Ministry has no leads to his whereabouts
Oct. 28, 2018, Hogsmeade.
Ever since the August 24th escape of Draco Malfoy from Azkaban prison, the Ministry has been on the lookout for any clues as to where he is and what he is doing. Last week, several Muggles were found dead on a street in suburban London, their bodies unmarked, as is typical of victims of the killing curse. The Muggle Prime Minister has been alerted of Malfoy’s escape, but even with the Muggles on the lookout, no trace of Malfoy has been reported.
A source who wishes to remain anonymous has reported to the Prophet that Malfoy now has nearly a hundred secret supporters, and that he is now planning a mass murder of Muggle-born wizards and witches. Whether these rumours are true or not remains to be seen, but this reporter hopes that they are not.
As always, we are appealing to the public to report any sightings or information.”
Ivy tried to roll up the newspaper, but her hands were shaking too badly. Ted did it for her, but inside he was just as worried as she. From the sound of it, Malfoy was coming to power just as Voldemort had, and if this was going to be like Voldemort’s reign, many people would be deeply in danger, in particular people he loved.
Ivy had been a lot cheerier lately, over two months after Malfoy’s escape. Her adoption had been approved by the Ministry, which meant that her name was now Ivy Potter (though teachers and other students often forgot this), and she had adjusted quite easily to calling Harry and Ginny, ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum.’
“It was actually kind of hard remembering not to call them ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’ for the last three and a half years, to tell you the truth,” she’d said at the time.
But now, thought Ted, her good mood was going to disappear again.
Emma shrugged. “The ‘anonymous source’ is probably just some random bloke who wanted to cause a bit of a stir. I really doubt that anything he said is true.”
“Post’s here,” remarked Haley as a torrent of owls flew into the Great Hall. (The newspaper had been delivered by Zsa Zsa, Ted’s always-early owl.) A very large black owl, bearing a black envelope edged with silver, fluttered down and dropped off its envelope in Tyrone Thomas’s hands, hooting mournfully as it took off.
“New owl?” Ted asked politely.
Tyrone shrugged. “Never seen it before,” he answered casually, slipping the envelope into his pocket. “I’ll read this letter later-- it might be another one of those singing cards from a secret admirer. Terribly embarrassing, those things.”
Several more jet-black owls were now speeding through the window from the various tables. “Perhaps they’re extra-efficient post owls. After all, it looks like they’re flying faster than the usual owls,” guessed Jordan.
Haley changed the subject. “It’s really too bad they canceled all of the Hogsmeade weekends on account of Malfoy. It’s so pretty out.”
Emma nodded morosely. “No Quidditch, either-- what, do they think Malfoy’s going to be lurking in the Slytherin stands?”
“And they don’t have musical theatre this year,” putting Jordan, helping himself to kippers as he added a little too hastily, “Not that I enjoyed that all. Instead, Aunt Hermione is holding peer counseling. It sounds dreadful.” He made a face.
Ted arched an eyebrow, causing Haley undue pain and suffering. “Actually, I think that’s a great idea,” he told Jordan. “Think about it. A lot of people might want someone to talk to about their problems these days. You know, someone their own age, who actually understands their problems?” Like Ivy, he thought privately. “I’m signing up as a counselor.”
“Me, too. You get to chat, and you get warm fuzzies from helping people!” added Haley happily. “Where do you sign up?”
Jordan pointed to a scroll thumb tacked to the double doors of the Great Hall, and Ted and Haley got up to fill in their names. When they returned, Haley was wearing a satisfied expression.
“What’s up?” Emma asked warily, not missing it.
“Oh, nothing.” Haley wore a strange grin most commonly spotted on the face of a tiger when it’s inches away from your own. “I’ve just signed you up as a peer counselor.”
Ron’s weekend visits to Hogwarts were usually a cheery affair. After he and Harry discussed Auror business briefly, they would join Hermione for a spot of tea and some conversation. But today, when Ron arrived in Harry’s office, Harry knew that something was wrong.
His brother-in-law was standing grim-faced in the doorway, his long, lean body erect and his freckles standing out more than usual. Without any preamble, he announced hollowly, “Malfoy attacked London. Six people are dead.”
Harry blinked. “I know, it was in the Prophet,” he replied calmly. “I thought we talked about that days ago.”
Ron collapsed heavily into a chair. Up close, he looked rather drawn-- Harry suspected that serving as Acting Head Auror during these trying times was beginning to take a toll on him. “Harry, the Prophet’s behind the times. I don’t mean the Muggles; early this morning, he went out and blasted six people: Dennis Creevey, Daphne Greenglass, Hannah Abbot, Marcus Belby, Zacharias Smith, and Parvati Thomas.”
The words hit Harry with a strong impact-- these six people he’d gone to school with were dead at the hands of Draco Malfoy? He’d never been too familiar with Daphne or Marcus, but he remembered Hannah, a cheery blonde witch; and Dennis, a small and excitable wizard who had idolized Harry as a schoolboy.
And Parvati-- he had known her the best of the group. She had been a very pretty, vivacious lady, if rather gossipy and not overwhelmingly brilliant. Harry had gone to a ball with her in his fourth year, though he’d been a terrible date for her. Parvati’s husband, Dean Thomas, was a friend of Harry’s, and her sister Padma was the Healer at Hogwarts. Then there was her son, Tyrone, handsome and cocky. Harry could only imagine what Tyrone would be like after hearing the news of his mother’s death.
“So, I suppose he did go after the Muggle-borns, like it said in the Prophet,” Ron sighed, conjuring up a mug of tea and drinking deeply.
Harry stirred in his seat. “But Parvati and Smith, they were purebloods. And that Smith, I’d peg him as one of Malfoy’s followers, not one of his victims.”
“Well, Malfoy went to the Thomas’s to kill Dean-- he’s Muggle-born, remember? Only Parvati tried to summon the Auror forces when he got there. I sent out some of the best men in the office to catch him, and I guess Malfoy killed her so she couldn’t tell them what had happened. Well, when the Aurors arrived, they saw the door blasted open, Parvati’s body, and Malfoy’s mark over the house.”
“The Dark Mark?” asked Harry.
Ron shuddered slightly. “No,” he answered. “It was blood red, and it looked like a skull with two snakes wrapped around it, then going in the nose holes and out the eye sockets.” Harry found this idea repulsive, which was probably the idea. “And Smith was the anonymous source in the Prophet! He joined Malfoy, but he was a double agent. His wife got sent his posthumous Order of Merlin Second Class-- right before he died, he gave more information to the Ministry. He said that Malfoy-- the Dark Master, he’s calling himself now-- has a load of followers called the Overseers.”
Harry breathed out. It wasn’t really a sigh, just an exhalation of breath. “You know,” he said slowly, “It’s kind of strange, I always knew Malfoy was up to no good, but I never thought he’d have the drive or the nerve to do something like this. I mean, he never seemed like a Dark Lord type to me, more like a follower.”
Something flickered behind Ron’s blue eyes. “Yeah. And the thing is… I think it’s all my fault. I mean, he wasn’t like this until after I did in Lucius.”
“Well, that was in self-defence,” Harry pointed out fairly. He was slightly startled by his friend’s statement. Ron was not usually one to discuss feelings.
“Yeah, but it’s like Dumbledore said. Killing is harder than most people think it is,” Ron sighed. Harry did not like this particular topic of conversation; it dredged up too much of his uncomfortable past, and he felt the need to change the subject.
“So, how’s work?”
Ron gave him a noncommittal jerk of the head. “You know,” he answered. “Stressful. And I’ll never get used to having Percy as Minister of Magic. He’s in the Auror office all the time now for updates on the Malfoy Case, always popping into my cubicle saying, ‘Any reports, Weasley?’ I mean, seriously, ‘Weasley?’ He’s my brother, for Merlin’s sake! I keep wanting to call him ‘Weatherby!’”
Later that day, Haley, Jordan, Ivy, Ted, and Emma made their way toward Potions, a subject they all loathed. Although all five of them were actually quite talented potion makers, especially Jordan, Zabini made sure to constantly berate them in front of the class. Haley took a particular dislike to him for several reasons, and could not help but imagine the Snape she’d heard so much about from her father to be exactly like Zabini.
On their way to the dungeons, they passed the hospital wing, where Emma spotted quite an unusual sight. Madame Padma Patil, the school’s healer, was wrapped in a tight embrace with none other than Tyrone Thomas! Emma had seen many, many unlikely girls as Tyrone’s chosen lap dog, but this hit new heights of absurdity. “Oy, Thomas!” she yelled after him. “Getting a bit desperate for a girlfriend, are you?”
Her friends chortled as they passed by, and Jordan commented, “She’s his aunt, though, you know. Maybe Madame Patil was hugging him because she was glad to see her nephew.”
Haley shook her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “That was not a ‘nice to see you’ sort of hug!” And the group of them continued to happily discuss reasons for said hug, with only Ted abstaining from the conversation. He didn’t want to join in because he had noticed something that no one else had: Tyrone’s eyes were red-rimmed and his face looked drained. Could he, the boy who was never fazed by anything, not even multiple rejections from Emma, have been crying?
They reached the dungeons less than a minute before the bell rang. “Late,” Professor Zabini announced flatly. “Three points off Gryffindor, each.”
“We’re not late, sir,” Haley protested, spitting out the word ‘sir’ as though it hurt her mouth to utter it. “The bell hasn’t even rung yet.” The bell sounded as she spoke the word ‘rung,’ and Zabini sneered.
“Now it has,” he corrected her. “And as you know, if you are not seated when the bell rings, you are considered late. Five more points from Gryffindor for your cheek.”
Zabini, surprisingly enough, was not ugly in the slightest-- in fact, he was quite handsome, which only irked Haley more, who preferred things to be clear-cut and spelled out in black-and-white.
“Now, today, we will be brewing a swelling solution, which I believe you also prepared in your second year. This particular variation, however, is more difficult to make because of the many additional ingredients. The advantage to making this variant of the swelling solution is that the only known antidote takes twenty-four hours to take effect, and this causes this solution to be especially effective. Well, let’s see what you can produce at the end of a half-hour period.”
Everyone got to work, measuring ingredients just so and dicing them meticulously for mixing the potion. Just as Emma got up to get some dragonfly wings from the store cupboard by the door, Tyrone walked into the classroom.
“I’ve got a pass, sir,” he announced, handing one over to Zabini. “From Madame Patil.” His voice sounded weak, forced, and he wasn’t walking with his usual swagger. Zabini’s eyes scanned him briefly, then the Potions Master nodded curtly and pointed over to a cauldron. “I’m, er, not going to be here for the next two weeks or so... this is my last day before I go home. So I’m, you know, going to need a list of my assignments.”
“Very well. Begin your brewing, Mr. Thomas. Mr. Yang can assist you, as you missed the beginning of the lesson,” he instructed. This was unusual for him-- he usually wasn’t so…human.
At the end of half an hour, they had finished their potions. Jordan was very proud of his, which was clear as water without a single cloud or tint in it, and he couldn’t help but think that his was the best in the class.
Zabini strode down the rows, looking into cauldrons and remarking on what he saw there. “This is the work of a careless potion maker, Mr. Lupin, and it is clear that you were too heavy-handed with the newts’ blood. You simply cannot be so careless with your potions. One day, you may be forced to brew the Wolfsbane potion for your father, and even the slightest error could kill him. Miss Weasley, Miss Potter, you did not allow yours to stew long enough, and therefore, the steam is far too thick. And as for you, Miss Malfoy, this is an overall shoddily made potion. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Ivy sat calmly, not moving a muscle.
“Miss Malfoy?”
Zabini’s eyes were boring into hers, and after a rather long silence, she replied quietly, “I’m afraid I don’t know to whom you are speaking, sir. My name is Ivy Potter.”
“Five more points from Gryffindor,” hissed Zabini. There was no reason to be taking points, but everyone knew that it was not in their best interest to complain. It would only mean the loss of even more points. He moved on to Jordan, peering critically into his cauldron. “As for you, Mr. Potter, I believe you added too much syrup of acanthus. It seems to me as though your potion gives off a distinctly acidic scent not found in a properly brewed swelling solution.”
“I followed all of your instructions, sir,” Jordan said stiffly. Zabini’s dark eyes flashed, and he dipped a vial into Jordan’s potion, wafting the scent under his nose.
“Tell me, Potter, what do you smell?” he hissed, shaking the vial slightly. At this, several drops of the potion spilled out of the top and splashed onto Jordan’s lower lip, which bubbled unpleasantly and swelled to three times its usual size.
“Oh, it appears your potion was satisfactory after all,” drawled Zabini, “as it seems to have worked. Pity that the antidote takes twenty-four hours to take effect.” And the bell rang, signaling the end of class. Jordan was glaring, though the unintentional pout he was wearing due to his drooping lower lip made him look like a cross between Haley in a bad mood and Napolean Dynamite.
As Emma gathered her books, she said casually to Tyrone, “So, Thomas, what was so important that you had to skive off half of Potions? House burned down? Mum died? Or something really important, like you broke a nail?” Tyrone’s face turned an odd pale purplish color, his eyes bulged slightly, and without a word, he turned on his heel and marched quickly out of the dungeons.
“What was that all about?” asked Haley.
“Maybe he really did break a nail,” guessed Ted.
The next day was October 29th, the day before Emma’s birthday. The Daily Prophet had published a front-page article about the murders of Parvati Thomas, Hannah Abbott, Marcus Belby, Daphne Greenglass, and Zacharias Smith, and much of the school was in an uproar. Harry, along with several other staff members, was assigned the task of posting pictures of Malfoy throughout the corridors so that students would presumably know who he was if he somehow snuck into the castle.
It is very difficult to post someone’s picture all throughout a castle without noticing their face, and Harry couldn’t help but look at Draco Malfoy’s picture. After ten years in Azkaban, there was something distinctly Sirius-ish about it.
His hair was so matted with dirt that it was hard to tell that it was white-blond underneath, and it had grown into long tangles down his back. However, Malfoy’s filthy, gaunt face, eerily hollowed and shadowed, did not wear the hopeless corpselike expression that Sirius had in his prison photographs. Instead, his face shone with a deep, wild anger, his deadened grey eyes shining fiercely out from sunken sockets. Harry shivered and looked away, wondering for the umpteenth time how Ivy had turned out so well when her biological father had turned out so badly.
He had gone to school with Draco Malfoy for six years, but the man who had broken free from Azkaban was someone else entirely.
“That’s horrible,” breathed Haley, lowering her newspaper. “Well, now we know why Thomas was hugging his aunt.”
“And why he ran off when you asked him if his mum had died,” added Ted, biting his lip. He cringed at the thought of what could have gone through Tyrone’s grief-stricken mind when he’d heard Emma flippantly ask him if his mother was dead.
Emma blinked. “Well, I feel stupid,” she remarked. “I bet the black owl was one of the ministry’s death messengers. I mean, everything makes sense now.” She didn’t look even remotely remorseful for how she had treated Tyrone earlier. After all, she didn’t even like Tyrone, and it wasn’t as though she had meant to insult him in any case.
In the midst of this, Jordan slouched into the room, his lip restored to normal. “Well, I just got discharged from the hospital wing,” he informed his friends unnecessarily. “And while I was down there, I was asked to hand out these peer-counseling assignments. Haley, you’re supposed to peer counsel someone named Jonas Harbin. Ted, you’re assigned to Ivy.” The other shot him jealous looks, and he smiled. (Ivy wasn’t there, as she was getting over the shock of the article by having a cup of tea with Harry in his office.) “And Emma, you’re working with… Tyrone Thomas.”
Emma buried her face in her hands. ““What a lousy early birthday present,” she moaned.