.
"I distinctly remember asking for trendy clothes – for Voldemort's sake! I wanted pieces that ooze style! Glamour! Elegance!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with irritation. "I really have to do everything around here. Why am I wasting my time with these incompetents?"
Pansy then turned her attention back to the mirror, her face lighting up with a joyous smile, shedding her furious expression.
"Draco, darling, guess who's just reappeared in town?" her voice brimmed with excitement, primed to divulge some tantalising news.
"Who?"
"Theodore Nott," Pansy revealed. "He's reportedly been back since—"
Draco was no longer listening to her. He had lifted his head upon hearing footsteps in the corridor. His gaze fell on Cressida Warrington in the company of a young woman whose face seemed oddly familiar.
"Draco?! Are you listening to me?" his friend insisted through the mirror.
"I'll get back to you, Pansy," Draco murmured, preoccupied, before ending the call and slipping the two-way mirror back into his pocket.
He watched the two women converse from a distance, their words inaudible. A growing curiosity took hold of his thoughts. The idea of a Governor engaging with a mere commoner such as Ginevra Weasley was beyond his comprehension. At length, Governor Warrington departed, an Auror in tow, proceeding in the opposite direction. Ginny started to walk down the corridor towards Draco, her gaze cast downwards, evidently engrossed in deep thought. As she reached him, Draco stepped in front of her. She looked up, startled. She seemed to recognise him immediately, and he clearly saw a glint of unease appear in her hazel eyes.
"You seem to turn up everywhere, don't you, Weasley? Especially where one would least expect," he remarked languidly, appraising her.
She hesitated, glancing around as if seeking an exit from the conversation.
"I had a meeting," she finally answered reluctantly.
"I noticed your chat with Governor Warrington. What business could she possibly have with someone of your kind?"
He saw a flicker of annoyance flash in the young woman's eyes.
"Seems she doesn't mind the company of someone like me," Ginny shot back, a hint of defiance in her voice.
Draco didn't respond at once, observing her with a pensive look. Her stance and bearing suggested a defensive posture. He knew he wouldn't get the information he wanted if he continued to be intimidating.
"Clearly," he finally said, his voice more neutral. "I wanted to ensure you're not bothering my guests."
The two had met at his inauguration the previous week. Narcissa was keen to demonstrate to Cressida Warrington that the Malfoys were not averse to employing individuals of a lesser station.
"Governor Warrington extended the invitation. I didn't seek her out," Ginny rushed to clarify. "Sir."
She appended that title, presumably under the impression it would confer a semblance of courtesy.
"I believe you," he replied.
Ginny's eyes widened in surprise. She finally seemed to relax, and Draco suppressed a satisfied smile. His strategy seemed to work; she appeared more forthcoming. Without him asking her anything, she continued:
"As it turns out, Governor Warrington has offered me a part-time job to help her with a decree. She specifically wanted someone of my kind."
Draco detected the irony in her tone – she was turning his own words back upon him. He would've almost found it amusing if he wasn't so stunned by what he was hearing. A Governor seeking assistance from a Blood traitor of no consequence? The notion defied reason. Before Draco could react, a voice interrupted:
"Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco turned and saw the receptionist of the Business Registry office appear in the corridor.
"Your documents are ready," the man announced.
"Very well."
"We need a few signatures from you to finalise everything," the man continued.
"I'm on my way," Draco said, his impatience evident.
Draco spun around to face Weasley, only to discover she had vanished, leaving him bewildered. He watched her long red hair disappear around a corner. Draco suppressed a curse.
Upon departing the Ministry, he turned to the Death Eater following him:
"Contact Caractacus Burke," he commanded before ascending into the carriage.
/
Ginny gave a deep yawn, sinking into the comfort of the plush armchair.
"It feels like something's missing," Fleur mused, her arms crossed as she surveyed the room thoughtfully.
She nibbled on her lip, casting her gaze over the assorted furniture. Finally, she waved her wand towards the oak cradle to reposition it. The cradle levitated across the room and settled gently beside the changing table.
"Perfect," Fleur declared, her eyes sweeping the room with satisfaction.
Following her day at Burke's Bountiful Brews, Ginny had headed straight to Shell Cottage to assist Fleur in the final touches of the nursery decor. Bill and Fleur had opted to establish it in the former room that had been Ginny's when she lived with them. The room was now ready to welcome their newborn. The decor was especially charming, with pastel hues and unicorns on the wallpaper capering through a peaceful meadow. Occasionally, the creatures would wander and graze in the room's various corners.
Ginny volunteered to help Fleur, who felt overwhelmed with Bill's long working hours. Battling hormones and emotion, Fleur had succumbed to tears, bemoaning the scarce moments with Bill. Her abrupt display had caught both Bill and Ginny off guard.
"Why not let me help? My taste is certainly superior to Bill's," Ginny had quipped. "The nursery has to be perfect for my darling niece. I've got time tomorrow; I can come by after work."
Bill had shot her a grateful look. Ginny knew Bill had been putting in extra hours, working tirelessly to support his growing family. The upcoming birth of their second child added to their financial pressures. Her brother's exhaustion saddened her, yet his dedication filled her with pride. For Bill, the well-being of his family was paramount.
Now in brighter spirits than the day before, Fleur turned to Ginny. She stroked her rounded belly absent-mindedly while rifling through the clothes in the dresser.
"I can't wait for her to arrive. I feel like a bloated balloon," she sighed.
"Have you settled on a name yet?" Ginny asked eagerly.
Fleur shook her head.
"Not yet, but we have some ideas," she said, smiling.
Suddenly, her brow furrowed.
"Where's Victoire? It's unusually quiet," she noted.
In the garden, they found Victoire busily uprooting gnome-like creatures from the sand. As she stood up, her yellow polka-dot dress and hands were smeared with soil.
"I knew you'd be up to some mischief," Fleur sighed, shaking her head.
In response, Victoire flashed her mother a radiant look, feigning innocence. Ginny smiled at her niece. Victoire was a lively, mischievous little girl. She knew how to charm her way out of trouble—a probable Veela heritage. Only her mother seemed to be immune to it. Victoire dashed off, hopping up the stairs with glee.
Settling onto a kitchen stool, Ginny asked, "Any updates on her school situation?"
Fleur's features clouded over with disappointment as she shook her head.
"No. As long as our application with the Ministry is still pending, Victoire can't attend a good school," she sighed.
She felt a surge of sympathy. She could understand Fleur's frustration. Every parent wanted to provide the best for their children. Lower-ranked schools were not well-regarded.
"I know it might sound naive, but I'm genuinely hopeful," Fleur said with a wistful smile.
"You're not naive, Fleur," Ginny assured her. "Change might just take time."
Fleur gave her a puzzled glance. It was rare for Ginny to show optimism about the regime. However, her recent conversations with Cressida Warrington had offered a new perspective on things. Following her informal interview with Cormac McLaggen, Deputy Secretary-General to the Governor, Ginny received an official summons to her office. Apparently, Warrington wanted to promote the hiring of lower-ranking wizards in roles typically reserved for Purebloods. She believed this would boost the country's economy and reduce hostility towards Unbloodeds.
Ginny understood that the Governor's motives weren't entirely altruistic. It was less about charity and more a strategic move to stimulate the economy and boost profits long-term by diversifying the labor market with competitive costs. Despite this, the initiative still represented a positive and welcome change for many Unbloodeds struggling to find decent employment. Cressida Warrington had enlisted Ginny's help to gain insight into the specific challenges faced by lower-ranking wizards. Ginny pointed out her lack of relevant experience, but Cressida countered by highlighting the value of her time in sales and customer service at Burke's. The Governor had been quite candid:
"Introducing a Blood traitor might be more palatable to some of my contacts than a half-blood. After all, technically, your blood is pure," she remarked with calculated intent.
Ginny kept the conversation secret. Although she had no problem discussing it with Hermione, who would probably find it very interesting, Ginny knew she couldn't talk to Bill or Fleur. They had enough on their plates, and she didn't want to add extra stress during these complicated times.
Ginny shared dinner with Fleur and Victoire, awaiting Bill's return around nine before she made her way home.
"Are you sure you don't want company? It's getting late, Ginny," Bill said, always protective.
"I'm used to it, Bill. Don't worry. Besides, what's likely to happen? That I'd be kidnapped by a lunatic in the middle of the street?" she asked with a wry smile.
Bill rolled his eyes at her remark.
"I just think we should connect your fireplace to ours. So you can travel by Floo powder," he said seriously.
"A private fireplace subscription doesn't come cheap, Bill. Hermione and I just can't stretch to that," Ginny countered.
She gave her brother a peck on the cheek.
"Don't worry about me. See you next week," she said before leaving the house, clutching her old broom tightly. "I love you all!"
She hastened to the nearest public Floo station, handing over two knuts to the porter for her trip to Diagon Alley. As usual, the shopping street was still bustling, even at this late hour. Things got quieter as Ginny entered the Knockturn District. The alleys lay dim and occasionally gloomy under the night sky. Still, she knew which areas to steer clear of. Some alleys turned nasty come nightfall. As she turned towards her building, Ginny halted abruptly at the sight of two hooded figures blocking her path. She immediately recognized their terrifying silver masks.
Death Eaters.
Her heart raced, thudding loudly against her chest. She took a step back and tried to sidestep the Death Eaters. To her horror, one seized her arm with a firm grip.
"Follow us," he ordered in a raspy voice, sounding frightening through his mask.
"W... Why?" Ginny asked, her voice trembling. "I haven't done anything."
She tried to keep her voice calm, but she knew her panic was palpable. At first, she had thought the Death Eaters were patrolling the neighbourhood. However, Ginny quickly realised they were after her specifically. Panic seeped into her. She wracked her brain, trying to figure out why they were targeting her.
"Follow us," repeated the Death Eater, ignoring her question.
He pulled his wand from the holster at his waist and brandished it in front of Ginny. Understanding the unspoken threat, she ceased her struggling at once. The Death Eater released her and gestured for her to move ahead. She complied, her heart pounding in her throat. They walked for two agonising minutes, Ginny battling rising panic with every step. Her eyes landed on a carriage. The Death Eaters stopped when they reached the vehicle.
"Get inside," one commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
Her hand trembling, Ginny turned the handle and opened the carriage door. She stepped inside, her stomach knotted with apprehension. What would she find inside? Where did they plan to take her? The image of Voldemort's statue, with the Fiendfyre savagely consuming its victims, flashed in her mind, sending chills down her spine. To her astonishment, she realised the carriage was occupied.
"Sit down," Draco Malfoy drawled, amusement lacing his tone at her evident shock.
Ginny hesitated briefly before taking the cushioned seat opposite him. She realised her limbs were still shaking. Draco Malfoy was still watching her, clearly very aware of Ginny's discomfort. Although shrouded in darkness, the carriage allowed her a clear view of his grey eyes fixed upon her, examining her closely. He appeared to take a perverse pleasure in her uneasiness.
"I didn't appreciate your sudden escape during our last conversation, Ginevra," he said, voice dripping with feigned disappointment as he tilted his head.
"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.
"Really? That's your question?" Draco replied, rolling his eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she pressed, uneasy.
"That question seems far more relevant," he asserted with satisfaction.
He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, never breaking eye contact with Ginny.
"I've got an offer for you," Draco announced.
Ginny's mouth dropped open. Why on earth would Draco Malfoy be interested in her?
"What do you mean?" she finally asked.
"Your little arrangement with Governor Warrington has piqued my curiosity," Draco remarked, his steel gaze taking on a calculating gleam.
"I... I don't follow," Ginny confessed.
"I imagine you'll be seeing her regularly from now on. I want to know the details of her current initiatives, the people she meets, what she asks of you. And I want you to provide me with a regular report," Draco stated.
The audacity of his request left her dumbfounded. As she processed his words, her eyes widened in disbelief, wondering if he was joking.
"Why?" Ginny queried.
"Don't concern yourself with why," he retorted haughtily, as if speaking to a child incapable of understanding adult conversation.
"I can't do that. Mrs Warrington will never..." she began to justify herself.
"She mustn't know. This stays between you and me. And everything will be carried out with the utmost discretion," he assured her.
Ginny frowned. Fear had vanished, replaced by irritation. Who did he think he was? Did he have any idea of the insanity of his request? To keep watch over a prominent member of the community? Did he really think she'd accept without question?
"And if she finds out? I don't want any trouble," she grimaced, shaking her head.
As a Pureblood, Draco Malfoy belonged to the elite ruling class in this regime. This was far from the case for Ginny. His demand carried considerable risk to her social position.
"Nothing will happen. I'll make sure of it," Draco asserted confidently. "As long as you do as I say, everything will be perfectly fine."
"How can I be sure?" she pressed.
She had no trust in this man. And the fact he'd approached her with two terrifying Death Eaters in the dead of night assured her he was to be feared.
"Nothing will happen to you... Because you have something I want," he said, looking at her intensely.
His answer caught Ginny off guard. The way he'd said those words only increased her unease. 'Because you have something I want' she wondered. Was he referring to her relationship with Cressida Warrington, or to something else?
In silence, she sat under his piercing gaze, considering her next move. She was not naive. She knew she probably couldn't refuse, not after this conversation. She knew too much already, and what's more, Draco Malfoy didn't strike her as the kind of man one could easily say no to.
Growing impatient, he broke the silence. "What do you want in return?"
"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.
"I told you, this is a trade. I will give you what you want in return," he shrugged, as if it were obvious. "And if I can offer something to motivate you, I'm willing to do so."
Ginny studied him intently, her thoughts swirling. His request seemed dangerous, and she feared potential fallout despite his promise of protection. Yet, in a corner of her mind, Ginny couldn't help but see an opportunity. Malfoy had power, and she might have a chance to get something in return. Opportunities like this were rare, especially for someone of her standing. She straightened up in her seat, adopting a more upright posture and met his gaze.
"I'll agree, but only on one condition," she declared, her voice firm with newfound confidence.
A smirk formed on the corners of Draco Malfoy's lips.
"I'm listening."
I hope you enjoyed the read! I love this chapter because it really sets the story in motion. It's made it into my top 10 of the entire story, which says a lot considering I'm currently writing chapter 70.
It looks like Ginny and Draco are about to have more run-ins following this risky agreement... Any guesses on what Ginny asked for?
We've also taken a closer look at the Sacred Thirteen, giving you insight into who they are.
As for Pansy, well; she's quintessentially herself – I absolutely revel in her character!
See you soon for the next update. In the meantime, let me know your thoughts.