Renewed Interest
The chime at the fireplace was ringing again, but there are only so many people that his Floo network would connect with. He could hear Kreacher go over to answer, halting that infuriating noise. Harry drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, contemplating if he had the energy to engage with other humans at the moment.
Kreacher popped into the room, a clean towel wrapped around him. While not fashionable, at least it was a step removed from the rags he wore when Harry first met him. “The Granger girl wishes to know if you are available, Master Harry,” the aged elf grumbled.
Harry sighed; it was better than mudblood but still not what he would have wanted the elf to call one of his oldest friends. For some reason, Ron was still always “blood-traitor” no matter what Harry demanded of Kreacher. Though the redhead seemed rather attached to the name now.
A surprising wave of fondness stole over him thinking about how his and this irascible elf’s relationship had changed over the years. After beginning with deep-seated hostility (by the both of them), through war and turmoil they had reached a level of comfortableness with one another. The wrinkled creature was endlessly disappointed with Harry, yet always attempting to instill the better qualities of his favorite master, Regulus. Harry, often driven to blinding frustration, found himself appreciating the ministrations of Kreacher and the strange sensation of letting another person take care of him.
With a soft smile, Harry nodded. “You can let her through.” Kreacher bowed once, then popped off.
Hermione came storming into the family drawing room – Harry’s favorite place in Grimmauld. Her hair was bushy as ever but cut down to a more manageable length so only on rare occasions did the volume reach a proportion where she appeared to have been shocked in Frankenstein’s laboratory. There was a flush on her cheekbones that clued Harry in on an upcoming rant – no matter how long it had been between visits, he knew the signs to watch for.
“Harry James Potter, it has been absolutely weeks since you let me in! And don’t think I didn’t notice that you have Kreacher answering the fireplace.”
“He won’t let me,” Harry cried indignantly. “If I do monitor the fire, he won’t talk to me, or he’ll do something like that time he killed all my plants in the arboretum ‘by accident.’”
Hermione looked unimpressed at his explanation, but you know what, this is why Harry didn’t like seeing people. If they just come to Grimmauld Place to nag or criticize him, he felt perfectly comfortable just refusing to see them.
Perhaps sensing his darkening mood, she quickly moved away from the subject. “Well anyway, I’m glad you let me in Harry because frankly I think Ron is sick of hearing me complain about it—”
Oh joy, so I get to hear it now? Harry thought.
“These past few weeks have been murder at work. The elvish rights legislation I have been working on for years was torpedoed by him,” she spat, tossing a magazine at Harry. A skeptical Harry picked up the glossy spread only for his mouth to widen in shock.
“Malfoy?” he asked. “He’s back?”
“Not only is he back, he’s occupying one of those ludicrous hereditary seats in the Wizengamot and doing everything in his power to make my life more difficult.”
That did sound like Malfoy, Harry mused. The blonde in question was astride the front cover of the most recent edition of Witch Weekly. It had been years since Harry had seen him, but he had to admit, the former Death Eater looked good. He was still slight, his cheekbones a touch too prominent, but his chin which used to look sharp enough to puncture a dirigible had softened while still gracing him with a striking look. His platinum blonde hair shined in the picture, hanging loose just above his eyebrows.
Hermione chattered on, but Harry focused on the slight motion the magical picture captured. Malfoy subtly turning towards the camera, smirking and raising an eyebrow, as if to say ‘what do you want?’ It should have come off as condescending, the way it did back in Hogwarts, but somehow seemed charming, if aloof.
“What’s he been doing?” Harry cut into her tirade.
“Harry, that’s just what I’ve been telling you—”
“No, no I mean before he showed up in Britain again.”
“I don’t know! Maybe it says in that three-page interview with him,” Hermione said scornfully.
Harry cast a speculative gaze on the magazine. She just rolled her eyes at him. “I only scanned it myself, couldn’t stomach the adulation. But that’s part of the problem! The article hints at some big plans he has in the next session, and you know whatever it entails is bound to halt the progress we’ve made since the war,” she said earnestly.
“You think he’s up to something?” There was a glimmer of interest taking shape in Harry’s mind.
“I don’t know,” she put simply. “I do know he almost singlehandedly set back elvish rights for the foreseeable future.”
Hermione had always been passionate, but there seemed to be a certain venom in the way she was talking about Malfoy. “Did you speak to him?” he inquired.
She pursed her lips. “Yes. Fat load of good it did me. He’s not even interested in elvish rights. And he doesn’t seem particularly keen on the Minister either.”
“Hermione, I’ve heard you complain about the Minister.”
“Only when he’s wrong!”
That got Harry to laugh. Goodness knows how long it has been since he’s done that. “Of course, of course.”
Hermione looked largely mollified by his reaction. She shook her head at his antics but had that too rare look of enjoyment which reminded Harry so much of the Gryffindor common room and days long gone by.
“So, Malfoy is plotting something nefarious to ensure blood supremacy is the order of the day?”
Hermione bit her lip. “Harry, if you would just think about making a statement . . .”
Immediately, his amusement was gone. “No, Hermione. Malfoy’s sudden reappearance does not mean that mine will follow.”
“But if you just think about the good it could do—”
“Is that what you came for?” Hurt entered his voice. “For a statement? For me to expose myself to those vultures? Well, that’s not going to happen,” he said with cold finality. His hand clenched around the magazine almost to the point of ruining it. “That may be fine for him, splashing his name . . . ugh!” Too overcome to properly express the toxicity of hurt and betrayal that swirled in his gut, he pushed out of his chair and fled the area before his magic ruined the furniture of his favorite room.
“Kreacher will show you out,” he said over his shoulder. The copy of Witch Weekly curled in his grip just enough not to crush the picture. Haven’t I done enough good?
Walking down the Portrait Gallery in the Ministry, Draco was headed towards the Warlock’s Library when his focus was fractured by the arrival of Blaise, a sharp grin accompanied by wagging eyebrows. “Pansy set you up with a nice spread!”
Draco snorted. “She was very pleased with herself. Malfoy Heir Returns: Package Incoming for Wizengamot. She’s waiting to hear how the readers respond.”
“Very positively. Just heard from her; she’s going to fill the next edition with fan letters. Draco’s so dreamy! I would love to personally see the inside of his flat! I bet he has the best wand-work!”
“They won’t say that!” Draco sputtered.
“You’d be surprised,” Blaise drawled.
“I’m hoping for their support, but I don’t intend to give them my Floo address. Besides, Witch Weekly’s readers are almost solely women.”
“I notice you didn’t mention to the author that you’re desperately queer.” Draco glared at that. “Can’t completely shut down that avenue. That said, I’m betting more than a few fair fellows snatched up your edition to take a peek.”
“Like you can bloody well talk!” Draco hissed, his cheeks pinking. Truthfully, Draco had sidestepped questions on his personal entanglements while putting it forward that he was well and truly single. It’s not the first time a person played coy to an audience to spark their interest, but Draco wasn’t enjoying Blaise litigating it in public.
“Calm down Draco, it’s just a bit of fun,” Blaise soothed. “I think it went down well, that’s all. Though I would keep an eye out for any courtship offers.”
Draco groaned, covering his brow with a hand. “Blaise, I have a meeting. Can we not right now?”
Brown eyes glittered with interest. “Is it with Hailsen? Good luck, write me how it goes! I have a lunch date with Justin, but I couldn’t resist giving you a ribbing.” He clapped Draco on the shoulder and breezed out of sight as though he hadn’t just raised Draco’s anxiety level to a precarious level.
A few of the numerous portraits stared down at him in interest. The Portrait Gallery was a long hall covered with the visages of past former luminaries of the wizarding world. It was just through Confederation Hall and had one of the entrances to the Library that Draco was heading towards. It was not unusual for a member of the Wizengamot to seek advice from one of the honored few in the hall, but it did mean that other conversations had a habit of being overheard.
The Chief Warlock’s Library by contrast did not contain any paintings other than landscapes blissfully free of human subjects. While not a massive room, the bookshelves contained the records of every Wizengmot bill and debate since the Fienfyre Debacle of 1707, as well as a number of treatises and monographs on parliamentary strategy and history. It was the Clerks of the Wizengamot who were the official record keepers, but they reported to the man seated in a club chair by a bay window producing a mirage of the outside world.
Gavin Hailsen was probably in his eighties but looked fit and spry as only a wizard could at that age. Both his close-cropped beard and thick locks were predominantly grey, but his eyes shimmered with the dark intelligence of experience.
He waved Draco over to take a seat next to him, closing a tome that appeared to be written in Breton, but he couldn’t be sure. “Draco, I’m so glad you asked to see me,” Gavin said in a hushed voice. In private, his speaking became soft and hoarse, in sharp contrast from the projection he displayed when the Wizengamot was in session.
“It’s been so gratifying to have you seated across the Gallery from me. Those short months you worked in my office created great anticipation for the time you would take your ancestral seat.”
Draco bowed his head modestly. Hearing your mentors praise you so openly was both incredibly pleasing and moderately embarrassing. “Thank you, sir. I’m happy you took the time to see me privately.”
“There have been all these rumors, Draco,” Gavin teased, his eyes twinkling. “A legislative agenda on its way. I confess myself quite eager to hear what you have planned.”
Draco ran through the quick pitch of his bill; a feat he had become comfortable with after so methodically gathering support. All the while, Gavin nodded, asked a few clarifying questions, but quietly absorbed the information.
“It might be trickier than you think,” he concluded. “Now, I can’t tell you about my personal feelings on the legislation . . . but I can furnish you advice on presentation and tactics.”
Draco smirked; he recognized that Gavin’s ethics precluded him from outright backing the bill, but he knew the Chief Warlock well enough to feel confident in his silent support.
“I have been advised to talk with Marianne Clifford.” Draco left the question hanging and narrowed his gaze.
Hailsen nodded. “You should certainly try. The government will not want to be caught unaware by this, and you haven’t exactly been keeping it a secret you are going to propose something monumental. I just wouldn’t anticipate much support.”
“Pearson?”
“And Clifford. Both were burned in the war; both conscious of their base of support. And Gordon is a prickly fellow anyway. Always wanted this job and is very reactionary to swings in public mood.”
“I had hoped this would be an issue that could cut across familiar divides,” Draco said with an edge in his voice.
“Oh, you could entice some of the older families, maybe some naïve members. I will say, if you’re using this to launch a larger career, it’s a good issue to seek cross appeal.”
“I’m doing it because I think it’s a good idea,” Draco nearly snarled.
Gavin analyzed him for a moment, then broke into a grin. “I’m sorry, my boy. Cynicism ingrains itself in you at my age. I shouldn’t have questioned your motives. Will you accept my apology?”
Partially assuaged by his words, Draco nodded. “You think I’ll run into problems,” he stated rather than asked.
“I’m sure of it. But my job is to limit the difficulties for you! Now, I would consider coming to a few sessions without making much fuss. Let the members be lulled out of the anticipation of your impending legislation. Then, on a Thursday afternoon (when what members that are left are contemplating trips back home or to their constituency come the weekend) put forward your bill for a first reading. There shouldn’t be any trouble.”
Draco took mental notes as the so-called unbiased moderator of debate verbally plotted the course of Draco’s bill through the Wizengamot. Gavin began pacing, tapping his chin as he went. “Thinking of the schedule, depending on when your draft is ready for the first reading, I may be able to put on the second as soon as three weeks from that point. That will be the real test.”
“What committee should I push it to?” Draco interjected.
Gavin conjured a quill and brandished it over a long parchment piece hanging off a standing desk. “You talk with Adelaide Stoneleigh?” he asked without looking up from his scribblings, nose nearly touching the page.
“Not yet but I still feel Birmingham is the place to go.”
“Fine. She’s on the Committee for Resource Conservation; if I can push it there I will. I have no doubts she’ll steer it out of committee safely. She certainly cares about her constituency unlike some members. Be sure to include language to the effect of land reclamation and increased investment in faltering heritage industries and I can reasonably assign it there.”
After running through Draco’s plan, he couldn’t help but throw in a passing question before they wrapped up. “Some of the vacant hereditary seats . . . how would an heir go about claiming them?”
Gavin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You know there’s no proxy voting, so you couldn’t claim another seat. Or you could in order to hold in trust for your heirs, but it wouldn’t increase your voting share.”
“But if I found the heir to a vacant seat?”
Gavin shrugged easily. “Then they’ll have to check with the clerk’s roll to verify they are the true heir and then register with the Mashal of Peers.”
“Is that all?” Gavin shrugged as if to say, ‘what else is needed?’
Draco pondered this as they finished and Hailsen retreated to his office for other pressing business. He was grateful that his mentor took the time and thought to assist in his legislative venture, even if it meant going beyond those duties he was officially permitted to do. Still, there were things that bothered him. One of which being Hailsen’s hesitance to take Draco at face value.
Was it so difficult to believe that Draco wanted to use his knowledge to better wizarding society? Or was the Malfoy named so tarnished that it was only logical to think of it as a ploy to win wider regard? Gavin may have come around, but initial reactions can be telling. Hailsen enjoyed the politics more than the policy, so Draco didn’t know if he should be too hurt. Besides, he had plenty of practice dealing with other’s expectations of him.
He wandered aimlessly back through the Portrait Gallery, content to inspect the achievers from antiquity rather than gain their insight. Another thing that bothered him; would he really end up in a position so desperate he would have to call on Potter to help him? The ease in which Potter could become Lord Black slightly startled him. It was contingent on the clerk’s roll recognizing the claim, but if Cousin Sirius had done anything right, he would have properly put his estate in order.
A chill ripped through him and suddenly Draco very much wanted to go home to Fairgate and sit by the fire. He half-consciously cast a warming charm on himself and strode through the doorway leading towards the committee rooms. He was keen to avoid Confederation Hall and any chance he would bump into someone before he was able to slip out of the Ministry. He already felt he was spending too much time at the Ministry to be healthy and unfortunately his schedule promised more of the same coming up.
Draco was almost tempted to go to the Manor. But that would mean having to deal with Mother. She had already written him twice about the Witch Weekly spread. As much as he loved her, all his energies had been taken up by his work and he didn’t know how much he had left to devote to her prodding. I’ll write her back when I get home, Draco thought. That should at least put her off for a bit. But by the time he Flooed back to Fairgate, it was all he could do to haul himself onto a couch and promptly fall asleep.