Honesty?
DARK DESIGNS?
Alleged Criminal Turned Lawmaker Seeks to Change Wizarding Britain
Betsy Hart-Holloway
In another example of the folly of hereditary membership in the Wizengamot, former Death Eater, now “Lord”, Draco Malfoy has unveiled an expansionary plan to the legislative body. During Thursday’s session, with most of the benches empty, the son of convicted murderer and muggle-torturer Lucius Malfoy introduced for first reading his Wizarding Investment and Recovery Enclave Act.
The bill purports to create a new wizarding district similar to Diagon Alley but raises stark questions about the manner in which the project will be completed. What funding will the Malfoy heir ask of taxpayers? What dark magicks are required to secure this space? What is the little lord’s true purpose for introducing this act?
These questions were asked of Malfoy and his associate, Mr. Blaise Zabini, MW for Southeast England, but they declined to comment to the press. Whether these and other questions will be answered in the second reading or committee stage remains to be seen. Many members had returned to their constituencies for the weekend, so no other comments were forthcoming from Wizengamot grandees.
Sources close to the Minister’s office express concern about the contents of the bill. “There is a real worry about what the impact on Muggles will be when they choose the location of this hidden zone,” an advisor who wished to remain anonymous remarked. The early draft of the bill identifies Birmingham as the city to receive the investment, but no greater specificity on the site. Similarly, there is no information on why other suitable locations were discarded.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do if there’s a new town competing for my business,” Felicity Fortescue, owner of a Diagon Alley shop, said. The daughter of the murdered ice cream proprietor Florean, Ms. Fortescue expressed disgust at the Malfoy led initiative. “The fact that it’s a person like that who could be responsible for ruining my family business makes me sick. Haven’t they done enough?”
Representatives from Gringotts declined to comment on the possibility of opening another branch should this enclave ever be created. Goblin Bagir merely sneered at this reporter, but the wizarding bank has long been thought to seek expansion of its operations.
What are your thoughts on this radical proposed change? Write to the Prophet and your letter could be featured in the next issue! For more on Goblin hegemony, look for Michael Forcant’s new series on tribal relations at A4. Read about the Minister’s anticipated Budget on B1.
The front page of the Prophet was consumed with Malfoy’s surly pout, which the author presumably did something to create. Harry read the column three times already and had looked at the picture more times than he could count. In black and white, Malfoy’s feathered hair shone platinum, in stark contrast to Zabini’s dark features.
Ever since Hermione’s ill-fated visit to Grimmauld, Harry had rather shamefully asked Kreacher to take out a subscription to some of the news services and bring him anything that mentioned Malfoy specifically. He had more copies of Witch Weekly now than he was comfortable with, but he had to keep tabs on the other boy now that he was back. Kreacher’s suspiciously cheerful reaction to monitoring Malfoy did not improve Harry’s mood.
He didn’t want to hear again about Miss Narcissa’s son and how upright his carriage was, or how fine a figure he cut. Harry was sure the posture comment had been a veiled insult at him. He only barely held off from sending Kreacher to surveil Malfoy because he knew his nights would be filled with rapturous praise for the man.
Returning to the article, Harry couldn’t help but snort at the bill’s title. Does Malfoy even know he named it the WIRE Act? Even if he did, he wouldn’t know why it was funny. Harry was confident that Malfoy’s disdain for all things muggle continued uninterrupted in the intervening years.
Harry drummed his fingers on the newspaper, staring at the sneer that hid pearly white teeth. What was he up to? Truthfully, Harry had never considered the lack of magical space in Britain. Never having left the country, he had no reason to think it odd. It could be that it wasn’t odd, that Malfoy was just stirring up trouble.
“Kreacher!” he called, then winced at the hoarseness to his voice. Lack of use was showing, and Harry rubbed his throat in consternation. The old house-elf appeared and bowed low to the dark-haired man.
“Master,” a gravelly voice intoned, frighteningly close to the tenor of Harry’s own voice a second before. He prayed silently that his time in Grimmauld wasn’t turning him into his house-elf.
He cleared his throat. “Hmm, yes. Kreacher bring me some writing materials and set them on the desk over there.” Then giving in to his worry added in a request for water as well. He may not venture out of the townhouse very often, but he still had a few people he could turn to for information. He hoped anyway.
Settling down at the slanted writing desk in the Black Library, he downed his glass of water in one go, signaled to Kreacher for another, and cracked his fingers in anticipation. Holding a quill, the muscles in his hand had the distinct atrophied feeling that came when one hadn’t written anything for a substantial period of time. God, how long had it been? At least two months since he wrote Andromeda asking after Teddy, and prior to that he couldn’t even think.
He briefly considered asking Kreacher to get him a Dictating Quill, but that shied too close to Skeeter’s Quick Quotes Quill for Harry’s comfort. He resigned himself to shaking out his hand every few minutes to return feeling to the appendage and hoped the final product remained legible.
Dear Helen,
I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear from me, I know it’s been a long time. By the way, Congrats on becoming Head Auror! There’s no one I feel is better than you for that position. I was hoping you could provide me with a little information, nothing official of course. I’ve noticed the presence of Draco Malfoy encouraging publicity and wondered if there were any rumors about what he is doing or why he is suddenly so visible. I’m not necessarily looking for anything confidential, just was hoping a friend could fill me in on any gossip I may be missing. I hope we can keep this between us.
Best,
Harry J. Potter
Harry blew on the ink to help dry it and nodded once in satisfaction. That should do it. Not asking her to do anything illegal, just whatever information she can provide. Helen Dewers had been his supervisor when he was still in the department. When Robards moved up to head DMLE, she had gotten the top job.
She was funny, always ribbing him even when he was in his darker moods. She had gotten along well with Tonks when she was still an Auror and reminded Harry of the metamorphmagus. It filled him with bittersweet memories. Whereas Robards was suspicious of Harry and his outbursts, she was frequently exasperated but tolerant.
“Will Master be needing his official seal?” Kreacher asked hopefully.
“No,” Harry sighed. “Just a plain seal, thank you.” He didn’t want identifying marks on the outside of the envelope. The old elf glared at him, obviously put out that he was not following custom, but Harry’s paranoid streak took over.
After the letter is sent off, Harry pondered whether she would respond and if she did how much information she would be willing to divulge. Questioning via owl was always difficult; Harry had enough experience with that working as an Auror. That said, he was not ready to leave the cover of his home to satisfy a curiosity.
Maybe he could go to another source though. Hermione was out, she already came storming in here once complaining about Malfoy. He was confident he wouldn’t get an unbiased opinion from her. The magazine and newspaper articles all seemed skewed in one way or the other.
Harry bobbed his head from side-to-side, humming as he considered his options. Perhaps he should start making more noise when he was alone to fill the silence, maybe his voice wouldn’t be so poor. Maybe he’ll just look like more of a crazy person than usual.
Green eyes strayed back to the front page of the Prophet. In particular, to a third figure in the frame. A potentially dreadful idea was developing. The questions wouldn’t stop coming to Harry and blonde hair filled his thoughts with more frequency. Possibly endangering his privacy, he retrieved more parchment and shook out his quill-writing hand.
Draco groggily stumbled passed the gates of the Manor, the familiar magic washing over him as he crossed the property line. Magic inlaid in physical places had a distinct feel to it, and while most wizards were not even capable of discerning the nuances, Draco had been born with a sensitivity that he cultivated over time. There was a metallic tang to many wards, indicative of the magic required to anchor large buildings. The Manor regained the homely ash and wood smoke attributes to its magic that had been overwhelmed by the acidic taste of the Dark Lord’s presence. It felt like the home it had once been.
Narcissa had put all her efforts into reclaiming the Manor from its grim past. Light, both physical and metaphorical, was the key aspect of her redecorations. Color also played a role, the gardens flush with greens, pinks, and yellows.
“Draco dearest,” Narcissa called from the edge of a rosebush. She adopted an easy smile, brightening into the indulgent mother instead of the usual composed public socialite mask. They still wrote constantly to each other, but the strains of his ambition made personal visits rare. She kissed him gently and steered him into the house.
“You said there was an issue with the wards?” he prompted when she didn’t mention anything, seemingly content in his presence.
“Yes, dear. They haven’t been keeping out the locustuates nor swarms of jubjub birds that have been wreaking havoc on my delicate funicular ivy blooms.”
Naturally, Draco thought. The gardens, her new life’s work. “Alright Mother, I’ll take a look.” Walking through the Manor, the changes were immense. Narcissa ripped out the previous ornamentations to the point it was hard to believe this was the same place where Potter’s green eyes pleaded with him through a horribly swollen face.
Mother and son, refusing to linger, approached the wardstone centered in the cool cellar. Through the adjoining wall sat the dungeons where only a few short years ago beings of all ages were held and tortured. Draco didn’t ask how the renovations proceeded there. He would rather forget about the place altogether.
Draco drew his wand, running through a series of diagnostic spells. Narcissa watched as he muttered to himself, only the caster able to see small flashes of light his investigation produced. This stage was a combination of feeling the magic and its reception to prodding, looking for unusual reactions in the colors or the flash of symbols. Seeing a correct sequence of responses, Draco frowned, rubbing his chin.
“Maybe it’s the layering algorithm,” he murmured doing the quick arithmancy in his head. When that did not seem to be an issue, he ran through four more tests trying to find a flaw in the wards. Anchoring concerns, glyph deterioration, sentience securitization. Clear, no problems, optimally operating. Finally, he gave up. “Mother, there’s nothing wrong with the wards!” he exclaimed.
The polite, neutral bearing never wavered. “Is there not? Well, that’s reassuring. Come along, dear, let’s have tea.”
The eyes nearly rolled out of his head. Draco was this close to stomping up the stairs as he trailed behind his duplicitous mother. He didn’t have to wait long for the interrogation to begin.
“How long have you been sleeping each night?”
“Enough!” Draco whined, but dutifully plopped down on a divan in the front parlor. He had no right to be surprised at her actions. The only one who outclassed him as an operator was Narcissa Black Malfoy.
“Seeing anyone?”
“As though I would have time Mother!” he scoffed, blushing.
She studied him critically. He didn’t have the foresight to adequately hide the smudges above his cheekbones. Even his grey irises appeared a dull slate rather than a healthy silver. At least his hair was in good order. She gripped his chin and pulled out her wand, normally a threatening gesture, but he merely closed his eyes as gentle charms freshened his appearance.
“You must take care of yourself,” she chided when she had finished. The maternal concern unsurprisingly filled him with shame he was powerless to resist. He nodded obediently. “Now tell me about your meeting with Ms. Clifford,” she moved on.
Narcissa was well appraised of Draco’s plans and maneuvers, not only offering general affectionate support but also being a critical intriguer in her own right. He had written a novel to her when he was practically assaulted by that muckraking reporter, venting his frustration. He mentioned in passing that he met with Clifford without going into specifics.
The Minister’s closest advisor had a steel spine and monitored all paperwork before it made its way to his desk. There were always rumors that she and her boss had a romantic affair once, possibly even an ongoing relationship. Frankly, Draco didn’t buy it, but then he had a hard time believing anyone would sleep with Gordon Pearson.
“It was not a resounding success,” he grimaced.
“That’s what I gathered from the article. They’re briefing against you already.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “That woman was insufferable. Clifford was polite, but no anonymous ‘source close to the Minister’ would be quoted without her approval. She was clear about her reservations. Willing to be reasonable if I would support the government’s budget.”
“Which you refused.”
“I did. How can I agree when they’ve been so tight lipped about what’s going in the final version?”
“And after what you told me about Blaise, I’m sure he’ll abhor whatever they do to the Goblin Liaison Office.”
Draco nodded; he wasn’t going to throw Blaise away for his own priorities. “So, I’m likely to have the government actively opposing me. Wonderful.”
Narcissa patted her son’s hand, a wolfish grin on her face. “Don’t worry, my dear. They don’t know who they’re crossing.”
The pride in her face strengthened his conviction. The incompetent fools would ignore his brilliant idea at their own peril. He was going to win; he swore it on the bloody Queen of Orkney’s blood.
Seeing the determination in her son, Narcissa coaxed him into outlining his whipping strategy. Blaise and Theo had taken soundings from some MWs. There was certainly interest, and tepid support, but a general nervousness over the reaction of the government and the more avowedly Light-aligned delegates. Adelaide Stoneleigh had signed on without hesitation, excited at the possibilities for her district. Her buy-in and Hailsen’s commitment to assigning the bill to her committee meant the only stages he was concerned with were the second and third readings.
The second reading was rapidly approaching and Granger’s uncharacteristic absence from sessions worried him. Draco wasn’t yet committed to drastic actions but needed to know just how crazy his alternative options were. “Mother,” Draco hesitated. “What are your thoughts on the Black lordship?”
Interest blossomed on Narcissa’s face, her hand absentmindedly straying to her golden hair, a richer tone than Draco’s own. Had she been with other company, he was sure she wouldn’t have made the gesture, physical discipline overriding an active brain. She contemplated the question silently; a far-off gaze staring passed his head.
“You need allies,” she broke the silence. “I can see the sense in that. Dormant lordships are a particularly inspired way to achieve that goal. But dearest, we already owe him so much.”
Draco drooped; it hadn’t taken her long to figure out who would be needed to reclaim the seat. She was right of course. Potter almost certainly vouched for them at the war’s end. Draco never had proof, but it was only plausible that he had intervened to get them released. Even if it was to repay his mother’s actions in the forest, could he comfortably ask Potter for more? Could he even look him in the face after he had pulled him from the jaws of a raging inferno?
“Although,” Narcissa contradicted herself. “One never knows the actions of a Gryffindor. Helping others seems to be an engrained trait. Perhaps all you have to do is ask.”
Draco glowered subtly. That was precisely the issue, he hated asking for help. And of all the people to have to beg to! Though as his mother pushed him to see if there were other dormant hereditary seats to claim, he had to concede there were none as clear-cut as the inheritance of the Black estate.
Narcissa steered and cajoled him through the thought process until he had to acknowledge defeat. With the second reading coming up, he didn’t have time to fill anyone else’s empty spot on the hereditary bench. If he wasn’t able to convince enough members to support the bill, his only hope of expanding the Wizengamot with a potential ally was Potter.
“This was my family too,” she reminded him. “As reckless as Cousin Sirius could be, he had faith in that boy. Mr. Potter is a man of conviction, I have no doubts about that. If you’re wondering if I object to him being Lord Black, I have confidence he won’t bring disrepute to our name.”
“Have you been speaking with Aunt Andromeda?” Narcissa stiffened, the slightest twitch of a muscle in her jaw. Draco liked the idea of the estranged sisters relinquishing past grievances, but he couldn’t fix the relationship between the siblings without their efforts.
“We write,” the youngest Black daughter shared carefully. “Mostly about young Edward. Mr. Potter is mentioned in passing. He cares for the boy and his wellbeing, but I still believe he doesn’t often leave home.”
Sounds like a nutter, Draco thought. Familiar doubts reared their heads. Aunt Andromeda’s characterization of the recluse made an impact with his mother, but Draco was not left reassured. He hummed doubtfully.
“I know you had your differences . . . but you’re an adult now. And so is he, even if he’s been cloistered away. If you’re upfront with him, it will not surprise me if you manage to get him onside.”
Unhappy of being reminded of his ostentatious youth, Draco did not respond. His mother talked sense though he was partially unwilling to accept it. Potter did seem to like saving people, the martyr. “Honesty?” he finally questioned, skeptical about her strategy.
“My dear, you must know you can manipulate someone with honesty.”