“It wasn’t necessary. First of all, I didn’t know whether I was authorised to say… the Minister had not yet informed me that we had a Death Eater at St. Mungo’s, and I figured it would click eventually when you went to see Katie.”
A deep vein protruded from Malfoy’s temple as he struggled to steady his breathing. Each exhalation came in a shallow huff. He licked his lips.
“Well, who is it, then? Are you authorised to tell me now?” he asked scathingly. “Or am I too much of a liability? Not trustworthy enough?”
“I am not going to justify that with an answer. But, in response to your previous question - yes, I can tell you.” Harry looked down at his hands. “This turn of events has confused me, I must admit. You know my theory that whoever is responsible for your Dark Mark burning and the death of your parents is seeking more than revenge for dead loved ones-”
“Yes, yes, Potter,” breathed Malfoy, sitting forward in his seat. “Get on with it.”
Harry cleared his throat and continued. “Well, this Death Eater has been in St. Mungo’s since before the war. He’s been there for eight years! Eight years! I just don’t understand…” Harry shook his head, exasperated.
“This little soliloquy is all well and good, Potter, but I would appreciate it if you could tell me who you are rambling on about!”
Harry’s head lifted, his eyes squinting through the dim light of the office in frustration.
“Barty Crouch, Junior.”
Malfoy’s lips opened with a wet pop. Barty Crouch, Junior? Who would want to kill him? He was as good as dead anyway.
“Barty Crouch, Junior. As in, the same Barty Crouch, Junior who impersonated Mad-Eye Moody and “”
“Suffered the Dementor’s Kiss? Yes, the one and the same.”
Malfoy slumped into a chair, his anger rapidly dissipating. He could feel it leeching from his skin into a thin sheen of sweat, replacing itself with a feeling of utter trepidation. He let out a whoosh of air and massaged his temples with trembling fingertips.
“Why?” he exhaled. “Why would someone bother killing Crouch? Is he really much of a threat?”
Harry’s palms were lying flat on top of his mahogany desk. It was cool and smooth, calming. “It does confirm one thing,” he replied. He paused, tentatively waiting for Malfoy’s reaction.
“And what’s that?”
Harry sighed. He had expected some kind of outburst; the tension in the room was thick, almost tangible.
“Well, whoever it is must have access to files in the Ministry. Otherwise, how would they know that Crouch was in St. Mungo’s? And,” he continued, “as you said, why would someone bother to kill him? This person is definitely not in it to avenge the deaths of a loved one. This is something else all together.”
Draco let out a low groan and buried his face in shaking hands. His facade was cracking, cracking right in front of Potter, of all people, and he didn’t even care. This is it, he thought. This is where it ends.
“We need to go through every, and I mean every, ex-Death Eater who is no longer imprisoned. Someone must have some motive.”
“It could be someone within Azkaban working with someone on the outside,” Draco reasoned, lifting his head to face Harry. “It could be anyone.”
“No,” Harry said abruptly. “No, I don’t believe it is possible for anyone to work from the inside. No one is allowed an audience with visitors at Azkaban.” Harry chewed his lip. Ginny was beginning to get worried about the complete lack of skin on his lower lip. “No, this is someone outside Azkaban. Someone else.”
He reached into a filing cabinet behind his desk and pulled out a long piece of parchment. Smoothing his palm across the yellowed page, Harry gestured for Draco to look.
“This is a complete list of all surviving known Death Eaters, Azkaban or not. We need to go through this and look for motives. You know these men and women implicitly. You grew up surrounded by many of them; some of them even stayed with your family at the Manor during the war.”
Draco looked down at the parchment. He blanched, noticing his name halfway down the page. Not that it should have surprised him, but it was nevertheless a reminder of a time when the lines were blurred between courage and cowardice, loyalty and betrayal, life and death…
“Is there somewhere I can take this, alone?” he asked.
Harry studied Draco’s face. “Yes, of course.”
So Draco found himself tucked away in a small, cramped and evidently disused office at the end of a dark corridor in the Auror Department of the Ministry. The slight odour of bleach hanging in the air indicated the room had once been used as a cleaning cupboard. Draco snickered cynically as he imagined the perverted pleasure Harry must have felt in bringing him here.
He sat at a tiny wooden desk, his elbows wedged against the opposing walls, knees drawn up either side of his chest as they were unable to fit beneath the table. The chair creaked ominously, and Draco waved his wand around the spindly legs to reinforce them. Glancing down at the paper, he caught sight of the left sleeve of his robes. Knowing what was beneath the midnight blue fabric, he set to work immediately. The afternoon was wearing on into night, and soon five o’clock would come searching for Draco. And his Dark Mark would burn again.
The familiar list of names bored into Draco’s eyes.
Jugson, Astrid “ Azkaban
Lestrange, Rabastan “ Azkaban
Mulciber, Tarquin “ Azkaban
Selwyn, Wilbur “ Nurmengard
Yaxley, Hadrian “ Azkaban
He scanned through the names; there weren’t many left, and most were locked up in Azkaban, with the exception of Selwyn. Why he was in Nurmengard, Draco had no idea. His heart thumped dully in his chest as he spotted the names Malfoy, Lucius and Malfoy, Narcissa crossed out lightly, with ‘Presumed Dead’ written beside them. Draco recognised Harry’s messy scrawl.
The only names without an addendum were his own, Goyle, Gregory Snr., and Nott, Pyrus. Draco knew Nott was out of the question. Blaise Zabini had once told him of an unfortunate incident between Nott and a Devil’s Snare which had left the man in dire need of two spare hands. No, Pyrus Nott wasn’t the one going around and murdering Death Eaters left right and centre. Goyle? Draco resumed rubbing his temples.
Why would Goyle want me dead? Why would he want a reunification of all the Death Eaters with himself as the new Dark Lord? Goyle Senior, whilst a sight more intelligent than his gormless son Goyle Junior, had never struck Draco as the scheming type. He had been a follower, happy with other people telling him what to do and whom to torture. But he was free from Azkaban for a reason Malfoy could not fathom, and there was no other explanation.
He was about to commence trying to extricate himself from the cramped study, when the door suddenly burst open to reveal a panting Harry holding an odd-looking piece of parchment.
“Fax just came through from the Muggle police.” Harry grinned, a look of exhilaration spreading across his face. “Come on, didn’t want to read it without you.”
Malfoy sneered at this little outburst of kinship, but the pure excitement emanating from the man in the doorway was hard to ignore. What is a fax, anyway?
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Just give a minute to de-wedge myself from this ridiculous cupboard.” He followed Harry back down the dark hallway where the cupboard was situated and into the much brighter hallway which accommodated Potter’s office. Slumped in the squishy armchair he had become rather fond of, Draco spoke.
“So, what does this Muggle report say? Anything useful?”
He watched as Harry examined the report carefully. Potter’s eyebrows crinkled into a frown, lips pinched in confusion.
“Well, what is it?” Draco demanded anxiously.
Potter’s messy black hair swung low over his forehead, covering the scar Draco hated to see. An expression of complete and utter focus on his face, Harry continued to study the paper.
“Potter, what is it?”
Licking his lips, Harry began to tap out a slow rhythm on the desk. Tap tap tap-tap. Tap tap tap-tap. TAP TAP TAP-TAP.
“POTTER!”
“Hm?”
Harry looked up. Seeing the furious expression on Malfoy’s face, he quickly apologised.
“Oh, er, sorry. Just lost in thought.”
“Yes, well, I don’t expect anything else from Saint Potter, the Chosen One, who always has to think about saving the world by himself because Merlin forbid he just tell me what’s going on.”
“Er, excuse me, dear Draco. You came to Saint Potter for help if I remember correctly?”
Draco scowled. “What do these Muggle please-men say?”
“They say,” Harry began ominously, “There is a match.”
“Really?” Draco’s voice was soaked in incredulity. There was no way…
“Yes, there is a match. It’s no wizard I’ve ever heard of, but perhaps you…”
“Spit it out, Potter! Who is it?”
“Paul Trent.”
“Paul Trent?”
“Paul Trent.”
Draco put his head in his hands. “Oh, Merlin! Not Paul Trent! I can’t believe I’m still alive with Paul Trent after me!”
Harry looked shocked. “You know who Paul Trent is, then?”
Draco looked up, smiling a little. “Of course not. Who the hell is Paul Trent?”
Harry looked annoyed. “Well, I was hoping you could enlighten me.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Obviously. So,” Harry continued, “We must assume it is an alias. How’re you getting on with that Death Eater list, anyway?”
“The only other two who are not in Azkaban are Gregory Goyle, Senior, and Pyrus Nott. Now, I know Nott cannot be responsible since he’s missing both hands-”
“Yes, I heard about that,” Harry interrupted. Draco threw him a dirty look.
“-but I’m at a loss as to why Goyle would want to do this. He was never very ambitious before, let alone his son. The only thing going for him is that he was probably stupid enough to get caught by the Muggle law enforcement officers while terrorising a Muggle, before having the chance to Apparate-”
Yet again, Draco was interrupted. He let an irritated sigh and turned to the door, from where a curious tapping noise issued. He soon recognised the sound as the standard Ministry memo system. As an Obliviator, Draco sent numerous memos each day. Harry flicked his wand toward the door, which flew open, letting in a small paper airplane. With the unflinching skill of a Seeker, Harry snatched the memo from the air and proceeded to read it. He scratched his chin and looked up at Malfoy.
“An owl came a short while ago from Cyril Grisham. He’s working undercover at the police station where our Paul Trent was once held in custody before managing to escape. He says he was not on duty at the time, but remembers the Muggle officers telling him about a strange case they had. Around six years ago, an odd man was taken into custody after he had been caught brandishing a stick at an elderly woman in her back yard. They thought he was insane, from some kind of asylum, because he kept on screaming about mud. But when they had finally taken his fingerprints and showed him the stick to confirm that it had been his, he attacked his restraining officer, grabbed the stick, and disappeared.
Of course, Cyril immediately knew that this had been the work of a wizard and went about Obliviating the memories of the fellow police officers. He didn’t dare say anything about these events then, since the Ministry was under the control of Death Eaters at that time.”
“So, we definitely know this Paul Trent character is the one behind all this,” Malfoy said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, looks like it,” replied Harry. “And I think we need to have a little chat with Goyle, if you ask me.”
Draco did not answer. A sense of despair had begun to creep back over him, and he felt scared and more alone than ever before. Katie remained out of reach, lost to him. How could she ever forgive what he had done to her? Abandoned her when she needed him just as much as he had always needed her. His selfish ways, once thought to be lost and locked away in a dark and distant part of his past, had once again reared their ugly heads and continued to torment him, torture him, control him.
Whoever Paul Trent was, and for whatever purpose he was trying to destroy Draco, he had succeeded.
Katie made her way through the enchanted glass of St. Mungo’s and into the busy London street. Muggles bustled around, trying to finish their post-work shopping. She sighed. Draco had, yet again, failed to show. She sat down onto a bench beside the pavement and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Tears threatened to let loose down her cheeks as she thought about her father and wayward husband. As if dealing with the death of a parent is not enough. She thought her letter to Draco this morning would have meant something to him, stirred something deep inside, reminded him of her love and need for him to be truthful and open. How could she trust someone who was so secretive?
It had taken a lot of effort for her to write those last few words.
It’s like you have locked yourself in some dark room and you refuse to allow me to enter. I cannot live like that…
She wasn’t even sure what she meant by them herself.
Was she leaving him? No. I love him too much.
The crowded street had begun to thin with the fading light. Katie glanced down at her watch with a pang of grief. The gold watch had been a graduation present from her father after she had left Hogwarts with seven N.E.W.Ts. He had been so proud. The tears which had lain threateningly behind her eyelids before suddenly burst forth in a torrent of salty anguish. She sat there on the bench, shoulders shaking silently, as great waves of pain throbbed in her chest. He was gone. And all she wanted was to have Draco’s arms wound tightly about her, his lips at her ear whispering words of comfort, his breath on her neck…
Five thirty. Clouds swirled above her, churning in the dusky sky. Katie turned, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Someone was watching her. She squinted through the dim light into a decrepit alleyway further down the street. There were only a couple of Muggles about now, both hurriedly making their way toward the Underground at the corner. Her breathing was loud and rough, and tears continued to fall down her cheeks, but she ignored them. Someone was watching her. For the first time in many years, Katie felt unsafe. She thought about going back into St. Mungo’s, but realised she would have to come back out to Apparate to her mother’s house anyway.
“Who’s there?” she called feebly, her voice shaking.
Slowly, a tall and dark figure stepped from the shadows and out into the street. He was draped in a black cloak, and she could not make out his face. A car drove by, and the flash of the headlights briefly illuminated him. Katie gasped. There was something terribly familiar about him, something wrong… He smiled, a menacing and treacherous smile, baring a set of yellowed teeth. Raising a long, thin finger to his lips, he melted back into the shadows as a pair of loud, young wizards stepped through the display windows of Purge and Dowse, Ltd.
Katie shivered, stood up, and walked back toward St. Mungo’s, from where she Apparated back to her mother’s house. In the distance, she could see the hills which hid Malfoy Manor from view. Is Draco there? she wondered. Is he safe? There had been something about the mysterious figure which had unsettled Katie. It wasn’t his haunting demeanour, nor was it his disconcerting appearance from the shadows, which worried her. No, it was the look he had given her, as if he knew who she was, which truly troubled Katie. He knew who I was. But who was he? And why was he so familiar?