- Oscar Wilde
Give Him A Mask
“Stand still, Scorpius!” I growled as I buttoned his costume and immediately regretted it. My four-year-old son stopped his squirming to look up at me with the grey eyes he had inherited from me.
However, the playfulness and impatience had given way to an intensely deep gaze that didn’t suit a child his age. His stare burned into me, and not for the first time, I felt naked and vulnerable. I’ve often imagined the look to mean, “I know what you’re thinking,” but this time, I think it meant, “I know what you’re afraid of.” It was silly and borderline paranoia, but all that mattered then was making him stop.
I cleared my throat to calm my nerves and lightened my tone. “Little goblins don’t fidget, you know.” Scorpius finally looked away, all concentration gone from his eyes. He beamed and placed his mask on his face “ backwards. A muffled giggle escaped from the back of the goblin’s head.
I chuckled, feeling at ease, as my child became familiar once more. “And little goblins don’t have faces on the back of their heads!” I adjusted his mask, a flimsy, rubber thing I had picked up from a Muggle store. “There. Now go show Mum.” With a delighted laugh, Scorpius spun and ran down the corridor, his feet tripping on the robes that were slightly too big.
I groaned softly as I stood up and made a mental note to avoid kneeling for long periods of time. I groaned again as I remembered it was my turn to get dressed.
For the past seven years, I had relentlessly tried to assure myself that this was a vacation compared to what other former Death Eaters were experiencing; after all, without the Chosen One’s testimony, I, along with my parents, would have been incarcerated, or worse, Kissed, just like the others. But each year around Hallow’s Eve, I doubted this was better than Azkaban.
Publicly reform was how the Ministry had worded the one condition that kept us out of prison. After years of public distrust and embarrassments, the Ministry had finally, under the guidance of new Minister Shacklebolt, begun programs, collectively called Blood Rights, Equality, and Deliverance or Blood RED, to rebuild the shattered wizarding community, and the Malfoys, it had been decided, would serve as the poster family.
Up until my marriage, nothing had been demanded of me; most of the Ministry’s attention had been directed to Father, who had been “asked” to attend all sorts of meetings, to participate in staged media events, and to allow the newspapers to quote his positive insight on various Ministry operations. But my marriage to a Russian pure-blood had reminded some officials that I had been free to do what I pleased for too long and that they had wasted an opportunity to “strongly recommend” marriage to a half-blood or, better yet, a Muggle-born, a move that could’ve reassured the public that they were in the right once and for all.
So I had begun to receive the same invitations that had dogged my father for years and had become the public figure I had once sworn I would never become. Soon, it was mandated that former Death Eaters who had finished their sentences at Azkaban, like Rodolphus Lestrange and Michael Jugson, were to participate fully and actively just like us. Now, the reporters kept a close watch on which formers, as they now called us, attended which events. Some were now stationed outside the homes of the formers who had been more involved in You-Know-Who’s terrorizing.
It wasn’t that the Minister was corrupt. On the contrary, I grudgingly admitted that he does a good job considering the mess he had to clean up. But some of the policies set forth by his officials, those he had no real control over, got out of hand. They seemed more like personal acts of revenge presented by those who have reason to want to destroy our lives, among them, Hermione Granger, Susan Bones, and Hannah Abbott.
The Ministry had eased off somewhat after my son’s birth (and after I had written to Minister Shacklebolt that I wished for a normal life for Scorpius out of the public’s eye), but they “insisted” on the family’s participation in the annual trick-or-treat tradition Muggles and Muggle-lovers enjoyed to parade around my “newly acquired affiliation” with the non-pure-blooded.
My son was innocent enough to enjoy such an occasion, and I hadn’t the heart to burden him with an explanation of how humiliating this was to the Malfoy name. I took solace in the fact that for this particular event, I could wear something to hide who I was and not endure the same shameless stares that haunted my footsteps during public gatherings.
It was requirements like these had me convinced this was no longer about our involvement with You-Know-Who; as long as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was given permission to make our lives a living hell, they might as well share a few laughs about it.
This year, my costume was easy. I grabbed the white bedsheet draped over my chair, and with my wand, I burned two precise holes in the middle and tossed it over my head. There. Good enough for a costume. Simple enough to leave me unnoticed.
I went back downstairs and followed Scorpius’ laughter to the parlour. My wife, Raisa, was hiding behind my armchair with an impish grin as Scorpius toddled toward her at top speed. Strands of her light brown hair had escaped their ponytail hold and feathered across her face. Brilliant blue eyes, the same shade as the flecks that were in Scorpius’, danced as they were reflected the fire flickering in the fireplace. She looked happier and younger than she ever did when I was around, and too soon, she caught sight of me.
As soon as she saw me, Raisa straightened and stopped Scorpius’ running with a sharp, lilting “Ostanovít.” Scorpius halted, glanced at me, and broke into a fit of giggles. I returned my gaze to Raisa, who now wore the blank look I had gotten used to.
I had never regretted marrying Raisa, a beautiful, tall, pure-blooded daughter of a powerful wizard in Russia. It was at my insistence that my father arranged the match; I had obstinately refused to live out the rest of my life with a woman who knew of my wretched history. The communication barrier between us was a relief. She never actively sought out my company. She tended to the housekeeping and to Scorpius. And she warmed my bed at night. It seemed that she lived solely to keep me satisfied and happy, expecting nothing for herself. A one-sided relationship that rivalled even that of my parents. A relationship that would never change.
Scorpius wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Daddy’s wearing dat?” he laughed, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“Come, Scorpius. Tell Mummy we’re leaving. We’ll be back by nine.” Scorpius ran to his mother and translated my words. She stooped to whisper something gently into his ear and kissed his cheek. However, her expression was more reserved and more careful than it had been before I had shown up. Scorpius skipped to my side and reached for my hand. I grasped it securely before wordlessly Apparating.
We were greeted by several large cracks as several more disguised wizards and their children arrived at the destination point. In the light of the setting sun, I spotted a few dots already making their way down the neat line of houses in front of us. As I looked around, I felt the heat of embarrassment wash over me once more. I didn’t know which was worse: allowing Muggles to join in the celebration of magic or seeing wizards stoop so low as to join in meaningless Muggle traditions, disguising their powers on a night when such talents should be commemorated. I felt my lips curl into my familiar snarl.
Something tugged on my hand. I looked down to see the ugly green goblin at my side dancing with impatience and anticipation for the trick-or-treating. He was already glaring enviously at the children who had loped ahead, the bottom of their baskets already decorated with some small candies, as he clutched his own empty one.
“Off you go,” I muttered and let go of his hand. Immediately, he ran to the first house on the street, brushing past a group of pink fairies, and pounded on the door. I chuckled and followed, moving much more calmly and with more control. I watched as a wrinkled old lady cooed over how precious he looked and sprinkled a handful of chocolates into his basket. As Scorpius rushed to the next house, I adjusted my bedsheet to make sure it covered my head well.
“Nice costume,” a voice laughed from behind me. I turned and saw a large and rather pregnant penguin waddle toward me. The eyes were comically too large for the head, and the pupils were in fact slits for a woman’s eyes. A wide smile was painted on the fading orange beak. “Did you make it yourself?” she teased.
I frowned grimly. Another thing I hated about trick-or-treating: it forced me to interact with people, wizards AND Muggles. The penguin suit hid the woman’s face well and muffled her voice beyond recognition. I had to be wary of who she was. A reporter or a Muggle, no doubt.
“Er. Yes. I did,” I answered stiffly. I began to walk briskly away, knowing she’d never catch up. I caught sight of my son, already two houses down, who was running beside a boy dressed as a pumpkin. So he’d already found a friend. I felt foolishly jealous of his ability to make peace with complete, nameless strangers so easily.
From behind, I heard the penguin woman shout, “James! Slow down!” None of the children ahead of me paid any heed to her. I became a little nervous, though, as I saw this as her poorly veiled attempt to play mother. Definitely a reporter. But what was she doing here?
The chatter of little children grew louder, and soon more costumed figures flooded the streets. The scene grew more chaotic, and I struggled to keep the wrinkled green goblin in sight. I heard the huffing of the little penguin behind me, and I willed myself to move faster. I kept bumping into the people all around me, narrowing avoiding tripping over miniature magical creatures several times. As I made my way through the crowd, I felt the stress and frustration mounting, and I cursed everyone under my breath: the Ministry, the Muggles, the children, the penguin. Finally, I barked out, “Scorpius!” as loud as I could. Several parents glared at me annoyed, but I ignored them. I had had it. The night was over, and I was going home. Now.
“No need to shout, sir,” a familiar voice chided softly at my elbows. I almost groaned when I saw the penguin at my elbow. “There’s your son now.” With one flipper, she pointed at Scorpius who was standing on the lawn of the next house. “Oh, and there’s my son. James!” The woman waved excitedly, and to my surprise, the pumpkin boy waved back.
“Daddy?” Scorpius’ voice wavered as it always did when I raised my voice at him.
My anger, fuelled by my irritation at the annoying female penguin, threatened to bubble over. I was about to unleash it all on Scorpius when the infuriating penguin spoke again, “There, there, Scorpius, is it? It’s all right. Daddy was just worried about you disappearing. Make sure you stay closer so Daddy can be sure you’re safe, okay? Now go on, but no more running off.” Scorpius hesitated before, pulled by James’ tugs, trotting to the next house.
I stared bewilderedly at the woman beside me. Such impertinence! Even if she were a Muggle, I was damn near sure parenting another’s child was considered rude. I opened my mouth to tell her off before she interrupted me again. “They’re just children, you know, Mr. Ghost. Let them have their fun tonight, a break from the normal, if you will. No need to end their candy hunts so soon.” She shuffled forward. “Well, might as well walk together seeing as how our children are near inseparable. I might need a little aid myself near the end.” She cheerfully patted her round tummy.
I found myself matching her steps and listened to her amiably chatter on and on about nothing. My initial aversion to her melted away soon. She had that flair I had never possessed: the ability to look past one’s appearances. As our children flitted in and out of our sights, we strolled casually behind talking about everything and nothing. She cautiously revealed that she was an actual witch, and I did too.
We shared vague details about our personal lives (I was wary not to disclose any information that might lead to my identification). When I mentioned that I was employed by the Ministry (the right word would’ve been “impressed”), she exclaimed, “Oh, my husband is a Ministry official as well as is my sister-in-law! What department?”
“Magical Law Enforcement.” Bloody tyrants.
“Oh! My sister-in-law works there too! She was active in the establishment of Blood RED.”
How ironic. I had become the trick-or-treat partner of a supporter for my imprisonment.
“Oh really?” I couldn’t disguise the growl that found its way out of my mouth.
The penguin fell silent as she registered my reaction. I felt sorry for pushing her away so soon after I had grown comfortable with her presence, but I wasn’t about to advocate the Ministry’s cause on a night like this, even if it was written in my contract agreement.
“To tell you the truth,” the small voice at my side finally spoke up, “I’m not too happy with it either.”
This caught me by surprise. “Oh?”
The penguin head bobbed up and down. “I mentioned my feelings once or twice to my family, but they brushed my words away.” She shrugged. “After all, I’m no politician. I couldn’t possibly know what I’m talking about.” She sounded so bitter. I waited for her to continue.
“I mean, I have to agree that some of the programs are good. Illegalising laws that favour pure-bloods, for example. Or destroying that Muggle-born registration Umbridge had begun. But programs that actively reform former Death Eaters. That’s just rubbish. No law or rehabilitation will change the way they think. And reporting every one of the formers’ damn movements gets irritating. It hardly takes a saint to attend a state affair.”
I frowned beneath the cover of my sheet. I didn’t like the tone she used to describe the formers. Almost as if they “ we “ were creatures who thought only of evil. The reform programs were foolish (I could testify for that), but not for the reason this lady was thinking.
“Well,” I began warily, “there’s nothing that could immediately change them, it’s true. And certainly those programs aren’t doing anything but humiliating those who want to reform at their own pace. But w “ they aren’t all so single-minded. They are the ones that deserve a second chance without the publicity or the Ministry-facilitated integration back into society.”
“They never gave their victims a second chance, did they? They didn’t give my brother, Colin Creevey, or Ted’s parents a chance. Why are we obligated to give them one now?” Her voice wavered, and I was sure a wave of painful memories had flooded the troubled mind of this woman. I felt strangely sorry for not knowing these people she had lost. They had been an important part of someone’s life. To my surprise, I felt no anger or annoyance toward the woman for bringing up such a sensitive subject. It was, after all, on my mind every minute of every day. I could tell she was passionate about her opinion on the subject, yet, as she had pointed out earlier, she was no politician. Still, I couldn’t imagine why her family would dismiss what she had to say. After all, she had just voiced the same concerns that were rippling through the wizarding community. It was about time they were answered.
I replied slowly, “Successful governments do not rule on the policy of revenge. To do so would be chaotic. Can you imagine the personal vendettas that would be carried out, all legalized by some law or other?” I paused to gather my thoughts.
The pregnant penguin shook her head. “But this isn’t about revenge. This is about justice. The Ministry is wasting too much time on helping those who can’t and who don’t deserve to be helped. Why should cold-blooded killers be released into our society with the Ministry as their cane and aide?”
“So those who saw no truth in the Dark Lord’s words, those who did not share the vision, they should be incarcerated with those who do?” I was being a hypocrite. At one point in my life, I had believed in the glory Lord Voldemort had fed me. I did envision a world reigned by only the pure of blood. It was true, and I could never convince myself otherwise And yet, I thought of those who had been forced into taking the Dark Mark, those who were still in prison for concentrating too hard on self-preservation. Their freedom was what I argued for now.
“I thought you were against the Ministry’s activities.” She sounded puzzled.
I chuckled dryly. “I am “ against the way they’re handling it. The programs should focus on being flexible, inviting, and comforting and not as an added punishment. Mandatory participation helps no one, and the laws and precautions the Ministry has set forth is not fair. It doesn’t protect the public from dangerous persons, it wastes precious manpower in keeping watch over harmless people like Rodolphus Lestrange, and it only disillusions the former Death Eaters. There’s a lot of concentration on what they had done in their past rather than preventing what others might do in the future. The Death Eaters are too preoccupied with the shame and the attention they get to pay attention to how helpful laws can be, and the public is too afraid to give them the right to privacy and to allow them to even try to live a new life.”
“A new start?” I began to hear wonder in her skeptic tone. “For those who had known nothing but darkness their entire lives? For those who had dedicated twenty or more years to the achievement of what we all dread?”
“No one said it would be easy; it’ll be a long path “ one that might take years and years. But for now, it’s a hopeless stalemate until the Ministry gives them some space to breathe and to take in their new surroundings. Things had changed in the years they’ve been incarcerated, and they have the right to be given the chance to adjust on their own. The way it’s set up now, the only difference between Azkaban and here is that in Azkaban, the prisoners are at least allowed to relieve themselves behind walls. Out here, their slightest movements are regulated and documented closely by the Ministry. Chucking them immediately from one prison to another does no one any good and only serves to frustrate people like you…and me.”
The penguin remained silent and pensive. “You’re right,” she said finally with awe in her voice as if this ideology was wholly new yet not unattractive. “If the Ministry is to make the public believe these Death Eaters have the potential to reform, they should act like they believe it first.” She sighed. “I’m sorry if I seem too opinionated on the subject. It’s just…I’ve dealt with some of these Death Eaters closely, and believe me, when they’re sticking a wand to your face, you see nothing good about them.”
To this, I muttered, “Just remember they have a wand in their faces too. Only the arm holding this wand can annihilate their families and their friends.”
She sighed again. “You’re right again. We do forget that there was a bigger threat. However, nothing will convince me that they couldn’t do anything about their situation. It’s better to defend both the ones you love and your ideas than sacrificing one for the other.”
I laughed. “Gryffindor?”
She chuckled as well. “Is it that obvious?”
I grinned, amused at the irony of the situation. Even the word Gryffindor usually left a distinctly bitter taste on my tongue. But here, with this woman, I felt oddly indifferent to our extremely polar views. It was the first time I’ve interacted with someone willing to be completely honest with me, and from our conversation, I had gained insight into the argument I and so many like me have had to endure and hear. And I, too, felt at ease giving her my opinion, one that had been silent and suppressed for too long.
Suddenly, I felt the strong need to tell her who I was and to find out who she was. Speaking behind a costume let us both voice ourselves, but if we were to be completely honest, unveiling our identities was only right. I no longer cared about what people may think of me “ certainly not what this woman thought. From our conversation, I had gathered that she was sensible and open-minded. If she had been sincere, she wouldn’t dismiss me for who I once was. Rather, she would take me for who I might become. Call it morbid curiosity or simply insanity. Whatever it was, I wanted “ no, needed - to see how she and the rest of the world would see me unmasked.
I had come to a stop suddenly, and after a few paces, she did as well. She tilted her head to one side. “What is it?”
“My name is Draco Malfoy.”
“What? I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear what you said.”
“My name is Draco Malfoy,” I said a little louder. I whipped off the simple sheet that shrouded me from her eyes.
The penguin stared at me with its blank, happy eyes and its crooked grin, but I didn’t care about that. I longed to see what was beneath it, see beneath the woman who pretended to smile. Seconds, minutes, hours passed, and the penguin did nothing. For a fleeting moment, the adrenaline rush that had pushed me to reveal who I was disappeared, and I was left with a lonely and empty feeling. My palms became sweaty, and I swore my heartbeat could be heard for miles. This was what hopelessness felt like, I realized. When you’d been abandoned. When you’d been lost.
The penguin shifted slowly. She raised both flippers, wrapped them as best she could around the base of her head. With that pasted smile on, she pushed and pushed until the oval head popped off. Red curls tumbled out from the penguin head, and the woman shook her head to loosen them.
“I’m Ginny. Ginny Potter,” the woman said unnecessarily. I knew who she was. I should’ve felt apprehensive. I should’ve regretted revealing myself. After all, here was the woman married to one of the most powerful figures in the Wizarding community. A strong supporter of her sister-in-law, the mastermind behind Blood RED, Hermione Weasley. Not to mention, she was close friends with the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, himself. Between the three of them, they could smite me to oblivion.
Strangely, however, I didn’t feel anything but shock then cool realization. Long before I had known who the penguin was, I had already decided to accept her for her views and her friendship. Even after realizing who she turned out to be, I still felt the same way, which could hardly be expected from her own family.
At a loss for words, I chuckled dryly. “Well. That explains it.”
She smiled. “I was wondering how a nice ghost like you could’ve had so much insight on how Death Eaters feel.”
“I’m sorry,” I croaked. The wave of remorse felt foreign to me, but I knew these emotions were long overdue. I blinked to hold back my tears, and I hoped she wouldn’t ask me to elaborate.
She approached me timidly until she was about a foot away, her belly protruding out in the ridiculous costume. “Thank you, Draco. You made me remember that everyone’s got a bit of human in them. And it’s about time everyone else got a good reminder too.” She reached up to stroke my face. The soft flipper felt cool against my skin, and I impulsively closed my eyes.
“Well, I’ve got to go, Draco. You understand that “”
“Yes, I do,” I cut in simply. She looked apologetically at me with her brown eyes, but I shook my head. I did understand. The political figures never acknowledge their use of propaganda. For the two of them to come face-to-face and expect something much more out of it was preposterous. It was a simple fact which I would eventually come to accept. I could only hope, as I watched the pregnant penguin, masked once more, lead her pumpkin boy away, that something would be done. Something important will come from this clash, and I would’ve made a difference in how the Ministry and the world viewed those who had done wrong.
“Hey!” I shouted after Ginny. I had one last apology to make. She didn’t stop moving, but she turned her head slightly. “I’m sorry for taking off my costume!”
Her next words were almost lost to the sudden wind that breezed by, but I clung to them as she vanished into the night. “Why? It was a very Gryffindor thing to do.”