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Surviving Malfoy _ Part III : Acceptance and Hope

Stormzy ‘Vossi Bop’ – Fuck the government.

Chapter 1:

            Freedom is an illusion.

            It felt like freedom, when Voldemort fell, it really did. We celebrated, drank, talked, played music in the Great Hall, danced, hugged, kissed. Some did more, the room behind the teacher’s table was constantly occupied, but no one paid it any mind. It meant whoever was in there did not have to walk through the Entrance Hall.

            But when the Aurors came, led by Kingsley, taking some of the quieter people in the room away and we had no other choice but to start searching through the castle and the grounds, the illusion fell. The bodies piled high, higher than we all thought.

            Debbie was among them, next to Victoria. Mauled by Greyback of all people, no longer breathing, and all I can think of is, what if we weren’t cowards, hiding behind the victory, and went to check on them earlier. Maybe some would still be here. We all closed our eyes to the horrors outside. We all knew what was coming, all had faces missing, hugs we couldn’t give. I’ve been told since not to blame myself, that what we did is understandable, normal even. That doesn’t negate the fact that it was morally wrong.

            My last words to her were in anger. I told her to leave me alone. But I never meant like this.

            Lavender was still alive when we found her nearby. She was taken to St. Mungo’s via medical apparition, pumped full of blood replenishing potions and doused with a Dreamless Draught so heavy she has yet to wake up again. Colin is gone, so is Fred. Thinking him and Debbie might have a meeting somewhere outside of our understanding is the only thing that brings me a little solace.

            The Aurors came swarming the castle within an hour after Voldemort fell, eager to take the reins. Tituba knows where they were during the fight, but after, they were happy to play righteous saviour. They took Draco away, and his mother. They’ve all been sent to Azkaban, trial dates outstanding. I’ll get them both out. Not his father though, if I can help it. I don’t exactly give two shits about him, he can rot.

            They took Pansy too. She wasn’t at the battle, but they went to the Burrow after sweeping Hogwarts and took away all Slytherins of age. Millicent Bullstrode, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, and Hestia Carrow. None of them had the mark, and it caused quite the stir. Molly tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t have it.

            They almost took Theo too. It took Hermione, Neville, Luna, Padma, Seamus and Dean to convince the Aurors of what he had done over the last few weeks before the battle, that he wasn’t a threat and had no association with his father. Telling the Aurors he had actively gone after his father to kill him almost cost Theo.

            I was too busy keeping Blaise from flinging himself into the Black Lake.

            Physically, we’re free, but we’ll never be free from the pain of it all.

            Theo’s chest rumbles with laughter under my ear. It’s the only thing that can pull me back to the present at night.

            “Monica, what’s with you? Who did you have lunch with?”

            “Judy.”

            “Who?”

            “Julie?”

            “What?!”

            “Jody!”

            “You were with Julie?”

            “Oh, look. When it started, I was just trying to be nice to her, because she was my brother’s girlfriend. And then, one thing led to another, and… Before I knew it, we were… Shopping.”

            “Oh!”

            Theo laughs again as Rachel clutches her pearls on the screen he and Hermione managed to install a few days ago. His first trip back into the muggle world was to HMV on Oxford Street, where he bought every available season of Friends on VHS for us to watch. It’s our nightly ritual now: I go to sleep, wake up after a few hours, if I even manage to sleep, tiptoe down to the salon, where it never takes Theo more than a few minutes to join me. I have a suspicion he’s put an alert on my door, but I don’t mind.

            “Uh. Oh my god.”

            “Honey, wait. We only did it once!”

             “Oh.”

            “It didn’t mean anything to me!”

            “Yeah. Yeah, right, sure.”

            “Really! Rachel, I was thinking of you the whole time!”

            “Yeah, right.”

            “Look. I’m sorry, alright? I never meant for you to find out.”

            “Oh, please!”

            It makes me smile too. We only started season 2 today, but watching Theo discovering something he’s clearly been waiting for for years, brings me a joy I don’t find in much else at the moment.

            MACUSA got involved too, they swarmed the castle not long after the Aurors, and started arresting them in turn along with every British Ministry worker in sight, on account of them having been Ministry officials under Voldemort, and therefore untrustworthy. Arthur and Percy Weasley were grouped together with the likes of Yaxley, Runcorn, Thicknesse and Umbridge. And they weren’t the only ones. But with no jurisdiction on British soil, they were forced to release them again. France and Germany stepped in, followed by the Russians and the Chinese. An Emergency Management Office was established, with high-ranking officials from all over the world trying to manage the downfall of the British Ministry and the shambles it was left in. The British wizarding community is taking it with gritted teeth, all of us wondering why it took them until the end of the actual emergency to start their power-play.

            “Okay, Monica, I just need to know one thing… Did you go with her to Bloomingdale’s?”

            “Once you get to season 3, you’ll have to wait for me. I haven’t seen that one yet either.” Hermione walks in, tartan robe wrapped tightly around her, looking about as well-rested as I feel. She lets herself fall into the nearest armchair, swinging her legs over the armrest.

            “I’ll wake you next time,” Theo says.

            “I’m not asleep usually,” Hermione responds, not looking away from the screen. “Just shoot me a Patronus.”   

            This is how it’s been going most nights. The battle was only five days ago, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. It’s a miracle Theo is even here now. MACUSA showed up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place on the evening of May 2^nd and they weren’t having any of it when we tried protesting his arrest. They threw him in with the Death Eaters, despite the lack of a Mark on his arm. It took us two days, a petition, statements from every single hideout member, several howlers from Harry and, finally, a lengthy meeting between Kingsley and Ferenc Horváth, Banu Daghestani and Atticus Ellsworth, the heads of the EMO, to finally get him out.

            I volunteered to be his handler. Theo isn’t allowed a wand and has a curfew of 8pm, although he is allowed out later in my company. Which he has really just been using to force me to get drunk in every pub within a fifteen-minute walk from Grimmauld Place. His trial is scheduled for May 25^th.

            The EMO also seized his estate. He has no intention of returning to his manor anyhow, happy to let anyone with a semblance of an official badge roam through it to their heart’s content. He moved to Grimmauld Place with me, on Harry’s personal invitation. Hermione, Ron, and Casper have also taken up residence here for the time being. But during the day, the house is much more crowded. Molly comes by daily, with at least three more of her kids in tow, setting up residence in the kitchen along with Andromeda Tonks, grateful for the extra hands taking care of Teddy. Meals are a noisy affair, with a throng of Order members coming and going, but none of us mind.

            We’re all in this together. Each one of us is dealing with aspects of the aftermath, be it EMO work, trial preparations, evidence collection, the rebuilding of Hogwarts or funeral preparations. None of us hide from it, none of us talk of anything else. And it makes me wonder how quiet it will be once normal life resumes, if it ever will.

            I thought of going back to New Orleans, retreat entirely and give myself time to rest. But I couldn’t get myself to, not while knowing that people were being thrown into Azkaban who had no reason to be there. I’ve thrown myself headfirst into a legal battle, leaving funeral preparations to my mother and Madam Fox, who went back to Salem three days ago.

            Madam Fox put me in touch with one Odette Amspoker, part of the MACUSA DMLE, an attorney in international wizarding law, and former New Orleans witch. She’s taken on the cases of Draco and his mother, Pansy, Daphne, Millicent, and Hestia. I’ve only been able to afford her with Theo’s funding. I protested, ready to take out loans at Gringotts if need be but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She too is a regular at lunch and dinner, spending the rest of her time hauled up in my room, pouring over stacks of case files piled higher than my head.

            “What time is it?” Theo’s voice rumbles through his chest.

            Hermione lifts her head off the headrest and checks her watch. “Just past 3,” she says.

            I sigh, pushing myself to a sitting position between Theo’s legs and rubbing my face. “I need to sleep,” I say.

            “Dreamless draught?” Theo asks.

            “If you can manage to wake me up in the morning, maybe.” We have copious amounts readily available in the kitchen. Harry’s the biggest user, but I try to avoid it as best I can. I don’t want to become dependent on it for a good night’s sleep.

            “What time do you need to get up?”

            “8-ish,” I say. “Odette is picking me up at 9.”

            “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Hermione asks.

            “No,” I answer truthfully. We have a meeting at 10.30 at the Ministry, with Narcissa. Odette managed to negotiate a deal for her: her immediate release under house arrest until the day of her trial, in exchange for access to the Manor. The EMO tried getting onto the estate shortly after the battle but couldn’t. It wouldn’t allow them entry; they couldn’t make it past the gates no matter what they tried. Their need for approval from a member of the family is the biggest leverage we have. And Narcissa being the least threatening of the three Malfoys was our best bet to get a deal.

            I just need to get into Draco’s room, find the letter from Lily and the picture of us, which I hope are still stashed away safely in Draco’s desk drawer. That and her cooperation should buy Narcissa her freedom.

            “Don’t underestimate me,” Theo says. “I’ll find a way to get you out of bed.”

            I glare at him. “If you manage to gently wake me up in the morning.” I correct myself.

            He pouts. “Fine,” he says. “Come on, off to bed.” He pulls me to my feet, pausing the VCR. We leave Hermione in her armchair, she’s still awake but her eyes are closed. She’ll be asleep soon, ready for Ron to carry her back to bed in a few hours when he wakes up from his usual nightmare and notices she’s gone.

            I let Theo pull me downstairs to the kitchen, drug me with a heavy dose of sleeping draught and help me up to bed. I understand the appeal of a dreamless draught, know why Harry is such a big fan of them. I don’t dream for a full five hours of sleep, more than I get most nights. It’s tempting to drown myself in it every evening, but I need the dreams and I don’t want to start relying on it. The dreams will come either way, it doesn’t change a thing for me whether it’s now or in a few months.

            Theo stays true to his word. I’m woken up promptly at eight but the heavy weight of a ball of fluff being thrown onto my chest. Crookshanks paws at my cheek, blowing his cold, fishy breath into my nose as he sniffs my face. I groan, pushing his face to the side where he starts licking my temple, five squishy toe beans digging into the hollow of my cheek. I turn around, pulling the cat with me and trapping him between the sheets, my arm around him and my fingers scratching under his chin. He starts to purr, interrupting himself with a loud meow in my ear.

            “Let me guess, you haven’t eaten,” I mumble into the pillow, getting a prompt meow back. Crookshanks wiggles himself free and sits on my pillow, squished yellow eyes staring unblinkingly into my face as he purrs away.

            I turn onto my back again. The room is empty, Theo nowhere to be seen. But my bedroom door is closed, and I know Crookshanks hasn’t mastered the art of walking through walls yet. I’ll have to hand it to Theo; it is a gentle way to wake up. Ever since Molly brought the cat from the borrow to hand him back to Hermione, he’s been hot on my heels wherever I go – even to the pub down the road – purring at me incessantly, only interrupting it to meow at me whenever he’s hangry. He never spared me a glance at Hogwarts, but even Hermione has now admitted that he seems to like me more than her these days.

            I throw the covers off and push my bare feet into a pair of Theo’s fluffy neon socks. “Come on then”, I say to the squishy orange cat, even though he’s already jumped from the bed before I even sat up, now weaving a neat pattern eight around my ankles. I look down at the ground as I walk down to the kitchen, making sure I don’t accidentally step on him, which he seems intent on making me do.

            “Morning darling.” Theo is sat at the long kitchen table, a fresh pot of coffee in front of him, a steaming mug in his hand. He’s got The Prophet open on the table before him, his eyes not leaving the page as I march to the pantry to fetch a can of tuna for the incessantly meowing beast at my feet. “How did you sleep?”

            I grab a cat bowl from the sink and scrape the tuna into it before placing it on the ground next to Kreachers sleeping nook. Crookshanks jumps at it, and I take a seat opposite Theo. “Fine,” I mumble, taking the steaming mug he offers me, and pouring a generous slosh of milk into it.

            “Would you like some breakfast?” Theo asks. “I was going to make porridge.”

            My stomach grumbles at the thought. Theo asks this as if porridge isn’t the only thing he ever knew how to make. And has only known how to make since Molly Weasley taught him yesterday morning. “Are you sure you want to attempt that on your own?” I ask teasingly, but it comes out flat, sounding more like a jab. Thankfully Theo doesn’t take it that way.

            “How else am I going to practice?” He grins. “And who better than you to be my guinea pig, you can’t run away from me.”

            I glare at him, dead faced. “I’m not really hungry,” I say honestly.

            I watch Theo fight to roll his eyes. “You should really eat something. The food in the ministry canteen is abominable.”

            I sigh. “I really don’t think I’ll be that hungry later either.”

            Theo exhales in a deeply annoyed manner and leans his elbows on the table, facing me fully. He flips the Prophet shut and chucks it to the other end of the table. “You didn’t have dinner yesterday.”

            “Theo,” I say, exasperatedly rolling my eyes at him.

            “And you want to skip breakfast and lunch and then I’ll have to watch you eat three string beans for dinner and call it a day.” He persists. “You need to eat.”

            “I’m just not hungry at the moment, Theo,” I say. “That’s all. It’ll come back.”

            He purses his lips. “Would you take a sustenance potion?”

            “We don’t have sustenance potions.”

            “We have everything here to brew one, and since you’re gone today, I’m stuck here anyway with no one to annoy without getting hexed, so I might as well make myself useful,” he says. “I just don’t want to have to watch you faint because you haven’t eaten a proper meal since the war.”

            I bristle at his choice of words, even though he’s not exactly wrong.

            “Would you?” He repeats his question.

            I nod and watch his shoulders slump slightly in relief. “But just because it’s you asking,” I add.

            Theo smirks. “Don’t give me that kind of power, Pollux.”

            I give him an unimpressed look, but thankfully he changes the subject.

            “Would you tell the girls I said hi?”

            “Who? Mrs. Malfoy?”

            “Yes, her too,” Theo says. “And Pansy, Daphne and Millicent. Not Hestia though,” he adds after a moment’s consideration. “She’s a right twat.”

            “Is she now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

            Theo shrugs. “She’s Amycus’ daughter. I’m surprised she never took the mark with the way she was talking all last year. And the way she was treating anyone outside of Slytherin.” He grimaces.

            “We do have depositions from a few students who spent some time in detention last year,” I say. “I’m aware of how she’s been handling them.”

            “And you’re still going let Odette defend her?”

            “It’s a slippery slope Theo,” I say matter-of-factly. “All the older Slytherin’s used the Cruciatus curse on students in detention last year, you included might I add.” He shrinks into himself. “But with the way the Carrows ran Hogwarts it’s safe to say it was done under duress. I know most if you made sure to use the mildest curses you could. I know a lot of students on the receiving end faked their pain more than they actually felt it. I know some people on the Wizengamot will argue you could have refused to go through with it, but you would’ve put yourselves in harm’s way and wouldn’t have been able to keep anyone safe from worse pain anymore. That’s the defence we’re going with.”

            “But?”

            “But.” I sip my now lukewarm coffee. “It’s obviously not an argument we’ll use with Goyle. Everyone he tortured said he used a full force curse, that he seemed to enjoy the procedure every time, even volunteered for extra credit. Same technically goes for Hestia, but she never took the mark, we haven’t found any evidence of her planning on taking the mark, and she’s related to the Carrows.”

            “So much more likely to follow in their footsteps,” Theo grumbles.

            “No,” I say firmly. “Or you and I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. We can argue she was under more intense pressure than the others. We want to avoid setting a precedent of people who never took the mark being thrown into Azkaban solely for being in some way associated with a Death Eater. We’d have half of wizarding Britain in prison if we did this.”

            “So, she’ll just go free.”

            “No. We’ll argue for house arrest at Hogwarts over the next year, followed by further house arrest in a ministry sanctioned apartment, without a wand, and a one-year work contract in the muggle world.”

            “And you think that’ll work?” Theo asks.

            I shrug. “It’s Odette’s idea for rehabilitation. You’ll probably get a similar deal, as should Draco if we get lucky. Pansy, Daphne and Millicent should get off without sanction. Pansy and Millicent each tortured three students, all said it was significantly less painful than Hestia or Goyle, or even you.” I ignore his flinch. “Daphne tortured significantly more, but we found out that she used a silent Imperio on them and had them writhing on the floor with no pain at all. Which coincidentally is the reason she volunteered for so many detention shifts.”

            Theo’s eyebrows shoot up. “A silent Imperio?”

            “Impressive, don’t you think?” I grin at him over the rim of my mug.

            Crookshanks peels his face out of his now empty food bowl, tongue darting over his moustache to catch the last of his tuna. He unfurls from the ground, trots over to my chair and jumps onto my lap. I flinch as his claws dig into my thigh to keep himself from falling off again as he kneads me with his paws before curling, head tucked between his body and my stomach.

            “Mh.” Theo eyes the cat. “I never got the hang of Unforgivables. I tried making it less painful, but it’s just… It’s difficult to control.”

            “I know,” my voice softens. “We all know that Theo. They might latch onto that at your trial, but considering you only tortured two fourth year Gryffindors before you fled and you apologised to them in the Room of Requirements, I think you’ll be fine.”

            “You know about that?”

            I smile at him. “We interviewed them all, Theo, remember?”

            He scratches his neck, looking down at the table. “You really think that’ll be enough?”

            I press my lips together, pausing to think before I say anything more. “You should discuss this with Odette,” I tell him. “But from what I understand, your chances are good. You might have to redo your seventh year at Hogwarts, but you wanted to do that anyway, no?”

            He nods.

            “And if they need someone to handle you after that, I’ll volunteer again.”

            “Are you asking me to more in with you, darling?” He asks, his signature teasing smirk back on his face.

            I roll my eyes again. “You know I don’t want to stay here if I can avoid it, so you’ll have to move to New Orleans, but if you absolutely must, yes.”

            “You think they’ll let me leave the country?”

            I shrug. “It gets you out of their hair, they’ll probably jump at the chance.”

            He sticks his tongue out at me.

            Odette arrives before any of the other non-Grimmauld-residents do for the day. She gratefully takes the mug of steaming hot coffee from Theo’s hands. I haven’t been able to rid myself of Crookshanks yet, who’s been sinking his claws into my pyjama pants whenever I shift. But considering we need to be on our way, I have no other choice than to rip the band aid – read claws – off.

            “Tituba’s sake cat,” I hiss as I drop him on the floor, putting pressure on my legs where I’m sure he’s left deep scratches.

            Odette chuckles. “Take your time, we’re not in any rush. I need to speak to Kingsley before we see Narcissa, but it shouldn’t take too long anyway. How are you holding up Theodore?”

            He shrugs. “Been better,” he says cheerfully.

            “He actually wanted to discuss his case with you,” I state.

            “Did I?” Theo’s eyebrows shoot up and I throw him a look.

            “I’ll go get ready.” I take my leave before Theo can argue, leaving him behind for Odette to lessen his fears.

            Theo seems oddly intimidated by her, going through me when he has questions rather than asking Odette directly. It’s odd, seeing Theo so subdued, but I’m guessing he’s afraid of the outcome of his trial, and Odette is a reminder of the metaphorical guillotine hanging over his head.

            Crookshanks follows me as I trudge up the stairs to my room, Regulus Black’s old room as I found out a few days ago. It smells musty, even though Kreature dusts it twice a day and changes the sheets every other. I haven’t touched any of the books or any of Regulus belongings since moving in. I’m aware he won’t be coming back to them, but it feels intrusive. I do consider it my room, but it feels like living with a ghost. Then again, this entire house is filled with unseen ghosts.

            I open the wardrobe where the few clothes I currently have at my disposal hang neatly on one side. The other is occupied with Regulus’. Harry offered to take them out, but I found Kreature sleeping nestled in them the night after the battle and I don’t have the heart to take them away from him. More than once I’ve caught him sneaking into the wardrobe when I wake up at night. Neither of us comments on it, we both act like it is a perfectly normal thing to do.

            I pull out my customary uniform of a white shirt, black trousers and cloak, opting for a black bolo tie with the Salem crest engraved on its silver clasp. I disappear into the bathroom I share with Hermione and Theo, trying not to spend too much time dwelling on what’s about to come under the scalding hot water of the shower. I try to tame my hair, stealing some of Theo’s Sleekeazys hair potion, but there’s no point. I’ll have to regrow it sometime soon if I want to stop looking like Harry. But now is not the time, I’ll ask Theo for help again tonight.

            I pull the black witches hat I borrowed from Ginny far over the left side of my face. There will be cameras today, as there have been every day since the battle, wherever I go. Wherever Harry goes. Or Ron or Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna… They’re better at finding us than the Death Eaters ever were.

            I struggle down the stairs in my heels, trying to quench the memory of the last time I wore a pair. At least I didn’t have to walk in them then. I cast cushioning and stabilisation charms on my feet before pushing open the door to the kitchen, my cloak flung over my arm.

            “Look at you, all prim and proper,” Theo says. He’s sitting in the same seat I left him in, he looks happier than went I left though. Odette looks relaxed, a small smile on her face that tells me she’s convinced Theo of his own innocence.

            “I’m meeting Lady Malfoy after all,” I quip and Theo chuckles. “Morning Harry.”   

            Harry turns away from the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. “You good?”

            “I’m fine,” I say, giving him a small smile. We’ve barely talked since we got out of Hogwarts, both too busy, both too terrified of where the conversation might go. It feels odd. I was sent to meet him in the middle of the war, to give him some sense of family I guess, to tether him to someone, make him feel less alone - although Dumbledore never explained, and we’ll never have an answer. But now the war is over, I have no idea where our relationship will go.

            I watch him turn his back to me, pouring his coffee into a mug, and I turn to Odette, just about catching her exchanging a look with Theo.

            Great.

            “Shall we go?” I ask her and she nods.

            “Theodore,” she says as she stands up. “Behave yourself.”

            “Always.” He salutes her.

            I pull on my cloak and follow Odette to the door to the outside world. Grimmauld is still under the Fidelius charm, so we squeeze onto the front step, hidden from the prying eyes of the Witch Weekly reporter stationed just beyond the front lawn in terribly mismatched muggle attire. I take hold of her forearm and feel the familiar pull in my navel whisking us away to the Ministry atrium.

            It’s chaos the second we appear. Ministry officials run around us like headless chicken, getting shoved roughly out of the way by cameras and Quick-Quotes Quills. Odette has to pull me out of the way of an Auror shouting instructions over the crowd, trying to keep some sense of order. Paper plane memos zoom about over our heads, chasing their recipients around the wide hall or disappearing into the flames of the Floos lining the walls.

            I follow Odette as she clears a way for us through the mass of people towards a panicked looking witch, sitting behind a desk labelled Reception. Her glasses sit askew on her nose, she’s long but abandoned her hat, her hair having seemingly pushed it off her head judging by the way it stands on end. Her cheeks are flushed blotchily, her eyes flitting frantically between the women on the other side of her desk.

            “Mrs Carrigan, you do not have the required permi-“ she tries to shout over the shrieks bombarding her.

            Odette pushes through to the front, earning herself several scathing looks and two separate elbows to the ribs. I follow in the wake she creates before the women can close in on her.

            “Mrs Carrigan if you would please-“

            “Please what?!” The woman she’s addressing shouts. “What is it you would please have me do? This is a disgrace, there is no evidence showing any reason why my husband should be detained. I demand-“

            “Believe me Mrs Carrigan, there is plenty of evidence,” Odette schools her coldly and it finally dawns on me what this is. “Amspoker and Carter here to see Mrs. Malfoy.” Odette steps past Mrs Carrigan, who huffs at her indignantly, trying to push herself between Odette and the desk. I, in turn, push myself between Odette and Mrs Carrigan, sending her a scathing look of my own. Her mouth audibly clicks shut, her nose scrunching in distaste.

            “Oh good,” the reception witch sighs. “Wands please.”

            I turn away from Mrs Carrigan and hand my wand to Diane, as the witches name tag informs us. She weighs Odette’s first, then mine, before handing over a large crimson red pin to each of us.

Jolene Carter

DMLE

            mine says. I pin it to the front of my shirt and Odette lays a hand between my shoulder blades, steering me out of the crowd of roaring women, several of them recoiling from us unnecessarily.

            “What was that about?” I ask after we flash our pins to the guard and make it safely to the quiet elevator hall behind the golden grates.

            “The hearings started today,” Odette says.

            “Already?” I ask, following her into the next available elevator.

            “For the lower-level Death Eaters, yes.” The elevator starts moving downwards. We’re mercifully alone in it, otherwise I doubt Odette would be speaking freely when she says: “They want to get those hearings out of the way quickly so they can focus on the big fish. It might bite them in the ass later, considering they’re not giving the defence enough time to gather any evidence, but that’s not our problem. They’re not our clients.”

            “Who’s defending them?”

            Odette shrugs. “Some intern from the Russian DMLE did Goyle this morning. No one wants to defend them. Their usual lawyers all refused.”

            I raise my eyebrows at her. “Goyle Senior?”

            “Junior,” she corrects. “He got 26 years.”

            I feel the blood drain from my face. “What?!” I stammer and Odette turns to me, her face relaxed, without a care in the world.

            “I expected more to be perfectly honest with you,” she says. “I’m surprised they’re giving him a chance to survive Azkaban.”

            I desperately want to ask her what this might mean for Draco, but before I can open my mouth the elevator stops, the grilles revealing a long, bottle-green tiled corridor. Odette leads me through it, the few Aurors crossing our path look harried and frazzled, but pay us no mind, to a door at the far end and into a small, windowless interrogation room. The floor is as bottle-green as the corridor, although carpeted, but the walls are a brilliant white, illuminated from above by cold light, creating a clinical atmosphere. The white desk in the middle of the room is flanked by two chairs on the right and one on the left opposite.  

            “This is us for the next few days,” Odette says. “Make yourself at home, I need to go find Kingsley. They will be bringing Narcissa up in –“ she checks the watch on her wrist “- about twenty minutes, but I should be back by then.”

            “Okay,” I say, letting my cloak fall from my shoulders and dropping it on the back of one of the chairs on the right. Odette lets the door click softly shut behind me and I stand unsure of what to do with myself. The empty walls and dark carpet feel suffocating. It feels empty, constricting, and I gasp at the sudden pang of fear in my chest.

            I rip my hat off my head and use it to fan some air at my face. My heart is in my throat, and I don’t know why. I’m completely alone – and about to see Narcissa for the first time since the battle. But Narcissa isn’t threatening. Not by a long shot. Yet I feel like my knees are about to buckle.

            I drop my hat on the table and pull the door open. The corridor is empty, lined by rows of identical doors, the sight of the golden grates to the elevators only brings me the tiniest bit of relief. I leave the door ajar, just so I can find the right one when I inevitably have to return, and take a step into the hall. I press my hand into my sternum and try to take a deep breath, but no matter how deeply I inhale, it doesn’t seem to be enough to fill my lungs.

            “Excuse me!” I’m aware I sound panicked, and it reflects in the look the Auror who just appeared a few doors down gives me. “Where’s your nearest washroom?”

            “Miss Carter,” he says perplexed, and I have to fight an eyeroll.

            “Washroom please,” I say a little harsher than necessary.

            He points his quill behind me. “First door to the left of the lifts.”

            “Thank you,” I say over my shoulder before taking off, almost taking the door off its hinges when I bang through it.

            I pull the clasp down on my tie and undo the first two buttons of my shirt on my way to the nearest stall where I retch into the toilet bowl. Coffee mixed with bile is all that comes out. I close the stall door behind me, locking it shut, and wipe my mouth with toilet paper. I kneel on the floor, leaning my elbows onto the rim of the bowl, burying my face in my hand. I take a few steadying breaths. I should have eaten Theo’s porridge this morning, it might have settled my stomach somewhat.

            I flush the remains of my coffee down the toilet once I’m sure nothing more is about to come up and push myself off the floor. I wash my face with cold water, trying to pull myself out of my own head. My heart is still painfully thumping away in my chest, emphasising the lump stuck in my throat. My hands shake when I go to grab my wand, gasping again when I find my pockets empty.

            It’s in my cloak. My wand is in my cloak, several rooms away from me. I groan, clutching my chest again, trying to soothe the staccato of my heart. I bend over, letting my forehead thump onto the sinks edge.

            If this is how I react to Narcissa, I’d rather not think what I will look like when-

            Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.           

            Deep breaths.

            I look around for a paper towel, coming up empty, only a hand towel hangs on the wall. I take a few pieces of toilet paper from the stall and start rubbing at the underside of my eyes, where my mascara has run. I’m not crying, at least I don’t think I am, but my eyes are still tearing up and my nose is runny. My makeup is ruined, there’s no point in trying to save it, so I wash my face again with cold water, drying it off with more toilet paper. It looks blotchy.

            I blow my nose, trying to pull myself together. I rebutton my shirt, fastening the silver clasp on my tie, and use my fingers to try to comb down my hair. It’s no use. I look, and feel, a mess.

            But honestly, what else do they expect me to look like five days after a war?!

            Frustration bubbles up in my stomach. It’s miles better than panic, so I hold onto it with an iron grip, take one last deep breath and pull the washroom door open. I walk slowly, breathing in with each alternating step, exhaling on the other. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on that and nothing else.

            Odette is back by the time I make it to our clinical cell. She’s leaning against the table, rifling through Narcissas file like she’s done a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours alone.

            “Sorry,” I say, closing the door behind me. “I needed a minute.”

            She looks up, her stern black eyes roving over me before settling on my face. I discern a hint of pity in them.     

            Frustration. Frustration is what I feel.

            “Take all the time you need,” she says. “They haven’t brought Narcissa up yet, there’s a hold up in processing. If she doesn’t come up soon, I might have to go down there and get her myself.” Her lips pull into a grim smile.

            I keep myself from huffing and let myself fall unceremoniously onto my chair. I barely have time to think that the waiting is worse than seeing Narcissa before there’s a knock on the door and the lump in my throat reminds me that it definitely isn’t.          

            Odette rights herself and I stand up as the Auror leads Narcissa into the room. Her grey robes look tattered, her hair dull and her face grimy, gaunt, hollowed out in a way. She looks worse than I do, is my first thought, and it brings me a little relief. Gone is the haughty, aristocratic sneer clad in designer robes. She doesn’t smile at us.

            “Auror Sturgis,” Odette says. “There’s no need for shackles. Please remove them.”

            “She’s a high security prisoner, Madam,” the Auror says, raising an eyebrow at Odette. “For your own safety, the shackles will stay on.”

            Odette locks in on him. “Mr. Sturgis,” She doesn’t wait for a response. “You and I, and the entirety of the EMO know that isn’t entirely truthful. Especially considering she does not currently have a wand on her and quite clearly has not had a proper meal in five days, which, by the by, means you’re in violation of Section IX of your very own EMR. Low-risk prisoners held at the ministry are entitled to three meals a day, adequate sleeping arrangements and regular bathroom visits with one shower a day.” She smiles at him. “Your personal opinion is of no relevance here, Auror Sturgis.”

            He glowers at her but flicks his wand none the less. The chains disappear, but the shackles remain. Odette pulls out the chair opposite us, inviting Narcissa to take a seat, while holding eye contact with Sturgis, who doesn’t seem to want to leave the room.

            “We’ll handle it from here,” Odette says. “Close the door on your way out.”

            “Miss Amspoker-“

            “Madam Amspoker,” she corrects him. “And bring us some tea.”

            She steps around the table, ignoring his continued glaring, and picks up her quill to make a note in her files. I just stand there, but when Sturgis’ eyes land on me, a hint of disdain in them, I give him the sweetest smile I can muster and finally take my seat. I pull my wand out of my cloak, vanishing the shackles on Narcissas wrists, to which she lets out a shaky breath, interlacing her fingers on the table, her thumb soothingly rubbing over the back of her hand, her eyes glued to the tabletop. Sturgis harumphs but leaves without another word. I doubt we’ll be getting tea anytime soon, but Odette seems unphased.

            “Any other infringements on your rights that I should know of Narcissa?” She asks, lifting her eyes to look at her.

            “No,” Narcissa croaks and clears her throat before repeating, “No.” She hesitates: “What rights do I have exactly?”

            I clench my jaw and Odette’s eyes snap up, her lips pursed. She takes another quick note, before looking back up at Narcissa. “We did ask you here with good news,” she says, brandishing a sheet of parchment from the bottom of her files. “It’s not perfect, but it’s good. Kingsley has signed this for you this morning. It’s a deal offer we’ve been able to push through for you.”

            Narcissa takes the piece of parchment, her fingers surprisingly steady.

            I feel useless. I haven’t said a word since Narcissa was brought in, so I push myself out of my chair and say: “I’m going to get us some tea.”

            Odette puts a hand on my forearm. “In a minute,” she says. “Mrs Malfoy, the EMO has put an offer on the table for you. A trade of sorts.”

            “They want access to the Manor,” Narcissa says matter-of-factly.

            “Yes, they do.”

            “Where’s the catch?” She presses.

            Odette blinks at her. “That is the catch, access to the Manor.”

            “Alright,” Narcissa says. “Where do I sign?”

            Odette looks at me and I raise my eyebrows at her. I had told her I was sure Narcissa would take the deal, no questions asked. Odette was under the impression she would try to protect her husband and refuse, leaving the Manor closed off and willingly going to Azkaban. Quite a wild assumption in my books.

            “I’ll get us some tea,” I repeat and stand up.

            “The EMO believes your property holds evidence relevant to a number of Death Eater trials, including your husbands,” I hear Odette say.

            “Well, that is just obvious, Madam Amspoker,” Narcissa quips back, the stop insulting my intelligence is silent.

            I pull the door shut on Odette’s “And your sons” and walk down the corridor to the elevator grates. My heart has calmed down considerably in the last five minutes, and I lean against the elevator wall as it lifts me up to the Atrium and the canteen to give it some more rest. I clutch my wand in my hand, vowing to dig Theo’s holster back out of the depths of my underwear drawer. It holds some terrible memories, but it is undeniably useful when wearing pocketless trousers.

            The Atrium is still aroar with the clamouring of Mrs Carrigan and her brood of angry wives. I have a Quick-Quotes Quill hot on my heels the second I step into the Atrium, a high-pitched voice relentlessly rattling off questions I have no intention to answer. I have to swerve around several floating cameras pushing themselves into my way, avoiding the Ministry officials running around as best I can. Thankfully, there’s another guard by the golden canteen doors, who lets me through with a glance at my pass and holds off my pursuers.

            What I’m absolutely not prepared for is for conversation to almost immediately halt when I enter. Only a handful of people sit in the booths lining the wall and another two man the counter. About a dozen pairs of eyes snap to me as I stand awkwardly between door and counter.

            “Morning,” I say to the room, trying to calm my own nerves. None of the Ministry Officials in the Atrium paid me any mind, but in here –

            “Good morning,” one of the counter witches responds, smiling at me. It does the trick. A few more muffled mornings follow, and the room breaks out into chatter again, ignoring me as I walk towards the kindly smiling witch.

            “Three teas please,” I say.

            “Milk or sugar?” She asks.

            “Uhm…”

            “I’ll prep you a tray,” she says. “Anything else love?”

            I eye the display of pastries and sandwiches in front of me and opt for an egg and bacon roll and a chocolate croissant for Narcissa. The witch refuses to let me pay, so I dump the entire contents of my wallet into her tip jar in retaliation.

            I levitate the tray behind me, back through the Atrium where I have to lift it above everyone’s heads to avoid spilling tea on any of the Quick-Quotes Quills – although I am tempted. I knock and enter our room without waiting for an answer, placing the tray on the edge of the table where it isn’t covered in papers.

            “Thank you darling,” Odette says and places an empty cup in front of each of us.

            I watch Narcissa eye the food and wordlessly take it off the tray, placing it in front of her. Odette offers her milk and sugar for the tea she’s pouring into her cup, but Narcissa only quietly shakes her head, hands folded on the table in front of her. I place the tray against the wall behind us so it’s out of the way and reach for my own cup.

            “Thank you,” Narcissa says, and we look at each other for the first time. I give her a small smile and nod at the sandwich in front of her.

            “Jolene will be going to the Manor with the Aurors,” Odette says, picking up her conversation with Narcissa.

            “The letter and the picture you gave me a- a few months ago should still be there. I left them in Draco’s desk.” I pause. “Is there anything else you think could help your cases?”

            “The Aurors will be going in to gather evidence for prosecution. They will not allow you to go in until they are finished with their raid, but if there is anything you think might be of relevance for your husband’s or your son’s defence, let us know and we will get it.”

            “I don’t know about my husband,” Narcissa says, wrapping her fingers around her cup of tea. “I did keep journals. It is just my personal observations, but maybe you will find something of relevance in them. They’re in my bedside table, in the first-floor bedroom in the east wing.”

            “Any correspondence?” Odette asks as she writes in her notes.

            Narcissa shakes her head. “All my correspondence concerns social engagements; galas and tea with the other wives.” I sniff at the thought of those wives standing freely down in the Atrium, indignantly shouting at a poor reception witch. “We only ever had superficial conversation. I wouldn’t trust them anyhow,” she adds as an after-thought.

            I sip my tea and watch Narcissa continuously eye the sandwich in front of her. She hasn’t touched her tea yet either.

            She clears her throat. “When will this raid be happening?”  

            “Tomorrow morning,” Odette says off-handedly. “We’ll pick you up at seven. They need you to unlock the gates, an Auror will be staying with you for the duration of the raid and then you’ll be free to go.”

            “Completely free to go?” Narcissa asks.

            “Completely free to go,” Odette stresses. “Once you sign the agreement, the EMO will drop your charges. No trial, no plea deal, no criminal record.”  

            “Where do I sign?” Narcissa asks, straitening herself in her chair.

            Odette hands her a quill and points at the bottom of the parchment with Kingsley’s offer. Narcissa takes it without hesitation, and signs with a flourish.

            “Excellent,” Odette says, sliding the signed offer back into Narcissas file. “I’ll bring this over to Dawlish, he’ll be heading the operation. And I’ll make sure Sturgis isn’t on the team while I’m at it?” She looks to Narcissa for confirmation, who’s shoulders slump slightly at her words. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Odette stands up, ruffling her papers together and hoisting them into her arms. “You have another half hour before you’ll be brought back down, so take your time. Jolene?”

            “I’ll stay here, if that’s okay?”

            Odette nods at me and steps out of the room, leaving me behind alone with Narcissa.

            “It’s not poisoned,” I say after an awkward pause. “No Veritaserum either, I promise.” I sip my tea for emphasis.

            Narcissa pulls the plate closer to herself and picks up the egg and bacon roll, taking a hesitant bite. She chews carefully, before taking another, bigger, bite. I fiddle with the handle of my teacup, not wanting her to feel observed while she eats.

            “Thank you,” Narcissa says after finishing half her roll.

            “It’s Theo you should thank,” I say with a small smile. “He hired Odette. She’s handling Draco’s case too.”

            “Not Lucius’?”

            “Not Lucius’.”

            “Good.”

            The conversation stalls again and I watch Narcissa’s plate as the roll slowly disappears from it. She washes it down with a generous, quite un-ladylike, gulp of tea, hesitantly reaching for the plate with the chocolate croissant.

            “Thank you for the food,” she says, quieter.

            “Theo sends his regards.” I change the subject.

            “How is Theodore?”

            “Good,” I say. It’s a reflex. “As good as can be expected, at least. He’s living with us for the time being. His trial is set for the end of the month, he’s under house arrest until then. Odette is representing him too, obviously. He will likely have to retake his last year at Hogwarts under supervision, but he should be free to do whatever he likes once he passes his NEWTs. At least, that is what we’re hoping for.” I ramble.

            Narcissa nods, pulling apart her croissant. “And Draco?” She asks the question I’ve been dreading her to ask since she was led into the room.

             I place my cup onto the table, looking down at it rather than at Narcissa. “He’s in Azkaban,” I say simply.

            Narcissa nods. “What are his chances?”

            “Well, Odette thinks that our best course of action is to prove he was acting under duress, that he did help the resistance wherever he could without putting himself in danger. Or you. He might be put under house arrest, made to redo his last year at Hogwarts along with Theo, maybe a work placement in the muggle world…”

            “And what do you think?”

            My eyes snap up to Narcissa’s. She looks at me questioningly, her eyes unreadable. There’s uncertainty in them, a hint of pity and desperation, reminiscent of the look on her face when she entered Draco’s bedroom a few months back, the shock on her face when he slapped me.

            “I’m not a lawyer-“

            “I’m not asking you for your legal expertise, Miss Potter,” Narcissa interrupts me. “I’m asking you, if that is truly the angle you can support.”

            “Narcissa, he never touched me,” I stress, and she leans back in her chair, her shoulders squared. “The less people knew the better. He was trying to protect you, make sure if anything went wrong, you couldn’t be held accountable. But except that one slap, he never touched me.”

            “Why?” She asks and I frown.

            “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand your question.”

            “Why play along? Why not tell me and let me help?”

            That might have been an option.

            I take another sip of my tea and avert my eyes. “That’s a question you should ask Draco.”

            Narcissa exhales. “Is he allowed visitors?”

            I shake my head. “Only for legal counsel. At least until the trial.” I let the implication hang in the room. Narcissa doesn’t pick it up though, finishing her croissant instead.

            “Thank you for doing this,” she says again.

            “It’s the least I can do.” I pause. “And again, it’s really Theo’s doing.”

            A small smile passes over Narcissa’s face. “Well, let him know I am thankful.”

            I nod at her, refilling her teacup from the pot I find replenished. And just as I do, fresh plates of egg and bacon rolls and chocolate croissants appear. I’ll have to pay the canteen witch another visit.

            I wrap the sandwich and croissant in a paper towel and hand it to Narcissa. She smiles at me and pushes them into the pockets of her robes. I check my watch; her time is almost over.

            “I’d like to have tea with you, once all this is over,” Narcissa says. “Theodore too.”

            “I’m sure we can arrange something.” I smile at her, but there’s no time for her to respond, as Sturgis opens the door with no warning, immediately pointing his wand at Narcissa. I roll my eyes at him.

            “Until tomorrow morning then,” Narcissa says, but it sounds more like a question.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Surviving Malfoy _ Part III : Acceptance and Hope

Emilie Nicolas ‘Fail’ – Bet You Got It Served.

Chapter 2:

            It’s a funny thing grief.

            One moment you’re fine and the next –

            The images of our last talk, screaming at each other across her bedroom, caught in the crossfire between two bickering siblings, replay like a movie in my head. My last words to her should fill me with shame.

            The feeling of her arms wrapping around me, so banal seeming at the time, in moments of distress or vulnerability, should fill me with love.

            The sound of her tipsy laughter as she carries a birthday cake across a crowded bar, uncaring about the danger we were all in, should fill me with fondness.

            Her last words to me, shouted with intent to sting, should fill me with anger.

            The knowledge that she had the strength to put her own future on the line to save mine should fill me with gratitude.

            The certainty that it was all for nothing should fill me with sadness.

            I do feel all these things. But, at the most inopportune moments, they wash over me in unison, blending together into an intense soup of pain and a numb conviction that this is my reality from now on.

            The knowledge of her is what kills me and keeps me living all at once.

            It baffles me. My inability to imagine a world without her in it rips me apart at the seams, my mind refusing to comprehend, yet knowing this is just what it is.

            Grief is a funny thing.

            Today, a dust bunny is what pushes me over the edge; incapacitates me, compels me to contemplate it, admire its beauty as the rays of morning sun pushing through Draco’s curtains dance over it.

            A dust bunny is a privilege. Debbie will never get to see one again. Sparkly grey fuzz on a solid oak floor. But I do. And I’ll keep laying here, blowing on it gently to make it dance, for her.

            I know the anger will come, kicking me back into action, scolding me for my useless sentiment, demanding action and revenge. But not yet. For just a minute longer, I’ll stay here. On the floor. Watching a dust bunny sparkle and dance. For her.

            “Miss.” It’s Alf.

            “Thank you,” I say, knowing I’m about to confuse him to no end, and I almost laugh when I say, “Thank you for not dusting, Alf.”

            He doesn’t respond right away, but I don’t hear him pop away either. “Does Miss need anything?” He finally asks after an awkward minute of silence.

            “No, thank you.”

            “Does Miss need help getting off the floor?”

            I snort. “No, thank you Alf. I’m okay.”

            “Alf will make some lemon and ginger tea for Miss,” he states, much more determined sounding.

            “Yes. Do that.” The anger is creeping in, my time on the floor is almost over.

            Alf has been hovering ever since I entered the bedroom. I took two steps in and immediately ran into the bathroom to throw up. He’s barely stopped fussing over me since. I laid down on the floor after, my head was spinning and the bed felt too intrusive. Theo’s porridge didn’t settle my stomach.        

            The bed is unmade. Alf must not have touched it since Draco left for Hogwarts. It’s good, it means nothing has been moved.   

            I push myself up into a sitting position, burying my face in my hands. The door to the hall is open, I asked Alf to keep it that way. So are the doors to the bathroom and to, what I now know for certain, is Draco’s closet. I can hear the Aurors – Dawlish, Fungbury and Williamson – rummaging through every room in the Manor without much regard for personal belongings. The sounds of cupboard doors slamming open is periodically interrupted by the sound of breaking glass, followed by a stern word from Odette. Draco’s rooms have been left to me, although Williamson will be double checking soon.           

            I haven’t had any time – between nausea and apathy – to look through anything. With a sigh, I pick myself up off the floor, leaving my heels behind where the lay haphazard beside the sofa. I trudge over the rug in front of the fireplace to Draco’s desk, pulling open the drawer that last held the photo and the letter. To my utter relief both are still there. He didn’t touch them.

            I quickly grab what I need without looking at either and stow them away in my purse. The rest of Draco’s room I have no idea what to do with.   

            Alf pops back into existence next to me, a tray in hand with a pot of tea wrapped in a flowery tea cosy, one cup and a large plate of ginger biscuits.          

            “Miss is up,” he peeps.          

            “Alf,” I say. “If I were to ask you a potentially risky question about Draco, would you be able to answer honestly?”

            The elf’s cheeks tinge red, but he stares up at me with the slightest purse of his lips. “Alf does not know anything about Master Draco’s… Personal habits.”

            “Oh no,” I blurt out. “Oh, Tituba no, that’s not what I meant, Alf. I meant if I asked you a question about the last few years, about what Draco has had to do, would you be able to answer honestly?”

            “Alf will do his best to answer Miss’ questions with honesty,” he says.

            Vague, but I’ll take it. “Have you been forbidden from answering any such questions?”

            “Alf has not, Miss.”

            “Good,” I say, pouring myself a cup of tea, the spicy scent of ginger wafting up at me. “Odette and I, we are trying to help Draco, get him out of Azkaban and back home. Is there anything in this room that might help our case?”

            Alf’s ears flop backwards in contemplation. “Master Draco never kept anything relating to Master Draco’s missions in this room except Miss.” Interesting choice of words. “Master Draco only ever spoke to Mister Theodore and Miss Jolene about not wanting to do missions. Master Draco only kept these thoughts in his mind. Master Draco never spoke about his missions outside of this room in a manner that Alf thinks would help Master Draco come home.”

            “Do you know if Draco ever wrote to Theo about getting me out?”

            “No Miss. Alf is not allowed to read Master Draco’s correspondence.”

            “You’re sure there’s nothing in here that might help him?”

            “Miss already took the photo and the letter for Mistress Cissy,” Alf says. “Master Draco kept the clothes Master Draco told Alf to buy for Miss Jolene.”

            “The cashmere sweaters?” I ask raising my eyebrows at him.

            “Master Draco hid them in Master Draco’s wardrobe Miss,” Alf says, his ears perking up.

            “Okay,” I say. “Thank you, that might help. You don’t happen to have receipts for them?”

            “Alf does not, Miss,” the elf says. “Master Draco’s purchases are paid for through Owl Order and paid directly out of Master Draco’s personal vault.”

            “Not the Malfoy vault?”

            “No, Miss. Master Draco did not want to risk the charges resurfacing at an inopportune time, Miss.”

            “Is there any way you could get us Draco’s bank statements? The last six months should be enough.”

            “Alf will go fetch them now.” He bows deeply, pressing his nose into the carpet, and disappears with a soft pop.

            I sip my tea, bristling as the ginger hits my tongue, the lemon Alf supposedly put in barely discernible. I take the cup along with a ginger biscuit over to Draco’s closet. I shouldn’t be surprised at the sheer size of it, mirroring the bathroom next door. Black robes and suits, white and black shirts line the walls. Only one small section includes sweaters with a semblance of colour – dark greens and blues, charcoal grey, one very daring piece in ivory. His shoe shelf is filled with black dress shoes and boots, not a sneaker in sight. A large, round, deep green pouffe adorns the middle of the room, a single white undershirt thrown over it.  

            None of the clothes I wore over the last few months are anywhere to be seen, but that’s no surprise. I shove the ginger biscuit into my mouth and place the teacup on the pouffe before making my way over to the dressers standing under a row of dress shirts. The first drawer is stock full of boxer shorts, and I quickly push it shut again. The next contains socks, followed by undershirts, t-shirts, Quidditch jerseys… One drawer contains no clothes at all, it’s filled instead with toys – a set of wizard’s chess, a deck of exploding snap, miniature Quidditch players tiredly flying up and down, blindly bumping against the sides of the drawer. And a small, silver stuffed dragon with floppy wings and an unnatural smile on its face. It’s neck and wings look worn, as if it spent years being carried around in a tiny fist.

            I hesitate, wondering whether Draco would notice it being gone. I can’t take it, it feels too personal, probably with a myriad of memories attached to it. And yet…

            I stuff it into my purse, telling myself I will give it back to him once he is out of Azkaban. For now, I just feel an irrational yearning to hold onto something of his.

            I could take a Quidditch jersey, I think, pushing the toy drawer closed. But now the dragon has already disappeared in my bag, I don’t want to let it go.      

            I drop my purse next to my teacup, putting the incriminating evidence out of my hands, and turn around to another identical row of dressers. And finally, in the furthest possible drawer, it’s front hidden under the hems of a row of dress robes, I find what I’m looking for. I draw my wand out of its holster and conjure up a cardboard box, stuffing every cashmere sweater, pair of merino wool trousers, silk pajamas and Egyptian cotton shirt into it. I leave the underwear, hoping that won’t be relevant in a court case. I flick my wand, watch it tape itself closed and levitate it out of the closet, picking up my teacup and purse on the way out, deftly shutting the door behind me.

            Draco’s bedroom feels smaller than I remember it. It was almost all I saw for three months straight. It felt spacious, grand even when I first saw it – now it just feels constricting. I push the door further open, just in case, and pull open the balcony doors for good measure. I rifle through Draco’s books, shaking them out over his bed, but not a single one contains any hidden notes or letters. I take care to replace them in their designated spots on the shelf. Draco’s other desk drawers contain nothing of note, only empty rolls of parchments, unused quills and inkwells in a dozen different colours. His nightstands don’t have any drawers, with lamps being the only thing on top of them. Neither does his entire bathroom, with toiletries simply appearing whenever needed.

            Finally, I have to concede there is nothing more of note in Draco’s rooms. I sigh. I was terrified of coming here this morning, letting Theo’s pep talk trickle over me at breakfast, and walking through the Ministry Atrium on our way to pick up Narcissa on unsteady legs. But now it just feels strange; off in a way I can’t really identify. Cold?

            Levitating the box of clothes and Alf’s tea tray behind me, I step out of Draco’s room, taking the path down to the Floo Parlor the way Draco brought me up to his room before New Year’s Eve: down what I now know are the old servants’ stairs, past the kitchens and through the Entrance Hall. Narcissa is being watched in the Floor Parlor by Cassandra Savage, a senior Auror on Dawlish’ team. They sit quietly, barely touched teacups in hand, on two opposite black chesterfield Sofas – the only furniture in the room. The fireplace is unlit, cut off from the Floo Network until we leave and Narcissa is officially free to roam her own house again.

            “Where’s Odette?” I ask Savage.

            “Up in the master bedroom,” she says.         

            I frown. “What is she doing there?” I ask, flicking my wand at the box of clothes, sending it onto the substantially smaller pile of gathered evidence by the hearth. Savage just shrugs. I leave the tea tray levitating between Narcissa and Savage and take my leave again, back through the Entrance Hall and up the master staircase, emerging on the gallery overlooking the Drawing Room. I give that a wide birth, going further up the stairs to the top landing, that houses the Malfoy Family’s portrait gallery. I ignore the glowering looks sent my way and march straight on, to the oak panelled double doors, the left one of which stands ajar.

            I push it further open and almost immediately recoil. Although the curtains are drawn open, no light seems to be able to make its way into the large bedroom. The walls are panelled in dark ebony, a deep, wine-red carpet covers the entire floor, matching the bedding on the Alaska king sized bed and a chandelier, the size of a small car, looms threateningly over the entire scene.

            I stand frozen in the doorway, and it takes me a moment to spot Odette, who’s kneeling on the carpet by the hearth, pushing her fingers through the thick shag.

            “What are you doing?” I repeat my question to her.

            “Just an inkling,” Odette says.

            “You-Know-Who slept here for the past three years,” I state. “I don’t think we’ll find anything in favour of Draco in here.” Really, I just want to leave again.

            “Mh, I’m not so sure.” Odette doesn’t look up when she answers. “Come have a look at this.”

            I push the door further open, just to keep an exit route readily available, and hesitantly walk to where Odette is crouching on the floor. I can’t see anything of note, just a thick, red carpet.

            Odette waves her hand at me to crouch down. “Feel this,” she says, pressing my hand onto the ground as soon as my knees hit the floor.

            I recoil again, pulling my hand out of her grasp. It feels off, evil to touch, almost painful.

            “Something happened here,” Odette says, unfazed.

            I look around the room, but other than three sets of double doors opposite the bed, a couch in front of the hearth and the bedside tables, there’s nothing more in the room. I take a step back from where Odette is still kneeling and watch her take out her wand and vanish the entire carpet beneath our feet.

            Again, I recoil. Odette, however, doesn’t. She stays crouched close to the solid ebony floor where she has just revealed three carvings parallel to the hearth, their deep grooves edged with brownish flecks that I sincerely hope are not blood. The teacup falls from my hands, landing on the wooden floor with a dull thump, but it doesn’t break. I barely notice it, my stomach churning with nausea even Alf’s ginger biscuits can’t counter.

            “Have you ever taken ancient runes?” Odette asks, looking up at me for the first time since I entered the room. I shake my head no. “Well,” she points at the rune on the far left. “This is Thurisaz, force and control. This is Algiz, which technically stands for protection, but it’s inverted. And this one is Isa, stands for stasis. What do you think that tells us?”

            “Uhm,” I stutter. “I’m not sure.” Nor do I necessarily want to think about it.

            Odette looks at me for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, before she answers: “I think this was Voldemort’s way of breaking the Manor’s protection over the Malfoys, his way of ensuring its servitude to him. And it’s covered in blood.” I cringe, feeling the blood drain from my face. “Want to guess whose it is?”

            “The Malfoys?” I ask drily, not bothering to hide the look of disgust on my face.

            Odette nods. “And Voldemort’s most likely. We’ll need a curse breaker in here.”  

            “On it.” I jump at the chance to leave, but Odette interrupts me.

            “Not so quick,” she says. “I doubt that’s all.”

            I turn back to look at her and watch her righten herself, her eyes roving over the panelling on the wall. With a flick of her wand, one of the wooden panels directly to the left of the fireplace jumps out of place, neatly storing itself against the opposite wall, revealing the evergreen wallpaper behind it. Along with large splatters of blood.

            “I’ll get an Auror,” I say and turn away, my heart in my throat, ignoring how loudly my blood rushes through my scrambling brain.

            “Yes. Yes, someone should document this,” Odette says.

            “Okay,” I say.

            “This blood quite obviously wasn’t given willingly, so that might help us,” she smiles at me, and I grimace back at her. I understand where she’s coming from, I just wish I didn’t have to picture what happened here.

            I’m already at the door when I hear Odette behind me say “Excellent”. I swivel back around to her. She’s removed another panel, more blood underneath it along with long gashes through the wallpaper. Scratch marks. I grab the doorframe for support, looking at anything but the wall. “Get me Dawlish,” Odette says.

            I take my chance to leave without responding, almost running down the stairs to the other bedrooms one floor below, focusing on deep breaths to keep my head from spinning. I find Williamson first, on the upper floor of the library, surrounded by a pile of books he’s unceremoniously dropped on the floor after rifling through them. He tells me Dawlish is in Lucius’ quarters, which I thank him for with a growing knot in my stomach.

            “Odette found something in the master bedroom,” I tell him from the hall outside Lucius’ bedroom. I refuse to enter.

“Uhuh,” Dawlish says, uninterested. “We’ve already been through it.”

            I frown at his back. “Did you remove the carpet?” He turns around to look at me, one eyebrow raised. It’s clear they haven’t, so I say: “you might want to have a look at it.”

            Dawlish grumbles, dropping the empty flask he was inspecting onto the bed. He walks past me, mumbling something along the lines of “this better be good”. I close the door to Lucius’ bedroom, having no interest to look through it, and take the steps back down to the Entrance Hall. I stop there for a moment, remembering the rows of portraits lining the hall, and walk over to the haughty witch who held my gaze so intently upon my arrival a few months back. She holds it a little more kindly this time, her tie tucked neatly under the collar of her white ruffled shirt and her black witch’s hat elegantly askew on her head. She doesn’t say a word to me though, so I look for a plaque.

Elspeth Louise Malfoy, née Landry

Oktober 5^th, 1781 – January 2^nd, 1903

            I look back up at her. There’s no indication on the plaque, but her attire and the small smirk she’s giving me are indication enough. I smile back at her, giving her a nod I gratitude before stepping back.

            “I’ll watch Narcissa,” I tell Savage, pushing through the doors to the Floo Parlor. “I need to have a word with her anyway.”

            Savage raises an eyebrow at me. “How can I trust you not to let her disappear evidence?”

            “Really?” I ask incredulously, hands on my hips. “It’s a pressing matter.”

            “I’m only here to watch Narcissa. Dawlish doesn’t need me to look through this house,” she counters drily.

            “You could make yourself useful by finding us a curse breaker.”

            Narcissa, who’s been quietly watching the exchange, clutching her teacup, asks “A curse breaker? What for?”

            “The master bedroom,” I say and Narcissa stares up at me, confused.

            “I’m sorry,” Savage interrupts. “As long as I do not have explicit instructions from Dawlish telling me to do so, I am staying right where I am.”

            I’m about to retort, but it almost feels like heavenly intervention when a Ministry memo swooshes over my head and lands next to Savage. Narcissa and I watch her unfold it, glower at me and finally push herself out of her cushy seat. “I’ll be back in five minutes”, she states, lighting the fireplace. I take her seat opposite Narcissa as the fire roars green, engulfing Savage until she disappears.

            “What happened in the master bedroom?” I ask, not beating around the bush.

            Narcissa blinks at me. “Well,” she starts, but rather than continuing right away, she seems to buy herself time by taking a sip of tea. “You’re aware of Draco’s… Condition?”

            I let my shoulders slump, leaning back into the chesterfield. “We found scratch marks on the wall. I’m assuming they’re Greybacks?”  

            Narcissa nods. “I assume so,” she says.

            I frown at her. “Why up there? Why not in the drawing room? Or outside in the gardens, where it’s safe to keep a transformed werewolf?”

            “I don’t know,” Narcissa says. “I wasn’t allowed to be present, as much as I would have liked to for Draco. Scratch marks you say?”

            I ignore her question. “Do you know anything about the runes on the floor?”

            Narcissa frowns, alarmed. “What kind of runes?”

            “Force and control, broken protection and stasis.”

            “Thurisaz, Algiz and Isa,” Narcissa repeats quietly, and I nod. “I’m assuming-” she continues, pausing for a moment. “I’m assuming The Dark Lord wanted the Manor’s subservience perhaps? I only know of Draco’s infection, during summer two years ago. Whatever else happened that night, you might want to ask Draco. As I said, I wasn’t allowed to attend.”

            I chew my lip, trying to chase away the images intent on invading my mind; of Draco, kneeling before me, his left arm bared – and what the wound must have looked like up here, freshly bitten in the master bedroom.

            “The runes are covered in blood,” I say.

            Narcissa’s jaw tenses. “The Dark Lord’s probably,” she says. “Again, you’d have to ask my son.”

            I nod, looking down at my hands. Although outwardly calm and collected, I sense a hint of displeasure in Narcissa. I can’t imagine it being easy for her.

            “A curse breaker is on the way,” I state the obvious. “Hopefully they’ll be able to restore your home.”

            “Mh,” Narcissa says with a sneer. “To be perfectly honest with you, if I can never step foot in this house again after today, I will gratefully take the opportunity.”

            Understandable. “Do you have anywhere else to stay?”

            Narcissa shrugs. “We have a flat in London, a townhouse in Edinburgh, a weekend house on the Isle of Wight... And that is assuming I do not have permission to leave the country.”

            I nod and the conversation stalls. I quietly nibble on another ginger biscuits, until the fireplace roars with green flames a few moments later, Savage stepping out of it, followed by Fleur Weasley.

            “Jolene,” she nods at me with a smile that doesn’t waver when she turns to Narcissa. “Mrs Malfoy.”

            “Mrs Weasley, thank you for coming,” Narcissa says kindly, owning herself a glare from Savage.

            “I’ll show you upstairs,” I say to Fleur, standing up and leaving the seat to Savage, who immediately plops down on the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest.

            Fleur follows me up the main staircase, past the walls of glowering Malfoys and into the master bedroom. I answer her inquiry as to how I’m doing with a non-committal shrug. Odette stands next to the wall, Dawlish bent over the runes carved into the floor.

            “Ah good,” Odette says. “Someone professional.” Dawlish glares at her. “Jolene, may I have a word?”

            I follow her into the portrait gallery, leaving Fleur to handle Dawlish and the runes.

            “It looks like this will take longer than I expected,” Odette says. “Would you be able to handle Parkinson and Greengrass this afternoon?”

            “What?” I ask. “Alone?”

            Odette drops her head to look at me through her lashes, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yes, alone. It shouldn’t take long, we have deals for both of them, I’m sure you can handle it.”

            “Sure, I can,” I say. I know I can, I’m just not thrilled at the prospect of seeing Parkinson again. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

            Odette sighs, glancing at the door to the master bedroom. “I’m not sure. I’d rather not rush it. I owled Ellsworth to come have a look at the blood, who knows how long he’ll take to get here. But I’m not leaving until that is done. I don’t trust Savage or Williamson not to try and sabotage the evidence if I’m not around. I’ll handle Carrow and Bullstrode tomorrow, you can take the day off.”

            “Okay. I’ll see you in New Orleans then?”

            Odette gives me a sad smile, but nods. “I’ve scheduled a meeting with Draco the day after the funerals. Do you think you can make that?”

            My stomach churns. “I’ll do my best.”

            “Good. Get some rest.”

            I wait until she has disappeared behind the double doors before making my way downstairs. I check my watch. The meeting with Parkinson is scheduled for an hour from now. I weigh my options; I could go back to Grimmauld, tell Theo what we’ve found, or straight to the Ministry, letting people ogle at me. I opt for neither, walking out of the front doors instead and along the gravel path to the wrought iron gates without saying goodbye to Narcissa.

            The second I pass the apparition perimeter I turn on the spot and disappear into the void that spits me back out behind the statue of the Duke of Wellington on Hyde Park Corner. I step out of the apparition point, revealing myself to the No-Majs around. It’s warm enough for me to take off my cloak and stuff it into my technically much to small purse. I push the Dragon staring up at me to the side, turning it around for good measure, and dig around for the cigarettes I know Theo hid in there. I light one and start my journey past Buckingham Palace, through St James’ Park to the visitor entrance of the ministry.

            I have half an hour left by the time I make it there, but I’m not ready to face the music yet, so I slip into the nearest pub and order myself a pint of pale ale – alcohol seems necessary before meeting Pansy Parkinson. I stall for as long as I can before I have no other choice but to let the telephone box transport me into the continuously bustling Ministry Atrium. With five minutes left, and the hope it will ease the tension, I visit the witch in the Ministry canteen, ordering another pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Again, she refuses to let me pay, so I dump the fifty galleons Theo insisted I take this morning for this exact purpose into her tip jar.

            I settle myself in the same room Odette and I occupied yesterday with Narcissa and wait. For much longer than expected.

            Pansy Parkinson is lead into the room a full ten minutes late and I raise a questioning eyebrow to the Auror escorting her, who only gives me an unreadable wink in response. Parkinson looks about as bad as Narcissa did yesterday: grey, tattered robes, grimy face, gaunt expression. Unlike Narcissa, she looks defiant.

            “Parkinson,” I say in greeting when the door has been shut and the Auror disappeared.

            “Carter,” she says drily. “Or Potter more like.”

            “Carter is fine.” I mirror her tone. “Help yourself to some food. Narcissa told us they’ve been starving you.”

            Pansy harumphs, but greedily reaches for a sandwich, stuffing almost half of it into her mouth. I pour us both a cup of tea, pushing the milk and sugar her way.

            “We have a deal for you,” I tell her.

            “Who’s we?” Pansy asks suspiciously through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

            “Odette and I?” I say and Pansy gives me an irritated, confused look. “They didn’t tell you.”

            “No one tells us anything, Carter.”

            I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose, before leaning my elbows onto the table between us. “Odette Amspoker is your lawyer. She went to the same Salem House I did, she’s renowned and she’s paid for. I’m mainly here because I needed something to do.”

            Parkinson rolls her eyes. “How kind of you.”

            “Isn’t it? I think so too.”

            “Who’s paying her?”

            “Theo.”

            “Oh.”

            I know she has more questions, and considering we have an hour to convey a very small amount of information, I stay quiet, giving her the space to formulate them.

            “Oh, okay,” is all she says though, biting into her sandwich.

            “Odette negotiated a deal for you,” I start after a minute of silence.

            Pansy interrupts me. “What exactly am I being charged with?”

            I sigh. “Fraternisation mainly. The fact that you tried giving up Harry during the battle doesn’t help, but if you ask me, the Ministry has very little in terms of evidence against you. You never took the mark, you’ve never had any close contact with Death Eaters, except your father, which is inevitable, and low-level ones like Draco, Crabbe and Goyle. In the face of a battle, I don’t find it surprising that you would try and take the offer of ending it as quickly as possible. Most people would have probably; you were just the first to try. It doesn’t justify a stint in Azkaban, or even a trial preceded by a stint in the Ministry holding cells. But unfortunately for you, my opinion doesn’t count.”

            Parkinson stares at me, slowly dropping the last of her sandwich back onto the plate in front of her.

            “They have Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bullstrode and Hestia Carrow in custody too,” I continue. “With similarly unsubstantiated charges. They’re trying to make an example out of you, and I believe it’s unjust. So, I guess that is what I’m truly here for.”

            Parkinson nods. “Well,” she starts. “For all I care, Hestia can rot in a cell. But Daphne and Millie don’t deserve this. They suffered last year, both of them. No one in their families ever took the mark. I heard talk of using them to…” She drifts of, staring down at the tabletop and I quickly dig out a notepad, jotting down that detail for Odette to use later.

            “Theo said similar things about Hestia,” I tell her.

            “She’s a bitch.” Parkinson shrugs.

            I’m tempted to remind her she thinks of me as a bitch, or at least used to, but I refrain from doing so. “Do you want to talk about the deal?” I ask instead.

            Parkinson nods. “Do you have a cigarette?”

            I hold back an amused smile. “That’s why Theo snuck them into my purse this morning.” I dig them out, and Parkinson gratefully takes one out of the packet. I light it with my wand, taking one out for myself for good measure.

            “It’s an educational pardon,” I explain, conjuring up an ashtray and setting my wand down to syphon up the smoke. “You repeat your last year at Hogwarts, under supervision and with strict behavioural guidelines. In exchange, you walk free, without a trial, and your name is cleared of all charges.”

            Parkinson frowns, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Would it really be though?” She asks. “Don’t you think a publicised trial that acquits me will clear my name better in the general public?”

            “Under normal circumstances, probably,” I say. “But the atmosphere out there is… Not exactly favourable. As I said, they’re looking to make an example out of you and pretty much every single Slytherin of age, whether you actually did anything questionable or not. If you take the deal, you can at least escape your face and name being spread across every single newspaper front page and drawing more attention to yourself.”

            “But they want me to go back to Hogwarts. With people who think I’m no better than You-Know-Who himself and a bunch of children I had to torture last year.”

            I frown. “I don’t think anyone thinks you’re no better than You-Know-Who.”

            “Might as well,” She grumbles, but I ignore her.

            “And we have testimonies from every student you’ve had to torture. None of them are scared of you. They’re grateful.”

            “Grateful?!” Parkinson huffs, blowing smoke towards my wand. “Don’t fuck with me, Carter. I tortured them.”

            “Not with a full force curse, you didn’t.”

            “Of course not!”

            I smirk at her. “There you go. You protected them from worse, which, under those circumstances, is the best you could have done.”

            I watch her purse her lips. “And that wouldn’t come to light in a trial?”

            I sigh. “Take the deal, Parkinson,” I say. “You can tell your story when you have full agency over it and not through a Ministry-backed Daily Prophet.”

            Parkinson sags into her chair, bouncing her leg up and down, avoiding my eyes. “How’s Theo?”

            The change of subject is so abrupt, it takes me a second to comprehend. “Good,” I say. “He’s staying with me at the moment. His estate was seized.”

            “I’m guessing they seized my parents’ too?”

            I nod. “But they’re willing to put you up in a shared house until the start of term.”

            She huffs again. “And my parents are in Azkaban?”

            “Both, yes.”

            “Good.”

            I flip through her file, taking out the piece of parchment for Pansy to sign and placing it in front of her for her to read. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and takes her deal, reading intently. I take the time to vanish the ashtray and place another sandwich on her plate, which she picks up immediately without looking at me.

            “I’m not under house arrest until September?” She asks, her eyebrows raised.

            “No, but you won’t get your wand back until then.”

            She doesn’t react to that, continuing to read instead. “What about my brother?”

            “Brother?” I ask.

            Pansy’s eyes snap up at me. “Calyx. Where is he?”

            I blink at her, confused. “We have no note about a brother.” I quickly pull out the piece of parchment with Pansy’s details to double check, but there is no mention of a brother. “How old is he?”

            Pansy’s face darkens. “Three.”

            I scribble this down in my notebook too, glowering at the file on Pansy we were handed over by the Ministry. With no mention of a three-year-old brother.

            “I’ll have a chat with Kingsley,” I tell her.

            “I’d like to get custody of him, if that’s at all possible.”

            I look up at her. “On your own?”

            “Of course, on my own,” she sneers. “I’m the only one he has left. What else do you expect me to do?”

            I raise my hands in defence. “I can pass this on to Odette and ask her to have a look into it, if you’d like.”

            “Yes, please,” Pansy says, her shoulders sagging in apparent relief. “But you don’t know where he is?”

            I shake my head no. “I can try and find something out later. I need to file your deal anyway before you leave. If you sign it that is.”

            Pansy grabs my quill without hesitation, fiercely signing her name at the bottom. “There. When can I leave?”

            “Technically, as soon as this is filed,” I say.

            “So what? I just – walk out of here?”

            “Yes. We have someone on hold to take you in until Hogwarts. I’m meeting Greengrass after this. Depending on how that goes, she might join you.”

            “Who would we be staying with?”

            I press my lips together before answering. “Andromeda Tonks volunteered to take you and Daphne.”

            Pansy raises her eyebrows, but to my surprise, has no snide comment to make. “Ok,” is all she says. “Do we get fresh robes before we leave?”

            “Uhm,” I say, rifling through the discharge papers Kingsley handed Odette yesterday. “Doesn’t look like it. The clothes you were wearing when they arrested you were confiscated for evidence – don’t ask me what kind of evidence they think they’ll find on them, but they’re keeping them with your wand until September,” I say grimly, looking down at the shabby robes she is currently wearing. The Prophet would have a field day with that one. “Hold on,” I say.

            I take my purse, pulling out my cloak, making sure the stuffed dragon isn’t dragged out with them. I wouldn’t put it past Pansy to recognise it. I duplicate it for Greengrass later and transform it with a flick of my wand into a set of plain black robes.

            “Will that work?”

            “It’ll do,” Pansy says, but it lacks her usual petulance.

            “I’ll go file this while you change.” I pick up her file, her signed papers on top, and push myself out of my chair.

            I’m halfway at the door before she speaks. “What about Draco? Will he get a deal?”

            I turn around to look at her. Her eyebrows are pulled together in a worried frown. I shake my head no.

            “How is he?” She asks.

            “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He’s in Azkaban until his trial. Odette has a meeting with him in a few days.”

            “When’s his trial?”

            “The date hasn’t been set yet. He’ll probably be among the last to be tried.”

            Pansy’s frown deepens. “Why?”

            I sigh, holding her file to my chest. “Dumbledore mainly. He did kick off the war, we can’t deny that. But we’re doing everything we can to keep him out of Azkaban.”

            “And you think you’ll succeed?” Pansy asks with a hint of doubt in her voice.

            “I hope so,” I say earnestly.

            “And Theo?”

            “He’s holding it together as best he can. He says hi, by the way.”

            “What kind of deal did he get?”

            “None yet.” I sigh again. “He’s under house arrest for now, they made me personally responsible for him.” Pansy snorts. “His trial is set for the 25^th. They wouldn’t agree to a deal for him.”

            “Why?”

            I pause for a moment, debating how much to tell her. “There are eyewitness reports of him being present at Death Eater meetings. And plans for him to take the mark. If he didn’t help us in the last few months of the war, he would be sharing a cell with Draco right now.”

            “I can testify for him, if that helps,” she says. “He talked to me about wanting to leave. Daphne too, you should ask her.”

            I raise my eyebrows at her, scribbling another note. “Yeah, okay,” I say. “That would help.” I wait for her to ask any more questions, but she just sits there, looking down at her knotted fingers on the tabletop. “I’ll be back in five. I’ll go file this and owl Andromeda. Eat as much as you like, the plate replenishes itself.”

            “Carter?”

            My hand is already on the door handle, but I turn back around to her.

            “Thank you."

Chapter Text

Surviving Malfoy _ Part III : Acceptance and Hope

Preservation Hall Jazz Band ‘Just a Closer Walk With Thee’ – Guide me gently, safely o’er.

Chapter 3:

            I’ve retreated myself into the kitchen, far away from the hustle and bustle of a good fifty witches clad in black running around the house. I’m alone, except for Martha, who seems to not have left her spot at the kitchen sink since I last saw her in December. I heaved myself onto the counter when I came in, clutching a glass of iced sweet tea in my hands. Martha nodded when I entered, but we haven’t exchanged a single word yet. None of us have, the entire house is too quiet, filled only with hushed whispers and the click-clacking of heels on hardwood floors.

            I have no idea where my mother is, probably upstairs, wrestling some child into a black dress. Blaise and his father are wandering around here somewhere. I took one look at Blaise’ face earlier and took flight, leaving him in Hermione’s soothing hands. I got to reprise my old room with Aithne last night, but she looked at me with such a blatant look of pity on her face when I changed into my all black get up that I fled her too. Everyone seems to have a permanent look of pity etched on their face today.

            Which is why I opted to keep Martha silent company while I wait for Odette, trying to ignore the knowledge that both Debbie and Victoria are laying in an open casket just one room over.

            I went to see them earlier. My mother said I should; to give me a sense of closure. That’s the worst advice she has given me to date. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I hadn’t expected the visceral reaction I would have to seeing Debbie and Victoria, laying in identical coffins made of English holly and lined in ivory satin. The only difference lay in their cloaks, one black for Debbie, one white for Victoria, denouncing her as too young to die.

            It’s freezing cold in their room. My only thought was an irrational How could they? Someone give them a blanket, some thicker clothes at least. My mother told me they looked peaceful, as if they were sleeping. But, though recognisable, there is something uncanny about their faces, like hollowed out dolls, their faces sunken and pale and waxy.

            I hate that this is the last memory of her face I will ever have.

            “Hiding in here, are we?” It’s Maddy. Her blonde locks combed back into a tight bun, she picks at the finger food spread out on the butcher’s block.

            Martha slaps her hand away. “That’s for the wake.”

            Maddy raises her hands in defence, quickly shoving the cherry tomato she managed to secure into her mouth.

            “Is Odette here yet?” I ask her. But Maddy only shrugs, aloof as always.

            “Where’s Theo?” She asks and I frown at her.

            “He’s not allowed to leave the country.”

            “Shame,” she huffs.

            “Don’t get your hopes up,” I say drily. “He’s gay.”

            Maddy rolls her eyes, vanishing through the door to the hall, and Martha turns to give me a smirk. I silently mock Maddy for her amusement before taking a sip of my tea. It has ginger in it, which is an unusual but welcome change. I already threw up once in the bathroom I shared with Aithne. I don’t need another go today.

            “Maddison mentioned you were looking for me?” Odette enters from where Maddy left, closing the door behind her.

            “I’ll go check on the twins.” Martha dries her hands on a tea towel, throwing it on the counter before exiting.

            “How did it go with Bullstrode and Carrow?” I ask Odette.

            “About as well as we expected,” she responds. “Bullstrode took the deal, no questions asked. She’s back with her mother. Carrow refused.”

            “She’s going for a trial?”

            Odette shrugs. “Let her, if it makes her feel better. I explained to her how unlikely it is, that the Ministry will just let her run free considering the testimonies of the younger students. But apparently, she would rather spend a few years in Azkaban than be confined to the muggle world. That’s her choice to make.”

            “You’re still going to defend her?” I ask.

            “Of course.” She smirks at me.

            “I don’t know how you do it,” I say. “I’ve seen dozens of these ministry cases now, and half of them are based on nothing. No marks, no affiliations, just proximity. Like being a Slytherin is a crime in itself.”

            “It’s politics, Jolene.” Odette gives me a grim smile. “They need a show of justice, and who better than the conveniently dislikeable? But the conveniently dislikeable deserve justice too, they need a proper defence more so than the likeable. Plus, that’s what I’m getting paid to do. If the galleons are right, I don’t care how much she makes me want to hex her into next week. Everyone gets their day in court. Don’t worry though, I draw the line at the likes of Yaxley and Malfoy senior. He sent me an offer the other day, by the way.”

            “He did?” I raise my eyebrows incredulously.

            “A hundred galleons an hour for my work, which is double my usual rate. I refused. I do have some semblance of a conscience.” She says, and when I don’t speak, she continues: “I hear Parkinson and Greengrass took their deals.”

            I nod. “Did you get the notes I sent you?”

            “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I did. Those conversations you sent to Mr Wallace will help us a great deal with Draco. But I have to say, that was an interesting discovery about Parkinson’s brother. I had quite a heated conversation with Kingsley yesterday morning.”

            “They hid him, didn’t they? Why?”

            “Good question.” Odette chews her lip in contemplation. “They assumed Parkinson wouldn’t be able to take care of him anyway, considering she won’t have a wand until September and then will spend the next year in school. He does appear in her parents’ files, but considering I’m not defending them, they didn’t see the need in giving us that information.”

            “Where is he now?” I ask.

            “The Dursleys.”

            “The- I’m sorry. As in Harry’s Dursleys?” I jump off the counter, leaving my tea behind to take an incredulous step towards her.

            “The very same.”

            “How… On earth?” I cross my arms over my chest, giving her a humourless laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m going to need an explanation for this. Are you really telling me Pansy Parkinsons three-year-old little brother is currently being cared for by Petunia and Vernon Dursley?”

            “Not my idea,” Odette says drily.

            “How?”

            “They spent the last year in an Order safe house with nothing much to do. According to Miss Jones, they’re surprisingly kind people when they want to be. Apparently little Calyx is having a blast playing Legos with Dudley.”

            I huff. “They stuffed Harry into a cupboard for ten straight years.”

            “Don’t tell me you’re surprised the Ministry makes poor choices.”

            I rub my hand over my face. “Where are they?”

            “Cornwall,” Odette says simply.

            “Right,” I huff. “Is Pansy allowed to see him?”

            She raises an eyebrow at me. “I didn’t know you two were this close.”

            “We’re not,” I say. “But as you mentioned, the dislikeable deserve justice too.”

            “I don’t see why she couldn’t,” Odette says. “She’s free to move as she likes. If she knows how to use a car.”

            I supress an eye roll. “We’re meeting Draco tomorrow?” I change the subject. The idea makes me slightly weak in the knees, but there’s no way around it.

            “I scheduled the meeting for two pm,” she says. “When are you going back?”

            “After the wake,” I say.  

            “You’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

            I don’t believe her. I’m already preparing myself for several visits to the Ministry bathrooms. But I don’t have much time to dwell on that just yet. The house is filling up, the whispers around us grow louder, the click-clacking more frequent. I run face first into Cassius Warbeck on my way to the drawing room, now lined with chairs and headed by a dais. He gives me that pitiful look too and I take the chance to pet Brandy rather than look at him. With dog slobber on my knee, I make my way to my assigned seat at the front. The coffins haven’t been brought in yet.   

            I’m the first one to sit. Blaise comes to sit down next to me a few minutes later, his father on his other side. Across the aisle from us, Madam Fox takes her seat, followed by Madam Zollner and my mother. I don’t know who’s behind us. I don’t care. I’m prepared to sit here and watch as the closed coffins are levitated onto their pedestals behind the dais, to let the eulogies trickle over me, staring straight ahead until it’s time to accompany them on their last trip. I let my brain switch off, let it lull itself into some distant land where all this isn’t happening.

            I didn’t expect Blaise to get up though. A MACUSA official whose name I don’t know makes the announcement, after a lengthy speech on why we are gathered here today, as if we aren’t all painfully aware. It snaps me out of my stupor. Blaise looks stoic as he gets out of his seat and takes the three steps up to the podium. He didn’t bring any notes, his short, astute “Hi” to us gathered mourners is delivered with an iron resolve. I watch him push his hands deep into his trouser pocket’s, his eyes fixed to the lectern before him.

            “I wasn’t fortunate enough to grow up with Debbie,” Blaise starts after a moment of silence. “For years, she was more of an idea than a person — someone I knew about, heard about, but I didn’t really know her. Not truly.

            “We rarely saw each other in person, but we wrote. Well mostly she wrote, and I responded by telling her lies about everything being fine back home, which I’m pretty sure she was aware wasn’t true.” A grimace spreads across his face. “Debbie had a way of seeing straight through you. She never pried though. But she always seemed to know when to reach out, when to remind me that someone cared.”

            His voice doesn’t waver when he speaks. His eyes rove over the crowd, periodically fixing his stare onto a different person’s face, as if he’s trying to memorise each and every one of us, every sad face that bothered showing up. There’s a hint of disdain in his eyes I can’t fault him for.

            “During the war, even though she frankly barely knew me, she didn’t hesitate to take me in. She didn’t ask for explanations or proof of loyalty; she just acted. I’ll never forget the night I arrived here. I was fucking terrified and frankly had no clue what I was doing.” Someone hisses something somewhere at the back. They’re quickly shushed. “But she welcomed me in no questions asked.

            “We didn’t have much time together all in all, probably much less than most of you had with her, but it was enough for me to understand the kind of person she was.” He takes a dramatic pause, eyes fixed to the back of the room, where several people have to stand for lack of seats. “She was the kind of person who found light in the darkest places. She made me laugh when I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again, and she had a knack for saying just the right thing to remind me of my worth.

            “I haven’t come to terms with her loss yet, and I’m not sure when that day will come, but I kind of dread it? Even if we never really saw much of each other, I always knew that she was somewhere out there, and now… Anyway. Debbie gave me hope when I thought I had none. That’s one of the things she did best. She reminded me of the good in the world, even when it seemed like there wasn’t any left. And while I get used to the idea of never speaking to her again, I’ll do my best to honour her by trying to live up to her example.”

            Blaise pauses again, clears his throat. The room is entirely still, and I sit there amongst the crowd, staring up at him. I raise my eyebrow at him when he catches my eye. His resolve seems to waver briefly before he continues:

            “She wasn’t perfect, don’t get me wrong,” he says with a lopsided smile. “But none of us are, so I can’t really fault her for that. She was stubborn and righteous to a fault, a Zabini through and through. But she loved, even when it was difficult. Even when she didn’t understand you, she never stopped loving you.”

            I avert my eyes.

            “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is: I’ll never stop loving her in return. I’ll miss her to no end, but she’s a part of me, so maybe I’ll just have to look in the mirror when I do.” He huffs out a humourless laugh. And then another after a beat of silence “Our mother isn’t even here today.” Someone shifts awkwardly to my left. “Not that I mind, she’d ruin it for all of us anyway.” Another laugh. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the time or place, it’s just…” He sighs. “I’m angry. That’s what I really want to say: I’m fucking angry, and this is fucking unfair and stupid and frankly: fuck this.” He takes a deep breath, adding: “Spend time with your loved ones while you still can. Thanks” in a strangely nonchalant tone.

            He doesn’t look once at either coffin when he steps away from the dais. There’s some more awkward shuffling around the room and a few throats being cleared – and I’m just sitting here trying not to laugh. Or cry. Or scream “fuck this!” in return. He reprises his seat next to me, and as soon as his ear is in reach of my whisper, I say: “you could’ve said that in private.”  But the smirk on my face says otherwise.  

            “Anything to add?” He whispers back.

            I shake my head no. “Nothing for the general public.” I pause. “You did good.” I pat his knee.

            "Dad insisted.” He’s promptly pulled into a heated, whispered discussion with the man in question on his other side.

            I watch Mrs Waterford step up to the podium, Victorias mother, whose red-rimmed eyes avoid those of the crowd all through her speech. She did bring notes, rattling off her words with frequent interruptions of sniffs and nose-blowing.

            I just want it to be over.

            I hate this. It feels forced. We listen as the MACUSA official prattles off some more generically sad idioms about the dead, before finally releasing us with an upwards wave of his hands. Blaise steps up to Debbie’s closing coffin, hoisting it onto his shoulder, his father on her other side. I don’t know any of her other pallbearers. On Victoria’s side, I only know Cassius and Alexander, his oldest, with hair as white-blonde as his fathers and some other relatives’ of his I refuse to think about.

            They lead us through the french doors out into the back garden and through the wrought iron gate onto the road. We begin our trek along Coliseum Street, a uniform, sombre mass of black, with two coffins ahead of us, followed by a brass band, playing what I think is Just a closer walk with thee. I hold on tightly to Hermione’s hand in mine, but all I’m feeling is what I’ve been feeling since I woke up this morning, except for the little misplaced humour out of Blaise’ speech: numbness and a weird sense of irritation. I can’t bring myself to cry.

            The unapologetic, brutal Louisiana sun shines down on us, and I’m grateful for the cooling charms imbued into my clothes and the black umbrella over my head keeping me from sweating. It’s a cruel contrast to the freezing cold inside the house. I keep my eyes fixed on Blaise’ back, watching it bob up and down slightly with each step. We don’t speak. We walk, guided by the rhythm of the brass band. I don’t turn around once, I don’t check how far we’ve come, I just breathe. But Lafayette Nr. 1 arrives too soon, its gates already open for us, ready to swallow up the dead.

            The coffins separate at the central crossing. I follow Blaise, and so does Hermione. But most people seem unsure at first about which way to go, who to choose. It’s a heartless detail clearly overlooked in today’s agenda. I don’t check who follows us. The MACUSA official accompanies Victoria to her last resting place, leaving Blaise and his father to handle Debbie on their own.

            Hermione and I, still hand in hand, stay a few steps back and watch as they place the coffin in the Zabini mausoleum. Its only other occupant is Isabella Giulietta Zabini. The plaque stating Deborah Fiorella Zabini now lies here too already labels the shelf next to her grandmother.

            Once the deed is done, the men step back, all but Blaise and his father retreating to give us space. Again, no one speaks. Funerals are a silent affair. Blaise follows his father into the mausoleum one last time for his final goodbyes, and I go next, alone.

            I have no idea what to do. Still, I can’t bring myself to cry. This entire spectacle feels so far removed from reality. A glitch in the matrix.

            I have about half a dozen more of these to attend. The prospect is sobering.

            I place my hand on the closed coffin, place the white Lily my mother pressed into my hand on top of it, turn around and leave. I want to tell them to just close the door, get it over with, but there’s a line forming, waiting for their turn. So instead, I join Blaise on the sidelines, watch Hermione place her flower, and shake one hand after the other, ignoring the constant stream of pitiful faces. And finally, Blaise says what I’ve been thinking all day:

            “I hate this.”

            “The day I die, just throw me in a hole somewhere and let me rest,” I say. “I don’t care what you do after, but by Tituba Blaise, please don’t do the eulogy.” I shoot him a look over my shoulder and he snorts.

            “I’ll leave that to Harry,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll find the right words.”

            “Who? Harry-emotionally-stunted-Potter? Is that the Harry you’re talking about?” Hermione quips.

            All three of us try to fight a smile. The next witch in line, shaking Blaise’ hand and expressing her meaningless condolences to him, shoots us an outraged look.

            “Maybe Ronald?” I say, and Hermione gets the next look of horror as she almost laughs out loud. “Or Pansy. Anyone’s better than Blaise.”

            “Hey,” he says half-heartedly. “Hermione, you do it.”

            “Oh god no, I’m terrible in front of a crowd.”

            I raise an eyebrow at her, shaking a hand without looking at its face, ignoring the quiet “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

            “Glad we at least agree I get to go first,” I dead-pan.

            “Oh, hell no,” Blaise says. “I’m not doing another one of these, I go first.”

            “That’s why I said: just throw me in a hole and be done with it.”

            “We could just party after,” Blaise says.

            “I appreciate the sentiment,” I respond sarcastically.

            “No.” Blaise rolls his eyes. “We’d toast to you a couple times obviously, but I can’t do another funeral sober.”

            “You better up your alcohol budget then, Blaise,” Hermione says drily.  

            Blaise sighs, and I say: “We should party after this, really.”

            “Loufoque’s?” Blaise asks and I nod.

            “Ouh, I’ve heard of that place,” Hermione says, a little too cheerfully for yet another indignant someone or other who clearly knew Debbie less than we did, but thought she had a right to be outraged on her behalf at the behaviour of her friends and brother. I’m tempted to kick her in the shin.

            “Have you?” I ask Hermione.

            Hermione shrugs. “It’s mentioned in a Hundred Magical Inns and Taverns.”

            “Honestly Granger is there anything you won’t read?” Blaise rolls his eyes, completely ignoring the next hand stuck out to him.

            “I read through it before we went on the run,” she says, stepping behind me to avoid that same hand. I turn around entirely, placing my back to the throng of people still trying to express their condolences to us. Someone huffs behind me. “You never know when you might need it.”

            “You thought you would get to sleep in cushy guest houses with the Undesirable Nr. 1?” Blaise snorts.

            “You never know,” Hermione says haughtily. “Might’ve come in handy at some points.”

            Blaise laughs at her.

            “Honestly,” someone huffs behind me again and I whip around to glare at the offender.

            “When’s the last time you actually exchanged a word with Debbie?” I ask the elderly witch, her greying eyes hidden behind a thick pair of glasses. She’s even smaller than me, the top of her head barely reaching my nose, heels and all.

            She sneers at me. “I have respect for the dead.”

            “You act the way you think is respectful without sparing a thought on what the dead actually would have taken as respect,” I shoot back.

            “A funeral isn’t a laughing matter, young lady.” She doubles down.

            “I’ve been told funerals are for the living,” I say. “And the living can handle their grief however they like, especially those who actually knew the dead.”

            “Jay,” Blaise hisses in warning. I hold up one hand to shut him up.

            “So, with all due respect, please do fuck off.” I whip back around to Hermione and Blaise. “Let’s just go.”

            Neither one of them protests. I lead them both to the furthest corner of the cemetery, where it’s high walls and mausoleums hide us from view. Blaise puts a hand on my shoulder, and I hold out my hand for Hermione to take. As soon as both of them have steady contact with me, I spin on my heel, whisking us all away to Lake St. Catherine.

            We land ankle deep in water, our shoes sinking deep into the mushy ground. I wiggle myself free with a wet popping sound, fighting the suction of the swampy soil, and step onto the wooden walkway leading up to Loufoque’s. Hermione waves her wand over our shoes, ridding them of mud, and then straightens herself, her eyes big and round in awe as she looks up at the, in my opinion, rather mundane round tavern on stilts.

            It hasn’t changed one bit since last July.

            “Come on,” I say, pulling her along.

            Blaise shucks off his jacket, slinging it over his left arm. He leads the way up the wooden steps and holds the door opens of us, making a beeline for the circular bar in the middle of the room.          

            “Three firewhiskys,” Blaise says.

            “Two firewhiskys and a ginger beer please,” I correct, and Blaise narrows his eyes at me.

            The bar is relatively empty this early in the afternoon, only the usual drunkards, and one hag, are scattered around the tables. I lead Hermione, still gaping in awe at every inch of the place like it’s the Taj Mahal, to a table overlooking the water. I throw my cloak over the back of my chair and loosen my cravat. Hermione sits down opposite me, contemplating the lake outside, and Blaise takes the seat next to her. The bartender comes by a second later, placing two tumblers of firewhisky and one large glass of ginger beer in front of us.

            “I thought we were going to party?” Blaise asks, eyeing my drink.

            “My stomach isn’t doing too well,” I say. “I don’t want to throw up again today.”

            Blaise shrugs, placing one of the tumblers in front of Hermione and taking the other for himself. “To the dead,” he says, raising it hight in the air and slamming it back like it’s tequila.

            “To the dead,” Hermione repeats, taking a much more demure sip of her drink.

            The bartender reappears, dropping an entire bottle of whisky in front of Blaise who gives him a grateful look. “Funerals started then?” He asks and we all nod. “First bottle’s on the house.” He sighs, clapping Blaise on the back and retreating to his bar.

            “I love this man,” Blaise says faking a sniff, as he pours himself another glass. Hermione snorts out a small laugh and empties her glass, slamming it down on the tabletop for Blaise to refill.

            I take my first sip of ginger beer.

            “I have to tell you something,” I say quietly. Two pairs of eyes snap up to look at me.

            I glance around the room. None of the other patrons seem to pay us any mind, but I know how traitorous that can be. The Weasley Twins’ extendable ears aren’t the only way to eavesdrop, and considering the bartender recognised us, I can’t guarantee no one here will go blab to the Owl Post. Hermione waves her wand again, covering us in a heavy Muffliato.

            I take a deep breath, my nerves suddenly heightened in anticipation. I’ve been thinking about asking Hermione for help for a few days now. It’s just not an easy topic to breach. Even less so with Blaise sitting right next to her, his eyebrows furrowed as he studies my face.

            For all I know, I might be very, very far off track with my suspicion, everything is fine, and this isn’t a conversation I actually need to be having.

            But I can’t find out on my own. Not now. And if I keep putting it off, the current might just pull me under.

            I let my eyes flit back and forth between the two of them, between two pairs of questioning, slightly worried eyes. I could delay this some more, maybe for another two or three months, but I need the advice sooner rather than later.

            “Spit it out,” Blaise finally says.

            I take another deep breath, feeling the heat creep up my cheeks. “I think…” I pause to breathe again. My heart is in my throat. “I think,” I repeat, and chicken out at the last second. “I think I might need some help.”

            Hermione frowns. “Okay,” she states, but it sounds more like a question.

            Blaise leans back in his seat, taking a sip of his whisky. His eyes are fixed on my face, and I just wish he would look anywhere else. The seating arrangement suddenly feels like an interrogation. I pull the cravat off my neck, throwing it down on the tabletop, and taking a deep swig of my drink.

            Time to face the music.

            “IthinkI’mpregnant,” I tell my ginger beer.

            “What?!” Hermione blurts out.

            Blaise just starts to laugh. A very loud, full belly laugh that earns him a few curious looks even though no one can hear him. Hermione slaps his arms, but he doesn’t quiet down until tears appear in the corners of his eyes. He wipes his fingers over them, smearing them down his cheeks.

            “Oh, this is good,” he snorts.

            “Thanks Blaise,” I say drily.

            “By who?” Hermione asks me, ignoring Blaise’ continued giggles.

            “Who do you think?” Blaise quips and I feel like my face is starting to match my hair.

            “No,” Hermione huffs again, dropping both her hands on the table between us with a loud flump.

            I scrunch my face up, closing my eyes tightly in the faint hope I might be able to drown out the world. It doesn’t work, so I burry my face in my hands for good measure.

            “How?” Hermione asks.

            “Well, Granger darling, when two people really really like each other-“

            “Shut up, Blaise,” she hisses, and I feel a wave of gratitude for her wash over me.

            I take a deep breath, lowering my hands. I categorically refuse to look at Blaise or Hermione though.

            “While I was at the Manor,” I tell her.

            “I didn’t realise…” Hermione starts and Blaise snorts again.

            I shoot him a dangerous look. “It only happened a couple of times,” I say.

            “Do you know when exactly?” Hermione ignores Blaise.

            I sigh. “I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t exactly check the calendar that often. Sometime in March?”

            “Okay.” Hermione bites her lip, thinking. “So, eight to ten weeks maybe?”

            “Maybe, yes.”

            We exchange a look, and Blaise finally seems to simmer down, clearing his throat and pouring himself another tumbler of firewhisky. Hermione pulls her glass away from him.

            “What are you planning to do?” Blaise asks.

            “I…” I sigh again, trying to think of a way to formulate my thoughts. “I haven’t really thought past the point of ‘oh shit, where’s my period’ to be perfectly honest with you.”

            The corners of Blaise’ mouth twitch dangerously. “Okay,” he starts. “You’re going to tell Draco?”

            I stare at him. My instinctual gut reaction is Fuck no! but I settle on a slightly calmer “Not yet.”

            Blaise frowns. “Aren’t you seeing him tomorrow?”

            My face mirrors his. “How do you know?”

            He waves his hand in front of his face, as if trying to shoo the question away. “Odette told me,” he says.

            I roll my eyes at him. “What do you expect me to say to him? ‘Oh, hey guess what, I’m preggo. Might want to stay in Azkaban if you’re not ready to be a daddy yet.’?”

            Blaise snorts out another laugh. Hermione, who’s been watching our exchange with a worried frown on her face, says “Maybe we should check whether or not you’re actually pregnant before thinking about any next steps.”

            “The Gravidus Charm doesn’t work until Week 12 Granger. I thought you of all people would know that.”

            Hermione rolls her eyes at Blaise. “She can take a muggle pregnancy test, we’ll know in minutes.”

            “How do we get one?”           

            “Drug store.”

            Blaise stares at Hermione with a look of utter confusion. She checks her watch. “Boots is already closed by now,” she says. “Do you know of any drug stores nearby?”

            “In the Bayou?” I raise my eyebrows at her. “There’s a Walgreens not far from Salem. But I kind of wanted to get back to London as quickly as possible after this.” I point at the bottle of Firewhisky in front of Blaise.

            Hermione tilts her head at me. “Do you actually want to find out?”

            No.

            “Are you going to tell Draco tomorrow if you are?” Blaise throws back his third glass of Firewhisky.

            “No,” I say, irritated.

            He raises an eyebrow at me. “He deserves to know.”

            I purse my lips, holding his gaze. I feel the irritation growing in my stomach, irritation that has been bubbling all day as it is. “I don’t even know if I’m going to keep it yet, Blaise,” I say drily.

            Blaise huffs out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

            My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not.”

            Hermione raises both her hands to quieten us down. “We really should just find out if you actually are pregnant first,” she says. “We can hold off on any arguments until afterwards.”

            “There is no argument to have,” I fire back. “It’s my decision.”

            Blaise leans his elbows on the table before him, moving his face closer to mine. “Draco deserves to have a say in this, don’t you think?”

            “No,” I say emphatically. “No, he doesn’t. He’s sitting in Azkaban. And even if he gets off Scot free, which I highly doubt, it is still my decision to make and not his.”

            “You can’t be serious,” Blaise huffs.

            “I’m perfectly serious,” I say darkly. “Malfoy and I aren’t in a relationship. I don’t even know if I want to stay in the UK or come back here. He’s in Azkaban awaiting trial, and the best he can hope for frankly, is a few years of house arrest. He can’t help me in this, and I wouldn’t ask it of him anyway. He’s not the one who would have to go through the whole pregnancy and delivery thing either. This is my problem. So, it’s my decision to make.”

            Blaise pauses, holding my glare unblinkingly. “He deserves to know.”

            “Yes,” I say. “Eventually, maybe he does. If I keep it.” I pause, flicking my eyes over to Hermione, silently gnawing at her lip. “If I don’t, no one other than us three will ever know. Is that clear?”

            Hermione nods immediately. Blaise doesn’t.

            “The Malfoy line has a blood-curse on it,” he says.

            “I know,” I say, and Blaise raises his eyebrows at me. “Considering Azkaban, NEWTs and house arrest, Draco is years away from having planned children. I’ll tell him before then.”

            Blaise snorts out a humourless laugh. “The kid would be what, five by then at the earliest?”

            “So?” I ask.    

            “You want to deprive Draco of five years of his child’s life?” Blaise asks.

            “Guys…” Hermione interjects, but neither of us pays her any mind.

            “Or your child contact with its father?” He continues.

            “It’s better that way,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

            Blaise barks out a laugh.

            “It is,” I emphasise. “Especially if Lucius ever gets out of Azkaban.”

            Blaise immediately sobers. “He won’t.”

            “He might,” I say. “And if he ever finds out there’s a bastard in the Malfoy line…”

            Blaise presses his lips together, rubbing his brow ridge before pouring himself another firewhisky. I watch him down it in one go, and Hermione clears her throat.

            “If you move back here…” She starts, biting her lip raw thinking. “I don’t think Lucius will ever be able to leave the UK again. If you stayed here, you’d be safe from him, he wouldn’t be able to touch you.”

            “You forget Hermione,” I say. “He kidnapped me from here once already. Lucius isn’t to be toyed with. He’s dangerous, he’s killed people over less.” I turn to Blaise. “I can’t tell Draco until I know how long Lucius will be sent to Azkaban. As soon as I know that, I’ll figure out what to do.”

            Blaise purses his lips again. “You should let Draco help you if you do need to hide from Lucius.”

            I roll my eyes at him. “Draco’s never been able to stand up to his father.”

            Hermione clears her throat again. “All this,” she says. “Is completely inconsequential if you’ve just caught a stomach bug and aren’t actually pregnant.”

            Blaise waves his finger at her. “Yes. Point for Gryffindor.” He pushes himself out of his seat, gripping the back of his chair to steady himself. “Off to Wargrums.” He waves his hand for Hermione and me to move out of the door.

            “Walgreens,” I correct instinctively. “But I’m not walking into a Walgreens with you in this state, Blaise. Go home.”

            He frowns at me, swaying as if to prove my point.

            Hermione catches my eye, her mouth twitching in thought. “Boots at Picadilly Circus might still be open,” she says.

            “You can’t apparate back now,” Blaise states.

            “Why not?” I ask.

            “Because I want to know if you’re up the duff or not.”

            I roll my eyes at him. “Let’s go,” I say to Hermione.

            “I got a Portkey,” she says, checking her watch. “It’ll activate in half an hour. That’s plenty of time to get you a test.”

            I sigh and nod, lifting myself out of my chair. My knees are shaky, and I grip the back of my chair, mirroring Blaise. My stomach churns for the umptieth time today and I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. I knew voicing my concerns would bring me to this point, especially with Hermione. She wouldn’t let me run around unknowingly for much longer.

            And she has a point too, which is precisely why I chose her to talk to. I just may have been better off not doing it on this particular day.

            We make our way back to Salem. The wake is in full swing by then, so I leave Hermione and Blaise standing outside and take my heels off to sneak up the stairs to my old room and collect my overnight bag. I shrink it down and stuff it into the pocket of my cloak. Thankfully no one sees me as I sneak into the kitchen, grabbing a quick sandwich for Blaise, and exit the house. I run down the front lawn, pushing my shoes back onto my feet when I reach the gate.

            I push the food into Blaise’s hand. Stomach hanging somewhere near my knees and heart thrumming in my throat, I grab Hermione and Blaise’ hands without waiting for their approval and whisk them away to the nearest Walgreens on Magazine Street. We appear in the back alley, between my destination and a pet grooming shop. It’s littered with trash, the opening towards the street boarded up with a plywood construction wall covered in graffiti.

            “Come on,” I hiss, walking out the other way, through the back parking lot and into the brightly lit drugstore. Where I immediately freeze.

            Hermione almost stumbles into me, Blaise holds her back by the shoulder, thankfully munching on his sandwich. I stare at the shop in front of me with no clue where to even look for a pregnancy test. There is a public bathroom to my right, which is step two of this terrifying plan covered. I feel Hermione’s hand lacing itself into mine and she pulls me forward, towards the counter at the back of the store.

            “Hi,” she says, much too brightly for my liking.

            The muggle behind the counter eyes the three over us over the rim of his glasses, his greying hair slicked back, giving him a haughty, superior look. “Isn’t it a bit early for Halloween?” He mocks.

            I’m probably the most normal looking of the three of us, the only thing not blending into muggle fashion being my cloak and the scars on my face. Hermione and Blaise are both wearing solid black robes, appropriate for a funeral, but not appropriate for a shopping spree in muggle New Orleans.

            “Themed party.” Hermione waves her hand in front of her face, dismissing his question. “Do you have any pregnancy tests?”  

            I try not to visibly tense up, try not to look at the muggle like the thing is obviously for me. The pharmacist’s eyebrow jumps up to his hairline.

            “Aren’t you a bit young for that?” He asks and I feel my knees wobble.

            Hermione straightens herself, her voice stern when she says: “Aren’t you a bit too professional to ask these sorts of questions?”

            The muggle sighs, turns around and drops a pink box on the counter between us without a word.

            “Thank you,” Hermione snips, handing him a twenty-dollar bill and grabbing the test without waiting for her change.

            We ignore the muggle calling after her and make our way back across the store, all three of us piling into the bathroom together. Blaise pushes me forward and locks the door behind us. There are no stalls. It is just one small room with a toilet, a sink and a trash can. Before I can complain, Blaise waves his wand, conjuring up two flower adorned partition screens, blocking off the view of the toilet bowl. He pushes his hand into my smaller back, forcing me to walk behind them.

            “Could you just wait outside please?” I ask.

            “Do you really want the whole store to know the test is for you?” Blaise asks flatly and I hear a soft thudding sound, like he was just slapped in the chest. Blaise’s muffled “Ow” fills me with a wave of gratitude for Hermione.

            “I’ll put up a silencing charm,” she says, much more helpfully.

            As soon as I hear the soft humming of a Muffliato and I’m satisfied the partition screens truly block off all view, I unpack the pregnancy test, pulling the small pink and white stick out of its plastic packaging and uncapping it. I’m strangely grateful when I finally get to sit down. For one, it keeps me from falling over from nerves. The fact that I might finally get some peace of mind is an added bonus.

            Once the deed is done, I recap the stick, redress and immediately let myself fall back onto the toilet lid. I pull out my wand out of my cloak and vanish the partitions, cancelling the silencing charm.

            “And?” Blaise immediately asks.

            “It’ll take a couple minutes,” Hermione tells him patronisingly. She holds her hand out to me, and I give her the test.

            “You’re touching that?!” Blaise takes a step away from her, lips pursed in disgust.

            “Honestly Zabini,” Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes. I watch as she places it horizontally onto the edge of the sink.

            We fall silent. I place my hands between my knees, pressing them together to keep myself from trembling. I stare straight ahead at the white tiled wall in front of me, rapidly tapping my heel on the floor, the ticking noise it makes keeping me strangely focused. Focused away from my own thoughts, filled with whisps of blonde hair, grey eyes, tiny fingers and toes, wailing cries and –

            “How’s Ron?” I ask Hermione, snapping my eyes up at her.

            “Uhm, fine,” she says, confused. When I continue looking at her, I imagine with a desperately pleading look, she continues: “We’re good. I think?” She pauses. “It’s fresh you know; we haven’t really found our groove yet. But we’re getting there.”

            I nod, silently willing her to continue speaking. Blaise turns away from her, contemplating the tiles by the door. Hermione shoots him a questioning look but doesn’t comment.         

            “Will you be staying at Grimmauld for the summer?” I ask her, desperate for any conversation to form.

            Hermione shrugs. “Ron wants to go back to the Burrow eventually. I don’t think I’ll go with him, it feels a bit too early.”

            “Haven’t you been staying there for years anyway?” I frown at her.

           “Yeah but… You know, it’s different.” She dismisses me, turning back around to the sink. I really try not to fall out of my seat, all the air squeezed out of my body by a sudden vice-like horror when I hear her say: “Anyway, we have bigger fish to fry.” 

Chapter Text

Surviving Malfoy _ Part III : Acceptance and Hope

Cheap Trick ‘The Ballad of TV Violence (I’m not the only boy)’ – A Lonely Boy.

Chapter 4:

            I fly up the stairs, barefoot, my heels in one hand and my cloak in the other. I landed on the second step from the top of Grimmauld Place’s front steps. Usually, this wouldn’t be an issue, except today, the press seems to have caught wind of the ongoing funerals, so I was met with an even bigger onslaught of disorienting, flashing lights than usual. Hermione, who was hot on my heels, is still giving them a stern talking to outside. But I shudder at the thought of the picture that will likely appear on the front cover of every magical paper in the country come tomorrow morning.

            I guess I look the part of a grieving friend coming from a funeral. At least I hope that’s what it looks like. I know my face is puffy even without having checked it in the Walgreens bathroom. I’m barefoot, my clothes are dishevelled and I forgot my cravat at Loufoque’s with the first few buttons of my shirt undone. I just needed air.

            I ignore Harry’s soft “Hey” coming from the kitchen and Theo’s much louder “You okay?!” following it. I push through the door to my room and slam it shut behind me, throwing my things into the nearest corner and immediately crumbling over the trashcan next to the desk.

            I watch the mixture of bile and ginger ale vanish before it hits the bottom and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I have no intention of ever wearing these clothes again anyway. I might just burn them in the bathtub first chance I get.

            I let myself slump against the nearest wall, push my legs up and rest my elbows on my knees, hiding my face in my hands. Breathing through my fingers helps somewhat. But now that I know why it’s doing it, my stomach seems intent on emptying its contents every chance it gets. And that seems to be the case every time I swallow.

            There’s a soft knock at my door just as I spit into the trash again. “Go away!” I yell. Footsteps retreat quietly back down the stairs and I let out a deep, shaky breath. It doesn’t take long for another set of footsteps to trudge up the stairs, followed by the inevitable knock at my door.

            “Leave me alone!” I shout again.

            “It’s me.” Theo pushes the door open and takes a step into my room.

            A stubborn bout of tears srpings into my eyes and I furiously try to blink them away. “For fuck’s sake!” I yell at him as he softly closes the door. “I just came from my best friends fucking funeral. Can’t I break down in peace for once in my-“ fucking life is what I want to say, but it’s interrupted by a sickeningly nauseating hiccup. My tears spill over, I bury my face back in my hands and do my darndest to ignore Theo.

            “Okay,” he says softly. I hear his sock-clad feet pad across the room and a rustling of linen trousers as he sinks to the floor in front of me.

            “Please, just leave me alone,” I whisper into my palms.

            “No.” Theo says tersely.

            That’s when I start sobbing in earnest. He pulls at my shoulders, dragging my entire body across the floor until I’m pressed firmly against his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around me. He gently strokes my hair with one hand, the other rubbing soothing circles over my back. With my head on his shoulder, I quickly soak through his t-shirt. But Theo doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps soothing, breathing steadily. I try to match his breath, but eventually just start hiccupping through my tears. My eyes burn with them, but I don’t have the energy to wipe them away or try to stop them.

            “Pollux,” Theo says after a while, his voice calm and even. “Talk to me.”

            “I- hic,” is all I manage to get out.

            After another few minutes of this there’s another knock at the door. Before either of us can say a word – not that I could – Hermione pushes into the room. She flicks her wand, lighting an old oil lamp on the wall. I didn’t bother before, the moonlight would have been enough for me and the stark, bright light irritates my already battered eyes. I hide in the crook of Theo’s neck.

            I’m aware there’s a silent exchange happening over my head between the two of them, but I don’t bother to look up and check. They wait a little while longer, until my tears finally seem to dry up, leaving behind their dry hiccups, emphasising the sickening lump in my throat. I slowly raise my head off Theo’s shoulder and wipe my sleeve over my face again, realising too late that it’s already soiled. I scrunch up my face and pull the trash can towards myself again, spitting into it.

            “That bad eh?” Theo asks with a half smirk. He pauses, before saying: “You don’t have to go see him tomorrow, you know.”

            Through another hiccup I raise my head slowly to look at Theo, wide eyed, before fixing my gaze on Hermione, who gives me the smallest shake of her head.

            “I – hic – have to,” I say.

            “Says who?” Theo frowns.

            “I – hic – prom- promised.” My shoulders shake again and I try breathing in deeply to keep another sob from pushing out.

            Hermione pushes herself away from the wall and walks over to us. She changed out of her funeral clothes already. “How about a shower?” She asks, sinking to the floor and holding her hands out to me. I manage to catch the pointed look she gives Theo before letting her pull me to my feet. I stumble, but Theo’s steadying hand on my waist and Hermione holding onto mine thankfully keep me from keeling over.

            “Tell Odette you can’t do it,” Theo says behind me as Hermione leads me to the door.

            “Nott,” she hisses at him. “We just came from a funeral, this has nothing to do with Malfoy.”       

            I know without looking that he’s raising an eyebrow at her. I’m thankful for her lie, but I know it won’t help in the end. Theo’s too smart for his own good. He’s been following my every step for weeks. It might have taken my denial a while to realise what’s going on, but I would be surprised if Theo won’t at least try to bring up the subject of Draco again once we’re back.

            “Can – hic – can y-you tell Theo t-to l-leave please,” I say.

            “Sure,” she says, opening the bathroom door across the hall. She shoos someone away somewhere up the stairs. I don’t want to know who it is. “Are you going to be ok on your own?”

            I nod and after a moment’s hesitation she closes the door, leaving me standing, alone and shaking, in the middle of the lush bathroom. I undress, patting down my pockets and let out a low whine with renewed tears when I realise my wand is in the pocket of my cloak, in my room.

            “K- Kreacher,” I manage between hiccups. The old elf appears, unfazed by my appearance, snapping in half before me. “Could y-you – hic – burn th-these please.” I hand my clothes to him. He takes them without a word, leaving me behind in nothing but my underwear.

            I turn on the shower and let its sound drown out my renewed sobs. I turn down the water temperature as cold as it goes, hoping it will shock my system out of its breakdown. I unceremoniously drop my underwear on the floor and force myself to step under the water. I let out a pained groan as it hits my body, but it helps. It takes a moment to get used to the cold, but once I do, it creates a pleasant hum over my skin that soothes my tense muscles.

            I stand there unmovingly, head tilted towards the shower head, for a solid five minutes, before another soft knock on the door disturbs me again. I know its Hermione when she opens the door without waiting for a response. “Clothes,” she says before retreating.

            “Thanks,” I croak and finally start washing. I pull on the pajamas Hermone brought in for me, ignoring the hissed conversation happening outside the bathroom door, and wait for footsteps to retreat before I dare to leave.

            I ward my door as soon as I get my hands on my wand, only allowing Crookshanks to come and go, since he’s already made a nest for himself on one of my pillows. It takes a few tries through the residual hiccups, but once I finally manage, I pull the covers over my head, curl up in a tight ball and pray to all gods known to me that I might get a short second of sleep tonight.

            Surprisingly, entirely spent from crying into Theo’s expensive shirt, I do as soon as I breathe out. The last thing I register is Crookshanks’ paws trudging across my pillow as he curls his body around my head, purring gently. It’s a mercifully dreamless sleep, deep enough that I do not remember how Theo ended up in my bed when I wake up a full ten hours later. Maybe this is the answer, I should just break down every evening and cry myself to sleep.

            “She’s alive,” Theo says. He’s leaning against my headboard, the Daily Prophet open on his knees.

            I rub my eyes, crusted almost shut with last night’s residual tears. I feel drained, utterly exhausted and spent.

            Theo lifts the Prophet and I take a shaky breath, pushing myself up next to him. He rights my pillow before I can lean back and I pull the newspaper onto my own lap.

            “It’s not bad,” Theo says.

            I flip it open. Thankfully, I did not make front page news today. Shaklebolt’s latest legislation on reparation fees got the honour. The picture of a fuming Hermione and my own devastated self made page two though. Furies and Funerals it reads, and seems to mainly focus on Hermione’s outrage about the reporters. To no surprise, Skeeter is the culprit who wrote a scathing, exaggerated retelling of how exactly Hermine told the press to kindly fuck off and leave us alone.

            I huff, and throw the paper back at Theo.

            “Tea?” He asks.

            I shake my head, and have to actively keep myself from rubbing my palm over my stomach as it rumbles uncomfortably in response.     

            “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?” He asks the question I’ve been dreading.

            “Theo,” I croak, scrunching my eyes shut and rubbing my temple.

            “Not yet, okay,” he says. “But seriously, you do not have to see him today if you don’t want to.”

            My shoulders slump and I turn towards him. “What makes you think this has anything to do with Draco?”

            He raises an eyebrow at me, folds the Prophet in two and lets it thump on my nightstand. “Okay,” he says sternly. “Let’s see. You haven’t slept properly in weeks, you’ve been throwing up non-stop for much longer than a stomach bug would last, you’re skittish, emotional and anxious with an incredibly short fuse, and you don’t eat properly. Everybody else is doing shit too, but compared to that… Something else is going on.”

            “How the fuck would you know?!” I ask a bit too loudly.

            “Because it’s obvious,” he says. “The funeral can’t be the only thing that’s throwing you off kilter this hard, Pollux.”

            “Again: how the fuck would you know,” I press. “You’ve known me for all but two months, Nott. Frankly, I don’t think you’re qualified to be the judge of that.” Unfair. Unfair unfair unfair unfair, but I’m so damn angry I wouldn’t be surprised if the curtains caught on fire. Nothing is fair for me, so why the hell should I be fair to anyone else.

            Sure, I’m angry at everything, not just Theo, but everything isn’t currently sitting in my bed, casually sipping on a cosy mug of tea without an apparent care in the world.

            I watch Theo’s face darken through my ire. He takes a deep breath and I let him. If I had the energy to, I might storm out of my own room to create the necessary distance, but as it is, I wait until he inevitably does.

            He stops at the door, turns back around and says, eerily calm: “I’m not mad at you.”

            And my heart breaks as the door closes. Back to sobbing it is.

            At least I haven’t thrown up yet.

            It takes me ten minutes and an overbearing Crookshanks licking at my cheeks to calm back down enough to check the time. Eleven am. Odette is supposed to be here in an hour. I debate sinking back into my cushions and trying for a little more sleep, but I know it’s futile. My eyes burn, my stomach rumbles, a headache is slowly developing behind my left eye and my neck aches even more than my lungs.

            Anyway, it takes me the full hour to make myself look somewhat presentable, at least enough to not mind too much if anyone snaps a picture of me today – which they inevitably will. I chose the simplest outfit I have, pull my regrown hair into a simple bun, low on my head, and opt for a plain fascinator with a veil rather than a hat. I am in mourning after all. And at least it gives me something to hide behind.

            Theo is nowhere to be seen when I enter the kitchen. I refuse Harry’s offer of scrambled eggs and ignore the looks he sends me. I do accept the mug of ginger tea Kreacher wordlessly plants in front of me. I’m halfway finished with it when Odette struts down the steps.

            “Ready?” She asks, much too cheery for my liking.

            I offer her a smile that’s probably more of a grimace and nod. “Sure.”

            “Come on then,” she says. “We need to go over a few more things, and I’d rather do it at the ministry in case anything goes wrong with Draco’s transfer from Azkaban.”

            I stand on shaky legs and flex every muscle in them in an attempt to stop it. The lack of food is taking its vengeance. It wouldn’t keep it anyway, but still my stomach protests. Odette raises an eyebrow at me and shoots a look at Kreacher, who nods without a word.

            Lunch bag filled with ginger biscuits in hand, Odette leads me to the fireplace and we floo into the Ministry atrium. The beehive feeling is still ever present and I flinch when the first flash of light hits my eyes.

            “Bennet!” Odette bellows. “I told you. No pictures today or I will make sure you never work another day in your life. This is your last warning, is that clear?”

            The three reporters standing by the fireplaces, chastised, lower their cameras, their Quick-Quotes-Quills still in the air, tips pointed at us in waiting. I let Odette pull me through the crowd towards the elevators, where we flash our badges to the guard, who nods us through without looking at them.

            As soon as the door to our assigned room closes, Odette rounds on me. “You don’t want to do this, do you?” She asks.

            I stare at her, every nerve in my body taught. I swallow down my need to throw up - no, my morning sickness - as I look at her. I open my mouth, ready to spill the beans, knowing she, at least, isn’t likely to rat me out to anyone. But I don’t get the chance to. I hesitate for a moment too long and suddenly, with a quiet swoosh, a Ministry Memo flies through the gap under the door and bumps into my shoe. I step aside and watch it glide through the air and land elegantly on the table next to Odette. She frowns at me, before she unfolds it.

            Her face falls and my stomach churns in response.

            “What?” I ask breathlessly when she doesn’t say anything.

            “Theo,” she huffs. She purses her lips and groans. “They’ve pushed his trial to today. 3 pm.”

            “What?!” I take a step forward.

            “Go home,” she says a bit too sternly, causing me to take a step back again. “Get Theo, get him ready and bring him here. I’ll try and push Draco’s meeting to tomorrow. He should arrive any minute now for processing, but I don’t think he’d mind a night in a Ministry cell over Azkaban.” She pauses. “You won’t be coming with me tomorrow.”

            The knot in my stomach eases somewhat, which really shouldn’t surprise me. “Alright,” I agree without pushback.

            “I’m taking you off that case,” she says. “We’ll still need you as a witness during the trial, but I’m not letting you put yourself through this.”

            The tension in my neck eases next and I say the only thing I can think of: “Thank you.”

            She nods at me. “Be back by 2.30 at the latest, we’ll meet here.” She pushes the Memo into my hand and shoos me out of the door. “And for Tituba’s sake, eat something.”

            I practically run to the lifts, furiously pushing the buttons as it carries me up to the Atrium much too slowly. I stumble into the Atrium, trying to push myself through the crowd to the fireplaces, but a thick mass of people has formed around them. I push myself up on the tips of my toes, but other than flashing cameras I can’t make out what is causing such a ruckus.

            With my stomach sinking, I have an inkling of what or who it might be. I push myself to the side of the crowd, towards the wall leading to the fireplaces, and manage to struggle further towards the front. And lo and behold, my gut feeling is right. I catch a glimpse of dirty, white blonde hair and instinctively duck. I camera flashes right in my face. I can’t make out the person behind it, but I shoot a furious look in their general direction, pulling the veil further down my face.

            It was enough for one camera to spot me and a further three turn around to do the same. I huff, hold my purse in front of my face and elbow past them.

            “Miss Carter!” Someone shouts, but he’s quickly drowned out by other questions being thrown at me. It seems to do the trick though, as most camera turn away from Draco - not that that was my plan.

            I can’t seem to catch my breath and barely manage to articulate “Grimmauld Place” properly. But I do, and with a woosh of green flames, the last thing I see before falling into Harry’s kitchen is Draco. If his terrified face doesn’t make front page news tomorrow, I don’t know what will.

            Andromeda, Teddy in her arms, stands by the sink. She turn around when I stumble into the table. “Where’s Theo?” I ask her.

            “Well hello to you too,” she snips.

            I scrunch up my face. “His trial was moved,” I tell her.

            “Oh Merlin,” she says, dropping the sponge in her hand and simultaneously tightening her hold on Teddy. “To today?”

            I nod. “Yes, where is he?”

            “In his room,” she says, adjusting the baby in her arms. “Do you have time for lunch first?”

            Something is bubbling away on the stove and I glance at it. I try to breathe as shallow as I can. I can’t seem to smell it from here, but still my stomach churns at the thought of eating whatever is in that pot.

            “We need to be there at 2.30,” I say.

            “So plenty of time for lunch.” She dismisses me by walking over to the cabinet holding plates and cutlery. I’ll try.

            I need to try. Not only my survival hinges on it.

            I run up the stairs two at a time, almost twisting my ankle on the landing, and barge into Theo’s room without knocking. To my surprise, Theo is laying on his bed, Neville sitting at his feet. Thankfully both are clothed, but both flinch when I enter.

            “Don’t you knock?” Theo asks irritated.

            “Get dressed,” I say sternly, thrusting the Ministry Memo in his face. “They moved your trial to 3pm today.”

            “What?!” Neville reacts the exact way I did.

            “We need to be there in an hour,” I say. “Odette wants to clear up some things first, she’s pushed Draco to tomorrow.”

            “I’ll come with you.” Neville pushes himself off the bed.

            “Thank you, Neville,” I say. “I don’t think we’ll manage to get every witness to show up, but I think we can still pull it off. I don’t know why they’re doing this, it’s ridiculous.”

            “I’ll go tell Harry, Hermione and Ron,” he says, already halfway out the door.

            Theo hasn’t moved an inch. His face has paled to a worrying degree and he seems ready to throw up as he stares down at the memo.

            “Theo,” I ask tentatively, but he doesn’t react. I walk over to his wardrobe, and start pulling out dress robes and a shirt, placing them on the bed next to him. When I turn back to look at him, he has tears in his eyes. “Theo,” I repeat, louder this time, and he finally looks up at me. “You’ll be fine. I promise you, it’ll be fine.”

            He audibly swallows and slowly places the memo on the bed next to him. “Will you eat something?”

            I open my mouth to respond, but find I have no retort. I frown at him. “Sure,” I say. “Get dressed and we’ll go downstairs. Andromeda is cooking.”

            “I know,” he says, his voice even. “Pollux?” He asks after a pause.

            “Yes, Theo?” I ask. I haven’t moved from my spot in front of him, a little too worried to leave him here to get dressed on his own.

            “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

            I fucking knew it.

            I take a deep breath. “Not now, Theo.” I try to keep my voice level, but fail on his name.

            He nods as if that’s the answer he was looking for. He starts picking at the hem of the navy robe I set out for him, eyeing it calmly rather than looking at me. “Please eat something.”

            “I will,” I say. “Will you get dressed?”

            “I will.”

            I hesitate for one more moment, before turning around and leaving his room. I keep the door ajar and wait for him out in the hallway. He steps out a few minutes later, his shirt dutifully buttoned up to the top and his neck adorned with a tie matching his robes. He stops next to me, stares down at his dress shoes, then down the stairs, as if he’s contemplating flinging himself forward. Whether head first or feet first, I can’t quite tell.

            I don’t make a move, waiting for him to be ready to take the first step instead. He doesn’t seem to be able to convince himself though. I give him the time he needs. But instead of taking a step forward, he pushes his hands into his pockets and turns his body towards me.

            “Any - chrm.” He hesitates. “Any money that’s left over after this,” he starts but then pauses again. “Whatever’s left, you can have it. For whatever you need. Whatever you decide to do, just – Don’t’ worry about money, ok?”

            Money isn’t even an issue I have started thinking about.

            “Thank you Theo,” I say after a short pause, sensing he isn’t in the right head space to truly discuss this.

            “Right, okay,” he mumbles, turns back towards the stairs, takes a deep breath and starts walking.

            The kitchen is crowded when we enter. Andromeda is still standing by the kitchen sink, but she’s handed Teddy over to Harry, who’s currently cooing over him. Hermione and Neville are huddled together on one side of the table, McGonagall is sitting opposite them, Ron stands next to the door. He claps Theo on the back when he walks past him, squeazing his shoulder. Mrs. Weasley bussles about the kitchen, filling goblets with pumpkin juice and ordering her husband around to set the rest of the table.

            Neville straightens when he spots Theo and pulls out the chair next to him for him to sit. I take a seat on Theo’s other side and remove the fascinator, hanging it on the back of my chair. Molly places pumpkin juice in front of me, along with a steaming cup of ginger tea. When she squeezes my shoulder, I really start wondering… I snap my eyes up at Hermione in suspicion, but again, she’s quick to shake her head.

            Our lunch is suspiciously quiet for the amount of people at the table. Molly and Andromeda attempt to keep up some semblance of a conversation, but otherwise only McGonagall offers Theo a few words of support and outrage at the situation. She wasn’t on our list of witnesses, but it seems she is now.

            Theo doesn’t touch his food, but for his sake I manage to swallow a few bites of the stew Andromeda has placed in front of me. I’m happy to find this is something my stomach does not seem to mind, but I still eat mostly dry bread. Bread at least is definitely safe.

            At 2.20 pm, I motion to Theo to get up. We walk to the fireplace on our own, leaving the others to sit tight for now. They will follow in time.

            “Ready?” I ask him quietly. Thankfully Neville loudly starts a conversation about Winogrand’s Wonderous Water Plants with Arthur, giving us some privacy to whisper to each other.

            “No,” Theo says.

            I start righting his tie and brushing down his lapels. “There’s a load of reporters at the Ministry,” I say.

            “Excellent,” he deadpans.

            “They were there for Draco,” I explain. “They might be gone by now. The were just bringing him in when I left.”

            “You saw him?” Theo’s eyes lock onto mine.

            I nod, unable to verbally respond to that question. “Come on,” I say instead, grabbing a handfull of floo powder in one hand, and Theo’s hand in the other.

            I pull him through the flames. We manage three steps into the Ministry Atrium before the cameras spot Theo and the flashing begins anew. I squeeze his clammy hand and elbow our way to the reception desk. The witch almost puts up a fuss about Theo’s lack of wand, but one stern “Seriously?” from my side prompts her to look up and hand over Theo’s badge.

            The tension in his shoulders is visible, but other than that and his pale face, he seems outwardly calm enough. Once we reach the elevators however, he immediately slumps against the wall and burries his face in his hands. I’m not sure what to do, how to comfort him. All I can think of is to place my hand on his wrist and squeeze it lightly and before too long, the elevator dings and the endless corridor of doors opens up in front of us.

            I lead Theo to Odette’s room and enter without knocking. Odette is poring over a stack of files, a glass of water in front of her and the room otherwise bare and sterile as it’s always been.

            “Theo,” she says in greeting when she spots us. “Excellent. Sit down.” She motions to the chair opposite her. “Jolene, would you be so kind and bring this down to the holding cells?” She holds out a roll of parchment to me. “Instructions for Draco’s stay here. It should already be clear to the guards, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

            I feel my jaw tense. “Of course.” I take the scroll from her and, with one last hopefully encouraging look at Theo, I leave the room.

            I can’t help myself. Once I reach the mercifully empty elevator, I unroll the parchment. The first thing I notice is the official looking seal at the bottom right, the flourishing signature of K.Shaklebolt next to it.

Transfer of Draco Lucius Malfoy, born 5 June 1980

            These aren’t instructions for his stay here per say, it’s an order to have him transferred to the Ministry cells permanently until the day of his trial, rather than Azkaban. It does specify three full meals, one shower and an hour in the recreation room per day. To top it off, he’s been granted visitation rights. With twelve hours notice, he’s allowed any visitors he would like, limited to two a week, and an indefinite number of visits for his legal councel, Odette.

            I only vaguely register the elevator doors dinging open as I stare down at it. His trial date has been set for May 25th. That’s two weeks from today. My stomach roils at the thought, threatening to allow the three spoons of stew I ate to escape. There’s a whole slew of things I would like to never speak aloud, and I will have to do in front of a full courtroom in fourteen days. With a bit of luck, Odette will manage to exclude reporters from court, but I highly doubt Skeeter will go down quietly.

            I take a steadying breath and step out of the elevator just as the doors begin to close again. It’s dark down here, much darker than in any of the other Ministry corridors. No attempt has been made here to replicate natural light, instead it seems to seep lazily from ever crack between the bottle green tiles absolutely every surface is adorned with. It makes everything look eerily disorientating.

            I’m faced with a solid tiled wall with two signs: Holding Cells, with an arrow to the left, Courtrooms with an arrow to the right. I make a left on shaky legs towards the only door on this side of the corridor. It seems miles away from my point of view. I struggle not to slip on the tiles in my heels and breathe at the same time. Focusing on both seems an insurmountable task as the suffocating bubble of anxiety blooms in my chest, numbing my shoulders, my arms, my hands. They grow increasingly clammy around the piece of parchment with Draco’s transfer title. I move it around, holding it with my fingertips, not wanting to risk smudging any of the ink.

            “State your purpose”, the same metallic female voice from the Ministry’s visitor entrance rings out in the hallway before I can reach the door.

            “Jolene Carter, here on behalf of Odette Amspoker,” I say weakly.

            “Regarding which inmate?” The voice says, sounding almost annoyed.

            “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” I state a little more firmly.

            “Date of birth?”

            As if there’s a second Draco Lucius Malfoy in there. “June 5th 1980.” Now I’m annoyed.

            “One moment.”

            That moment turns into five long minutes before the heavy metal door creaks open, revealing another, identical, green-tiled corridor, darker than the one I’m still standing in. I take a hesitant step forward. It’s completely deserted. As if on queue, a door to my right opens and a tall, weary looking man in a DMLE uniform steps out, eyeing me from top to bottom with indifference.

            “Follow me,” he says without so much of a greeting and turns around, marching quickly down the corridor.

            I struggle to keep up with his long strides, the tiles still slippery under my shoes, but through some miracle I manage not to fall and step into yet another, identically tiled room he opens for me.

            I realise too late that it’s a visitation room. Heavy bars split it right down the middle, with a row of three chairs on either side of them, and to my absolute horror, Draco is taking up the middle seat, looking at me like a man starving. Black spots appear in front of my vision and I scrunch my face up, swivelling around to the guard still standing by the door.

            “I’m not here to see him!” I sound unhinged. Frankly, I’m surprised I’m still standing, considering I can’t feel my fingers or my toes and there’s an odd rushing sound in my ears.

            “Could’ve said that earlier,” the guard says with derision.

            “It said regarding which inmate, not to see which inmate,” I fire back, feeling anger bubble up in my chest. Anger is good. It clears up the fog in my brain somewhat. “I need to speak to your superior.”

            He rolls his eyes. “Stay here.” He turns around and pulls the door shut behind him.

            I rub the bridge of my nose, facing the door. I don’t turn around. I can’t turn around or I’ll throw up at Draco’s feet. I swallow hard to avoid doing just that, but then –

            “Potter –“ followed by a sharp thwack.

            “Don’t –“ another guard I hadn’t seen on Draco’s side of the room starts speaking.

            “Hey!” I swivel around again and point the scroll at him. “No corporal punishment, you know the rules,” I hiss at him and he has the nerve to roll his eyes at me.

            Draco is sitting there, rubbing the back of his head that was clearly just swatted by the gloved hand of the guard I’m currently staring down. I allow my eyes to drop for a moment, quickly looking away again when I meet his gaze. His hair is still greesy and dirty, his prison robes are rumpled and stained, his face is streaked with grime and I can practically smell him from here. It’s been a goddamn week, and I feel my temper rising.

            The father of my child.

            But his face… His face looks carefully curated, his cold mask of superior indifference is back as he contemplates my presence. But to my utter relief, he does not try speaking again. A little voice, sounding curiously like Blaise, is whispering in my ear – Tell him – but I’d rather eat a live purple toad before doing that.

            Instead, I opt to keep glaring at the guard, who looks back at me with an air of pure boredom.

            Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the door to open again. The guard from earlier steps through, followed by a considerably shorter, rather plump looking man in his fifties.

            “Miss Potter,” he says drily, looking me up and down just like his companion did before.

            “It’s Carter,” I growl and stick the scroll out at him. “Straight from Shaklebolt.”

            He takes the offered scroll and unrolls it lazily. I watch as he reads through it, his eyebrows rising higher and higher on his forehead, before he goes “Pff”, and looks back up at me. “What are we, a fucking hotel?”

            “For all intents and purposes, you are,” I snap and his lazy boredom falls into a deep sneer. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Kingsley. But I suggest you follow these instructions to a T or I will personally make sure you suffer the consequences. And you –“ I turn back around to the guard behind Draco, who, to my utter delight, flinches when I point my finger at him. “Put your hands on him again, I fucking dare you.” I take a deep breath and nod at Draco, “Malfoy. Gentlemen.”

            I strut out of the door, relying on my anger to keep my head held high.

            “Feisty little girlfriend you got there, Malfoy.” I don’t know which one of the guards says this. I’m sorely tempted to turn back around and punch all three of them in the face, but one quick glance at my watch showng 3.05pm tells me I’m late enough because of these assholes.

            The metal door to the holding cells opens up without my needing to do anything, and I practically run out of them and straight ahead, past the elevators, towards the courtrooms. For a quick second, I panic, remembering that I have no clue which courtroom Theo’s trial is held in. But then quickly realise I needn’t worry, the corridor just up ahead is packed with people. I spot Hermione, Harry, Ron and Neville standing closely together, not far from McGonagall, Fleur Weasley and Pansy Parkinson standing huddled together.

            “What’s going on?” I ask Hermione once I reach them.

            “Court is in session already. We’re just waiting to be called in for testimonies,” she says, placing a steadying hand on my arm. “Everything ok?”

            I nod. “Who are all these people?”

            “Reporters,” Ron says darkly.

            “Odette convinced the Wizengamot to exclude them from the proceedings, but they can’t really bar them from standing around outside.”

            “Voltures,” I mumble. A few of them turn around at this, but surprisingly none of them say a word.

            “They can’t talk to us,” Hermione says. “It might influence our testimony, so they’ve all been silenced.” She gives them a wicked smirk.

            “They could’ve put us all in a separate room, don’t you think? Would make this whole shit show look somewhat professional.”

            “The court room is too small.” Hermione shrugs. “Evidently, they didn’t think anyone would show up to defend Theo or say anything on his behalf. The atmosphere in there is terrible. The only reason this is even happening is because of Odette and Kingsley, the rest of them would have just thrown Theo in Azkaban and thrown the key away.”

            My face mirrors Hermione’s irritated expression.

            “Why though..?”

            She shrugs again, but before she can respond, the metalic, Ministry anouncement voice rings out above us. "The judges have convened and are ready to reach a verdict. All spectators may now enter the courtroom.”

            “What?!” It’s Neville, and I have to lean one hand against the wall to stay upright, considering this is my third whiplash of the day.

            “This can’t be right,” Hermione says.

            I exchange a look with her, then glance over at the other three. McGonagall looks outraged, much like Neville. I catch Pansy’s eye, looking just as concerned as Hermione. Harry and Ron look deadly. The reporters on the other hand, Quick-Quotes-Quill rapidly scratching away on their respective scrolls, look morbidly delighted.

            Hermione pulls me through the door first when it opens, although we have to elbow our way through the throng of journalists trying to do the same. “Get out of my way,” I hear Neville growling at hem just behind us.

            It’s an incredibly small courtroom, with only a handful of seats at the back we all scramble to fill. Opposite us sit the judges – Ellsworth, Horváth and Daghestani from the EMO, Kingsley and three other people I have never seen before from the Wizengamot. Theo sits in the middle of the pit, the judges high above him and the spectators behind his back. With horror, I note that his arms, legs and chest are chained to the chair, and from my point of view, it looks like that is the only thing holding him upright.

            The first glimmer of hope comes with Odettes face; she looks stern, but her lips are pulled into a tight line that almost looks triumphant – or maybe it’s just a trick of the light. The second glimmer of hope comes in a series of magical pictures, projected onto the wall to our left.

            It takes me a moment to place them, but I soon realise they must have been taken by Colin, in the Room of Requirement just a few weeks ago. They are all of Theo: at the dinner table, sharing a laugh with Neville and one of the Patil twins; in his sleeping cot, dangling a chocolate frog in front of my face from above and snatching it away with a wicked grin when I try to take it; in the middle of the training floor, silently whooping as Dean’s dart hits its mark right in the eye; and finally in the Ravenclaw common room, in front of Rowena Ravenclaw’s bust, standing protectively over Luna and I, a stern look on his face as I argue with him.

            I have no clue how Odette got her hands on these.

            Hermione pulls me down into a seat at the front, right by the stairs down to the sacrificial pit Theo is trapped in. I keep my eyes on Shaklebolt, waiting patiently for us all to settle, before he raises one hand to silence the already silent crowd. The first flash goes of.

            “In light of the evidence presented and in my capacity as acting Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and head of this Council of Magical Law –“ Ellsworth audible huffs at this – “I have decided to expedite these proceedings, so as not to further waste all of our time.” He sounds slightly annoyed as he says this, although his face does not betray any of his feelings.      

            I feel my heart in my throat, and instinctively grab Hermione’s hand in her lap, when he says “All in favor of conviction?”

            Ellsworth and Horváth’s hands shoot up into the air. Everbody else’s, including Daghestanis (which earns her a furious look from Ellsworth) stay down. One Wizengamot witch behind Kingsley firmly crosses her arms over her chest. That’s five out of seven judges against conviction. Theo wimpers, flashes go of blindingly from all around and the furious scratching from the Quick-Quotes-Quills almost drown out Kingsley’s low drawl.

            “Very well,” he says, finally allowing a smile on his face with a glimmer of mischief reserved for Odette. “Mr Nott, you are acquitted of all charges. You are free to go and resume your life without sanction. You may pick up your wand at the reception desk whenever you’re ready.” And just like that, he swings his gavel and “Case dismissed.”

            I jump to my feet and run down the steps to keep Theo from slumping to the floor as the chains slowly sliver into the floor. I catch him around the shoulders and he slings his arms tightly around my middle, holding onto the back of my shirt for dear life. The cameras keep flashing, but Neville comes down just behind me to shield us from them.

            “We’re having a party tonight and you’re not allowed to drink,” Theo giggles through his tears of relief.

            I huff out a laugh and bury my face in his curls, kissing the top of his head and soothingly running my hands over his shoulders. That’ll give the press their front page news and, frankly, I couldn’t care less.