Ch.3: The Weight of the Past
A stunned silence fell over the room. Shacklebolt turned to face Draco, his eyebrows furrowed into a thoughtful expression.
"You're sure of this?"
"I'm quite certain I know my own father when I see him, Minister," Draco said coldly, though he would never admit to the man in front of him that he had spent the entire time in this office trying to convince himself that it hadn't been his father.
Shacklebolt made his way back over to the desk and sat at the chair behind it, stroking the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.
"Your father was released from Azkaban earlier this year, yes?" the Minister asked.
"Yes," Draco replied. "Though no one I know has seen him since then as far as I know."
"Hmm," Shacklebolt murmured, still stroking thoughtfully at his stubble. "I'm sure you heard me say earlier that there may be former Death Eaters involved in this group."
"Yes, Sir," Draco answered hesitantly. His confusion must've been evident on his face because the Minister pressed on.
"It's possible that there may be some you know who have joined up with this group."
"It's possible," Draco agreed flatly, though he didn't particularly like where the conversation was heading. He didn't like talking about his past. In fact, it was something he often tried his best to avoid. Working to restore his family's reputation after the war had been grueling work, and he often felt like it was never done. There would always be some witch or wizard that couldn't quite trust the former Death Eater and son of Voldemort's right-hand man.
"Mr. Malfoy, I know this may be abrupt, but I have to ask—"
"You want me to get in contact with my old Death Eater friends?" he interrupted the Minister coldly, already knowing what he was going to say.
"It could be our ticket into learning more about this group and how to stop them," Shacklebolt argued. "If we could have a ministry employee infiltrate their group—"
"Minister, I have worked very hard to regain the trust of the public, but you must understand the delicate state my family's reputation is in at the moment," Draco interjected. "We are in a precarious state right now, trusted by neither side."
"Damn your family reputation!" the Minister roared suddenly, slamming his fist onto his desk. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw both Potter and Granger jump. "More people are dying by the day. If we don't do something, we'll be in another war soon!"
There was silence for a few moments as the meaning of his words sunk in.
"I can make a few calls," Draco grumbled, conceding. The Minister relaxed at these words, satisfied. "But you must understand that it will take some time to gain their trust again. Most of them know I've been working for the Ministry."
"Of course," Shacklebolt murmured, nodding. The Minister rose, suddenly looking very weary. Draco himself could feel exhaustion from the night's excursions creeping into his bones. "Go back to the campsite and get some rest, you three," The Minister said, dismissing them. "I'll need you back in the field tomorrow."
ӁӁӁӁӁ
Half an hour later, Hermione stood in front of the tent's kitchen sink, peeling potatoes for the beginnings of a beef stew that was bubbling away on the stove. She was peeling the potatoes the muggle way, with a knife. It was messy and slow, but she often preferred to cook with as little magic as she could. Somehow, putting in the work to cook it all by hand often made her feel as if she had actually earned the meal, as bizarre as that was to say. Ron would've called her bonkers, but there was something she loved about cooking the muggle way. It reminded her of her mother.
"Need any help?" came Harry's voice from behind her. She looked over to see him standing at the mouth of the hallway that led to their bedrooms.
"I'm fine," Hermione mumbled, turning back to the sink, and continuing to peel the potato she held in her hands.
"I could use something to do," Harry confessed. He walked over to the kitchen, took a knife from the wooden knife block and a potato from the sink and began to peel. "How're you holding up?" he asked her after a moment's silence had passed. She was quiet again as she gathered her thoughts.
"Scared," she whispered finally. "I didn't think this would happen again. It was supposed to be over after Voldemort." She stopped, feeling the familiar burning in her arm, and tears pricked at her eyes.
"Me too," Harry agreed.
"We lost so many during the war. Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Lavender, Colin. They're all gone. And my parents—" somewhere during their conversation she had stopped peeling potatoes and was staring out the tent's window forlornly. "If we can't protect the others from the same kind of threat now, will their deaths have been in vain? Will erasing my parents' memories have been in vain?"
"No. Hermione, you can't think like that," Harry set down his knife and the potato he had been peeling and turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. His face was filled with a firm determination. "We defeated Voldemort and the Death Eaters. We'll defeat Purum Sanguinem too."
"You're right," Hermione breathed, letting out a strained chuckle. "I can't let myself think like that." She set down her knife and wiped away the tears that had streaked their way down her face. "I think I need to step outside for a minute. I need some fresh air," Hermione murmured.
"Okay, 'Mione. I'll finish cutting these potatoes," he offered.
"Thanks, Harry." She gave him a sad smile.
"What are friends for?" he said and turned his attention back to the potatoes, picking up his knife and beginning to peel another one.
Outside of the tent, the evening air was nippy. Hermione drew her sweatshirt closer to her body, thankful for its warmth. The trees swayed softly in the evening breeze, their branches whispering in an ancient and unknowable language. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool evening air, then exhaled, feeling slightly more clear-headed.
Remembering her earlier observation of Malfoy setting up the wards, Hermione drew her wand and murmured several indistinguishable incantations, watching as a ring of golden light appeared around the campsite, marking out the radius of the wards. Hermione made her way along the edge of the ring, whispering incantations and prodding at the circle as she inspected each spell that Malfoy had laid. She was expecting him to have done a shoddy job of it, or to have forgotten a spell in the long list that Ministry employees were required to remember. But, as she inched her way along the edge of the circle, she was surprised to find that everything looked in order so far, a fact that wouldn't stop her in the slightest from checking the rest of the wards he had laid.
She was almost back at the beginning of the circle near the tent when she heard a familiar drawling voice.
"What are you doing?" She looked up to find Malfoy standing in the doorway of the tent, arms crossed and staring at her with narrowed eyes.
"I'm checking the wards," she announced, then turned back to her inspection of the circle.
"There's no need to check the wards. I laid them this morning, and I think you'll find that I'm capable of that very simple task," he hissed in annoyance.
"As capable as I'm sure you are, I'm still going to double-check your wards," Hermione clipped, not looking away from her inspection.
"For Merlin's sake, Granger! I went through the Ministry training just like you did. I know the damn spells by heart, just like you do, just like every Ministry employee does."
She gritted her teeth and gripped her wand tighter.
"I don't care, Malfoy. I'm still checking them. I'm almost finished, so if you don't mind—"
"I do mind, actually," he snapped, and moved to stand closer to her. "No matter what I do, it's never good enough for you lot, is it? I've spent ten years trying to prove myself. My mother and I donated most of our family fortune to charities for victims of the war. I joined the Ministry's Curse-Breakers to use my knowledge of dark magic to help people instead of hurting them. Why can't you lot accept that I've changed?"
"Because I don't trust you, Malfoy!" Hermione shouted. She whirled around and stormed back into the tent, leaving Malfoy to stare after her in stony silence.
"Why did Kingsley send us on a mission with him?" Hermione huffed upon re-entry into the tent. Harry had finished chopping the potatoes and was stirring them into the stew. He looked up at the sound of her voice.
"Look, 'Mione," Harry began, setting aside the stirring spoon and turning to face her. "I'm not exactly thrilled to be working with Malfoy either, but we need to if we're going to take down Purum Sanguinem."
"I know," Hermione sighed. "He's just so irritating, and I don't trust him."
"Me neither," Harry agreed. "But he gave his word to Kingsley that he would help us investigate Purum Sanguinem. We have to trust he'll keep his word until he proves otherwise. Now come on, let's forget about him for now and eat some dinner."
ӁӁӁӁӁ
Draco strode through the forest, fuming. He was hoping that a nighttime walk would help calm him after his irritating encounter with Granger, but he had no such luck. The tip of his wand was alight with a glowing radiance that cut through the gloomy darkness.
His argument with Granger had only solidified his conviction that the Golden Trio and the majority of the Wizarding World would never trust him or his family ever again. He had been a fool, spending the better part of a decade trying to rehabilitate the Malfoy name, only to be distrusted anyway.
Draco could think of nothing worse than spending the rest of the night under the scornful eyes of two-thirds of the Golden Trio. So, he turned on the spot, leaving the forest and campsite behind him as he apparated to his mother's house.
Narcissa Malfoy had sold Malfoy Manor after the war, claiming the house was too cursed with dark magic and bad memories. She had since taken up residence in an elegant cottage in the British countryside where she could host charity balls to her heart's content.
An intricately carved serpent knocker inlaid with ruby eyes was fastened to the door. Draco used it to rap on the door once, twice, three times, and then he waited in silence. A moment later, the door opened, and he was greeted by the surprised face of his mother. After the shock of his arrival had worn off, she gave him a warm smile and pulled him into a hug.
"It's good to see you, Dear," she murmured into his ear.
"And you, Mum," he replied, squeezing her a little tighter.
"Come on in, Draco. I'll put the kettle on," she announced, pulling away from him. He followed her inside, closing the door behind him gently. The air was alive with the scents of cinnamon, honey, and nutmeg, a sure sign that his mother was making some delicious sweets. He pulled off his cloak and hung it on the coatrack, then made his way into the sitting room, collapsing on the sofa with a sigh.
When Narcissa Malfoy sold Malfoy Manor, she had released all their house elves from servitude. She had said it was because she didn't need so many hands to take care of the cottage, which was far smaller than the manor. However, Draco knew better. He knew she had released them out of guilt for how Lucius had abused them. Besides, he knew she preferred to do the household chores and cooking for herself. They kept her busy, and busy meant less time for the intrusive thoughts they both had.
A moment later, Narcissa reappeared with a steaming teapot and a tray of cream, sugar, finger sandwiches, treacle tart, and snickerdoodles that she set down gently on the coffee table in front of him. She drew her wand from her robes and produced two elegant teacups that matched the design of the teapot.
They made their tea in silence. After the first sip, Narcissa began the polite banter that always preceded the heart of the conversation in pureblood society.
"How has the Ministry been?"
"Busy," he grunted, biting into a snickerdoodle. "There's been an increase in curses lately, which means more paperwork and fieldwork for me, but they're paying overtime, so I can't be too sore about it."
"Hm," Narcissa murmured, taking a sip of her tea. Draco could tell there was something on her mind. He took a sip of his tea and set it back down on its saucer.
"What is it, Mum?"
"I heard about the attack on the news last night," Narcissa answered, her face contorting into an expression of worry. "Were you there?"
Draco didn't like where this conversation was heading.
"I was. Most aurors and a select few Ministry employees were called to help deal with it," he answered. "We got it under control."
"I'm sure you did, Dear." The tone of her voice made it obvious that she didn't believe him. He took another sip of his tea. They sat in silence for a few minutes until his mother spoke again.
"I know you didn't come just to exchange pleasantries, Draco. Why are you here?"
He set his teacup back down onto its saucer and steeled his nerves. The image of the blonde-haired figure he had seen yesterday swam before him.
"Have you seen Dad lately?" he asked quietly.
"You know I haven't seen him since he was released from Azkaban. He disappeared. Why?" Her voice was full of trepidation, as if she knew what he was going to say next.
"I saw him yesterday during the attack. He was with terrorizing the city with the other attackers," he said quietly. He could see fear creeping into his mother's eyes. They had both worked hard to distance the Malfoy name from dark magic. The same couldn't be said for Lucius, apparently.
"Are you certain, Draco?" she asked. He saw the glint of hope in her eyes, and he knew she didn't want to believe him.
"I saw him with my own eyes, Mother," he answered. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the arm of the elegant sofa that was the feature in his mother's sitting room. Narcissa Malfoy's face had gone white, her regal composure faltering for a moment. A heavy silence hung in the air for a few minutes as his mother processed his words.
"Does the Ministry know?" she asked quietly, finally breaking the silence. He nodded.
"Shacklebolt reckons that some former Death Eaters have joined up with this group. He wants me to make a few calls and see if I can infiltrate it," he explained. Narcissa pursed her lips into a thin line, disapproval written all over her face.
"Surely they know that the Malfoy name is not trusted by former Death Eaters any longer," his mother argued.
"I said as much," Draco admitted. "But this group is growing more and more bold with their attacks, so he wants me to at least try."
"I don't think it's a good idea, Draco. It's too dangerous, and we've worked too hard to distance ourselves from that life," the Malfoy Matriarch argued.
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Draco bit out. "The Ministry needs a man on the inside to find out what they're up to. And besides, if I refuse, they're bound to distrust me even more." He carded a hand through his hair, his irritated expression faltering.
"I understand, Draco," his mother said gently. She leaned over and pulled him into a tight hug. "Just be careful."
"I will, Mum."
ӁӁӁӁӁ
Draco's flat in Wizarding London was just how he had left it that morning, tidy and neat. He closed the door behind him gently and hung his cloak on the coatrack that was perched in the corner. The day's exhaustion was creeping into him, and he gave a large yawn, feeling his eyes burn with his tiredness. He wanted to spend the first night of the investigation in his own bed, far away from two-thirds of the Golden Trio. His argument with Granger earlier had only solidified that desire.
He slid into the chair that stood in front of the desk, resigning himself to follow up on Shacklebolt's request before he turned in for the night. He drew a fresh sheet of parchment, loaded his quill with ink, and began to scrawl out a letter.
Theo,
Been a while, Mate. Drinks at the Leaky tomorrow to catch up?
D.M.