The Minister of Magic
Draco woke the next morning knowing he had to leave. There were no summons, no notes, just a sense of foreboding. He knew if he didn't leave now, he never would, and everything he was working for would fall down like the house of cards it was.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay more than he'd ever wanted everything. But that wasn't how life worked, Draco knew that better than anyone.
Blaise. He was the real victim in all of this. He'd proven time and time again he'd stand with Draco through anything and everything, but as Draco saw it, that was more curse than blessing.
After all, his mother was still faithfully devoted to his father. Fuck, Draco was still devoted to his father.
Draco turned and put his feet to the floor, pushing off the bed slowly. He wouldn't wake his fiancé, Blaise would need all the sleep he could get in the coming months. Draco dressed quietly, keeping the lights low, but just as he made for the door, Blaise stirred.
"Draco?" He asked, sleep tugging at the edges of his voice.
Draco shut his eyes, grimacing. He turned, walking softly to the edge of the bed, "I've got to go, Blaise."
Deep brown eyes opened, "Not going to say goodbye?"
"I'm sorry." Draco couldn’t say more than that. Wouldn’t.
Blaise closed his eyes again, hand coming out of the covers to grip Draco's, "It's alright. Soldier of my heart, go on."
Draco smiled, but it felt like a rock was lodged in his throat, blocking his breathing. It was so much harder to leave like this, having to look into Blaise's eyes and walk away. Draco much preferred being the coward he was and leaving under the cover of night.
He lifted Blaise's hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the knuckles, "I'll be back." He wouldn't say 'soon.'
Blaise didn't answer, and Draco didn't expect him to. What could he say?
"I know?" "Alright?" "Please?"
They both knew Draco was operating on time he couldn't give.
So Draco pulled away, "Go back to sleep."
He turned before Blaise could answer, shutting the door quietly behind him. He could apparate out, but again, it was such a grievous breach of etiquette Draco refused it on principle, even if closing the door in Blaise's face felt like molten glass being poured down his throat.
As if summoned, the second Draco walked out of the door, and into the foyer, Sirius appeared.
Draco kept walking, he had no interest in being shamed for his choices today.
"Draco." Sirius called, stepping forward.
"Can I help you?" Draco was almost at the door now, his back still to Sirius. If he could just take two more steps, he could leave.
But he'd already given so much. If he abandoned all sense of politeness now, what was the point in any of this? He couldn't walk away in the middle of a conversation.
"Where are you going?"
Draco couldn't help it, he laughed, "Again? Really? Is this the only way you know how to start a conversation?"
Sirius snorted, "Not much opportunity for conversation in Azkaban."
"No, I'd imagine not." Draco looked over his shoulder, seeing Sirius in the doorway. The only reason he didn’t walk away then, was the uncertain look on his cousin’s face.
It wasn't anything someone outside of their family would notice, in fact, it was only visible in the absence of other gestures. A complete blankness in the face, completely still hands folded behind the back, stiff posture. Draco recognised every sign like a funhouse mirror.
"Neither of us know how to do this, I think." Draco said, because he could already feel his mind slipping sideways into wherever it went when he wasn't at Grimmauld.
"I think you're right." Sirius sighed, looking to the ceiling, his eyes flicking briefly to the covered portrait of Aunt Walburga.
Draco turned to face his cousin fully, "I'll see you soon, Sirius." because his mother raised him to be polite, and because he could lie to Sirius in a way he couldn't to Blaise.
Sirius pursed his lips, "I'll see you soon, Draco."
Conversation over, Draco donned his outer-cloak and opened the door, stepping out and onto the street. It wasn't raining this time, the sky was clear, and grey.
But before Draco could return to The Manor, he had an errand to run, so he apperated to a small, nondescript building in London. Stepping out of the closet the apparition point was set in, he walked out of the door and onto the main street, feet automatically knowing the path to the bright red phone booth, so cloaked in dissolution charms Draco could physically see them. They shimmered through the air, wafting like smoke into the faces of muggle passers-by.
Picking up the phone, he dialled the designated Malfoy number, 624426.
There was a small pause, before a feminine voice spoke up, "Right away, Mr. Malfoy."
Let them assume Draco was his father, it would make his path all the easier. Though Lucius Malfoy didn't technically have a job at the Ministry, he was there so often he might as well have. Being the personal barrister to almost every senior level employee would do that.
As the phone booth lowered into the Ministry, Draco reflected on what he had to do. It wasn't like he had a perfectly clean record, even before joining the Death Eaters. Draco would admit he wasn't the kindest, or most selfless person. In his defence, he'd never claimed to be.
But the things he'd had to do recently made even his time at school look like an absolute rainbow. But 'had' was a strong word? Wasn't it? Draco chose this, he walked into it, quite literally asked for it even, so who was he to regret it?
Draco walked through the near-empty halls of the ministry in a daze, one foot in front of the other, as he made his way to the Minister of Magic's office.
Rufus Scrimgeor was not his idea of an ideal minister, much too righteous, with little to no bite to back it up. He would be easily dealt with.
He didn't need a disillusionment charm or invisibility cloak to walk through the halls of the ministry, anyone who might have questioned him saw the white hair and cane, and left him alone.
This meant he quickly reached the minister's office, barely stopping by the secretaries desk. A few smooth words and smiles kept him from signing in for an official visit, but he did think he saw a flash of Weasley-red hair out of the corner of his eye. When he turned however, there was nothing.
Walking into the office itself, Draco couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of loss. He shouldn't be here. This was his father's job. Why was he here?
For a moment, Draco couldn't remember.
No, he was here on behalf of The Dark Lord. He was here because he'd been entrusted with the Ministry.
Because he'd asked for it.
"Mr. Malfoy." Scrimgeor said, hardly looking up from his desk.
"Minister Scrimgeour." Draco replied.
The minister's head whipped up, his eyes widening in surprise.
"I have something to ask of you." Draco kept on, working his wand from his sleeve silently.
Scrimgeor squinted, surveying Draco as his hand twitched quite obviously to his own wand, "Last I heard, you were missing."
"Funny how fast things change, isn't it?" Draco smiled, his wand in hand, though he left it at his side. He didn't want to do this.
He really, really didn't want to do this. Draco had made a decision, a long time ago, to act under his own will.
The last time he'd used the Imperius Curse had been over the summer. She was a lovely woman, a mother, and he'd led her into a fantasy. He'd convinced her she was exactly where she wanted to be. Safe.
When he looked into her mind, to see what her ultimate want was, she was in her living room, with a cup of tea, and her daughter asleep at her side.
That was her idea of the best possible scenario. That was her only wish.
Bellatrix had killed her a week later.
Draco had decided, a long time ago, to spare Madame Rosmerta.
And today, he made the decision to condemn Rufus Scrimgeor.
In the end, all of it really had been for nothing. Here Draco was, still the monster he was raised to be.
Draco raised his wand, quicker than the minister could raise his own, and, voice horse, whispered, "Imperio."
He felt the spell connect immediately, but past that, there was the familiar sensation of being at an important crossroads. Like he had tipped over the side of a ship, and cold water was running into his nose and throat.
Draco felt like he was choking, and in his ears, there was a small snapping noise, like a thread being cut, as he fell apart.
It began to feel as though he was building a wall, a clear here and there. Both with different Draco's.
Just like with the Malfoy Lordship, there was a separation.
This Draco was no longer privy to that Draco's thoughts. They were different modes of being, the same person on two planes of existence.
They had to be. He wouldn't survive if they weren't.
One half of him had Blaise, and Sirius, and pain, and love, and betrayal.
Another had Bellatrix, and Voldemort, and security, and power, and sacrifice.
So Draco surfaced from the cold waves, and took a breath unburdened by thoughts of family.
"You do not remember these instructions, but will nonetheless follow them.” Draco commanded.
“Nothing is wrong, and the Ministry is strong. Death Eaters are back, but you have arrested all the most dangerous members, and the remaining are nothing but a small fringe group, concerned with the preservation of pureblood culture.”
“There are no further disappearances, or murders that can be connected to the Death Eaters, or He-who-must-not-be-named. If it seems like there is, you will reassure the public, and anyone involved, even remotely, that the ministry is strong, and will fix things, but you will take no further actions concerning Voldemort, or anyone associated with him.”
“You will tell The Profit, if they ask, that you are perfectly fine, and so is everyone else.” Draco said, leaning forward and watching the minister's face to make sure the instructions stuck, “That you have already won this war, in all but name.”
“When I wave my wand, you will resume things as normal, and all you will remember is that we had a polite, if strained, conversation about my father’s retirement.” He waved his wand, quickly slipping it back into his sleeve as Scrimgeor came back to himself.
The minister harrumphed, “So sorry to hear about that.” He said it with an absolute lack of sincerity, but Draco couldn’t have cared less.
He smiled, “So sorry to take up your time, minister. I’ll be taking my leave now.”
And with that, Draco left. The command wasn’t immediate, or saddled with over-specific instructions, and so there would be no noticeable change of behaviour. In fact, it was only a reinforcement of the thought process Rufus Scrimgeor already seemed to possess. Draco had done nothing that would not have already been done.
Draco left, using one of the floo stations to return to The Manor, where he could feel the dark blight of The Dark Lord.
Already, he could feel the ministry fading from his mind, like someone had pulled a curtain around it, obscuring everything but the base details.
Before he knew it, Draco was standing in front of the study door, knocking softly.
“Enter.” The Dark Lord’s voice drawled.
Draco opened the door, and stepped into the room, “My lord, I’ve come to inform you of my return.”
The Dark Lord grinned.
When he woke up the next morning, Draco found that he couldn’t remember what he said next, or what The Dark Lord had told him.
His only proof the conversation had occurred at all was the ache in his leg, and the familiar feeling of dread.