“Yes.” He turned to Malfoy. “Yes, Rookwood and Macnair were found dead in their cells at Azkaban over a week ago. No one knows how it happened - one minute they were alive and screaming, next thing you know…” It was unnecessary to elaborate.
“And my parents…”
“I’m sorry.” The two men quickly glanced at each other. Silence gripped the room tightly with long, skeletal fingers.
“We haven’t managed to match the handwriting to anything here at the Ministry, unfortunately,” Harry continued, averting his eyes from Draco’s. They were like a deep, endless pit. The eyes of a tortured man, the eyes of someone with a price on his head. “Of course, most of the documents from before the War are lost.”
Draco slumped into the chair in front of Harry’s desk. It was comfortable and squishy, with a well-worn air. He could imagine Ginny Weasley curled up in it, waiting for her husband to finish his paperwork and return home. He wished Katie would do that - they hadn’t spoken since the night she had left with only one kiss. Since she pulled his pumping heart from his chest and laughed and laughed and laughed…
Harry cleared his throat.
“Are you alri-”
“Yes,” Draco snapped.
Harry let out an irritated sigh.
“Well, the only thing I can think of is to send this off to the Muggle police for testing. Maybe our mystery man has had a run in or two with them?”
Malfoy looked sceptical. “Oh, please. This is the work of someone skilled and dangerous. I doubt very much that they would have allowed themselves to be caught by some Muggles!”
Harry gave him a sharp look.
“You’d be surprised at how many magical folk we have to rescue from Muggle custody.”
Draco looked down at his hands. They were dry and cracked, a remarkable change from his normal groomed appearance. He wished Katie were home, waiting for him, ready with her soft hands and her soothing ointments and lathers.
“I think,” he began, and he heard Potter lift his head. “This person, this wizard, is probably someone whose family or friends were killed - maimed, you know, by Death Eaters or even the Dark Lord himself.” He looked up into Potter’s scrutinising gaze.
Harry thought this through. It was the first conclusion he had jumped to as well. But it was too clean - too precise. Surely, someone seeking passionate revenge would want to leave a mess? They would want the people responsible for their grief and loss to feel the pain they feel. Harry felt the pieces were there, right in front of him, but they did not fit together. It was like the frustration of being stuck in a small cupboard under the stairs with a stolen jigsaw puzzle from Dudley’s second bedroom, and finding that the game was a mixture of two different puzzles.
“I don’t agree with you-”
“Oh, well, isn’t that a surprise,” Malfoy drawled. Harry glared at him venomously.
“I am doing all I can to help you, Malfoy!”
“You’re only helping me because you’re afraid there is another dangerous wizard out there running around and killing willy-nilly! You don’t give a rat’s arse about me! You have no idea what it’s like!”
Another awkward silence descended between the two men.
“That’s not true,” Harry whispered, so softly it was nearly inaudible. “That’s not true at all.”
Malfoy bit back a curse and turned away. He could not bear to look at that scar on that forehead. They shared too much now.
“May I continue?” Harry asked tentatively. “I realise how hard this is, and with Katie…”
“I don’t need your sympathy, Potter,” Malfoy sneered. “I need your help.”
“Well, as I was saying, I don’t agree that this is a victim seeking revenge.” There was a pregnant pause as Draco digested this. “It seems too planned out. Using the Dark Mark as well…and the killings aren’t random. We have this list as proof. Someone had access to Azkaban. Rookwood and Macnair were on completely opposite sides of the prison. They can obviously move around easily “ either entirely concealed, or even in plain sight.”
It made sense, Draco had to admit. But what about…
“Purge and Dowse, Ltd. Do you know where that is?”
Harry eyed Draco over his desk and thought carefully.
“Malfoy, I think it’s time you went and saw your wife and her father. He’s very ill; it would mean a lot to Katie.” He replied, seemingly not having heard Draco’s question.
“But what does that have to do with-”
“Just do it.”
Harry rose. Malfoy recognised the dismissal and shook hands with the Chosen One. He would leave, but one thing was for sure - there was no way that Draco would take orders from Potter. Even after all the help, the trust, and the job at the Ministry, things would remain frosty between the two men no matter how much time passed.
Past is present, and present is future. All Malfoy could see ahead was more darkness and pain. His life was falling apart, after all his effort, and so he hung onto the things that could not change - mutual dislike of his old school rival, a tendency to see the worst in people, pride... He had begun to recognise something of his old self during the meeting with Potter, and that scared him.
Draco had lost track of time. As he cautiously made his way up the long drive of Malfoy Manor, he felt the unsettlingly familiar prickle on his arm. Soon, the pain was searing up his arm, further and further, spreading throughout his entire body. It had never before hurt like this; he staggered to the ground.
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.
Everything burned; it felt as if someone was holding a branding iron against his wrist. Perhaps they were? There was something so intense this time round that it took Draco more than an hour to recover. It was dark before he finally dragged himself up into a sitting position. His legs ached from writhing around, curled in a foetal position on the damp gravelly drive, and the incessant throbbing, pulsating, pounding mark on his left wrist smouldered.
The dark shadows of trees towered above Draco’s crouched form - waiting, biding their time - and he felt they were watching him. Spying, whispering. What were they saying?
Draco…Draco…Do it, Draco…
A piercing sob escaped his throat and echoed off towards the Manor. He looked up at the imposing Malfoy family establishment. His eyes darkened; the house represented everything from whence he had tried to remove himself. It was frustrating, being stuck here without Katie. Without love.
The windows were black, little triangles of licorice, little beetle eyes, staring out at him, daring him to enter. Then, something caught his eye. A window on the third floor of the north wing was slightly ajar. He would not have noticed the anomaly, except for the fact that a piece of blood red curtain was billowing from the gap. A red flag flying from the battlement.
Do not enter, it flapped. Danger.
He drew his wand, and stood, stumbling a little, his limbs still numb.
Draco…
No, stop it, he was imagining things.
Do it, Draco…
The memory of Voldemort’s hiss resonated in his ears.
Do it, Draco…or feel my wrath yourself…
His wrist throbbing faintly, Draco reached the entrance hall and crept up the staircase, pausing after each step, listening intently for any noise and disturbances. At the first landing, he peered up into the looming darkness and whispered, “Homenum Revelio.”
Nothing.
Reassured, Draco sprinted further up the stairs. Reaching the third floor, he stopped, panting. His chest heaved, and wetness streaked down his cheeks from the biting cold of the unused floor. He knew which room to go to. Ahead, the door was shut, as always. Draco never entered the chamber within, never. Katie had often enquired after it, wondered why this particular floor was left well alone, and why that particular room, whenever either Draco or herself actually ventured up there, remained locked.
Deep, rasping breaths sliced through the dusty air like knives. He reached for the handle, fingers outstretched. But his hand began to shake violently as he moved closer, closer…His hands, His wand, the wand who had tortured, destroyed, murdered so many, had once opened this very handle. He had once resided within this very room into which Draco was about to enter. He took a deep breath and smoothed his distorted face into an expression devoid of any emotion, gripped the silver handle, and turned.
A faint whistling reverberated around the room. The carpet was encrusted with dust, crunching beneath his feet. He walked further into the room. The breeze from the open window kissed his cheeks, shrouded his aching body, whispered…
Draco…
Suddenly, the wind ripped up around him and the door slammed shut with booming finality. Draco clamped his eyes shut as the waves of icy air thrashed about him, cutting his skin, scratching his chest, searching for his heart…
Just as abruptly as it had begun, the wild wind stopped. Slowly unclenching his eyes, Draco saw the sullen room come into view. To his left, against a navy blue wall, stood an imposing four-poster bed. The swaths of fabric draped over the ornate piece of furniture were frayed and full of holes. Moths. To his right, a heavy tapestry dominated the opposing wall. A tall, domineering warlock sat on a blackened throne upon a clifftop, overlooking a churning ocean. Draco stepped closer; he recognised the stitched image from when the tapestry had lived on a second floor corridor. The Dark Lord must have taken a liking to the artwork and requested it for his humble abode. Draco peered closer, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Curiosity killed the cat. Something else altogether had killed the Muggles who thrashed and drowned within the sea of hell as their emperor, their warden, watched. Their faces were twisted into shrieks of pain, and a furtive smile played upon the lips of their oppressor.
No one had penetrated the darkness - the cold, the evil - of this room in five years. It had been locked away, ignored but not forgotten. Who had been in here? Draco searched the room for a sign of the trespasser. He knew it was the person responsible for his daily torture and the disappearance of his parents. He also knew that whoever it was had been in here while Draco lay burning on the drive that same evening.
There was nothing. No evidence, no clues, nothing to go on, as Potter had so plainly put. And all the while, the sibilant breeze murmured his name…Draco…
Harry listened intently as Draco retold the evening events. He had returned to the Ministry immediately, knowing he must inform Potter.
“You cannot go back there, at least not tonight. Stay here at the Ministry,”
“I will not be terrorised out of my own home,” he snapped, although the thought of the empty, penetrable Manor made Draco nauseous.
“Well, at least let me come back with you. Show me the room. There are certain things we can do to ascertain if magic has been performed there recently, even who did it, although people can always cover their tracks.”
“Lumos,” whispered Harry, as he followed the loping form of Draco Malfoy toward the Manor. He remembered the last time he, Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook had struggled up this very drive, Fenrir Greyback breathing his stinking bloodied breath down their necks. His face had been blown up into a red, pustuled mess at the time, and he had barely caught a glimpse of the mansion. Now, however, he could take in every detail - well, every detail visible through the blackened gloom.
“There.” Draco pointed up to a rather large window four floors above. Was it just Harry, or did the pane of glass seem darker than the rest? Harry shook off that thought. He had been in many life-threatening situations with the Aurors, not to mention his numerous encounters with one of the darkest wizards of all time. This was nothing.
“Are you coming?” Draco called petulantly from the front entranceway. Harry returned Malfoy’s rudeness with a piercing glare, but the swirling mist intervened and he had to make his way up the front steps blindly. Harry could not imagine Katie living in a place like this. But perhaps it was different with a woman around? Grimmauld Place had certainly become a lot warmer since Ginny’s arrival. And that had hardly been an amusement park.
He followed Malfoy up several staircases and finally came to a halt outside a solid, black doorway. Malfoy muttered something, and the door creaked open. Harry walked past the blonde man and entered the chamber, the tapestry on the wall reminding him of the carved statue which had replaced the golden fountain in the Ministry six years before. The Muggles in their rightful place.
He drew his own wand and began muttering numerous incantations as Malfoy slouched against the doorframe, staring at his feet. He had no desire to re-enter the room.
“What are you doing, Potter? Malfoy drawled.
“Magic always leaves traces,” Harry replied, repeating the words of Albus Dumbledore six years previously.
Slowly, a dark spectral-like shadow began to emanate from the tip of Harry’s wand.
“It’s too faint,” he mumbled, frustrated.
“What?”
“I don’t know, whoever it was has tried to clean up after themselves.”
Harry heard Malfoy cuss softly under his breath.
“Are you going to stay here?” he asked. “You’re sure you’ll be okay-”
“Oh, will you stop treating me like a child!” Draco snapped, turning from the chamber. “I’m a grown man. I can look after myself.”
“Fine.”
Draco watched as Harry walked down the drive and was finally enveloped by the velveteen night. Potter had told Malfoy that he would send the list off to the Muggles first thing in the morning for something called “phorenzik” testing. It sounded like a ridiculous waste of time.
When Draco woke the next day, Attila was waiting patiently outside his bedroom window. The owl nipped at his ear as Draco untied the scroll of parchment from its foot. Was this from Potter? Had he discovered the identity of his persecutor? But, as the scroll unfurled before him, Draco recognised the curly scrawl as Katie’s handwriting. He stood, transfixed, drinking in the words without reading them. Her hand had passed along this very page, her breath had danced over the parchment, soft, delicate… Heart beating with a new life, a new hope, Draco began to read. As the message sunk in, however, Draco’s face dropped, his mouth sagged, and his eyelids wilted under their heavy burden.
Dad passed away last night. I thought you might have come. But I guess whatever is going on in your life is more important than me now. I just wanted you to know, Draco, that I do love you - that you should feel like you can talk to me about anything. I thought I could talk to you that way, I thought you felt you could talk to me, I thought you trusted me, Draco; obviously, I was wrong. I want to understand, but you just won’t let me. It’s like you have locked yourself in some dark room and you refuse to allow me to enter. I cannot live like that, Draco, so I’m staying at my mother’s for now. Sorry.
Draco bit his lip. But she had told him to not come! He shook his head frantically as if attempting to flick away his confusion. Yet, there it was, before him, the answer. Comprehension peeked over a distant horizon as Draco realised his mistakes. Oh, he was stupid! He had been so caught up with himself, with self-pity, that he had not thought about how Katie would interpret his silence. She would not have seen a desperate husband trying to protect his wife. She would have seen an agitated man, surreptitiously disappearing to the Ministry after work hours, refusing her help, shrouding their lives in mystery and confusion. He must go to her now. It wasn’t too late, was it?
Malfoy hurriedly pulled on some robes, grabbed his wand from the bedside table, and wrenched open the bedroom door. He stole a glance back at the half-unmade bed, his side a mess of sheets, Katie’s side neat, untouched. Not for long, he thought. He would tell her everything. He would talk.
The Bell household was only a few miles away, but Malfoy chose to Apparate. The matter was too urgent, too important. But when he was greeted by a solemn Mrs Bell, he found that Katie was still at St. Mungo’s sorting out her father’s belongings. Draco swore and Apparated to the busy London street on which the magical hospital resided, concealed.
The morning was still young, and few people were out. Draco walked toward the old department store with the dishevelled and unfashionably dressed mannequins. He took a deep breath and leaned in to request entry, when the dilapidated sign above the glass display windows suddenly caught his eye.
Purge and Dowse, Ltd.
Purge and Dowse, Ltd.?