Chapter 5
Unraveling the Shadows: Draco Malfoy Under Scrutiny Once More
By Rita Skeeter
Today, I bring to light the shadows cast by one of the most notorious names in wizarding society—the Malfoys. In the wake of the tragic demise of Astoria Malfoy, a dark cloud of suspicion has loomed over none other than Draco Malfoy himself. Sources close to the Ministry of Magic have revealed that Draco, scion of the once-prominent Malfoy family, finds himself yet again entangled in the web of an investigation.
The Malfoys have always lived lavishly, basking in the glory of their family name, a name synonymous with privilege, entitlement, darkness, and even death. The Malfoy estate, a symbol of opulence that has masked the darkness lurking within its walls. While it may exude grandeur, whispers of dubious dealings and questionable practices have surrounded the estate for decades and apparently hasn’t stopped since the capturing and jailing of the former head of house— Lucious Malfoy. Sources close to the family speak of clandestine meetings and dealings that raise eyebrows even among the most reputable circles of society. And at the forefront of such dealings stands Draco Malfoy.
It is thanks to my investigative prowess and the illuminating articles brought forth by this humble correspondent that have prompted Aurors to cast their discerning eye towards Mr. Malfoy. It is with great honor and privilege that I can inform you, dearest readers, that Astoria's passing, which previously was accepted as a tragedy, has now raised suspicious and perplexing questions. Questions that, until now, the authorities appeared content to overlook.
The specter of suspicion has shackled Draco Malfoy, restricting his movements as if he were already a convicted criminal. He is presently under investigation, effectively restrained from international travel. Furthermore, his business endeavors have been forcibly halted, vaults frozen in a crackdown by the Ministry, casting shadows over his alleged dealings.
I for one will sleep much better knowing the Ministry is cracking down on such things. Though I do wonder if it is too little, too late. I am not the only one who shares in this concern, as sources intimate to the Greengrass family disclose a poignant development: the guardianship of young Scorpius, Draco's son, hangs precariously in the balance. Whispers among the well-informed suggest the Greengrass clan seeks sole custody, their motives ostensibly pure—a bid for the child's well-being and proper upbringing.
These sources, brimming with concern for Scorpius's future, dare to hint that the Greengrass family’s endeavor might not be in vain. They imply that Draco Malfoy, deemed unfit by those in the know, lacks the fundamental qualities necessary for parenthood. They insinuate an absence of love, a deficiency of care that renders him an aberration in the eyes of respectable society. The Greengrass family's interest in the upbringing of young Scorpius might just be the lifeline needed to rescue him from the clutches of a tainted legacy.
As this investigation unfurls, shedding light on the shadowy corners of the Malfoy legacy, one cannot help but wonder: What skeletons lie in the Malfoy family's illustrious closets? What more will be unearthed in this murky saga that has captivated the magical community?
Only time will tell, dear readers, if Draco Malfoy will emerge unscathed from this mire of suspicion or if the shadows that envelope him shall deepen, casting an indelible stain upon his once-fabled name. As the story unfolds, the wizarding community waits with bated breath to see the fate of the Malfoy heir and whether the Greengrass family will indeed step in to guide the next Malfoy Heir toward a brighter future.
Forever yours,
Rita Skeeter
~~ DRACO ~~ MALFOY~~
Draco knew he had inherited a penchant for the dramatics. Blame could be pointed at his father, who was no stranger to theatrics and a master of brooding and sneering to instill fear. Or perhaps one could blame it on his godfather, Severus Snape, the grand maestro of theatrics. As Draco strode into the polished corridors of the Ministry, he felt like he was channeling a blend of them both.
He was the perfect portrait of aristocratic grace, despite the current emotions raging within. His steps were measured and thunderous, his eyes flashing with a fury that could possibly ignite the very air around him. His platinum blond hair, usually impeccably styled, now fell in disarray over his forehead, adding to the aura of controlled chaos that surrounded him and providing that extra dramatic flare that could put both the previously mentioned pare to shame.
A symphony of whispers followed in his wake, the venomous headlines echoing in his mind. Headlines that had plagued him, his family, and tainted the memory of Astoria. Anger surged in him like an unyielding storm. Each accusatory word, each insinuation that painted him as a villain, had carved a bitter resentment deep within his chest.
Yet after all he had endured in the weeks following Astoria’s death, nothing had made him barge his way through the Ministry without even stopping for a visitors badge or caring that he currently had at least four Aurors trailing him, quite like the folder currently tucked under his armpit.
The lift doors loomed ahead, its polished surface a temporary barrier to his seething indignation. He awaited the familiar “Ding” for only but a minute before cluttered and clanked to a stop and the magical doors slid open. As he stepped inside, the occupants, six Ministry employees and one visitor adorned with a guest badge Draco had forgone, appeared rooted to the floor, a palpable tension hanging between them like a heavy shroud.
“You may go.” He had no right or authority to command it of them, yet he had the audacity to do it anyways. Draco's gaze flickered over the faces, his stormy eyes holding a blend of disdain and a smoldering defiance that dared anyone to challenge him. Thankfully none of them dared and all of them promptly scurried from the lift. He was pretty sure one of them had squeaked, another had tripped in their haste on the way out, and the oaf with the guest badge had hardly made it out in the nick of time— the bottom of his robes getting caught in the door before promptly tearing as the lift ascended.
The lift ascended, each moment feeling like an agonizing eternity which was only prolonged by the constant stopping of the bloody thing. Each time the announcer named off a floor and department, and the doors opened on various floors, employees gawked but hesitated to enter. Honestly, it was as if they were afraid he was going to curse them if they as much as sneezed in his general direction. Which, was probably a fair assessment after reading the Daily Profit that morning.
That fucking bitch Rita Skeeter would get what she deserved one of these days, her scathing pieces infuriated him. He had toyed with the idea of accepting Hermione Granger's offer— though uncertain if she was serious— knowing her disappearance would cast suspicion on him. So he had opted not to write Granger back, not to go bug hunting, instead drowned his frustrations in alcohol and wreaked havoc in his study— again.
His immediate action afterwards was ordering a new family tapestry, replacing yet another ancestral portrait, this time opting for a mute figure because his nerves were far too delicate to handle anything more at the moment. Additionally, he sent an owl to the Ministry requesting a portkey, solidifying his decision to leave Wizarding Britain, possibly for good. Or, he would be if the Department of Magical Transportation hadn’t denied his request without any sort of explanation whatsoever.
The lift chimed once more, finally reaching his desired floor. Any residual anger that had faded in the small enclosure surged back as he stepped out. The air crackled around him, robes billowing like an ominous cloak, his eyes ablaze with a relentless fire, challenging anyone who dared confront him. Though he was not intentionally stomping with every step he took he could still feel the weight of each one as he approached the front desk.
The receptionist, a timid witch with oversized spectacles and magically altered pink hair, attempted to intercept him, but he barreled past without acknowledgment. He was a man on a mission after all, and that mission had nothing to do with the timid little thing and everything to do with whoever the hell Sherradan Kelvenbaugh was.
Bloody bint was about to get an earful as soon as he found her office, or cubical. Merlin’s tits he hoped it was a cubical. As juvenile as it was, he really hoped Sherr-a-whatever had a cubical and not an office. He wanted to be able to yell at her in full view of the office.
Yes, yes, he was aware how every Malfoy that was of him.
The thing was, he didn’t care.
Maybe last week he might have. Last month he would have most definitely been more sympathetic. Had he never lost Astoria, he would completely blanched at the idea. Clearly, however, he was a different person today than he was then. For poor Sherry, that meant she was about to get an earful. A very well put together, extremely loud, earful. And he was one hundred percent okay with that.
Eye’s eyes darted across the golden name plates, rapidly reading them as he sought the one he needed. He felt a pang of disappointment upon finding the one he needed on an actual office door. Ignoring the hushed warnings and protests that echoed behind him from the receptionist and the few employees who decided they should join in, Draco swung the door open with a force that reverberated through the chamber. He had wanted an audience, and he had one. Interrupting a meeting, or so it appeared as he briefly glanced at the four members that were in the small office. Whatever meeting they had been having abruptly halted with his dramatic entrance.
A stern-faced witch, exuding an aura of strict orderliness, sat at her desk, fingers steepled and thinly veiled annoyance etched on her expression. Someone shuffled papers about, but Draco hardly cared who or why as he slammed his file down with a resounding thud, demanding answers that brooked no delay.
"Why was my travel denied?" Draco's voice sliced through the tense silence, each word edged with venom.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the occupants frozen in various states of shock and trepidation. Sherd-a-whatever-her-name-is composure was tested as she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Mr. Malfoy, this is highly irregular," she began, her tone measured but tinged with impatience. "There are protocols to follow, and your abrupt intrusion—"
"I care not for your protocols!" Draco's voice thundered, his temper flaring unchecked. His fists clenched at his sides, his entire being vibrating with a raw, uncontainable energy.
The bossy little witch, who seemed ancient enough to have retired ages ago (honestly, isn’t retirement still a thing?) leaned forward, attempting to rein in the escalating confrontation. "Your request for international travel has been flagged due to recent events, Mr. Malfoy. It's standard procedure—"
"Standard procedure?!" Draco's scoff cut through the explanation.
"Mr. Malfoy, we are simply following—"
“Protocol?” Draco supplied, his words dripping with disdain. “May I ask which protocol exactly? Last I checked, I'm still a wizard, I possess my wand, and I'm a British citizen. What protocol, exactly, is prohibiting my travel?”
She pushed his file toward him, clearly expecting him to take it back. “Article 162—”
“I don’t care about your bloody articles!” He slid it back toward her in a defiant move, aware it might backfire but feeling it was worth it nonetheless.
“—states that a suspect of—”
“SUSPECT!” Draco's voice reverberated off the walls of the small office. “Suspect of what exactly?”
“That is not my department, Mr. Malfoy,” she reiterated, sliding the file back across the desk once again. “If you have questions, I suggest you—”
“Surely you checked with that department before denying my request,” he cut her off, pushing the file back forcefully.
She scoffed. She actually bloody fucking scoffed. Like this whole situation wasn’t her fault because she clearly failed to do her bloody job! The half-brain, old as dirt, troll shit!
“I don’t see why that is necessary.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it’s part of your job not to make assumptions!”
“I am not assuming anything. You are a suspect for the murder of your wife.”
Draco was starting to see red now. “Oh?” He said very quietly, venomously, deadly. “And you know this how exactly? Because the Profit said so?” She at least had the good sense to look slightly sheepish and a bit frightened.
“There was a time when the papers labeled Harry Potter as the number one undesirable—” He scanned the room, then focused on Sherra—sherra something. “Would you have denied him travel then, or do you have a particular bias in regards to me?”
The air crackled with tension as Sherlinda stammered, attempting to find her wording. She stuttered and sputtered for a few seconds before a sudden, and familiar "Ahem" disrupted the charged atmosphere, drawing everyone's attention. Draco's blood ran cold at the unmistakable sound. Bloody Potter had decided to intervene, and Merlin’s saggy balls, he couldn't have chosen a worse moment. It was almost as though his mentioning the bloody “Savor of the Wizarding World” had summoned him.
Merlin’s saggy fucking balls it was annoying.
Without acknowledging him, Draco snarled out, "This doesn’t concern you, Potter."
"Actually, it does," Harry's voice was firm and unwavering.
Draco's hand clenched into a fist at his side as he battled the urge to turn and face his childhood rival. His business was not with Potter; it was with the old hag in front of him. He refused to be baited into another confrontation.
Sensing the shift in conversation, Shereen, or whatever her name was, attempted to regain control. "Mr. Potter, Malfoy here is in breach of our protocol, I do hope you are here to—"
"Mr. Potter!" Draco interrupted, trying to copy the insufferable woman’s tone while still being sharp and dismissive. He felt he did a rather good job, all things considered. "I believe you have your own affairs to attend to. Leave mine alone."
Harry’s voice turned steely. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Draco."
Bugger it all.
Draco's jaw tensed at the use of his first name, an unwelcome familiarity. One Potter had no right in having, but he forced himself to maintain composure. Unwilling to let Potter see the effect his intrusion had on him, he did the only thing he could think to do— ignore him and his presence.
He turned back to the old hag, (seriously, what was her name again?) refusing to let this conversation and his demand be derailed just because Scar Head showed up. "All I want is an explanation for this blatant breach of my rights," he pressed, his voice dripping with a controlled fury, “and my portkey. Then I’ll leave you to your extremely mundane existence.”
Potter's presence had caused a jolt, a reminder of a history fraught with animosity and unresolved conflicts. Draco's instinct was to recoil away from him, to let the simmering distrust dictate his actions, but the urgency of his predicament held him in place. That is, until Potter stepped forward. Instinctively, Draco took an involuntarily step back. "Draco, we need to talk," he said, his voice carrying a solemn undertone that cut through the charged atmosphere.
Draco's defenses bristled at the suggestion of engaging in conversation. He wouldn’t willingly do such a thing. “I just want my portkey, and then I’ll leave,” he reiterated, refusing to acknowledge Potter.
“As I've said, Mr. Malfoy,” the old witch sneered, “I won't provide an international portkey, for obvious reasons.”
“And why is that again?”
“I hardly think I need to repeat—”
“Because I’m a suspect. That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Draco snapped. “What say you Potter. Is that true? Surely you would know.” He added with an eye roll, “Do you suspect foul play in the passing of my wife?” His words carried defiance. When Potter stayed silent, Draco's gaze slid to Potter, a sneer curling his lip. "Well?"
Potter shook his head gravely. "No. Astoria's death was due to a Blood Curse, not foul play."
The old crone cited the Prophet once more, but Potter sharply cut her off. "The Prophet often gets things wrong, Mrs. Kelvenbaugh. And it would do you good to remember that."
Kelvenbaugh, blah! What a name, no wonder he kept forgetting it.
“But—” She started once again, and just like before she was cut off by Potter. Draco's eyes narrowed as he observed the interaction between Potter and the hag, an uneasy alliance forming between him and the former childhood rival he'd never truly trusted. But before he could truly question Potter’s motives, the man in question turned abruptly to Draco. His demeanor softened, his tone gentle, more relaxed, almost cuddling, which bugged Draco to no end.
"Come with me, Draco," he urged. “Please.”
But Draco refused outright, his voice rising to fill the room. "I will not go until my travel is approved."
The bitches voice sliced through the tension. "It will never be approved." she asserted with an air of finality.
Potter's patience waned. "Shut it," he snapped at her before turning back to Draco, his voice carrying an air of urgency. "Draco, come with me now."
"Why? So you can arrest me?" Draco challenged, distrust evident in his tone.
"Malfoy, you caused a scene coming in here. I can guarantee there is already a team of Aurors coming to collect you, and they will arrest you," Potter stated firmly, halting Draco's protest before it could even begin. "Of course, they will not hold you for long, but hold you they will. So what do you have to lose by coming with me now?"
The weight of Potter's words hung heavy in the air, Draco torn between defiance and the realization that perhaps complying was the only way to avoid further complications. “Fine, but do not think this is over Sherranbaugh!” Draco grunted out, glaring at the old crone once again and marveling in her frustration in his mispronouncing her name. What did he care? She was a stupid bitch anyways.
"I'm really not here to arrest you," Potter stated firmly, his green eyes holding a sincerity that clashed with Draco's expectations as the two of them approached the lifts.
“We shall see, won’t we.” Draco retorted, his trust in Potter nonexistent given their history, but who could blame him. Draco's jaw tensed, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. Trusting Potter seemed like an impossible task. "Why should I trust you?" he countered, his skepticism evident in his guarded demeanor.
It was a much quicker ride this time, but once again no one dared join them as the Lift whisked them away and when the door clattered open for only the second time Potter led Draco through the corridors to his office, their steps echoing faintly against the polished floors. Eventually, they arrived at his office—a spacious room adorned with neatly stacked files and a sense of quiet authority that accompanied its occupant. It was nothing like he had expected.
He had assumed, rightful so he was sure, that most Gryffindors did not know how to keep things orderly. No, Slytherins kept things tidy and clean. Ravenclaws kept the order of things. Hufflepuffs didn’t give two shits about anything, and Gryffindors were too chaotic to maintain any sort of decorum or order. At least, that’s how he had always seen them.
Admittedly, he didn’t really know much about them outside of his own personal bias. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if someone else organized and kept his office tidy, or if it was in fact his office at all. As he surveyed the office with a mixture of surprise and reluctance, he couldn’t help but wonder what else he had been wrong about in his assumptions.
Of course the realization that Harry Potter was now the Head Auror, the one in charge, was a twist he hadn't expected. His lips formed a thin line, concealing the unease that churned within. Had he read that somewhere? When had that happened? Surely it would have been front page worthy information. The Chosen One becoming Head Auror…
Would have been a better headline than Former Death Eater Kills Wife and Doesn’t Cry About it.
Fucking Rita Skeeter.
“Please, take a seat,” Harry gestured to a plush chair and interrupting Draco's self-deprecating thoughts. “Would you like some tea? Biscuits, perhaps?”
Draco hesitated, his wariness evident as he settled into the chair, his posture rigid. "I'm fine, thanks," he replied curtly, his gaze flickering around the office, unable to find a point of focus in this unfamiliar setting.
As Harry poured himself a cup of tea, he took notice of Draco's guarded demeanor. "It's not poisoned, Malfoy, if that’s what you’re worried about."
Draco's response was devoid of amusement. "Can you blame me?" he retorted, his voice carrying the weight of bitterness. "The whole world thinks I killed my wife."
Harry's expression softened, a pang of empathy flickering in his eyes. "Not the whole world," he corrected gently, a note of solemnity underscoring his words. "Just half of Britain and Scotland, maybe."
Draco's scowl deepened at the attempt at humor. "That's supposed to be funny?" he snapped, his frustration palpable.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Apparently the great big git still hadn’t learned of a thing called a comb. "I didn't mean it that way," he admitted, the levity of his earlier remark falling flat. "I know this is serious, and I'm not here to make light of it. I want to help."
Draco regarded him with a mix of skepticism and resignation. The room felt suffocating, the weight of suspicion and accusations pressing down on him. "How can you help?" he asked, his voice tinged with a flicker of hope amidst the despair.
Harry leaned forward, his demeanor shifting to one of earnest sincerity. "I'm sorry about Astoria," Harry began, his voice carrying a depth of sincerity that resonated in the room. "I know it must be hard. Losing someone, especially when there's so much speculation surrounding it."
Draco hesitated, the turmoil within him mirroring the chaos of his thoughts. Trusting Potter was an alien concept. “Fine.” Draco conceded, his tone laced with reluctant agreement. "I’ll listen to what you have to say, but don't expect me to trust you just yet."
Harry nodded understandingly, the weight of empathy reflecting in his green eyes. "I can't imagine what it's like," he admitted softly. "The thought of losing Ginny… it's unimaginable. She's everything, her presence, her guidance for the children, her light. If I were forced to raise them without her…" His voice trailed off, the vulnerability in his words laying bare the depth of his emotions.
Draco's defenses wavered slightly and before he could stop himself he confessed "I never thought I'd have to face this alone," the vulnerability in his voice echoing Harry's sentiments. "Astoria was… everything to me and Scorpius. Her kindness, her strength. It's hard to fathom a life without her."
"I believe you, Draco," he asserted firmly, his gaze unwavering. "I know you had nothing to do with what happened. Astoria's passing wasn't your doing."
Draco's guarded facade softened slightly, a flicker of gratitude for the genuine sentiment Harry offered. "Thank you," he murmured, the words holding a weight of gratitude amidst the tumult of emotions. No one had ever said that to him, at least no one outside of his close friend group and his mother. Somehow they did not seem as significant as hearing it from Potter, but it would take more than a few pretty words carefully formed to make him drop his walls and trust the man.
Draco sighed, running a hand down his face and feeling the stubble there scratching at his hand. Merlin he needed to save.
“But that doesn’t explain why I’m here, or how you even know about her blood curse to begin with.” He had to say it, self preservation and all. What? He wasn’t placed into Slytherin just because he was a Malfoy. “Was I a suspect, Potter? Did you, er, the Ministry have me looked into?”
Harry hesitated and for a moment Draco thought he was going to deny it. “Yes, but only partially.” He sipped his tea, leaving Draco sitting in an awkward silence not sure what to say to that, when he added “I was against it, of course, from the very beginning. However, an accusation like that still needs looking into. Which I did personally, so I could assure my team and any questions that came our way, of your innocence.”
Draco hummed, deciding his tea probably wasn’t poisoned, and took a small sip as to not appear impolite. Also, he was British and he was sure there was some rule out there somewhere that said a British Bloke must drink tea when offered even if said tea is poisoned.
“Draco—” Salazar! He really wished he would stop calling him Draco “— have you ever considered therapy? It might help process what you’re going through.” He moved just then, reaching for a strange contraption on his desk. Draco’s brow furrowed as his gaze fixated on the peculiar device resting on the cluttered desk before him. He regarded it with a mix of curiosity, having never seen such a thing before. The cylindrical apparatus appeared utterly foreign, its plastic frame and metallic spindle seemed out of place amidst the magical ambiance of his surroundings.
Draco's lip curled imperceptibly as he observed the rotating mechanism, finding its design rather mundane and utilitarian. The cards appeared to be neatly arranged and labeled, probably Granger’s doing as he still wasn’t wholly convinced Potter kept things in such a tight order. There was no possible way Potter had done that himself. It was simply inconceivable.
“Here, this is the contact for a therapist I saw—”
"Therapist?” Draco snapped, now that he was no longer fixated on the strange apparatus that organized business cards. “You think therapy will fix this?" his voice was laced with bitterness. He stood abruptly, his movements agitated as he began to pace the room, his frustration boiling over. "Do you have any idea what I've been through? What I've tried?"
He reached into his robes, pulling out a handful of cards, all of which were a mess because he did not have such a contraption of his own. Each card represented a supposed healer or therapist. "I've been to them all," he spat, throwing down one card at a time onto the desk with a mixture of anger and despair. "Mind healer, support groups for grieving widowers, supposed seers who claim they can help me talk to Astoria from beyond. Useless charlatans! All of them!"
Harry's gaze followed Draco's pacing form, his expression pensive yet composed. "I know it's difficult," Harry began calmly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding. "But sometimes, seeking help from someone who—"
Draco wheeled around, his eyes blazing with raw emotion. "What do you know about grief?" he seethed, his voice cracking with emotion. "About losing someone you loved so deeply? What do you know about it?"
The accusation hung in the air, the room reverberating with Draco's anger. Harry's demeanor remained steady, but a flicker of pain crossed his features. "Oh yes, what could I, an orphan, possibly know about loss and death?" Harry's words were calm, but they cut through the tension like a knife.
Draco stilled, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he stared at Harry, his anger dissipating into a painful realization. The weight of his words, the implication of his accusations, settled heavily upon him. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I-I’m sorry.”
Fuck he was an utter twat!
The room fell silent, the air thick. “Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy, and I’m a fucking arse who just lost his wife. Don’t mind me, I apparently can’t regulate my emotions.”
Harry's gaze softened, then his lips twitched up into a smile. “Hermione would say you have the emotional rage of a teaspoon.” It was clearly an inside joke, one Draco would never be privy to, but he smiled just the same.
“She would probably be right.” Draco sank back into the chair, the storm within him subsiding into the hollow ache that had been his entire existence since Astoria’s passing.
“Obviously, Draco, you don’t have to. The wizarding world is utter shit at helping with things like this though, so if you haven’t tried a muggle therapist then I highly recommend you at least consider the possibility.”
Draco nodded, taking another sip from his cup and shakily putting it back down.
As the quiet stretched on once more, Harry reached into his desk drawer and retrieved two small boxes. His movement interrupted the still silence that had fallen over them as he placed them gently on the desk. It was a deliberate move that drew Draco's skeptical gaze.
They almost resembled ring boxes. “Not going to propose to me, are you Potter? Because I must say, you’re really not my type.” He faked a yawn as if this was the most boring thing in the world and his heart hadn’t suddenly started racing or his mind swirling with all the possibilities of what the boxes held.
Potter didn’t answer, and instead opened each box one at a time. The first one looked to be a thimble with a dent on the side and a hint of rust. The second was a broken pocket watch. Draco sneered at the objects, dismissing them as nothing more than discarded trinkets. "What's this supposed to be, Potter? More of your sentimental rubbish?" he quipped, his tone laden with disdain.
"I understand your request for a Portkey was to transport you to France," Harry began, his voice measured as he waved his hand over the box containing the thimble. Of course they weren’t discarded trash, they were portkeys. "However, I would like to point out that even the French know the name Malfoy."
Draco's expression remained impassive. "And your point is?"
"Have you ever considered someplace different? Somewhere the war didn't touch?" Harry countered, pushing the pocket watch closer to Draco.
Draco scoffed, his skepticism evident. "There's no such place," he dismissed, his conviction faltering slightly. He knew it was a trick! He never should have bloody trusted the wanker! The broken watch was sure to take him straight to a cell in Azkaban.
Harry's smirk was a challenge and Draco wondered if he knew he was giving away his plan so easily. There was no way in bloody hell he was going to take a portkey from Harry fucking Potter. "The Americans didn't join the war. In fact, they were adamant about staying out of it."
The Americans?
Draco blinked.
Oh…
He had not thought of that.
The mention of America was unexpected, a notion that stirred a storm of conflicting emotions within Draco. It could still be a lie, of course, a carefully planned trap Draco would not be falling for… but there was also a chance he could be telling the truth.
He didn’t completely despise the idea, he just had never thought of it. He knew next to nothing about the Americans and their wizards. What he did know of the “Yankees” was from his father’s description and stories of them. Yet, he couldn't deny that his father's stories often twisted the truth and were not fully to be believed. Afterall, he had been extremely wrong about Muggles and Muggleborns.
His thoughts tangled in a silent war as Draco found himself contemplating the possibility. America—a land untainted by the war, a place to escape the suffocating burden of his tarnished name, a place so vast that it would be easy to disappear… "I have no interest in America," Draco lied, because now it was all he could think about.
Harry leaned back, “Is that so?” his lips twitched up. He wasn’t quite smiling, but he was definitely smiling adjacent. “That’s too bad. I hear the wizarding community in New York is wonderful. You could have blended in, acclimated into their society with ease, and no one would think to look for you there.” Fucking bastard was smiling now. "I also hear New York is lovely this time of year."
Draco's façade of indifference faltered, a flicker of contemplation crossing his features. The idea of leaving behind the suffocating weight of his past, of starting anew in a land unknown, was a daunting prospect. He eyed Potter with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "Are you offering me a Portkey to America?" he asked.
Potter nodded solemnly. "To New York. Though, I suppose you can go anywhere from there. It's a bloody large continent."
The offer hung between them, a tentative lifeline thrown amidst the tumult of Draco's emotions. "Why?" Draco pressed, his guarded facade slipping slightly.
"Because sometimes you just need to get away," Harry replied softly as though he understood Draco completely, which in itself was rather daunting.
His gaze shifted to the unassuming object on the desk—the potential key to a new beginning. For a brief moment, amidst the uncertainties and the lingering pain, Draco contemplated the possibility of a fresh start across the ocean.
"Fine," he conceded, his voice barely above a whisper, the admission carrying a hint of resignation amidst the turmoil. "I'll go."
Harry carefully closed the box holding the Portkey and slid it across his desk toward Draco. "It leaves in three days, at nine. Does that work for you?"
Draco considered the timeline before nodding in agreement. But a question lingered, one that had piqued his curiosity. "Why keep the Portkeys in your office?" he inquired, the query laced with genuine curiosity.
Harry chuckled, a rare moment of levity breaking through the tension. "Truthfully? It was my secret ploy all along to get Draco Malfoy the hell out of Britain," he joked, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
For the first time in possibly ever, Draco found himself smirking at Potter without a trace of malice. "Well, congratulations. It worked," he replied, a note of genuine gratitude coloring his words. Then he stood up, rather abruptly, and with sincerity that surprised even himself, Draco extended his hand toward Potter. It was a gesture reminiscent of their first year at Hogwarts when he had offered Potter friendship—a gesture that had been met with rejection. This time, however, the air crackled with a different energy as Potter stood and accepted Draco’s outstretched hand without hesitation.
“Things will calm down, and then you can come back if you wish.” Draco doubted that would ever be the case, but he wasn’t about to say as such.
~~ HERMIONE ~~ GRANGER ~~
The Burrow buzzed with the familiar cacophony of a Weasley family gathering—the clinking of cutlery, the chatter of siblings, and the unmistakable symphony of laughter that filled the air. Hermione used to find these gatherings overwhelming, especially post-war when her nerves were easily frayed. Now, however, she relished the atmosphere and the warmth it brought.
It was family, it was love. Even if she was not exactly related or married into the Weasley clan, she knew they had seen her as family and the invite to family dinners was always extended. A fact she cherished, especially after failing to restore her parents' memories, essentially losing them. Harry and the Weasleys were all she had, they were her lifeline, and she cherished them deeply. Even during Molly's overbearing motherly moments, Arthur's endless inquiries about Muggle life, and even on Ronald's more difficult days.
It was her affection for them that had Hermione using her magic to extend the table to accommodate the growing number of guests. Concentration furrowed her brow as she did the delicate waves of her wand required for such a spell. Just as she managed the correct length and began floating the china to the table, Harry's voice caught her attention from the other room. She blinked up in surprise, one of the plates landing against the table a tad harder than she had intended thanks to the disruption in her concentration. "Sorry." She muttered to Molly before stepping into the next room and asking Harry to repeat himself. Surely she had heard him wrong.
"Malfoy. You know, blond, tall, was once a ferret," Harry said.
"Bloody Git," Ron chimed in, his mouth full of some pastry tart he had managed to sneak out of the kitchen and was currently eating, the crumbs of which littered across his jumper.
"Wore enough grease in his hair to fry a chicken." George chuckled into his glass of whiskey.
"Sharp jawline, fit as fuck," Ginny added, eliciting groans from the boys as they quickly and in succession, told her she was barking.
Hermione tuned out the quips about Draco's appearance, focusing instead on Harry's words. "I know who Malfoy is, Harry. I wanted you to repeat what you said after his name," she interjected.
"Oh." Harry grinned at his best friend. "He's moving. Out of the country, apparently. Came by for his Portkey this morning."
Ron grumbled something that sounded a lot like "good riddance," but Hermione chose to ignore it and instead fixated on Harry's revelation. She furrowed her brow, contemplating the implications of Malfoy's departure. She knew with certainty it was due to Rita Skeeter's vicious lies about him. She meant it when she had offered him to go bug hunting with her, and had hoped it would be a peace offering of sorts. His lack of response didn’t surprise her. She wasn’t naive, nor ignorant, she knew capturing Rita now would obviously raise suspicions at Malfoy, though she had meant it as a way to black-mail the secret animagus, she fully understood his reluctance and had taken his silence as a “no.”
Now, with his imminent departure however… "Harry, is this something I could leak to the press?" she inquired, her gaze intent on him, her mind already devising a plan.
Ron's eyebrows shot up in confusion. "Leak what to the press?"
Harry and Ginny exchanged a knowing glance, a silent understanding passing between them. Those two had an uncanny ability to read each other’s mind and Ginny often times operated on the same wavelength as Hermione, making it easy to understand what she was asking. "I don’t know ‘Mione,” his voice was cautioned. "It would breach what little trust he has in me.”
"I'll write him a letter, taking full responsibility and explaining the situation, if that would make you feel better."
Harry hesitated, "It won't," he admitted reluctantly, his gaze flickering between Hermione and Ginny, “but I suppose I can’t stop you.”
She nodded slowly, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and folding her arms across her chest. Her fingers melodically tapped across the sleeves of her jumper. Ron called it her thinking pose, she called him an arse. George, however, saw it as an opportunity, for what, she wasn’t sure, but when he offered his owl network she perked up and looked at him. “Owl network?”
“Yeah. During the war we developed a system. Basically we over use owls and flood the system so not all of them could be traced. The same message goes out to about thirty people, coded of course. Then, whoever ended up getting the message had a list of thirty more. And so on, and so on. I haven’t used it in a while, but it would make it impossible for the press to track where the original message came from.”
It seemed a bit extreme, but it would also get the word out faster that Malfoy was leaving. Harry seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. "Fine. But make sure it's done carefully," he relented.
“I will.”
“We will.” George amended. He downed the rest of his drink, setting the now empty cup down before standing up and rubbing out the wrinkles of his clothes. Not that there were any. It was very Percy Weasley of him and she almost told him as such but decided to bite her tongue instead and nod at his correction.
“Now, our golden goddess, what exactly are you planning?”
“Care to buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it?”
“Wait, what about dinner?” Ron interrupted, eyes darting between them.
“I could buy you dinner too, if you wish.” George took a step towards her, a playful grin forming.
“Hmm, I could do with dinner.”
“But—” Ron spluttered, rising and brushing crumbs off his jumper. “—Mom’s already making dinner.”
“Oh, you should take her to La Dame de Pic, I hear it’s wonderful!” Ginny added with a giggle, earning a glare from Ron, which she promptly ignored.
It was a lovely idea, and she had been wanting to try it. “Shall we?” George offered her his arm and Hermione felt the familiar pull in her navel the second she touched him as he apparated the two of them away. Had they have stayed a few seconds longer, they would have had the pleasure of seeing Ron, in his haste to stop them, become so flustered and irate that he tripped over a chair, roll into the next room, crash into the table Hermione had magically set. He sent all the plates flying up in the air only for them to come tumbling down and break as they crashed into the floor. And if things weren’t already bad enough, the enchantment on the table broke as it shrunk back down to size.
~~ DRACO ~~ MALFOY~~
It should have come as a complete shock to him, that someone had let slip his travel plans. What was shocking, however, was a letter that arrived shortly before the onslaught of reporters. It was quick, short, and to the point, like most things with her were.
Malfoy,
I wish you the best on your impending travels. I do regret we did not have the opportunity to find that rare and elusive beetle together. I do believe it is no longer in Bristol, in fact, I would wager it’s much closer to you now.
Best of luck, and I do hope you find what you are looking for.
Hermione Jean Granger.