Harry sat at his desk, staring blankly at the doorway through which Kingsley Shacklebolt had just left. His brow was furrowed in thought, and his nervous fingers danced along the edge of the wooden desk. Curious, he thought, mulling over the conversation. Worrying, actually.
After the final battle five years ago, Harry had been sure this was all behind him - Death Eaters and Dark Marks. Even as an Auror, he was convinced that all the fear and insecurity of those times would never touch him again. But, it seemed, he was wrong. A mystery Death Eater whose Dark Mark had begun to burn again, every day at five o’clock? Was this some strange joke? Common sense told Harry this could not be the work of Voldemort, but terror nevertheless pulsed through his body like a tectonic wave, over and over. He felt nauseous.
There was a soft rap on his door, and he looked up.
“Come in!” he commanded.
The door handle turned slowly; finally, the great wooden entranceway swung forward to reveal a most unlikely figure.
“Potter.” Malfoy nodded his head slightly and returned his wand to its place underneath his stately black and royal blue robes. Despite Draco’s desire to fit in, his taste in apparel still remained the same.
“Malfoy,” Harry returned with a tight smile. “What can I do for you?”
Draco gestured to the chair in front of Harry’s desk with raised eyebrows.
“Of course, sit, sit,” Harry continued, flustered. His usual composed expression was twisted with confusion.
“I could not think of anyone else to go to,” Malfoy began. “In spite of our history, Potter, you seem to trust me, and so, I must return that trust.” His lip curled up involuntarily into a sneer. Draco quickly rearranged his expression, but it was too late. Harry’s curious gaze became distorted and icy.
“Go on.”
“My mark, Potter.” Malfoy could not believe he was here, telling his arch rival from Hogwarts about something so personal - something so threatening, something which frightened him. “My mark, it has begun to burn again-”
“Every day, five o’clock,” Harry interrupted.
“Yes.” Draco tried unsuccessfully to hide his shock. How did he know?
“How do you know?” His voice was sharp, betraying the fear coursing through his veins. Fear coursing through a Slytherin’s veins? Draco felt sick.
Harry explained the Minister’s recent departure from his office and the conversation which had taken place.
“I cannot tell you who the other Death Eater is. I don’t know the identity myself.”
Draco sighed and looked away from the Boy Who Lived. Three faces grinned down at him from the wall behind Harry’s head. Granger was in a beautiful, long white dress with gold stars glinting in her hair. On either side were Potter and Weasley, laughing at the camera. Occasionally, the red-head would turn to his wife and gaze into her happy eyes.
Draco stood up.
“Well, Katie’s due home soon. I better get back. I just wanted to let you know.”
As Draco threw a handful of Floo powder into a Ministry fireplace and muttered “Malfoy Manor,” his thoughts drifted to his own wife. He could not tell her. He was so ashamed already of the mark, and the past it reminded him of, that he could not even bring himself to think of how he could possibly explain. I’m sorry, honey. I know I told you that this was all over and behind me now, but for some reason my Dark Mark has started to burn again. What would she think? No, he would not, could not, tell her.
Katie was waiting in the dining room when he returned.
“Where were you?” she asked. “I thought it was your day off?”
He walked over to her, bent down behind the chair she was sitting in, and kissed the nape of her soft neck. Katie shivered and turned to face her husband. His face was drawn, and he had dark bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes.
“What is it, Draco? What’s happened?”
Everything.
“Nothing,” he lied seamlessly. After all, he was a Slytherin. He sat down opposite Katie, and she pointed her wand at the large pot on the stove. Steaming hot soup poured in a vast ark over the table and into a bowl. He inhaled the thick creamy scent and slurped his way through dinner. After he had a hot meal in him, some of the worry seemed to abate. He leant over the table and whispered into Katie’s ear, “How about an early night?” A mischievous grin spread across his face. She smiled with relief. Maybe it had been just a hard day at work. Although she had been sure it was his day off.
That night, as Draco and Katie lay in bed entwined, and as he heard his wife’s breathing slow into a steady, deep rhythm, he pressed his left wrist against her smooth back. It felt nice. Calm. Comforting. He let his fingers trickle down her bare shoulders to the small of her back, her scent intoxicating, her hair soft, her breath cool against his hot chest. She was so fragile and small, so delicate like this. Lying complacently in his arms. So trusting. He chuckled as he thought of the time back at Hogwarts when she had deliberately crashed into him during a Quidditch match as they competed against each other. Different houses, different lives. He hadn’t known her then. She hadn’t known him.
Katie’s eyes fluttered open sleepily as his chest vibrated beneath her.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, confused yet smiling.
“Let’s go flying this weekend,” he suggested.
“Hmm, that sounds great.” Katie drifted back off to sleep, the ghost of her smile gently caressing her lips.
Draco’s eyes darkened. How much longer did they have together? How much longer could he suggest harmless one-on-one Quidditch matches each weekend? How much longer until this dangerous enigma caught up with him and the pain in his wrist became too much to bear? Too much for Katie to bear?
Cackling masks and flashes of green light haunted Draco’s dreams night after night. It had been two weeks now, and Potter had come up with nothing. They argued relentlessly.
“You’re not doing enough. Do you understand the implications of this, Potter? Or are you happy to shuffle through some papers each day and return home to Weasley in the evenings?”
“I’m doing everything I can, Malfoy. Are you that self-absorbed, or can’t you remember who it was Voldemort was intent on killing the last time around?”
“You don’t have something branded on your skin to remind you of your past though, do you?”
“Actually, Malfoy, I do.”
There was a sudden silence between the two men, each staring intently in the other direction. Draco was suddenly interested in a curious Muggle contraption on Potter’s desk. Harry decided it was time for him to dust the shelves behind Malfoy’s head. They stood there for a while, contemplating what had just passed between them. It seemed now that the two enemies had something in common.
Harry broke Draco’s disturbing reverie.
“We both have scars. And, everyday, they remind us of what happened. You may not know this, but when I was younger, before I defeated Voldemort, my scar would hurt. When he was near me, thinking of me, feeling anger or elation, I felt pain. It felt like…like my head would split in two.” He did not look at Malfoy.
Draco’s mouth hung open, slack. This was embarrassing, this sharing . He was not accustomed to expressing emotions, thoughts. Not with Potter, of all people.
“So, yes, Malfoy,” Harry became more insistent, more forceful. “I am taking this seriously; I am doing all I can. We need something more to go on, though.”
So, as Malfoy thrashed around one night, Voldemort’s voice whispering in his ear, “Kill him, Draco. He deserves it,” he woke with a start. Yes. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He and this mystery Death Eater were not the only ones branded with the Dark Mark, after all. If Draco could feel the summons, then others would, too.
Father.