Chapter Text
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Harry Potter stared at Kingsley Shacklebolt in disbelief, feeling like the floor had just dropped out from under him. The new Acting Minister of Magic eyed him with weary sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I wouldn’t ask this of you if there was any other way,” Kingsley pleaded. “The Aurors are spread thin as it is tracking down the last remaining Death Eaters on the run. We need the information Malfoy has to find them and put them on trial. I don’t want a repeat of what happened after the First Wizarding War. We can’t afford to let any of them slip loose again.”
A massive map of the UK covered most of the wall behind the Minister’s desk. It reminded Harry of the Marauder’s Map, with up to date markers of the latest sightings of Death Eaters still at large. A mixture of guilt and exhaustion settled at the bottom of his stomach. He had joined the new Auror training program a month after the end of the war at Kingsley’s request. So many Aurors had been killed during the war that they desperately needed new hires, opting to overlook missing N.E.W.T.s in exchange for an apprenticeship period. Harry had accepted his offer automatically, without much thought. He wanted to be an Auror before and this felt like the natural path for him to take given his skill set. That and the war wasn’t really over yet.
Now that Harry had spent months helping the Aurors track down the last of Voldemort’s followers, he was starting to regret his decision. He knew that defeating Voldemort was only the beginning, but he’d hoped he would finally have time to rest now. The dark circles under his eyes were beginning to feel permanent, courtesy of crippling nightmares that regularly disturbed his sleep. It turned out Harry didn’t need a connection to Voldemort’s mind to supply visions of Dark magic, torture, and cruelty anymore. No, he could simply relive his own worst memories from the war over and over every time he closed his eyes.
In the grand scheme of things, what Kingsley asked of Harry was very small. Rationally, Harry knew that. But after everything he’s been through, to be forced to lead Draco Malfoy’s debrief felt like a cruel joke, salt rubbed in the wound.
“I don’t know anything about interrogation!” Harry protested. “Surely you have other people far more experienced in this than me.”
“Malfoy refuses to talk to anyone other than you. It was one of his express conditions for cooperating, in exchange for clemency for himself and his mother.” Kingsley sat back in his chair and sighed. “I know you don’t want to do this. But the public is angry. They want closure. We need to begin holding trials for the Death Eaters we do have in custody. Malfoy’s testimony could be crucial to their convictions, the difference between justice and fraudulent claims of Imperius Curse coercion.”
Harry didn’t know what Malfoy was playing at, requesting to speak to him specifically. He supposed that this was Malfoy’s way of having the last laugh, one final way to torment him. But then he thought about all the damage the Death Eaters who walked free after the First Wizarding War caused, the damage still being done by Death Eater fugitives in the countryside. Harry suppressed a grimace, knowing that while he could say no, he wouldn’t. Sometimes he wished his conscience would give it a rest.
“Fine,” Harry said dully. “When do I start?”
Harry had seen pictures of Azkaban in the Daily Prophet, but being here in person was so much worse. Sirius hadn't liked to talk much about his time here, but what little he did say could hardly have prepared Harry for this. No wonder Bellatrix Lestrange went mad. He flinched as yet another massive wave crashed against the prison’s stone walls, the sound echoing down the frigid corridors. Harry cast a Warming Charm for the tenth time since he arrived in a futile attempt to keep the constant chill at bay. Even if Azkaban had been placed in the center of a searing desert, the dementors patrolling the exterior perimeter would ensure not a trace of warmth could be found inside. Apparently, this was an improvement on the policies under Cornelius Fudge, when dementors would roam the halls freely, dragging prisoners to the brink of death over and over again.
Harry stopped behind Warden Grenley, his escort. They were on the first floor, where the prison kept its lowest security prisoners.
“This is Draco Malfoy’s cell. If you need anything, there will be a guard just outside in the hallway,” she said.
Harry nodded his thanks as the warden waved her wand and the door unlocked. He swallowed heavily, his anxiety spiking at the prospect of coming face to face with Malfoy once again. Harry stepped inside and the heavy metal door clicked shut behind him. A desk had been laid out for him, complete with parchment and a transcriber quill for easy note taking. The sparse interior was lit by two flickering torches. Bars humming with restraining magic split the room in two. Malfoy’s side of the cell contained a cot, a small table and a chair already pulled up to face the desk.
But it was the man himself that arrested Harry’s gaze. Malfoy always prided himself on his appearance, making a point of wearing well-tailored black suits at school and carefully styling his white-blond hair to the side. Ragged prison stripes didn’t suit Malfoy, Harry decided. And while Malfoy had always tended to be on the thin side, now he was gaunt, the hollows of his cheeks casting harsh shadows beneath sharp cheekbones. His hair was long and uneven, messy bangs falling into his eyes. Stubble lined Malfoy’s jaw and lent his face a disheveled appearance. Still, Malfoy’s silver eyes glinted with malice as they flicked up to meet Harry and a faint smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, so the Boy Saviour decided to grace me with his presence after all. Took you long enough, Potter,” Malfoy snarked. “Can’t believe I have to put my fate in the hands of the likes of you.”
Harry’s mouth solidified into a tight line as he sat down, dragging his chair forward with a reverberating screech.
“Malfoy,” Harry gritted out painfully.
“How long has it been?” Malfoy asked. “It’s hard to keep track of time in here.”
“Four months,” Harry replied.
It was hard to believe it had only been four months. The last couple of years felt like it had aged Harry a decade. Unrolling a short length of parchment, Harry glanced over the list of Death Eater names he was supposed to ask Malfoy about, wondering how he ended up stuck with this job in the first place.
“You understand the terms of your arrangement?” Harry questioned.
“I give you information on other Death Eaters: names, details of their crimes, and possible locations they might flee to,” Malfoy listed off. “I’ll testify at their trials. If I prove useful enough, my mother and I walk free, cleared of all charges. Am I missing anything?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed at Malfoy’s dismissive tone. “At the end of your debrief, I’m the one who will make a recommendation to the Minister about whether or not you’ve earned clemency. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Malfoy scowled, hostility rolling off of him in waves so strong Harry swore he could almost feel it.
Harry tapped the transcriber quill with his wand and it hovered over the parchment ready to begin. He looked at the list again, then hesitated. The Carrow siblings were at the top, last names alphabetically organized. But it felt wrong, having the war categorized into neat files as though bullet point lists of facts could ever capture the horror of what these people had wrought. Harry wasn’t writing an essay for his next History of Magic assignment.
Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me any questions, Potter? That is the point of your presence here, isn’t it?”
Abruptly, Harry rolled the list of names up and set it to the side. If Kingsley wanted him to be in charge, then he was going to do it his own way.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Harry suggested. “When did you first become aware of your father’s contact with Voldemort?”
Malfoy flinched slightly at Harry’s use of the name. He almost missed it, the movement was so minuscule, but it sent an unexpected pang of… something through Harry.
“It was the summer after our fourth year. You named my father and the parents of most of my friends as Death Eaters to the papers, so he could hardly ignore it. As soon as I got home from Hogwarts, he and my mother sat me down in the library for a chat. Father told me that the Dark Lord had returned and that he was called to be a loyal follower again. He said he was going to play an instrumental role in the Dark Lord’s rise to power, that the Malfoy name was going to be greater than ever,” Malfoy recounted. His lip curled.
It occurred to Harry then that Malfoy hadn’t bargained for his father’s freedom, even though he was locked in Azkaban, the same as his mother.
“Did you agree with his decision?” Harry asked.
“Of course I did,” Draco scoffed. “I was raised on stories of my father’s time as a Death Eater. I looked up to him, I thought he must have been a powerful wizard to be counted amongst the Dark Lord’s most faithful supporters. I hated Muggles, Mudbloods, and blood traitors. I was bloody ecstatic that the Dark Lord had returned.”
Harry’s fists clenched involuntarily, biting the inside of his cheek to focus him until he could get his anger under control. He could hardly get information out of Malfoy if he lost his temper five minutes into the conversation.
“What did your mother say?” Harry asked.
“She was quiet for most of it. She never said a word against my father, but I got the sense she didn’t share his enthusiasm.”
“She never took the Dark Mark. Why is that?” Harry wondered. He’d always found it curious that Narcissa never took that final step when both her husband and her son had.
“My mother said she didn’t feel it was necessary when my father already had one. Don’t get me wrong, she believed magic should be reserved for Purebloods just as fervently as the rest of them. Disowned her own sister when she married a Muggleborn. But she was more interested in controlling her own behavior and who she associated with than bending the rest of the world to her will.” Malfoy hesitated. “Mother… she could have a sharp tongue when she wanted to, but she was gentle. Father always said that her calming presence balanced out his icy disposition.”
Harry sat in silence, turning over what he knew of Narcissa Malfoy in his mind until his complicated feelings were a knotted mess. She participated in Hermione’s torture at Malfoy Manor, but she was also the woman who lied to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. He knew all too well that the Battle for Hogwarts could have ended differently, if not for her.
“Did you know who the other Death Eaters were at the time?” Harry continued.
“The same Death Eaters you saw in that graveyard, Potter, though I didn’t have any contact with them. I knew my father talked to Walden Macnair frequently, as they both worked at the Ministry, but he didn't conduct Death Eater business at the Manor at that point. He always disappeared somewhere else. Whenever I asked for more details, he told me that I would learn in good time. It was quite a shock to suddenly find out my father had landed himself in Azkaban after your little fight with him in the Department of Mysteries,” Draco said bitterly.
A muscle ticked in Harry’s jaw. That "little fight" had killed Sirius, just as he had started to build a parental relationship with his godfather. He glared at Malfoy and Malfoy glared right back. Harry angrily spent the next hour going over any contacts Malfoy’s father had the first year after Voldemort’s return, pursuing even the mildest suspicious behavior until both of them were thoroughly exasperated. He supposed that having Malfoy corroborate the information the Aurors had already compiled was useful for convictions, but he’d hardly learned anything new. All Harry had managed to gain over the course of his first visit was a pounding headache and a reaffirmed belief that Malfoy enjoyed making his life miserable.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Harry said, his patience frayed to its last strand.
Malfoy let out a humourless laugh. “By all means, go. I’ll still be here tomorrow.”
Harry snatched up the notes from their session and stuffed them in his bag, eager to get out of the oppressive prison. He was up and out of his seat, strap slung over shoulder and halfway to the door when Malfoy called after him.
“Potter.”
Harry’s fist stilled before he had a chance to knock on the door to alert the guard. He glanced over his shoulder. “What is it?”
Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Why did you agree to help me?”
Harry sighed, tugging at the fringe on his forehead, a bad habit he fell into whenever he was frustrated. After such a disastrous first attempt, Harry had half a mind to storm into Kingsley’s office and demand a replacement. He couldn’t see any reason why another Auror wouldn’t be able to get the same basic information out of Malfoy, but their conversation reminded him of a debt still owed. Harry turned to face Malfoy.
“Because of your mother,” Harry replied.
“My mother?” Malfoy’s gaze jerked up to meet Harry suspiciously. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“She saved my life,” Harry admitted. “When Voldemort,” Malfoy flinched again, “tried to kill me in the Forbidden Forest, it didn’t work. If she hadn’t lied to Voldemort and told him I was dead, he would have killed me again before I ever had a chance to get back to Hogwarts.”
“Why would she protect you?” Malfoy asked, bewildered.
Harry shook his head. “She wasn’t protecting me. She was trying to save you. I suppose I owe it to her to try to do the same.”
For the first time that Harry could remember, Malfoy was stunned speechless.