Chapter Text
In Draco’s defense, he was exhausted when the large spectacled owl landed on the railing of the main deck of the Esperanza. If he’d had more than a few hours of sleep in the last two days, he would have taken his usual precautions before opening the letter that was attached to the owl’s leg. Even now, twenty years after the Battle of Hogwarts and everything that came after – the trials, the forfeiture of the Malfoy fortune, estate, and any future Draco might have hoped for at the time – it was not uncommon for him to receive owls from either the grieving family members of those lost or ‘former’ Death Eaters and their associates who had managed to escape Azkaban, and neither was the sort of post that was healthy to open unawares.
As it was, he saw his mother’s name on the thick parchment envelope, written in her hand and with that particular glimmer of deep purple ink that she favored when writing to him. So, Draco opened it without even casting a single Revelio or Aparecium, the more fool him.
“The captain has some treats for you,” Draco murmured distractedly, fumbling with the wax seal as the brown owl blinked its large eyes under forbidding brows. He hardly noticed it take off toward the stern, where he knew Séneca would be waiting to spoil it. Séneca loved owls. All kinds of birds, really, which was one of the reasons why they had just spent so much time in the Arrecife Alacranes.
There was something small and heavy in the bottom of the envelope, and it tumbled out as Draco removed the letter from his mother. Silver glinted in the early morning sunlight, and Draco reached out and caught the object without thinking.
A sharp tug around his navel, familiar and entirely unwelcome, the world twisting around him, the startled cries of “Señor!” from the Esperanza’s crew, and blinding pain in his head as he was yanked through space by the Portkey – these were all Draco knew before his feet slammed into a hard surface with so much force he stumbled to his knees. He managed to catch himself with his hands, palms scraping against the floor, but did not succeed in preventing the contents of his stomach from making a sudden and violent appearance. Not that there was much to come up, since he’d eaten only slightly more often than he’d slept, recently.
The pain in his head worsened, throbbing over one eye, and Draco allowed himself to tip over onto his side, feeling darkness creep around the edges of his limited vision. At least he’d been wearing his satchel when he’d touched that thrice-damned Portkey, he thought wearily before succumbing to unconsciousness.
~ * ~
“Wake up, Malfoy.”
The voice was only faintly familiar, masculine, and definitely not one that Draco had heard recently.
The touch of cool, soft hands on his face was much more recognizable, one that he’d known since birth, as was the delicate scent of lilacs.
“Draco, darling.”
The sound of his mother’s voice was both a comfort and a warning. If Narcissa Malfoy used the word ‘darling’ in company, then that meant that said company was not in a friendly state of mind. Draco gathered himself before opening his eyes, wincing slightly at the brightness of the room but carefully and methodically donning the haughty, detached expression his mother had required him to master in his youth before allowing him to participate in society events. He blinked to clear his vision, such as it was, and noted a figure with red hair (fuck), several figures in scarlet robes (double fuck), and none other than the Minister of Magic (triple fuck) sitting behind a large, ornately carved desk.
This was the Minister’s office.
This was the Ministry of Magic.
Draco took it all in, hid the anxious bob of his throat as he swallowed, and turned his head toward the only person in the room he was confident was mostly on his side. “Mother.”
Narcissa Malfoy gazed serenely at him, her hair gone almost completely white these days. He’d beaten her to it, of course, but since his hair had already been so pale it was no more than a subtle difference from his more youthful coloring.
“Draco, I see you received my letter,” Narcissa said, her tone as pleasant as if they were taking tea together on the balcony of her small house in Nice.
“I did,” Draco confirmed. “Although I regret that I did not have time to read it before I was illegally Portkeyed to England without my consent.” Narcissa did not wince – she would never be so open in public. But the slight tightening around her blue eyes was all the apology she was going to make, he knew.
“As the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, I have discretion on how and when Portkeys are used.” The ginger-haired man with the peaky freckled face could only be a Weasley, and Draco sifted through his knowledge of the current government and came up with a name. Percy, as far as he knew, was the only Weasley currently working directly for the Ministry, after Arthur had retired several years ago.
“Departmental discretion does not trump international statute,” Draco drawled, easing himself up into a sitting position on the settee, which protested with a creak. A quick glance down at his clothes confirmed that either he’d managed not to be sick all over himself, or someone had done him the courtesy of cleaning him up before dumping him in the Minister’s office. “I could have been right in the middle of a herd of Muggles when I touched that Portkey.”
Percy scoffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You? I think not.”
“And furthermore,” Draco continued. “Doesn’t the statute require that international Portkey travel be coordinated between the respective countries? Did you even contact the Cámara de Gobierno Mágico beforehand?”
“That particular part of the statute is only applicable when the Portkey is on dry land,” Percy said smugly. “And since when did you concern yourself with the rule of law?”
Draco sighed internally, though his expression did not change. He didn’t like the implication that the Ministry was so aware of his whereabouts as to deliberately contact him while he was on Séneca’s ship. “Why am I here?” he asked, attempting to cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been observing the exchange with sharp, intelligent brown eyes, cleared his throat before speaking. “Mr. Malfoy, your presence is required here in England because there are…problems with Malfoy Manor.”
Of all the things that Draco might have expected to hear the Minister of Magic say to him, this was near the bottom of the list, and he couldn’t help but laugh derisively. He heard his mother give a quiet, chiding tsk at his display. “I believe that the Ministry has been quite clear that Malfoy Manor is entirely the problem of the government, Minister.”
Shacklebolt shifted in his chair. “It is indeed. However, I have been informed that the Manor and surrounding estate is…interfering with our attempts to clear it of Dark magic.”
Draco stared at him, feeling his heart start to pound with remembered fear. “Again, I fail to see how this is my problem now. And it’s been twenty years. Are you telling me that you’ve waited until just now to clear the Manor?”
One of the men in scarlet robes, with a grizzled face and graying hair, scowled at him. “When the Ministry first took possession of Malfoy Manor after the war, the DMLE did attempt to clear it – or at the very least, to confirm that no Death Eaters remained in hiding there. We lost two Aurors in the attempt, and it was de-prioritized due to the danger.”
“So why now?” Draco demanded. “Why not leave it to rot?”
Beside him, Narcissa gasped quietly, nothing more than a small, sharp intake of breath. Likely she was shocked at his cavalier attitude toward his ancestral home. Draco didn’t care. He’d never admitted to her his feeling of immense relief when the Ministry had informed them that the Manor was included in the long list of things that were no longer theirs. He’d never gone back after the Battle of Hogwarts, and when he left England, he’d vowed to himself he never would.
“That’s none of your concern,” Percy snapped. “All you need to know is that you’re the one who needs to fix it.”
“Percy,” Shacklebolt said, his tone slightly remonstrative. “That is not all that he needs to know. I would prefer that this meeting be constructive in moving substantively toward our shared goal.” The implication that Percy’s attitude was not helping was left unsaid.
While normally Draco would be gloating internally at Percy being taken down half a peg, it was all he could do to maintain his composure. The only outward sign of his distress was the whitening of his knuckles as he clenched his fists, and he knew that his mother had noticed. She laid one of her hands on his, a silent command to master himself.
He couldn’t quite manage it. “What do you mean, I’m the one who needs to fix it? Fix what?”
“It might be best to call Granger in,” one of the other Aurors suggested mildly, her tone respectful but firm. “I know that she stated a preference not to be involved in this meeting if possible, but for the sake of expediency…”
Shacklebolt nodded, flicking his wand and sending a silvery wild cat – a lynx Patronus, if Draco guessed correctly – bounding through the closed door of his office.
If his mother hadn’t been present, Draco would have discarded everything she’d taught him and groaned aloud. Granger. Fucking wonderful. The warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico seemed as far away now as the moon, and Draco felt a pang of regret for not being able to give Séneca any notice of his unwilling departure. He was a good man. He’d worry until Draco could get word to him.
Draco focused on taking deep, even breaths while they waited for Hermione fucking Granger to grace them all with her presence. He ignored the hostile glare that Percy Weasley was aiming in his direction. He expected nothing less and a great deal more, to be honest, after all of the bad blood between his family and the Weasleys, not the least of which was the death of one of the twins during the war. Though Draco was fairly certain that neither of his parents were directly responsible for that.
It wasn’t long before there was a brief knock at the door and Granger came striding in, her black robes marking her as an Unspeakable – a researcher for the Department of Mysteries. Draco had known this, of course. He’d read all of the papers she’d published, both before and after becoming an Unspeakable, though naturally there wasn’t much she was allowed to say publicly about her work there. Her open black robe was her only nod to wizarding formality in the workplace, as she wore Muggle business attire underneath. This was a trend among younger Ministry officials, he understood from the disapproving descriptions of such in his mother’s letters. As he was currently wearing much more shabby Muggle clothing himself, Draco could hardly comment on it.
He studied Granger instead. She wore the past twenty years well, though her dark hair was as untamable as ever. There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth, evidence of more frequent smiles than frowns, though she was stony faced at the moment. Draco felt unexpectedly glad at the thought that she seemed to be happy more often than not. She was a brilliant scholar, always had been, and she contributed an almost impossible amount to current academic discourse. He felt that she deserved a bit of happiness if she was going to work so hard, which was certainly a change from the bitter resentment he’d felt during their time at school. Of course, he’d gotten to know her better through her papers and other academic correspondence.
Granger barely spared him a glance as she unceremoniously dropped a pile of parchment on Shacklebolt’s desk, taking some time to arrange the papers in some new sort of order, working up to whatever it was she was here to say. Or perhaps it was to allow herself time to acclimate to Draco’s presence. The last time they’d seen each other had been the year during which the trials had taken place.
Finally she turned, abandoning the documents on the desk. Her gaze was unimpressed as it swept up and down, no doubt taking in the state of Draco’s field work clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, and the utter disaster that was his hair – impossible to maintain in a decent style in a viento del Norte reaching twelve knots, even with magic.
“Malfoy.”
“Granger,” he answered, mirroring her flat tone.
Granger let out a breath. “Are you in need of a Healer?”
Draco was taken aback, caught off guard at this unexpected question. “Pardon?”
“A Healer, Malfoy. Do you need one? I was told you fainted after arriving by Portkey.”
“I did not faint,” Draco said, bristling. “I merely temporarily lost consciousness.”
Granger’s narrow-eyed look spoke volumes.
“That is rather the definition of fainting, my dear,” Narcissa murmured, and the fact that she spoke at all let Draco know how concerned she must have been. “Perhaps a Healer –”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, then immediately modulated his tone. “Thank you for your solicitude, Granger. But I would prefer to get on with whatever this is. The sooner you explain it to me, the sooner I can reiterate that this is none of my concern and return to my work.”
“What work is that?” Percy sneered. “I wasn’t aware that ‘aimless drifter’ was now a legitimate profession.”
Draco said nothing. He didn’t even look in Percy’s direction, merely kept his attention on Granger. “Well?”
“Are you familiar with ley lines?” Granger asked, briskly and to the point.
“Of course.”
“Were you aware that Malfoy Manor is a secondary node in one of the most critical ley lines on the island?”
Draco hesitated, racking his brain for any scrap of memory which might have involved his childhood home and its position within the network of ley lines in the United Kingdom. “No.”
The corner of Granger’s mouth turned up in a slight smirk, and all at once Draco felt much more like his younger self in every single class he’d taken with the Gryffindors in his same year at school. Only now, his anger at once again being shown up by a witch who’d come to Hogwarts with absolutely no magical upbringing or experience was tempered by an equally strong sense of shame at how poorly he’d handled it then. He’d spent years trying to train himself to react differently, and here he was being tested yet again.
But still, it rankled. Malfoy was his home and his name. If anyone ought to know about it, it should be him.
“To ensure that we are all starting from a solid understanding of the problem, ley lines are the paths through which wild or natural magic flow, and they are essential not only for the survival of magical creatures and beings, but also the day-to-day use of magic by witches and wizards,” Granger lectured, sounding as though she’d be right at home at the front of a Hogwarts classroom. “While it is true that most of our own magic comes from our internal magical cores, active spellcasting often borrows from wild magic or follows established wild pathways, depending on the skill, strength, and intent of the caster. When the availability of this wild magic or its channels are disrupted in some way, this can have a devastating effect on local witches and wizards, not to mention the effect on the overall magical environment.”
Draco’s heart sank, the logical conclusion to Granger’s explanation becoming very clear. “Malfoy Manor is causing this kind of disruption?”
“It is.” Granger met his gaze and didn’t look away, her brown eyes very serious. “Not only is it interfering with what we would consider to be the normal use of magic in Wiltshire, but it seems to be impacting the local Muggle communities as well. Not that you’d give a damn about that.”
Biting back a protest at that not unearned assumption, Draco pressed on with his questions. “What have you observed so far?”
“The Floo network in and around Wiltshire has become increasingly unreliable,” Percy butted in. “Witches and wizards who are licensed to Apparate have been unable to accurately target locations within the county, sometimes ending up miles out of their way.”
“Muggles aren’t necessarily aware of them, but the natural magical cycles have been off,” Granger added. “Weather and climate patterns have resulted in extreme heat and cold, and have affected crops and livestock. People and animals have died. Wifi coverage – an important way that Muggles communicate and do business,” she explained quickly, though Draco did basically understand that wifi was billions of invisible messages floating around through the air that Muggles could only see on their little electronic devices. “That’s been incredibly spotty in Wiltshire as well.”
“And the Ministry had decided not to do anything about this until now?” Draco’s tone was acid.
“It took some time to determine the source of the effects,” Granger said defensively. “And while the effects seemed to be nearly unnoticeable at first, they have not only magnified in impact over time, but the rate of that magnification seems to have increased. We strongly suspect that the untreated Dark magic at Malfoy Manor is no longer what we can consider to be ‘contained,’ but we’ve been unable to ascertain that or take mitigating steps because no one has been able to get beyond the gates – not even by Apparating. And if this suspected containment breach continues, I believe we can expect to see further corruption of the magical environment – either transported through the ley lines or fundamentally altering the nature of the ley lines themselves. I hope I don’t need to explain to you how catastrophic that would be.”
No, Granger absolutely did not need to explain that. What needed explaining was why Draco was sitting in a room with some of the most powerful and influential wizards currently living who were apparently so incompetent that they had ignored this issue until it had become a disaster and was well on its way to becoming even worse.
You ignored it, too, whispered a small voice inside him. You left.
To which Draco furiously and silently replied that the Manor was not even fucking his anymore, the Ministry had taken possession and that made it their responsibility. And he was determined to make everyone here understand that as well.
“So this brings us back to my original question,” he said, striving to keep the tremor of anger he felt out of his voice. “Why am I here?”
“Unspeakable Granger is of the opinion – as am I – that the effort to clear Malfoy Manor of the Dark magic currently festering within its walls will only be successful if it is undertaken by the lord of the manor,” Shacklebolt explained.
“Brilliant. I suppose you’d better get started then,” Draco said firmly, his posture as rigid and unbending as he could possibly make it, as though he could stave off what he knew was coming through sheer deportment. “The Manor, as I have already stated repeatedly, belongs to the Ministry now.”
“Malfoy Manor does not appear to share that assessment,” Shacklebolt said delicately, and there was something almost like pity in his expression when he looked at Draco. “You are the last Malfoy by blood, and therefore the current lord of the manor by tradition. Tradition which is so fundamentally ancient that it seems to supersede modern law, as far as the Manor is concerned.”
Draco closed his eyes, concentrating hard on his breathing, and he felt his mother’s grip on his hand tighten almost to the point of pain. It took a moment before he trusted himself enough to speak again.
“No.”
Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” Draco repeated. “The Manor is no longer my home or my responsibility. It hasn’t been for over twenty years. And I am not – I don’t have any expertise in clearing Dark magic.”
“We are all well aware of the nature of your expertise in Dark magic,” Percy muttered, but Shacklebolt quelled him with a look before turning back to Draco.
“The Ministry is prepared to compensate you –”
“I don’t care,” Draco interrupted. “I won’t do it.”
Shacklebolt pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in slight consternation, and then he gave a small shrug. “If you insist. Robards –”
“With pleasure, sir.” Robards, the grizzled and scowling Auror, drew his wand. Draco braced himself, reaching for his own, when the Auror shifted his attention to Narcissa. “Incarcerous!”
“No!” Draco shouted as thin cords wrapped themselves around his mother’s body, breaking her grip on his hand and binding her arms tightly to her sides.
He reacted, surging to his feet and pointing his wand at Robards, casting a nonverbal Impedimenta and Protego simultaneously, sensing several spells bounce off his hastily erected shield charm. He moved in front of his mother, darting his gaze around the room and frantically searching for the best way out. Spells hammered against the Protego, and he pushed more power into it before aiming his wand behind him and sending a nonverbal Finite at the ropes binding his mother.
He felt a buzzing in his right ear, and he whirled to face the threat – but he was not quick enough to block the stunning spell from Granger that sent him flying. He hit an empty armchair before crashing into the wall by the door, his vision going hazy and feeling as though he’d been hit by the Knight Bus. Granger certainly still packed a wallop. He felt someone remove the wand from his limp hand, though he couldn’t quite see who it was, and there was quite a lot of shouting – he’d rarely heard his mother raise her voice, and especially not in public.
At least his Finite had worked, he thought muzzily as he felt Narcissa’s hands on him again. Someone – it sounded like it might have been Shacklebolt – muttered “Rennervate,” and he could breathe again, drawing in great lungfuls of air and fumbling to get himself upright. His mother helped him, her strong grip under his arm enough for him to regain his feet.
“I would ask everyone to resume their seats. Now.” Shacklebolt’s tone brooked no arguments, and Draco sagged back down into the settee. He abandoned all efforts to maintain a proper posture this time, though he could tell that his mother was more than making up for it.
“Mr. Malfoy, I regret that you have forced me to put this in plain terms, but the fact of the matter is that your mother has been corresponding with known former Death Eaters other than yourself, in opposition to the conditions of her acquittal. And given her history, this is more than sufficient reason for us to arrest and hold her pending a more thorough investigation.” Shacklebolt tapped the fingers of his wand hand on the desk in irritation.
When Draco snuck a glance at his mother, she avoided his gaze, keeping her face calm and utterly expressionless.
“Provided that nothing concerning comes of this investigation, however, we are content to allow her to remain under house arrest if you agree to take on – with pay – the task of addressing the Dark magic problem at Malfoy Manor. I assure you that this contract would be more than generous, and of course there is the added benefit of sparing your remaining parent any time in Azkaban.”
Draco gave in and dropped his head to his hands, elbows braced against his knees, dragging his hands through his white hair. This couldn’t be happening. Why now? He swore that he would never go back. But his father had died in Azkaban. And as much as Draco had hated him, he had loved him too, once. There was no possibility that he would allow his mother to be sent to that godsforsaken island, even if it no longer utilized Dementors as wardens.
“You don’t know,” he whispered. “You don’t know what’s in there.”
“Whatever it is, it needs to be taken care of,” Granger said, her tone oddly gentle. “You see that, don’t you? If the ley lines are compromised…”
“None of this changes the fact that I’m no curse breaker, or Auror, or whoever the fuck else would be best suited for the job,” Draco said bitterly. “If I die trying to clear the Manor, then everything is still fucked anyway.” He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin. The pain grounded him a little, and he knew that she wasn’t trying to hurt him, merely hide her distress at hearing him mention his own possible death.
Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “No one said that you were required to attempt this entirely on your own. And as it happens, I know of an experienced former Auror who is expected to return to London in the next day or two, who has recently successfully concluded an extended contract for curse breaking work on the Continent.”
Draco knew. Of course. Of course it would be him, who else could it possibly be?
“I think Harry’s actually sort of looking forward to the challenge, honestly,” Granger said, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh with absolutely no mirth whatsoever.