Chapter Text
TW: References to alcoholism
1 January, 2007
MALFOY HEIR ANNOUNCED AS HIT WIZARD ON NEW YEAR'S AZKABAN ESCAPE— “Mark my words, she will be found and she will be put back where she belongs.”
By Lyra Lyre, Life Style & Crime reporter, The Daily Prophet
Draco Malfoy, age 27, Order of Merlin First Class war hero (twice decorated, if you please) and Dark Wizard hunter extraordinaire, has been brought on to assist Lead Auror Ron Weasley in apprehending escaped Azkaban convict, Hermione Granger. At this time no details have been released as to how her dead-of-the-night escape was possible, but a trusted confidential source slipped that the body of Bellatrix LeStrange, fellow inmate and infamous Death Eater (the right hand to You Know Who), was discovered in her cell in Solitary this morning. The source also stated that it was “Obviously foul play and most assuredly connected to Granger’s escape” but it is unclear how.
After the announcement was made by the recently appointed Department Head Harry Potter—looking devilishly haggard, possibly overwhelmed by the notion that his life hangs in the balance once more?— Malfoy was quoted as saying, “Mark my words, she will be found and she will be put back where she belongs. No one is above the law, least of all someone like her.”
When asked if he took this case personally, as a close personal friend of Potter himself and the nephew of the now deceased LeStrange, he raised his phenotypic-ly strong jaw, a glint of that loyalty he is best known for echoing in his glacier eyes, and replied, “As I said. No one is above the law.”
Malfoy: A History
As dangerous as this endeavor might be, it may just pale in comparison to his multitude of other feats. He made a name for himself (as if the Malfoys weren’t already a household name) at the end of the Second Wizarding War when it was revealed that he had been a double agent for the Order of the Phoenix. At the tender age of fifteen he began passing vital information that directly led to the downfall of You Know Who. Unlike Potter and Weasley, he chose to complete the remainder of his schooling and afterward, in his typical cutting-edge way, instead of applying to be an Auror and bringing the Hogwarts Trio back together once more, he chose the illustrious path as the Minister’s Personal Hit Wizard, a position created for him.
Under the Minister’s orders, he has closely worked with Aurors both foreign and domestic. He most recently made headlines for his November capture of the Malton Mad Hatter and last February’s arrest of Flint Flunder, head of the underground goblin gobstone gambling ring. This past summer, The New York Ghost reported his assistance was requested by MACUSA’s own on a case regarding the black market dragon trade in America. Minister Shacklebolt once described the dashing Malfoy heir as “Truly, a shining example of reform, when you think of what he came from…”
Granger: A Lack of History
Not much is known about Muggleborn witch Hermione Granger’s days during or after Hogwarts leading up to the events of 2 May, 2006. Very few students can recall more than idle memories, painting a portrait of a friendless recluse, which is an odd trait for a Gryffindor to possess.
In an exclusive interview with Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall shortly after the young witch’s arrest, she told this reporter, “She (Granger) was a remarkably bright witch who displayed promising talent. But I can’t say she ever really found her place amongst her peers. Even so, it was still a shock when she tried to kill Mr. Potter.”
After the War, Granger seemingly disappeared from the Wizarding World all together; it is assumed she returned to Muggle society during that absence. That was until that fateful day last May when at the 9 Year Memorial Gala hosted at Malfoy Manor, she attempted to kill Harry Potter with the most Unforgivable of curses! Thankfully, Quick Footed Potter, his speed honed by years as the Gryffindor House-Team Seeker, was able to dodge from the curse in time. But it was Mr. Malfoy who apprehended the would-be murderer.
The Girl Who Tried
The trial afterward was widely followed by all of us who had the same question: who in their right mind would want to kill The Boy Who Lived? Which brings us to The Girl Who Tried’s motive.
She provided none.
Readers will remember that throughout the entire ordeal, Ms. Granger did not seek a solicitor in her defense to the charges laid before her (which included the Unlawful Use of an Unforgivable Curse and Reckless Endangerment to Society) and when asked why she made an attempt on Mr. Potter’s life, she only replied, “I hear Azkaban is nice this time of year.”
This was the first and only time Granger spoke for the remainder of the (albeit, short) trial, as she refused to answer or even acknowledge any further questions put forth by the Council.
Cries from the crowds outside the courtroom calling for the Kiss could be heard from within the chamber. But Potter, ever the humble and haunted soul, made a statement that he felt the Kiss was too harsh a punishment for someone who must be deeply troubled and that it is important to remember the ethics behind the Ministry’s break with Dementors.
Obviously, in the end, the Wizengamot found Granger guilty on all charges. She did not react when the Chair read her sentence of life without parole aloud, and even let the guards escort her out without a struggle. She was sent to Azkaban immediately, where she remained until her escape sometime last night.
All that being said, this reporter has high hopes that Mr. Malfoy is up to the task and this murderous rogue will be brought back to justice swiftly in that Malfoy je ne sais quoi way we have all come to admire. It may be of some note that this morning’s announcement did not state as to whether or not she is required to be captured alive.
We here at The Daily Prophet anxiously await the news of her capture and will faithfully update as new information becomes available.
It had been less than an hour and a half into the New Year and all the party guests in the Potter’s home (sans Ronald) were properly sloshed. Draco was topping off his firewhiskey in the kitchen with Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Arthur, discussing the Chudley Cannon’s upcoming match. He gave his generally unfavored opinion that the Cannon’s should avoid future embarrassment and not even bother flying onto the pitch against the Wimbourne Wasps next week. In response, Ron had just begun calling Draco a series of expletives in response when suddenly a Patronus in the form of a large bird flew through the kitchen wall and landed (as much as light and smoke could land) on the bottle strewn table. When it began to speak, Draco absently thought that the panic stricken, barely pubescent young man’s voice didn’t match the dramatic size of the seabird before them. But the message did.
“This is Acting-Warden Bromwell. Bellatrix Lestrange’s body was found murdered in her cell during the 1am check. Hermione Granger is the only unaccounted for inmate.”
With that three-sentence horror vignette fini, the Patronus evaporated as the kitchen grew heavy with the weight of its words, the air infusing with the laughter of the unsuspecting friends and family that continued their merriment in other parts of the house. The silence was only broken when Draco gave a soft laugh.
“Do you think that was mere coincidence or a portent of events to come?” He asked the question to no one in particular, before raising his glass to his lips and taking a slow sip.
They all looked at him, confused.
“What is?” It was Arthur who asked.
“The Patronus being an albatross.” He knocked back the rest of his drink.
They all broke into action. Harry began to rapidly send one Patronus after another, alerting the Minster, sending word back to Akzaban, as well as several others regarding setting up Apparition check points. Ron would meet them at the Ministry shortly and went to quietly brief the coworkers in attendance, Arthur going with him.
Meanwhile, Draco, being under no Aurorial standard procedural protocols, washed his glass and put it on the drying rack. He found his Milne & Sons peacoat in the pantry where he’d hung it earlier to avoid the chaos of departing guests, while Potter, not planning on departing his own home at the end of his own party, was now blindly searching among the topographical landscape of cloaks hanging on the wall behind the kitchen door.
Draco pulled his coat on as he came to stand beside the frowning Ginny, who was watching her husband struggle, now elbow deep in velvet and wool. He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss to the top of her fiery hair. “Great party, Ginevra. Happy New Year.”
She looked up at him, her features relaxing a bit as she managed a small smile. “Happy New Year, Draco.” She looked back at Harry, who was actually possibly being slowly eaten by the wall of fabric. If Hagrid’s coat was amongst them, that was a real possibility and had happened more than once.
Realising time was probably of the essence or something, Draco raised his wand towards Harry. “Accio cloak!”
Harry dislodged himself as Mont Manteau began to quake, cloaks coming down in a landslide until one erupted forth and into Harry’s open hand. He gave a sheepish laugh. “Thanks, mate. You would not believe how incredibly intoxicated I am. I think I may have forgotten for a moment that magic was real?”
Draco pulled two phials of Pepper Up Potion from his pocket, tossing one to a grateful Harry, who drank it immediately. Draco downed his own potion as Harry stepped into the kitchen fireplace, reaching into the satchel of floo powder nearby. He met his wife’s eyes once more before throwing the powder into the hearth and calling out, “Ministry of Magic!”
Once the green flames dissipated, Draco stepped into the fireplace as well, taking a handful of powder of his own.
“Hey, Malfwash,” Ginny said and he looked at her. She was grinning, but it didn’t mask the anxiety in her eyes. “You’ll watch out for him, yeah?”
“What else have I got going on, Gingervitus?” He grinned and tossed the powder. “Minstry of Magic!”
Draco had an infinite amount of regrets in his life. He regretted the terrible haircut he’d insisted upon as a child, he regretted once Apparating with an errant knife lodged in his thigh as it had rematerialized in his foot. He regretted killing Albus Dumbledore. But in this exact moment, he wasn’t sure if he regretted anything more than every ounce of firewhiskey he had had, possibly ever, in his life. The Pepper Up was already racing through him, pushing his body into prematurely accepting the ramifications of his barley-based behaviour. The roar of the floo Network as he passed through it and the atom rearranging nature of it all made his stomach twist while his brain attempted to evacuate through his eyes and ears. He managed to maintain his composure as he stepped out of the fireplace, where he found Harry spewing a torrent of sick all over the floor of the Atrium, which was, mercifully, empty.
With a wave of Draco’s wand, the mess was gone. He raised an eyebrow at his friend, not even trying to hide his grin. “Alright, mate?”
“No, I do believe I am dying.” Harry steadied himself on the mantle as he adjusted his skewed glasses. “Yourself?”
Draco nodded, wishing he hadn’t, as his swollen brain seemed to bounce off his skull at high velocity with even the smallest movement. “Positively deceased, I expect rigor mortis to set in at any moment.”
Ron popped out of the fireplace and grinned at the both of them, looking definitely-not-dying. For Salazar’s sake, he had the audacity to appear to be nearly brimming with life. The teetotaling twat.
“Alright?” He asked them both, his nose wrinkling a bit as the lingering scent of sick hit his nose.
“Yes.” They lied simultaneously.
He shook his head at them and they made their way to the second floor of the Ministry. Shacklebolt was already waiting for them when they reached the offices, leaning stiffly against Vincent DeCotti’s desk. His dress robes indicated he had been pulled from festivities of his own. Draco struggled to imagine Shacklebolt having a home or friends who enjoyed his company. What if someone possibly loved him?
“What do we know?” He greeted them not at all warmly.
As the Department Head, Harry took control. “Hermione Granger has escaped Azkaban and possibly killed Bellatrix LeStrange as well. We will call for a safety announcement with the press immediately, while we wait for the Prison portkey to be issued. The rest of the department has been alerted and Apparition check points are being set up as we speak. ”
Shacklebolt nodded, looking unimpressed. His gaze moved to Draco, his expression unchanging. “What is Mr. Malfoy doing here?”
Draco fought to keep his jaw from clenching, but before he could say anything, Harry responded.
“Due to the severity of the situation and his previous experience of capturing her already,” Draco bit his lip to keep smiling at Harry’s tone. He must still be a bit drunk to feel comfortable speaking to the Minister like that. “I would like to formally request Mr. Malfoy’s assistance with locating Granger. Weasley agreed that as the lead on the case, he would value Malfoy’s input.”
As this conversation between them had not actually happened, Draco and Ron said nothing. There had been no need to talk through it. Harry could be in danger, and it was a shared truth between them: Protect each other.
He also knew that there was an even deeper understanding between him and Ron alone that was simply: Protect Harry.
If Shacklebolt agreed with Harry’s assessment, he didn’t show it. Instead he pushed off the desk and walked towards the doors. “I already put in the request for the portkey. I want Weasley and Malfoy at Azkaban as soon as it’s ready.”
He’d said something very similar to Draco nearly a decade ago, whispered so only Draco could hear, just before he pinned an Order of Merlin ribbon just above his heart. I will see to it that one day you end up in Azkaban.
A clerk came in moments after Shacklebolt’s departure and let them know that The Daily Prophet and its ilk were beginning to arrive. Harry released a long breath and followed the clerk out, Ron and Draco trailing behind him.
It had been agony. The flash bulbs did his head in and Lyra’s piercing voice as she asked ridiculous questions was enough to make his ears bleed.
When that fresh hell was over, a memo from the Department of Magical Transportation said that they would still need at least another hour or so before the portkey would be ready. The three men agreed to take the time to floo back to their respective homes to freshen up before “the rest of the shit show” continued.
Once the green flames dissipated, the quiet stillness of his Islington townhouse was a vast contrast from the cacophony the Ministry had been. He took a steadying breath, but even that felt like it waned his energy. The pleasant and not-so-pleasant effects of his alcohol-fuel evening had subsided and all he was left with was an undiminishable urge to sleep. Possibly for days, maybe even a week.
By the time he had finished his shower, he looked much less like a rotting corpse and more like a freshly dead one. He charmed his hair to do the suave thing that Ginny (after nearly being forced to make an Unbreakable Vow of secrecy) had taught him, dressed quickly, downed another Pepper Up and ate a dry (and slightly burnt) piece of toast. When all was said and done, he still had a little over half an hour before he needed to be back at the Ministry. So he allowed himself his Daily Three Minutes.
Sitting on the black velvet divan in his modestly sized sitting room, he took the Muggle kitchen timer from its place on the bookcase behind him and set it for three minutes. His eyes automatically fell on a small dent in the wall across the room. He wasn’t sure when or how the dent had occurred, but he had never repaired it solely for this purpose. Concentrating on the rapid clicking of the timer and steadying his breath, he let his eyes lose focus until the dent blurred and his vision went nearly black. Like he did every day, he lost himself in this in-between place, sorting through his own mind until his thoughts became clearer and clearer. When the timer rather aggressively let him know that his three minutes were up, he blinked rapidly a few times, bringing the world back into focus. Once his sight returned to normal, he took one sharp breath in and released it slowly back out.
When he reached to put the timer back on the bookcase, his eyes fell to where the sleeve of his grey jumper had ridden up, revealing the stark contrast of the black ink on his pale forearm.
He was still numb enough from the Occluding that he couldn’t care about the pulse of shame that coursed through him whenever he saw his Reminder. He could recognise what the feeling was, but he couldn’t feel it. Instead, he turned his arm to the side, watching as the shadows flickered across it. The ink still looked fresh, even all these years later. Without looking away from it, he picked up his wand with his other hand and cast a glamour so that he could only see the edges if he made himself look at it for long enough.
The knowledge that he had an escaped witch with intentions of murdering his best friend to catch reinvigorated him slightly. He almost felt excitement at the thought. The Occulmancy walls he’d built just now wouldn’t let him feel much for at least an hour, but he assumed that’s what the feeling in his chest meant. He did not pause to reflect on the errant thought that excitement and fear felt the same when emotion itself was taken out of the equation.
After taking a handful of floo powder from the sterling silver dish on the mantel, he stepped into the fireplace.
“The Ministry of Magic!”
Nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again. Still nothing. He swore as he recalled that it was standard procedure to lock down the floo system in situations like this. He just wished he had remembered it before he threw a couple handfuls of dust onto his Oxfords.
Glancing at the clock on the mantel, he decided he had enough time to take the tube to Whitehall if he left immediately.
In the entry way, he dug through the console table drawers for the strange piece of paper the Muggles called plastic. This piece of plastic (even more strangely called an Oyster card, despite not resembling an oyster in the slightest) seemed to be the key in making the underground train work. Strange thing, Muggles. He never thought of them as inferior, not anymore, but he couldn’t deny that they were an odd lot, with their plastic keys and trousers called “jeans.”
“You are the greatest shame to ever walk these halls!” Croaked out an elderly voice from behind Draco.
Draco didn’t turn to see who’d spoken, instead he opened another drawer and continued his search, wishing Accio worked on Muggle items like this. “Mornin,’ auntie. Happy New Year.”
“You are a disgrace to the Noble House of Black. I would have had them burn you from the tapestry upon your birth if I had known what you would become!” Hissed the portrait of Walburga Black, his great aunt, which hung permanently on the wall behind him.
“That’s a lovely sentiment, thank you.” Draco found the card and was out the door before she could grace him with a scathing retort.
It was still dark outside 12 Grimmauld Place. Not yet three in the morning, the wet streets were empty until he got closer to Blackfriars. Drunken Muggles wandered about excitedly, still ringing in the New Year, and black cabs splashed puddles about as they went by. At the station he passed by a glamoured wizard owned newsstand where he saw his face on the front page of the already released early edition of The Prophet. As he had never claimed to be humble, he bought one and managed to make it on the train just before it departed.
He’d read it twice before the next station and was now glaring at the photo they’d chosen to run with it: he and Harry caught mid laugh behind the podium at an entirely different DMLE announcement made last summer about the “utter unlikelihood” that there was a nargle infestation occurring in Norwich and the importance of checking “multiple news sources.” Ron had pointedly not been present as he felt indirectly calling out the mother of his children’s own paper might not be the best development to his home life. As it was, Harry and Draco were still occasionally receiving "anonymous" bulk deliveries of Butterbeer corks half a year later.
But he supposed he should be glad that they used that photo instead of whatever they had taken this morning. Lyra’s choice of the word “haggard” is not one Draco would have used to describe either of their appearances. Evaporating before their eyes into a puddle of firewhisky would have been more apt.
Without wanting to, his eyes found the line he had already read more than twice: Truly, a shining example of reform, when you think of what he came from.
What he came from.
It had been more than ten years since Kingsley had made the vow to see Draco put in Azkaban. He didn’t know if the other wizard had given up on trying to get him punished for his crimes, crimes that Kingsley himself had ordered Draco to commit, or if he had just changed tactics and the means of punishing him.
When he had qualified for Auror training, Draco was invited to meet with then Department Head Sturgis Podmore, but instead, he found Shaklebolt waiting alone in Podmore’s office. He told Draco that allowing a former Death Eater to join the prestigious department that upheld magical law, would not be the best representation of the reformed Ministry he was working towards. He had looked pointedly at Draco’s left arm, his Reminder hidden behind his sleeve and glamoured like always, but it had felt exposed in that moment.
“But,” Shacklebolt had said, smiling coldly at Draco’s white knuckles. “Perhaps with your particular set of barbaric skills and personal history of working outside the confinements of morality, you’d prefer a position as the Minister’s personal Hit Wizard. You’d still be allowed to work alongside Harry and Ronald, but at my disposal. What better way to continue to show your loyalty to the New Ministry.”
Just like that, he was fifteen again, sitting in the Headmaster’s office as Dumbledore, Shacklebolt, and Moody explained that there was something he needed to do. Earlier that night, he’d informed Harry that he’d overheard his father talking about Voldemort's plans to lure him to the Department of Mysteries. At that point, Draco had hidden his friendship with Harry and Ron from his father for years as he played the dutiful son; the Pureblood heir to inherit the cleansed earth that Voldemort promised. But he was tired. And he was afraid.
He had felt that that moment he’d chosen to tell Harry what he’d overheard was the moment he’d decided he was done pretending. Done pretending to care about blood purity and done being afraid. He could break away from his family and the Death Eaters completely, Ron had already assured him that he had a place with his family as much as Harry did.
But that is not what The Order of the Phoenix needed from him. Snape was killed by Voldemort when he’d suspected the leak in their ranks had been him. Now Voldemort needed a new right hand and the Order needed a spy.
“What better way for you to show your loyalty to The Order than this?” Shacklebolt had said. “What better way to show your loyalty to Harry?”
So now, what better role for Draco in this New Ministry than as an example of reform itself? As a the Minister’s Hit Wizard, he portrayed a leashed Death Eater, who now tracked down Dark Wizards and made them pay, sometimes violently, for their crimes. Never above the letter of the law, but always between the lines.
Since then, Shacklebolt always found subtle ways to remind society that he was the product of a family tree with a long history of producing rotten fruit. It didn’t matter how many cases he assisted on, how many Dark Wizards he sent to Azkaban; he would always be the Death Eater who killed Albus Dumbledore. Even with the public knowledge that it was for The Greater Good, he still heard the whispers, still caught the unsure glances when he walked into a room.
He had tried to talk to Harry and Ron about it, about Kingsley quite literally trying to ruin his life at every given turn, but they seemed to think that he was hard on everyone and the pressure of rebuilding after the War had hardened him. The War had hardened them all in different ways and they all carried different scars with them. Harry still had nightmares that Voldemort was out there somewhere and Ron had had to give up drinking after relying on it for so long to cope. Draco felt that while some scars, visible and not, were worse than his, none were as downright hated as the Dark Mark he couldn’t remove no matter what he did.
His Reminder itched under the glamour, breaking him out of his reverie; he tensed and relaxed his left hand until it stopped, not daring to draw attention to it, even in the company of Muggles.
The Disembodied Voice From Within the Train announced they were approaching Charing Cross, he folded the paper and put it in his coat before making his way to the nearest exit. As the doors opened, he overheard one of the few passengers, a Muggle woman in a very short, tight dress, slur to her companion, “No, I’m telling you, the pictures in his paper were moving!”
“Oh, come off it,” Her friend laughed. “I told you not to take that pill.”
Draco made his way out of the station and to the telephone box outside of the Muggle Treasury building. Ignoring the out of order sign that was plastered to it, he stepped in and dialed 62442 on the rotary. The bottom of the telephone box began to sink into the ground and within seconds, he was looking out across the Atrium for the second time that day.
Eric Munch, the security guard, waved him through so that he walked over a series of runes carved into the floor. The runes would strip any glamours or Imperios off any who stepped through it. Once Munch saw that Draco remained his devastatingly attractive self, he waved him on again and went back to reading his own morning Prophet.
Instead of going back to Level Two, he instead took the lift to the DMT’s Level Six. When the lift opened up, Ron was waiting outside, reading a large file in his hands.
Draco came up to him and gave a dramatic once over. “Bloody hell, Ronald, I thought you were going home to freshen up a bit. You look like shit.”
Ron didn’t say anything, just held up two middle fingers in a V, and began walking towards the Portkey Office. As they walked, Draco used his wand to duplicate the file he held and slipped it in his extended coat pocket.
“How did you get back here? The floo was closed. ”Draco asked as they neared the end of the long hallway.
“Floo’d to Harry’s. The Head’s floo isn’t closed down for obvious reasons.”
“Damn it, didn’t think of that. Harry not coming?”
Ron finally tucked the file into his own pocket as they reached the door. “Nah, Kingsley wants him to hold another press conference at six.”
Besmelda Broadacre, a short, portly witch in her late sixties greeted them at the door and brought them to a small, nearly empty room. The only furniture was a simple wood table, empty besides a slightly bent fork placed on a piece of velvet in the centre.
“It’ll get you there and back when you’re ready.” She told them, motioning towards the unassuming fork before leaving them to it.
“Thanks, Bes.” Ron said as he and Draco came to stand beside the table. He looked at Draco, his eyes narrowed in friendly challenge. “Ready to catch the bitch who tried to kill our friend?”
“As long as I get all the credit.” Draco grinned back.
Ron laughed. “You always do, don’t you?”
And with that, they both reached out and touched the fork, the world refracting around them instantly.