AUGUST 12th, 1997
Draco woke up before the sun, his heart pounding in his chest. It took him a moment to fully come to awareness, to figure out why, exactly, he felt like he was teetering on the edge of panic before even getting out of bed.
It was his first day of work today. In just a couple of short hours, he would be walking through the heart of the Ministry, reporting for… well, he didn't know exactly what. Yaxley had accepted him into the Commission, but he hadn't told him what role he would play or what that would look like. It could be anywhere on the scale from completely innocuous to absolutely heinous, and given that he was one of the Dark Lord's "inner circle" thanks to his Dark Mark, he would put his Galleons on absolutely heinous.
One of Voldemort's inner circle. He had to train himself not to default to saying the Dark Lord. A gargantuan task, that— Draco remembered hearing whispers about "the Dark Lord" from the time he was a toddler, in the same breath that his parents would speak about Merlin or any other near-mythical wizard. He hadn't even known Voldemort's name until he was nine— his father had written it down, made him learn to spell it, and then insisted with all of the intensity he possessed that Draco was never, ever, ever to say it. Draco, having always been eager to please his parents, hadn't even allowed himself to think the name for fear of saying it accidentally.
Until yesterday.
Ginny had been so happy with the Firebolt, once she had understood what it meant to him to give it to her. He was betting on her— betting that, against all odds, she would be the one to save them all, and he was willing to be the one to help her get there. If Draco had anything to say about it, she would be flying again very soon, on her own terms.
He turned his head and looked down at her, where she appeared to be sleeping peacefully, curled up in the crook of his arm. She had gotten through her birthday party, and now it was his turn to wade into a nightmare scenario and make the best of it.
His mind flashed on the oak tree, and their conversation yesterday on the hill. Could that really be a thin place? Ginny was right in that it did feel timeless… but he had been going there since he was a small child. He had fond memories of his mother pushing him on the swing and having picnics under the oak tree's shade on long summer days. She had never said anything about it having special properties, nor had his father. Did they know, or had that information been lost to time?
Just like the story of Nicholas Malfoy had been lost to time. Even though Ginny had encouraged him to focus solely on the Morrigan, he had quickly thumbed through the Malfoys' official genealogy to look at Nicholas's entry and had found nothing remarkable, other than that he had perished in Malfoy Manor as it was destroyed by a "terrible flame." His son, Alexander, seemed more interesting, but Alexander had only been six when Nicholas died, and Ginny thought that was when Alys had died too…
Or whatever had happened to her. If Alys had had the gem, shouldn't she have been immortal? How could she have died in a fire? There was something odd about that, but he wasn't sure how to investigate it further. Maybe it would have to wait until Ginny could speak to Alys again, once they had done whatever ritual it was they were supposed to do.
He sighed. It was time to get up. Slowly, gently, he slid his arm out from under Ginny and pressed a kiss to her forehead before getting up and padding quietly to the bathroom. His Occlumency would need to be tightened up before he left the house, though truth be told, he never fully let it drop now that he was spending so much time around the Dark… Voldemort. Around Voldemort. And he would need to present a certain image of course— he was the first Malfoy in several centuries to suffer the indignity of paid work, so he at least needed to present the noble image befitting of his surname.
He stripped and got in the pitifully small bathtub, desperately missing his own at Malfoy Manor. It had never occurred to him that he would be spending so much time away from the place. Maybe he wouldn't get to sleep in his own bed again until this was all over.
Assuming he didn't get thrown in Azkaban, of course.
Ginny hadn't mentioned it— he wasn't sure the thought had even crossed her mind— but the specter of the prison had taken up residence in a deep corner of his thoughts, and he couldn't get away from it, even if he tried to lock it away or push it out into the ocean. He was Marked, had for all intents and purposes kidnapped a girl, murdered another one, tortured a number of innocent Muggles, and now would be actively participating somehow in the punishment of Muggle-borns. It would be a miracle, an absolute miracle, if he avoided Azkaban once the… once Voldemort was defeated.
And some very small part of him felt like he deserved it. He would never tell Ginny that, of course, but wasn't this all a little too little, too late? He had already done so many things, heinous things…
He didn't know what the future held though, he supposed. Perhaps, somehow, by some miracle, it would all balance out. Helping Ginny take down Voldemort had to count for something, didn't it?
He hurried in the bath, not giving himself time to luxuriate, and focused on shoring up his Occlumency as he readied himself for the day. Slicked back hair, clean-shaven, immaculate robes… the perfect pureblood male, as Ginny had called him all those weeks ago now.
He went out into the bedroom again, which was still quite dark due to it lacking any windows, though the sun was surely peeking its way over the horizon by now. Ginny was still sound asleep. That was good. She had done her work— she should rest. Spend the day doing nothing, just relaxing… and preparing for her nightly encounter with the version of Voldemort she called Tom Riddle.
His jaw clenched as he thought of the dreams. Knowing they were happening right in front of him and that he was unable to stop them made him feel powerless in a way few other things did, more so even than Ginny being in front of Voldemort in the flesh. It was the level of control within the dreams, he thought, that made them so much worse— they weren't real, but Tom Riddle could alter the very fabric of reality within that space and no one could do anything about it.
He couldn't focus on that now though. He couldn't fix that problem, and in any event, there were many hours yet before Ginny would dream again. Many hours in which he would hopefully be filling out paperwork and not torturing Muggle-borns or some other such awful thing.
He laughed quietly to himself at that thought. How things had changed. He remembered for a moment, just a moment, that his twelve-year-old self had been thrilled by the idea of Slytherin's monster killing Mudbloods, and his stomach clenched. How naive he had been… how selfish.
He walked up to Ginny's sleeping form and pressed another kiss to her forehead.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice shaking a bit as he said it out loud for the first time. He could never say it when she could hear it— it wasn't fair to her. But when she was sound asleep? That was fair game, he felt. Or fairer than anything else.
No, it wouldn't be fair to her, he thought as he walked out of the bedroom and watched with a grimace as the door disappeared from the wall behind him. They had been thrown together under such extraordinary circumstances, and he was acutely aware of the fact that he was Ginny's only confidante at the moment, the only person she could trust. Once things were back to some semblance of normal… things would probably change. He was her only option at the moment. Of course she was thrilled with his presence. But once Potter and the others were back in her life? How could Draco compare to that?
On that sour note, he marched down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door. It was early enough in the morning that dew still clung to the grass, and he would have liked to take a moment to admire it on any other morning, but this morning was not a morning for admiring things. Irritated already, he Apparated to Malfoy Manor. As his "residence of record," the manor had been connected to the Ministry's official Floo channel for commuting purposes, which meant he had to Apparate there in the morning and Disapparate from there in the afternoon in order to return to Ginny. The Dark Lord was no doubt secretly hoping that Draco would decide the inconvenience was too great and he would simply move back into the manor full time, but he wasn't getting rid of him that easily. Draco wouldn't leave without a direct order, no matter the inconvenience.
He could see that the light was on in his parents' bedroom as he approached the building. They were, of course, awake already and starting their day— perhaps taking their breakfast at the small table by the window, as they sometimes liked to do. Draco hoped not, though— they might see him that way, and he didn't want to talk to them this morning. He had finally fessed up to his father yesterday that he was officially joining the Ministry, and it was only thanks to the large number of guests that Lucius had not immediately started yelling. Voldemort had approved the change, so his father did not have a leg to stand on in order to forbid Draco from doing it, but that wouldn't stop him from giving Draco the lecture of the century once the Dark Lord was out of earshot.
He hurried inside and made for the drawing room, his stomach in knots. The first day would perhaps be the worst- he didn't know what to expect. That had sort of been the case with Bellatrix; every day with her had been horrible, but the shock of the first time had been extra awful. Would it be like that, or would it be like training with Dolohov and Greyback, where every day was worse than the last?
Pull yourself together, he snapped to himself as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the fireplace. What's that Weasley phrase? Anything's possible if you've got enough nerve?
His mind on the clear blue sky, he stepped into the fire and called out for the Ministry of Magic. The flames whipped around him and, in an instant, he was stepping out of an ornate marble fireplace. He blinked, coming to awareness of the unfamiliar space. He had been to the Ministry before with his father, but that had been many years ago now, and he didn't recognize this corridor—
"Hem hem. Mr. Malfoy! Right on time."
Fucking hell.
He turned around and found himself face to face with Dolores Umbridge in all her sickly pink glory.
"Madam Umbridge," he said. "Good morning. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Oh Corban didn't tell you?" she said, giving a girlish giggle before stepping forward, hand daintily extended. "I'm the Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission. You'll be reporting directly to me."
He awkwardly kissed her hand, the movement allowing him to hide his grimace. "Excellent," he said once he stood up. "Like old times."
"That's exactly what I said!" she said with another giggle. "Come, I'll give you a tour and then get you settled in— you've been to the Ministry before, I'm assuming?"
"Yes, with my father, but it's been a few years," he said, following her down the hall.
"Very well-connected, your father, though it sounds like you'll be giving him a run for his money, if you've got this much ambition at seventeen!"
Draco's smile was wooden as he nodded in what he hoped was charming humility.
"Such a travesty that he hasn't been welcome at the Ministry in recent years," she continued, shaking her head in disappointment. "That's all being corrected now though. Please do tell him he's always welcome to drop by."
"I'll be sure to tell him," Draco said. "Thank you, Madam Umbridge."
"Oh please, call me Dolores."
Draco grimaced, but as she was ahead of him, she didn't see.
She led him on a tour of all ten levels of the Ministry, which took the better part of an hour. He smiled politely at any Ministry employees they came across, but most quickly averted their eyes when they saw Umbridge coming. Other than that, things looked mostly normal as far as he could tell, though they had erected a terrifying statue in the atrium of a witch and wizard standing on top of a pile of Muggles, crushed under their feet. The phrase Magic is Might was emblazoned everywhere Draco looked— on the statue, but also on banners hanging from the ceiling, and even on the front of the small coffee stand in the atrium. Umbridge assured him that the Minister, Pius Thicknesse, was very busy but that he would get to meet him in the coming days, particularly as he would have an office on the same level as the Minister's and other senior level staff. He had tried to protest, saying he didn't expect special treatment, but Umbridge had brushed him off.
"Well, I think that's everything, then," she said as they walked out of the Wizengamot courtrooms— empty at the moment, thankfully— and headed back toward the lifts. "Let's head back upstairs."
"Sounds good to me," he said. "Thank you for giving me a tour."
They ascended in the lift, and Draco thought he vaguely recognized Penelope Clearwater, a former Ravenclaw who had been a few years ahead of him in school. She kept her eyes facing straight ahead in the lift and hurried out as soon as they arrived at her floor.
All's not as it appears, then, he mused as the lift continued to ascend. Everything looks mostly normal, but people are clearly terrified.
"My first task for you," she continued as they finally emerged from the lift and headed down a hallway lined with office doors, "is to oversee the creation of some educational materials."
Educational materials. That didn't sound... horrible. Although given the nature of the Commission, what exactly they deemed "educational" was likely to be questionable.
"Absolutely," he said. "How shall I—"
"You'll see in just a moment." She opened a door, revealing a room filled with desks. Dozens of Ministry employees sat there, waving their wands in unison, assembling pamphlets.
"I need you to verify that the work is done correctly and that people are staying... on task," she said. "It's urgent to get the word out as quickly as possible, we can't stand for any delays." She grabbed a completed pamphlet, which showed a rose being choked by snarling thorns. It read: Mudbloods and the Danger They Pose to a Peaceful Pureblood Society.
"Excellent," he said with a smirk he didn't feel, causing her to giggle again. "I'll keep an eye on things here."
She laughed harder at that for some reason, like he had made some witty joke, before showing him to a desk separated from the others.
"You can sit here," she said, and he did so. "The pamphlets will come to you, and once you're done with a stack you can simply tap them with your wand, and they'll be on their way to me. This material is brand new this week, so it's critical we get the information out as soon as we can. Once that's done, in a few weeks I'll train you in how to support with the court proceedings— we're rooting out a massive problem, so the Wizengamot is sure to be very busy."
She smiled at him, and he made himself smile back. How could she talk about these things so cavalierly, like they were discussing the weather?
"Yes ma'am," he said as the first pamphlet floated over to his desk.
"I'll leave you to it, then! My office is just through that other door, but I'll be down in the courts for most of the day."
She walked away, and a shiver of released tension ran through the room. Draco glanced toward her office door, wondering what sort of things she might be hiding in it, and froze. Mad-Eye Moody's great, spinning eye had been nailed to the door and was wiggling around, watching the employees assemble the pamphlets.
What the fuck?
He had heard that Moody had died during the Death Eaters' raid on Potter's house last month— killed by the Dark Lord himself— but how the hell had Umbridge gotten ahold of it? A Death Eater must have given it to her… which meant Umbridge, at least, was very much aware of exactly what was going on behind the scenes at the Ministry of Magic.
He picked up the pamphlet and began to read it, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach as he felt rather than saw the eye swiveling around, watching the group. Watching him.
Damn it— how the hell am I supposed to sabotage anything if I'm under surveillance?
Umbridge said it was important this information got out as soon as possible, so clearly he needed to slow the process down somehow, or else sabotage some of the pamphlets? If he was quality control, he could let some slip through with pages missing or altered or something…
But he couldn't let whatever incompetence he introduced be traced back to him. He needed to stay in this position as long as possible, and gain Umbridge's trust, which meant it had to look like he was doing everything right.
Which would mean one of these poor fools in front of him would have to take the blame for his screw-ups.
He watched them for a moment. Though they were marginally more relaxed than they had been when Umbridge was in the room, they all kept their eyes mechanically trained on the work in front of them, their wands moving in near-perfect unison in their assembly. They too feared Umbridge, and the eye.
Well, shit. He couldn't get himself in trouble, but he didn't want to get some random Ministry employee in trouble either. What would happen to them, with Umbridge as their boss? Would they be sacked? Or something worse? He grimaced as he remembered the gruesome punishments she had doled out as Hogwarts High Inquisitor. Was that nasty blood quill still around?
His mind flashed on his father for a moment, to afternoons spent playing wizards' chess. He distinctly remembered being nine years old and pouting about an inevitable loss.
"There aren't any good moves left," he had said, his arms crossed over his chest and his lower lip stuck out dramatically— a move that worked very well on his mother and not so much on his father, but it didn't stop him from trying. "You're going to win no matter what I do."
"Now, now, don't pout, Draco," Lucius admonished. "A Malfoy doesn't pout. Sometimes in life, you won't have any good options in front of you. So what do you do? Give up?"
Draco shrugged, sure there was a lesson here but not knowing what it was.
"You take the least bad option, and keep your eyes open for any new opportunities," Lucius said. He grabbed one of Draco's pieces and moved it forward, blocking Lucius from entering a checkmate. Draco studied the board intently, leaning down to look at the pieces. Lucius would still win— Draco had lost too many pieces at this point— but by making that move, he had certainly extended the game longer than Draco had foreseen.
Draco would have to take the least bad option, and, he reasoned, in the grand scheme of things, one Ministry employee getting reprimanded or even sacked was certainly less bad than Muggle-borns being rounded up and tortured or killed. Determined but not altogether comfortable with his decision, Draco began to read the pamphlet in earnest— he would need to know exactly what it said, in order to figure how exactly to sabotage it.
AUGUST 18th, 1997
The days passed in a blur. Draco completed his first week at the Ministry without major incident, though he was successful in getting a batch of pamphlets ruined with an unfortunate ink spill that the poor Ministry employee responsible for the batch just couldn't account for. Umbridge had shouted at him, but luckily that had been the man's only punishment— well worth the destruction of two hundred pamphlets.
Draco wasn't sure what was more exhausting— being at the Ministry, or being at Voldemort's house. He didn't need to hold his Occlumency so intensely at the Ministry, seeing as he was very unlikely to come across another Legilimens, let alone someone actively trying to break into his mind, but he had to have more of a "persona" there. If he pretended it was the Inquisitorial Squad all over again, it wasn't so bad, but some latently-grown bit of conscience just wouldn't rest when he made snide comments to Dolores Umbridge about Mudbloods. Part of him was annoyed by it— why did these feelings have to come now, right when they were the most inconvenient?
Who was he kidding? He knew why. He looked down at his desk, at the pictures of Ginny he had framed and put up to remind him of what he was fighting for. She had given him a couple of her Weird Sisters concert photos— one of her playing air-guitar and one of her striking a sassy pose for the camera— and, in between those two, he had a copy of the photo Rita Skeeter had taken of the two of them at her birthday. His arm was slung low around her waist, the faintest breeze tousling their hair as they smiled for the camera. The loop was interesting to watch— when Ginny was facing the camera, her smile was stoic and wooden, but there was a moment near the end where she clearly thought the camera had finished its work already. She turned toward him, her face muscles relaxing into a more genuine smile, and she looked up at him in a way that took Draco's breath away— like just the sight of him was enough to make her happy.
That was what he was fighting for. For her. He was fighting to save the Wizarding world, it was true, but he had no illusions about his underlying motivations. Jane had been the catalyst to push him into action, finally, but without Ginny… he wouldn't survive it. That was what was so hard about this whole thing— it wasn't just one brave act and then he was done. He had to do it over and over and over again, never knowing when it would stop or if it was even making a difference…
The clock struck five, and the employees outside of Umbridge's office jumped out of their seats and raced for the door, eager to go home before she could see them and possibly ask them to work overtime. This was the last batch of pamphlets, and Draco had finally settled on a strategy for them— throughout the day, whenever someone would speak, or get up to go to the bathroom, or otherwise cause a disturbance, he would surreptitiously wave his wand and scramble the words on some of the pages of whatever pamphlet was on top of the stack. At the bare minimum, it made the pamphlet unreadable, and hopefully would cause people to question the professionalism of the "new Ministry" if they were putting out such sub-par materials.
He wasn't sure it was really going to make any difference, but until Umbridge gave him something else to do, this would have to be enough.
His stomach twisted at that thought— Umbridge had told him that this Friday would be his first day down in the courts, shadowing the proceedings. What would he see down there?
Don't focus on that now, he scolded himself as he stood up from his desk and walked toward the hallway with the senior officials' private fireplaces. Leave work at work. You have your own things to worry about.
Things like exploring the forest beyond Malfoy Manor.
His research on the Morrigan hadn't led to any information about any rituals, and at this point Draco was desperate to find that and only that— anything else, about the Morrigan or Nicholas Malfoy or any of the rest of it, was just a bonus. He had had Ginny recount to him again her memories of Alys, any time she had performed a ritual or anything like it, and there was one thing in common— she had always been in the standing stones. She had been in the standing stones with the other women of her village, and she had been in the standing stones when she had summoned Death, or the Morrigan, or whatever it was called, and received the gem. On Friday, finally, he had found record of a Muggle village in the forest during Nicholas Malfoy's time, and after some careful cross-referencing, he felt fairly confident he knew where to go. What he would find, though, he had no idea.
Alys had called herself the last of her kind. That meant that her people had to have died out, right? There was no way there was a thriving Muggle village tucked away in the Malfoy forest that he didn't know about. Would the buildings still be standing, or would they have wasted away thanks to the passage of time?
He distractedly grabbed a bit of Floo powder, tossed it into the Ministry fireplace, and called out for Malfoy Manor before stepping through.
"Draco, darling!"
"Hello, Mother," he said with a cough, stumbling a bit. If he had been any less focused, he might have ended up in another place altogether. He shook his head. He couldn't get distracted.
"They're working you too hard," Narcissa said with a disapproving tone as she extended her arm to him, steadying him. "Are you sure you don't want to just come home? I'm sure the Dark Lord wouldn't be upset—"
"No, Mother," he said, making himself stand upright. "It's an honor to serve— I'm glad to do it. And besides, I'm just sitting at a desk— hardly grueling labor."
"Be that as it may, I would be happier to know that you were at home—"
"And I hope that will be possible one day soon," he said, and meant it. "For now, though, the manor will have to wait."
Narcissa pursed her lips but didn't argue further.
"Good night, Mother," he said as he made to leave the drawing room and head out the front door.
"Won't you stay for dinner? Your father and I miss you."
"Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."
"But Draco—"
"Mother, please," he said, turning to look at her. "Please just let me handle things the way I see fit. I promise you, I'll spend time with you and Father tomorrow— you can play the piano, maybe, or we can go for a walk outside. But tonight I have other business to attend to."
Narcissa's gaze softened. "Alright. Just be safe."
He nodded at her before turning away again. "I will."
His stomach twisted as he hurried out of the drawing room and out the front door. Part of him wanted so badly to confide in his mother— tell her everything that was worrying him, tell her every single weight that was on his shoulders, so that maybe somehow, she could make it all go away. But that would be putting her in danger. He wasn't sure if she was an Occlumens, though he suspected she was. Even if she was, he wasn't sure how strong her abilities were, or when they were likely to be tested. The less she knew, the safer she would be if things turned out badly. The Dark Lord was not merciful, but he might spare her if she truly had no idea of Draco's treachery.
He walked down the front path of the grounds, leading toward the gate, feeling like he was on an island. No safety in the Death Eaters, but no safety amongst the Order or the Ministry either. He was alone.
Except for Ginny.
He took a deep breath as he passed through the front gate. He wouldn't see her until late tonight, probably— he didn't know how long this exploration was going to take. She seemed to be handling things alright, but every time he was away from her, he was afraid to go back and find that she had been taken from him somehow. He tried to reassure himself that she would reach out through the bridge if anything was wrong, but if she was asleep…
Ginny, he said down the bridge, suddenly panicked.
Hi, she replied immediately. What's wrong?
He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Nothing. I was just checking on you. How was your day?
Fine, she replied, and he had the vague sense of her physical body turning the page of a book. I was finally able to do fifty pull-ups— it's going to take me forever to get my full strength back.
I'm glad you're occupying your time, he said as he walked away from the gate. Anything unusual happening?
Nope. Quiet here as usual.
Another sigh of relief. That's good. As a reminder, I'll—
—be late tonight because you're going to try to find the standing stones, Ginny finished, a hint of amusement in her voice. I remember. How are you feeling about that?
Fine, he said. I'm not sure I'll find anything, but it's at least worth a look.
Let me know what you find, and reach out if you need help.
Will do, he said, knowing that he would not, in fact, reach out if he needed help. Ginny couldn't help him from where she was, and calling for her help if some sort of crisis happened would send her into a panic, and certainly alert the Dark Lord. No, he was on his own tonight, for better or worse.
See you soon, she said, and he swore he could feel the ghost of her lips against his for just the barest moment before the connection went silent. He touched his lips, amazed by the power of the bond. The rite of Anam Cara, the family journals had called it. He didn't know what it meant— it wasn't Latin, he was pretty sure. Maybe some native language of the region. Whatever it meant, he was grateful for it as he Apparated away, focused on the village mentioned in the Malfoy family journals and hoping that was a specific enough destination.
He gasped as his feet touched down on solid ground, the magic of Apparition straining against him for a moment. He had never tried to Apparate so imprecisely before, and he was feeling the impact of it now.
He was in a clearing. He could see the outlines of where houses must have once stood, their stone foundations the only remnants left behind. There must have once been roads through here, or at least footpaths, but nature had reclaimed this place— it looked, by and large, like an overgrown field.
"Homenum revelio," he whispered, and let out a sigh when the spell confirmed that he was alone. No hidden Muggle villages here, at least none that were inhabited. He straightened his robes and set to work, looking through the area for anything of note. The standing stones were off in the woods, and based on Ginny's description, they were north of the village, but it made no sense to go there without at least checking this place out first.
He wandered around for a while, inspecting the ground and the stone foundations. He would guess that maybe forty different families had lived here— a large settlement for the time period, especially considering how cut-off they were from the rest of the world. What could have happened to them? Did Alys's knowledge transcend time, to where she knew that her people had gradually died off, or had something happened while she was still alive? Did they abandon this place, or… were they killed?
A stain on one of the stones caught his eye. The stone was a pale grey, almost white, but smeared across it… he reached down and touched it, as though that would reveal anything to him.
Blood. It had to be. Draco's chest tightened. It had been many hundreds of years. This blood could be from some random animal, he reasoned. But he knew in his gut that wasn't right.
He straightened, a sudden breeze gusting past him, and a crow cried out overhead. Draco looked up as quickly as he could, scanning the skies. Nothing.
"Can you show me where the standing stones are?" he asked out loud, feeling a little foolish. "I'm… trying to help someone close to me. She needs to gain the second sight."
The wind picked up, and seemed to be pushing at his back— pushing him northward. His heart pounding, he started to walk forward, leaving the blood-stained foundation behind. The crow cried again, further off to the north, and, abandoning fear for the moment, Draco started to run.
The wind whistled through the tall grass, sounding like faint whispering as he ran, faint whispering that stopped abruptly as he entered the silence of the forest. He immediately held his breath and stopped running. The air was so still here. Faint sunlight broke through the thick canopy of leaves in little golden beams, reminding him strongly of Ginny. The forest floor was squishy under his feet, and he found himself walking softly in an effort not to disturb the place. Ginny had described Alys seeming to change when she entered the woods, and if it had felt anything like this, Draco could understand why. It wasn't a word that came naturally to him, but this was a holy place.
The crow summoned him onward, and he walked on, taking care not to needlessly trample more than he had to. The forest felt ancient, and very much alive. Not malevolent, but also maybe not particularly friendly. It had, if Draco had to guess, been undisturbed by human contact for a very long time. Indeed, the deeper he walked, the more he had the sense of the trees seeming to lean closer to him— curious, perhaps a little mistrustful. He held his wand loosely in his hand, trying to make it clear to anyone or anything that might be watching that he was not approaching with hostile intentions. It would be foolish to put his wand away entirely, but he hoped his body posture was enough to indicate that he wasn't here to destroy anything.
After what felt like an eternity, he reached a gap in the trees, and he gasped. He had found it. Thirteen massive standing stones rose up out of the ground before him in a loose circle. The sun was low enough in the sky now that they cast long, dramatic shadows through the clearing, reaching toward the forest as though yearning to touch the trees.
Draco looked around, uncertain. How was he supposed to approach? Just walking straight in felt wrong somehow, but he needed to explore…
"I'm here to help Ginny Weasley," he said, and a gust of wind blew past him. "To help her gain the second sight." The wind picked up. "I'm… going to take a look around, if that's alright."
He wasn't even really sure who he was talking to, but he felt certain he was talking to somebody. To something. He walked further into the clearing, his heart in his throat, and began looking at the outside of the standing stones. Ginny had said that in the group ritual, Alys had made a motion like she was opening some kind of doorway before walking inside. Ginny had initially thought it was all symbolic, but now that they had seen that the second sight was, in fact, entirely real, Draco was afraid of crossing some invisible barrier and offending whoever, or whatever, was on the other side.
He made a slow circle around the stones, looking for… well, he didn't know what he was looking for. Anything, really. At first, he was disappointed— there was nothing. But then, he noticed markings on the inside face of one of the stones, the one most directly eastward. He squinted and walked as close to the edge of the circle as he dared, trying to make out the markings.
They were runes, he realized. A series of runes etched into the stone itself, almost like a name carved into a tombstone. There were eight altogether, some repeating but most not.
Why the fuck had he not taken Ancient Runes? The Room of Requirement had made that book for Ginny, not him— he had just given it the instructions, the English translation. He didn't know the first thing about reading runes.
But Ginny did. Except she couldn't come here and read them.
Damn it. He would have to break his own rule.
Ginny.
What's wrong?
Nothing, he said, fighting irritation. I found the standing stones.
Brilliant! she exclaimed, and he could hear the surprise in her voice. What are they like?
Definitely ancient, and… I see what you mean about this place having power. But I need your help. One of the stones has eight runes carved into it, and I don't know how to read runes.
Runes? That's interesting, Ginny said. I didn't know Muggles knew anything about runes. Although Professor Babbling did say that they served as a form of an alphabet before the Romans took over, so I suppose that makes some sense. Can you… show me, somehow?
I don't want to risk it, he said. Mixing memory magic with the bridge. I'll try describing them to you, and you can translate. There's only eight.
Highly inefficient, but alright.
Undeterred, Draco began describing the runes to her, one at a time. She made him repeat certain bits, and questioned him several times to make sure he was describing them as accurately as possible. He fought back irritation, knowing that they were compromising and that she was only asking in order to make sure she got the translation right.
Definitely the same Anglo-Saxon variant you used on that stupid Loxias book, she said, her tone growing sniffy for a moment. But it's not spelling a real word.
Are you sure? Draco said with a frown. What does it say?
You spelled E-L-E-N-T-I-Y-A.
Elentiya, he said, trying the unfamiliar word on for size. Hmm.
Yeah. Doesn't mean anything to me. Does it mean anything to you?
No…
He heard Ginny scoff through the bond. Welcome to my life. That's how this always is— I go looking for answers, and just come away with more questions instead.
Don't get discouraged, he said. This gives me something else to look for. It's all pieces of the same puzzle, we just need to lay out all the pieces.
I guess, she said, and he knew she was only pretending to agree with him.
Tell me the pieces of the puzzle, Ginny, he encouraged. Don't try to put them together, just tell me the pieces.
She sighed, and he wished he could kiss her. Alys. Nicholas Malfoy. The gem. Death. Maybe the Deathly Hallows and the Peverell brothers, but I'm not sure they're actually connected. The Great Queen, or the Morrigan. The second sight. The ritual of the two who move as one. A thin place. Crows. Maybe mushrooms. Standing stones, and the land around Malfoy Manor. Morgana, maybe— the crows seem connected to her, but—
Don't analyze. Just tell me the pieces.
Fine, she snapped. Morgana, and Guinevere, and a dragon and a tower. Elentiya, whatever that means.
Good, he said. Anything else?
Not that I can think of.
Alright.
Alright?
Yes.
Ugh. How are you not frustrated?
I've been working on this for substantially less time than you, for one thing. For another… I have some experience cracking difficult puzzles.
His mind flashed on Trelawney's prophecies, and he knew she was remembering them too.
Alright, she said with an exaggerated sigh. Get to it then, puzzle-cracker.
He laughed. I will.
Come back to me soon.
I'll be there as you're wrapping up dinner, probably.
He let the connection fall silent, and he blew out a breath. Regardless of what he told Ginny, he had no fucking idea how any of this fit together. His comfy chair in the Room of Requirement flashed in his mind, and he wished desperately to be back there again, somewhere where he could just ask for information and it would be given.
"If you could give me a sign, that would be great!" he called out, throwing his arms out wide. "A sign, not a riddle! A sign."
Nothing happened, and he bowed his head. Of course not. That would be too easy.
He turned to leave, but not before he looked back at the runes again. Elentiya. Was that a name? A place? A type of mushroom? He wanted to laugh— the possibilities really were endless. It could be anything, anything at—
At that moment, the sun had moved just low enough in the sky that its setting rays hit the top of the standing stone, causing the engraved runes to glow with golden light.
He sucked in a breath. "Elentiya," he whispered, and a crow cawed overhead.
He thought of Ginny's description of Alys… a high priestess of their group. Maybe Elentiya wasn't a name. Maybe it was a title.
SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1997
Kathleen stood near the back of her mother's hair salon, absolutely, devastatingly bored. The salon had gotten new stock of shampoo bottles in, and her mother had Kathleen labeling each individual bottle for sale with a tiny little hand-written price sticker.
"But Mum, it's my birthday," she had complained earlier that morning, burying her head under her pillow. "My seventeenth! I should be celebrating—"
"And you will be celebrating," Mum had said before pulling the pillow off and tossing it on the floor. "After six o'clock, when the salon is closed."
"But Mum—"
"But nothing, Kathleen."
That's what the answer always was. But nothing. Kathleen glanced up at the faded calendar on the wall above the back counter and bit her lip, fighting back tears. It was September 2nd. She was supposed to be at Hogwarts. She and Ginny were both supposed to be at Hogwarts, starting their sixth year. But because nothing was right in the world, Ginny was trapped in a dungeon somewhere, if she was even still alive, and Kathleen was spending her seventeenth birthday labeling shampoo bottles by hand.
She knew why she couldn't go back— it was clear to anyone paying attention that the Death Eaters had taken over the Ministry, and once it was announced that Snape was to be the new Headmaster… Kathleen knew that Hogwarts was no longer safe. Still though, it had been bizarre this time yesterday, to watch the clock strike eleven and know that the Hogwarts Express was departing, and she wasn't on it. Would likely never be on it again, unless Harry managed to… well, she didn't really know. Defeat You-Know-Who? How was he even going to do that? The Daily Prophet had spent so much time last year calling him "The Chosen One," and he had gotten himself out of a number of impossible situations, and saved a number of people— Ginny among them. But actually defeating You-Know-Who… the very thought chilled Kathleen's blood.
Harry hadn't been on the Hogwarts Express either. Nor had Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger. During her last phone call with Harry, before the Order of the Phoenix had arrived to move him from his aunt and uncle's house to an undisclosed hideout, he had told her that they wouldn't be going back to school… that they had a mission to fulfill, from Dumbledore. That had to be about defeating You-Know-Who, right? And maybe that would give him an opportunity to find Ginny—
"I think people might have a tough time reading the label if it's upside down, Kath."
Kathleen looked up to find her dad smiling at her, a white cardboard box in his hands. She laughed, looking down at the bottle and realizing her mistake.
"Sorry," she said, peeling the label off and grimacing as it left sticky residue behind. "I zoned out for a second there."
"I could see that," he said, putting the box down on the counter. "You always furrow your brows when you're thinking hard about something. Anything you wanna chat about?"
"No, it's just the usual stuff," she said, keeping her gaze focused on the bottle. "You know, if Mum would let me use magic, I could have these done in about thirty seconds. But she—"
"Wants to protect you, in very uncertain times," Dad finished, giving her a significant look that she didn't need to look up to notice.
"But I'm of age now, the Trace is gone—"
"I don't know how it all works, Kath, but you know your mother—"
"Well, well, well. So this is where you've been hiding out all this time— amongst Muggle filth. It's been too long, Cordelia."
Kathleen's eyes widened at the unfamiliar voice, talking about Muggles, and she drew her wand. She was too far back in the shop to see anything, but when she started to take a step forward, her dad seized her arm in a vice-like grip, putting a finger over his lips.
"Get out," she heard her mother say in an icy tone.
"Now is that any way to greet your dear older brother?" the voice said in a mocking tone. Kathleen's eyes widened in shock, and her father's grip on her arm tightened still further. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you hadn't missed me at all. Or our father— don't you want to say hello?"
"Of course she doesn't," another, older voice said in a haughty, imperious tone. "She's made her bed amongst these animals— not so much as a letter in the last seventeen years."
"Almost eighteen, now," said the younger voice. "You broke poor Mother's heart, Delia. She died a few years back, but you don't care about that, I suppose."
"How did you find me?" Mum said, and Kathleen could hear the control she was putting into her voice to stop it from shaking.
"Why, your sweet little daughter, of course."
Kathleen gasped, and her dad clapped his free hand over her mouth.
"Oh is that you, darling?" the younger voice called out. "Don't be shy now— we're having a proper family reunion up here. I'm your uncle Eamon."
"Tell me what you want and then get the hell out," Mum said, fire coming into her voice.
"I didn't finish answering you the first time," the younger voice— Eamon— said, pretending to scold her. "You always were impatient. It's September 2nd, Delia— your little Kathleen's supposed to be in school. Severus's Headmaster now, and when he gave the Ministry the list of truants, it was my job to look into it."
"Of course it was," Mum said in a cold, sneering tone that Kathleen had never heard her use before. "His little tag-along, even now."
Eamon barked a laugh. "You only say that because you're on the losing side, and you know it."
"I'm on my own side."
"Doesn't look that way to me," he said. "I get the list from Severus, and I go through it, and it's mostly Mudbloods, of course, but then I see Kathleen Elizabeth Barrows— half-blood. And I think to myself, I think I've heard that name before, but I can't place it at first. So I go looking through the Ministry's birth records, looking for the Barrows family, and I find her birth certificate. Filthy Muggle slip of paper— you didn't even have the decency to give birth at St. Mungo's?— but there it was, clear as day. Mother— Cordelia Eustace Barrows, née Mulciber."
If Kathleen's eyes went any wider, they would pop out of her head. The Mulcibers were an old pureblood family, and strongly connected to the Death Eaters. Her mind flashed on old Daily Prophet covers, to mugshots of a man named Mulciber. Eamon Mulciber? But that would mean her mother was—
Eamon was laughing now. "And I think to myself, that can't be right— my baby sister's dead, or she must be, seeing as she ran off without a single solitary Knut before she even graduated from school. No way she survived— we would have heard about it! But seems like we underestimated you, baby sister."
"So this is where you've been, all this time?" the older voice— Kathleen's grandfather— said, sounding disappointed. "Living like a Muggle? Breeding with one?"
"Better that than having to live with you," Mum said in that same sneering tone, and Kathleen's heart skipped a beat as she realized where she had heard it before. She sounded like Malfoy. Mum was talking like a pureblood… like a Slytherin.
Eamon laughed harder at that. "Oh, don't worry, you won't be living with Father— you're way too old for that. Not too old to pop out another kid or two, though, and that's the good news for you. The Dark Lord's very focused on blood purity, Delia. He doesn't want any pure blood wasted— needs to ensure the next generation, after all. Not too many men are going to want a wife who's been fucked by a Muggle, but Avery might still take you— he was sweet on you back in school, remember?" He laughed again, and he sounded closer this time. Dad, his hands still on Kathleen's mouth and arm, pulled her to the side a couple of steps, closer to the stairs that led to their flat.
"I have to help her," Kathleen whispered, not sure if Dad could hear her, but he tightened his grip and took one step closer to the stairs. Any closer, and they would be able to be seen from the front.
"You know I would rather die," Mum said. "Fuck off back to where you came from, Eamon— I'm not going anywhere with you."
She's stalling for time, Kathleen realized with a start. Stalling for Dad and me.
"No can do, baby sister. I'm not leaving— not after all this time— and I'm not killing you. Aside from not wanting to spill pure blood, you're on the no-kill list— that's where I saw my niece's name, just didn't know she was my niece. Isn't that lucky for you? You and little Kathleen and even the piece of filth you call a husband are all on it. No, Delia, you're coming with us, to fix the life you royally screwed up, and I'm giving my darling niece to the Dark Lord. His little saint might like a friend back—"
"John, get to the Portkey!" Mum screamed, and Dad raced into action before Kathleen had time to blink. His grip so tight it was bruising, he yanked Kathleen behind him and bolted for the stairs just as the room exploded in spell-fire.
"I don't care what the Dark Lord says, I'm going to kill that Muggle bastard!" her grandfather yelled. "Avada—"
"Bombarda!" Mum yelled, and the front desk exploded, splintering everywhere.
"Mum!" Kathleen yelled, trying to pull her arm out of her dad's grip. She awkwardly held her wand in her off-hand and shouted, "Impedimenta!", aiming for her uncle.
"Kathleen, go!" Mum yelled before firing off a nonverbal spell first at her brother and then at her father.
Dad pulled her up the stairs, and Kathleen had the stupid, amazed thought that her mother was a good duelist. A very good duelist, to be holding her own against two Death Eaters at once. Her magic-hating, Muggle-passing mother… she couldn't even begin to comprehend what was happening.
"Oh no, you don't!" Eamon shouted, breaking away and starting to run up the stairs. Kathleen screamed, and from down below, her mother bellowed, "Confringo!"
The stairs in between Kathleen and Eamon exploded, and before he could fire off another spell, Dad yanked open the door to the flat and pulled Kathleen inside, slamming it shut behind them. He did not, however, let go of her arm. He began pulling her toward one of the side tables in the living room; he was breathing hard and his face was hardened in a way that Kathleen had never seen.
"Dad, we have to go back," Kathleen sobbed as she heard explosion after explosion downstairs. "Mum needs me—"
"Mum needs you to get to safety," he said, pulling open the small drawer on the side table. "She'll be right behind us. I can explain more when we're safe."
"You little whore! You'll regret this—" Crashes and bangs sounded from down below.
"Dad, we have to—"
But Kathleen didn't get to finish that thought. Dad grabbed onto a notepad in the drawer, and the world whipped away from them. Light and sound compressed in on themselves, and Kathleen couldn't breathe, everything was twisted, everything was moving too fast, and then they landed.
They landed in the middle of a forest, in front of a cabin Kathleen had never seen before.
"Come on, let's get inside," Dad said, finally letting go of her arm as he started to walk toward the cabin's front door.
"Dad, what the fuck?" Kathleen said, putting her palms on her thighs as she bent over a little, dizzy and nauseous.
"Kath—"
"Dad, what the fuck is happening?"
Dad stopped walking and sighed. "I always hoped this day would never come. I'll explain everything, but let's get inside first. I need to get my gun."
"Your gun?"
"Yes. My gun. One of them, anyway. Muggles can't use wands, so we thought I should be prepared."
"What the fuck?"
"Kathleen," Dad said, in a tone that brokered no further argument. "Get inside, now."
Feeling incapable of forming a coherent thought aside from what the fuck at this point, Kathleen stumbled after her father, her mother's enraged face as she dueled her Death Eater family playing again and again before her eyes. How? How could any of this be possible?
The cabin was small, only one room, but stuffed with things. It looked like a doomsday prepper's dream in here— large shelves against one wall with non-perishable foods in jars and cans, an old radio propped up on the windowsill, and… guns. A rack with three different shotguns was against another wall, right next to an old sofa, and it was here that her father went. He picked one up and clicked part of it open in a way that was unfamiliar to Kathleen, apparently inspecting whether it was loaded.
He seemed satisfied that it was.
"If you want to sit down—"
"I can't be in here," Kathleen said in a rush. "This is too much."
Dad sighed. "Okay. Let's sit on the front steps then."
Kathleen numbly followed him out the creaky front door and half-sat, half-collapsed on the front step. He sat down next to her, resting the shotgun next to him.
"We have to go back," Kathleen said.
"No," Dad said. "This was always the plan. Get to the Portkey, and if we get separated, your mum will meet us here with… Apparition. I think that's the word."
"What do you mean, that was always the plan?"
Dad sighed and ran a hand through his prematurely graying hair. "Shit, Kath, where do I begin?"
"From the beginning," Kathleen said faintly. "From the beginning would be good."
"Alright," Dad said with a humorless chuckle. "Some of this wizard stuff you might know more than me, so you might have to fill in some gaps. And you've heard a very… sanitized version of this story before, anyway." He took a deep breath and crossed his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes on the tree line.
"I met your mother when she was seventeen and I was twenty," he said. "I had just gotten my job at the post office, and I was working the front desk— they didn't trust me with a route yet— and one day, this strangely dressed, very beautiful girl wandered in, saying she was lost, and could I help her open a bank account? But she had the strangest coins I had ever seen, great big gold ones— only a few, mind you, but still, they didn't look like any currency I had ever seen. So I asked her what country she was from, figuring she must be foreign, and she said England, and I was standing there scratching my head, because she sounded like she was from England, but she didn't look like it, and what the hell kind of coins were these, anyway? So I told her I didn't know where she got those coins, but they weren't British pounds and no British bank was going to accept them. And then she just burst into tears, great big sobs like I had told her someone had died. And I told her I would try to help her, maybe I could help take her home, and she said she didn't have a home, that she didn't have anywhere to go. So… one thing led to another, and I ended up offering her my couch."
A breeze blew through the trees, making them rustle, and in an instant, Dad had the shotgun in his hands, pointed at the tree line. Kathleen gripped her wand, her palm sweaty, but nothing happened. After a long moment, Dad put the gun down again.
"She didn't tell me she was a witch right away, of course," he said, chuckling again. "Your mother grew up very sheltered, but she at least knew that much— Muggles, as you lot call them, didn't know about witches, and most of them might not take too kindly to a crying witch on their couch. I thought she must have grown up in a cult or something. She had clearly ran away from somewhere, and she would ask questions about the oddest things. She had never seen a television before, or a refrigerator, or really anything electronic. She didn't know anything about science, or history, or… or anything, it seemed to me, and I was far from a star student in secondary school. So I let her stay on my couch, and when I would get home from work, I would tell her about the world. About the things she had apparently missed out on.
"She didn't trust me at first— understandable, obviously, but she was very guarded, even more than you might expect. But I just decided to treat her like she was any other normal person, even though the circumstances were beyond bizarre, since she had clearly been through a lot and didn't have anybody else to help her. And gradually, she started to open up… and tell me about who she was. About the family and the world she came from."
"The Mulcibers," Kathleen whispered, her palms growing sweatier.
"You recognize the name, then?"
"They're Death Eaters."
"I know," Dad said with a nod. "Your mum told me all about You-Know-Who, and the Death Eaters, and the politics about blood in the magical world. Your mother wanted nothing to do with any of it, and she ran the first chance she got. I guess at school you guys take trips, sometimes, to the local village? Her last year at school, she was old enough to Apparate, and the Trace— I think that's what it's called— wasn't on her anymore, so she gave her classmates the slip and Apparated to this pub in London that I guess is a magical one. She walked out of there, onto the Muggle street, and never looked back."
"That's why she wouldn't sign my Hogsmeade permission slip," Kathleen said, tears starting to fall down her face as she took in just how brave her mother had been, at the same age she was now.
Dad laughed. "I guess so, yeah. She got pregnant with you a few months after she moved in with me, and from that point on, her entire focus was on protecting you. 'My father will kill the baby,' she used to tell me, crying at night. 'My father will kill the baby.'"
Kathleen stifled a sob, and Dad pulled her in close, the familiar scent of their laundry detergent filling her nose.
"It's alright, Kath," he said. "It's alright. Your mother loves you so, so much— from the moment she found out she was pregnant, she loved you more than she loved herself, more than she loved anything else. And that's why she chose to stop using magic. She had already been pretty sparing with it, afraid to attract the wrong kind of attention, but after you came into the picture… she wouldn't risk it, not for anything. It didn't matter once You-Know-Who died, and your uncle and grandfather were sent to wizard jail. She was sure it wasn't over. People were celebrating in the streets, and Delia didn't trust it. So she lived like she didn't have magic at all."
"Until I started showing signs," Kathleen choked out.
"Until you started showing signs," Dad agreed, and rubbed her arm. "I know she didn't show you this, Kath, but she was overjoyed when she realized you had magic. Overjoyed, and terrified. She didn't want to rob you of who you are, but wizards have not been kind to her, and she was terrified of someone dangerous finding out who you were. Still, though, I encouraged her to send you to school— it had been many years now since You-Know-Who had died or fallen or whatever had happened, and her family was safely locked away. Surely you could go to school. And Delia agreed, though it was hard for her."
"A-and then You-Know Who came back."
"Yes, at the end of your third year. And so that's when Delia and I began to make a plan. We've spent every weekend here for the last two years, except when you've been home for the summer."
"What?"
"We made this safe house, and she keyed a Portkey to it, in case something ever happened and we were found. She practiced her magic, and I practiced my shooting, and we canned some things, you probably saw that in there… She's been practicing fighting magic mostly, but some practical things too, I think. She wanted to make sure we had the Muggle versions too, though, since she was worried about something happening when you were underage. The Trace—"
"Would have meant she couldn't do magic around me," Kathleen said dully. "Without setting it off."
"Right," Dad said with a nod. "She wanted to be prepared for every possibility. We just hoped to never need it."
"Where is here, anyway?"
"The Forest of Dean. Your grandparents used to take me camping around here when I was a kid."
"Dad."
"What?"
"Mum isn't back yet."
He shifted next to her. "I'm sure she'll be here soon—"
As though he had summoned her, a loud crack filled the air, sending birds flying up out of the trees, and Cordelia Barrows appeared before them, maybe twenty feet away. She was clutching her side, which was gushing blood.
"Mum!" Kathleen screamed, bolting for her.
"Delia! Delia!"
"It's alright, John," she said with a wet cough. "They didn't follow me."
"That's good, but your side—"
"We have to take you to St. Mungo's!"
"No," Mum said, grabbing Kathleen's arm. "They have the Ministry, and Hogwarts. They'll have St. Mungo's too."
"A Muggle hospital, then," Kathleen said desperately. "You're bleeding a lot—"
"A Muggle hospital won't be able to treat this," Mum said with a grimace. "Dark Magic leaves traces, beyond just the physical wound."
"Then we have to risk St. Mungo's! I'll hold onto you while you Apparate—"
"Honey, I can't Apparate again."
"But… but Mum…"
"Help me inside, John. There's some herbs in there that you can use to make a poultice, Kathleen, and that should stop the worst of the bleeding."
"But you said—"
Before Kathleen could finish her thought, Dad had scooped Mum up in his arms and was carrying her inside. Kathleen raced behind them, belatedly realizing that her mother's blood was on her hands.
"And Kathleen, as soon as we've done that, I need you to go around the perimeter and cast some protective enchantments. Thank Merlin your birthday is so early in September. Listen to me, now, listen to the words. Salvio hexia. Protego totalum. Cave inimicum. And you remember Disillusionment Charms, don't you? I think that's O.W.L. year…"
"Mum."
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you too, darling."