Returning to Sanity | By : AchillesTheGeek Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 31212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3 |
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter books or films, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
42. Return to the Attack
Scandal is an importunate wasp, against which we must make no movement unless we are quite sure that we can kill it; otherwise it will return to the attack more furious than ever.
- Nicolas Chamfort
Sunday 14 June 1998
Lucius rose early on Sunday morning; he had instructed the elves to make sure that the Daily Prophet was available as soon as possible, and by the time he reached the breakfast table at six o'clock in the morning, it was by the side of his place setting, waiting for him. He decided not to let it spoil his breakfast, so placed a napkin over it, poured himself a cup of tea, and ate the bacon and eggs that Dippy had made for him.
Once breakfasted, he retired to his study with a fresh cup of tea, opened the paper, and began reading.
Death, Debt and Disinformation
By Rita Skeeter and Susan Bones
Yesterday we ran an article about how Mister Fred Weasley, joint owner of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, was killed during the Wizarding War in an explosion, and then brought back to life by the Destroyer of Voldemort, Mister Harry Potter. By popular demand, there is a supplement inside detailing the evidence for and against this happening, together with learned opinions from our guest columnists.
We also discovered that Mister Potter is the holder of a significant debt over both Lucius and Draco Malfoy. It seems that You-Know-Who had put a spell on his turncoat Death Eaters which would bind their magic if he died so that they could no longer use it, presumably as some sort of payback for their betrayal of his ideals. And furthermore, we found out that Mr Potter removed this spell after the War of Hogwarts. This action on Mr Potter's part created a very serious and powerful magical bond between him and the two former Death-Eaters: a Debt of Magical Emancipation. As our pure-blood readers will doubtless be aware, this is the most serious debt in the wzarding world, taken even more seriously than life debts.
We at the Prophet can't help wondering if freeing the Malfoys' magic in this way was a good decision. Mr Potter was, at the time, in possession of the most powerful wand ever made, the so-called 'Deathstick' or 'Elder wand', which had become his wand through a curious chain of circumstances following on from Albus Dumbledore's death. (Headmaster Dumbledore is known to have held it previously.) But was setting Death Eaters free really a wise use of its powers? Or was Mr Potter sucked into the role of playing the hero, again, and acting without regard for any form of due process?
Perhaps it is unfair of us to expect old heads on young shoulders. Mr Potter was, we gather, acting at the time without any Ministry input or supervision. But that raises a more sinister question – what was the Ministry thinking to allow the holder of such a powerful wand to walk around with free rein, unchecked and unadvised? Now-Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was at the scene; why did he not discuss matters with Mister Potter before action was taken?
At the present time, we cannot answer these questions. The Ministry did not reply to our requests for information; and Mr Potter appears to have gone missing. Many people have owled us concerned to know Mr Potter's whereabouts; is he lying low? Has he been captured by Death Eaters? Or is he in protective custody somewhere?
Seldom have we had so many owls in response to an article! For further information, see the supplement. Debts of Magical Emancipation are detailed pp6-12; the Elder wand pp13-28, including text from the transcript of the trial of Marcus Flint, particularly the testimony of Wandmaker Garrick Ollivander concerning the Elder Wand; our columns can be found beginning on page 29, and a selection of your letters can be found pp 36-50.
There really wasn't that much in the article, or the accompanying columns, Lucius decided. He read them all carefully and made careful notes; it wasn't that hard to formulate a reply. No, the real problem was the editorial. Entitled 'Just What is the Ministry Up To?' it was a particularly poisonous diatribe from Barnabus Cuffe:
When Kingsley Shacklebolt was confirmed as Minister for Magic, we all had high hopes that here was a new broom that would sweep clean. Now, a few short weeks in, we begin to wonder if that is so. As you can read elsewhere, the Prophet has learned that there are strange goings-on involving Harry Potter and the Ministry, and all right-thinking Magicals will be wondering exactly what the relationship is between the Saviour and the Minister.
The Prophet has also learnt that the Ministry allowed Mr Draco Malfoy to be used as the bait in a honey trap to catch Death Eater Yaxley, and that this trap was aided and abetted by Mr Potter. Just why is it, we wonder, that the Minister does not have the guts to send his Aurors out into the field to attack the Death Eaters before they pose a threat to our law-abiding citizens? That this attack happened at the party to celebrate Mr Malfoy's birthday and his engagement to Mr Potter surely compounds the felony: just what was Mr Potter doing, putting his fiancé at such a risk? Having destroyed You-Know-Who, has he become a vigilante with a hero complex, insisting on doing things his own way, outside the law?
That would certainly appear to be a relevant consideration with regard to Mr Potter's use of the Elder Wand. Surely so powerful an artifact, and something used by You-Know-Who himself, should have been immediately submitted to the Ministry as part of its inevitable Inquiry into matters concerning the War? Instead of which, the magic appears to have been removed – so presumably evidence has been destroyed.
And what, also, of Lucius Malfoy? This attack happened on the grounds of Malfoy Manor; how, we wonder, did the Death Eaters gain access to the heavily warded sanctum of the Malfoy family? Was Mr Malfoy also gambling with his son's life? Or does he have a more sinister agenda – providing an opportunity for the Death Eaters to attack the Minister? Or Mr Potter?
Just who is hiding what? You can be certain that the Prophet is actively seeking to answer that question on your behalf.
Lucius was not at all surprised when his Floo chimed, and the head of Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared in the flames.
"Morning, Minister. Come through," he said, opening the connection for travel, and seconds later the Minister stood on the rug in front of the huge antique desk. He did not, Lucius thought, look happy.
"You've read it?" Kingsley growled.
'Yes," Lucius said. "Not much to it, I thought."
Kingsley looked at him as if he thought he was mad; he probably did, Lucius mused. But Lucius stared back at him, his face unflinching, and it was the Minister who looked away first.
"Well, if you don't think there's much to it, how do we respond?"
"First, I suggest, with a cup of tea."
He summoned a house-elf, and would say nothing further before they were both seated comfortably with tea and biscuits in front of them. He held back the smirk that came to his face as he saw how much this simple delaying ploy had calmed the younger man.
"As we said yesterday, Minister, we have to tread carefully. An intemperate response will do more harm than good. I think we should begin with a calm, paternal letter from you. Point out that the Ministry welcomes interest in its workings and would be glad to respond to questions from the Prophet; but that they must be put to it during normal hours. We know their game of asking for information at the last possible minute; so tell them in the letter that the officer who would reply leaves an hour early. Make them look unreasonable. But be the soul of reason and charm yourself."
"But then they'll accuse us of being weak!"
"Exactly," Lucius replied. "So then, when we refute their nonsense strongly, they won't be able to get away with calling us bullies."
Kingsley smiled. It was devious; but he liked it. There was just one catch.
"Can we refute it?" he asked.
"Oh yes," Lucius replied. "But it might be a good idea to wait for Harry to be awake before we do. He might know something we can use to send Skeeter away with a flea in her ear."
"So what then, we just wait?"
"Yes, as we discussed yesterday, an immediate strong response will just feed the fire."
Eventually, he managed to calm the Minister down and send him away reassured. But in truth, he did feel they needed something else. But what?
And then the little voice spoke in his head.
And an evil smile played on his face.
He was enjoying the different coloured lights. They soothed him. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of the blackness that the light surrounded; that was not so nice. And it was getting bigger; it took a while before his mind made the obvious connection.
It was getting bigger because it was getting nearer. And that meant that either he or it was travelling. But he had no idea which. The red light surrounded him, and that gentle voice spoke again.
"Relax," it said. "It will all be over soon."
That's what it said every time; and every time, he did as he was bid. Somehow he knew to trust that voice; and as he did, the colours grew softer in hue and brighter in intensity. Warmer, somehow.
Abruptly, the colours were interrupted by a huge swath of silver. At first, he liked the silver even better than the other colours. But then it went darker, and he had the feeling that it was unhappy. He lifted his arms to try to touch it, to soothe its sorrows. He watched fascinated as it was caressed first by red light and then by green.
All at once the silver light shone bright again, and circled all around him. He smiled as he saw how beautiful it was.
In the midst of that strange place, Harry Potter was, just a little bit, happy.
Draco Malfoy woke early, and propped himself up on his left elbow, watching his fiancé lying there, so still and peaceful. His right arm reached over to stroke Harry's left side. At first, he was content to just stroke, and watch, and listen; but then the doubts and fears came back again.
What if Harry didn't wake up? What if the process hurt him? What if he was in pain? And, when he did wake up, how would he react to the Prophet articles? Thinking of those just made Draco angry again, that those bastards had turned on Harry simply because they thought it would sell more papers.
And then, for the first time in hours, Harry moved.
It wasn't just a little thing, either, like moving an arm to his chest. No, his whole body turned to face Draco, his left arm flew up, and, all of a sudden, the blond found himself clasped in a strong hug. For a moment, he forgot to breathe, stunned; then all of the fear and anger left him as he breathed again, and in their place he felt a joy coursing through him. He returned the hug, which brought him very close to Harry's body, and their foreheads touched.
"Oh Harry," he thought, "I love you so much. I just wish that Skeeter woman would leave you alone."
"Relax," a voice said inside his head. "It will all be over soon."
When had he heard that voice before? He thought back, and it hit him; when he had seen the image of the man he knew now was Vernon Dursley. The voice had helped him then; he was sure it would help him now. So he snuggled down to relax, and drifted back to sleep.
The silver light spoke to him, and told him it loved him. And something he didn't understand about a Skeeter woman. Then it faded, but was still beautiful. He looked over and saw that the blackness was bigger; and yet somehow the silver light was shining on it, and it seemed a whole lot less scary.
He didn't really know how he knew things any more; but he had heard what the silver light said, and he knew it was true, and he could feel it giving him strength. It seemed to wrap around him some how, and its touch was so soft, so gentle, so …
Draco. That was its name, he suddenly remembered. Draco loved him. Yes, that was important. That was something to hold on to. He wondered briefly again who Skeeter was, but that didn't seem to matter at all.
The other colours were still there, and the whole thing was comforting. He had the sense that something monumental would happen when the black thing arrived, or he reached it; but what it would be, he couldn't guess. That would happen when it happened, and meanwhile he could enjoy the colours. Especially the silver.
He became aware of another silver light; smaller, and tinged with gold. The colour was deeper, somehow, but again seemed to be disturbed. He tried to reach out to it, but it was too far away.
The word came back into his mind. Skeeter. He wondered again what it meant. Perhaps that was the name of the gold and silver light? But it didn't fit, somehow. What was its name then?
Lucius. Yes, that was it.
Then the voice spoke again.
"Skeeter is an unregistered animagus. A beetle."
He couldn't remember what that meant; but somehow he knew the gold-tinged silver light – Lucius - needed to know it. It was important. So he reached out – how, he could never have said – and spoke the same words. A red light moved out from him, and curled around the gold-tinged silver light and all at once it went much clearer and he knew his message had got through.
Again he smiled. He turned, to see that the blackness was almost upon him. That didn't make him smile. This was going to be hard; but he would get through it. He always did.
Monday 15 June 1998
Things were not going quite the way Barnabus Cuffe had hoped. The Minister was supposed to angrily deny everything; but the reply he had given was courteous, exact, and gave him nowhere to go. Of course, he wrote an editorial thanking Kingsley for his reply but hinting that perhaps the Minister was not up to the job. The Wizarding world needs firm leadership at this time, he wrote. That was the sort of thing his readers liked.
In his first draft he also pointed out that Mr Potter had not come forward yet; but he realised that the Ministry could simply say that it was none of their business what Mr Potter did so long as he abided by the law, which would make the Prophet look like they were hounding a schoolboy. Not a place he wanted to go. So that paragraph got chopped; as a result, the editorial was a bit too mealy-mouthed for his liking. But he couldn't see any way around it. He couldn't go on the attack, not unless he had an opponent willing to spar with him.
Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, was having an excellent day. After the tip-off, which he was somehow sure was from Harry, that Skeeter was an animagus, he had asked his two Aurors if they would look into it for him, which they happily agreed to do. Robin Banks, it turned out, knew very well how to test for an animagus and had managed to do so by visiting Skeeter in her office and asking both Susan and her to autograph his copy of their article. Lucius chuckled. That young man was both incredibly winsome and had balls of steel. And Toby Proudfoot was the perfect partner; if Banks was too enthusiastic, Proudfoot was too cautious, so together they found a very productive middle road.
So by lunchtime, Lucius had what he needed: Auror-certified evidence that Rita Skeeter was indeed an unregistered animagus; and the spells Banks had used clearly showed that this was not a recent phenomenon. He sent them off to prepare for his meeting tomorrow afternoon, and called Dempster Wiggleswade over to the manor. It only took them three hours to write the article, by which time the Aurors had returned to confirm that all was arranged.
Lucius chuckled. Three of his least favourite people were not going to have a good day tomorrow …
As he descended into the blackness, he felt a twinge of panic. The colours were going; how would he do without them? But as he got further in, he found that it was not entirely dark; wrapped around him, like lines tied around a caver, were two thick threads, one red, one silver, and they were giving out enough light for him to see into the blackness a little way. As it had approached, it had become quite menacing; but as the light touched it, it seemed to shrink away.
There was a strange feeling; something had changed, but for a while he was not sure what. And then he remembered: this had happened before. He had been in this state before; and he had survived. So he could survive this time. The thought comforted him, even though he had been quite unaware of any fear that he would not survive.
In the meantime, the feeling meant that he had stopped. His feet were now on something solid. He was still surrounded by darkness, except for the two ribbons of light connected to him, red and silver. As he stood for a moment in the gloom. Something very strange happened. Around the red and silver strands at his waist, a new light appeared. A green light started shining, moving out, covering them.
This is my own magic, he heard himself say. And so it was. Heartened that he had his own coloured light, he looked around. As the greenish light shone brighter, the darkness grew palpably weaker, until he could see that in the middle there was a solid core of darkness.
He walked towards it. As he got near, he could hear that it was making sounds; but only when he got right next to it did he discover that the sounds were, in fact, words. He placed his hand on the blackness, and listened.
There were, he realised, at least two voices, repeating terms over and over again, interrupting each other, speaking on top of each other:
FREAK! EVIL! WEIRDO! USELESS! COWARD! ALONE! YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED, AND SHE LIVED! HATEFUL! FREAK! NO ONE COULD LOVE YOU! UNCLEAN! GO TO YOUR CUPBOARD, FREAK! EVIL! ABOMINATION! NO ONE COULD LOVE YOU! UNLOVED! HATEFUL! CUPBOARD! HE SHOULD HAVE LET ME GO WITH HER! FREAK! FOOLISH CHILD!
There was so much pain in the voices that he couldn't help feeling for them. Who had pushed them to this state?
Abruptly, the colours around him began to act. It was the red that reacted first: it was as if the end of a rope, which had been coiled around him, unwound, and cracked into the blackness, like a whip. There was still a loop around him, he noticed with half his mind, and was strangely pleased by; but that was quickly forgotten as he watched the strange show in front of him.
His first thought had been that it was a whip; then it had looked for a second or two like a snake; but now it was like something half-forgotten: a hose, a machine, The memory tantalised him for a moment until he remembered cleaning at his aunt's house, using the Hoover.
A Hoover sucks up dirt, he thought; but the blackness looked too strong. Then he felt something in his hand and looked down. In the green and silver light he could see he was holding something long, and sharp. A sword, he thought, as the word came to him. He lifted the sword against the blackness. It sliced through easily, cutting it to ribbons, and made its own words as it did so.
FREAK! The blackness said. Special!The sword replied, as it sliced through more darkness.
COWARD! True Gryffindor!
ALONE! Loved!
ABOMINATION! Wonderful boy!
Soon the darkness was no longer solid, but shredded before his feet. As he watched, the red hose acted just like a Hoover. The blackness was sucked up by the red light, and soon disappeared. The words, which had become mere incoherent murmurs, then just a jumble of sound, now ceased; then all at once, the blackness disappeared completely and all was silent.
All the while, the silver thread pulsed around him and he felt … It was hard to find words. Loved? Was that it?
Yes, he thought. He was loved. Those words of the darkness, he knew, all of a sudden, had been spoken to him. And they had been spoken so often that they had pooled here, in the depth of his soul, feeding every evil thought, every nightmare.
And now, he knew for certain, they were gone. They were not true, and they no longer had any power over him. It was the sword that had spoken truth. He looked at it, then let go of it. He was not surprised when it disappeared; somehow it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn't need it any more. In the depth of his heart, he knew that he was loved. Accepted. Free. He felt at peace, as he blissfully surrendered to sleep.
Draco had been sleeping fitfully, and then he had had a dream; one that he knew was not quite a dream. He had been with Harry, holding him, comforting him, and he had known it was important to stay. When he woke from the dream-that-was-not-a-dream, it was already early evening. He lay still and watched Harry sleeping for several minutes. The raven-haired lad's face looked much healthier, somehow; Draco could tell that something important had happened. He had no idea what; but Harry was at peace, and for the first time in hours he sensed that it was quite safe to leave him alone.
He showered and dressed, called Mappy to watch over Harry, and then went in search of food. An hour later, he was sitting in his Zen garden when Blaise and Pansy appeared.
"So, you are back from Dreamland?" Blaise asked.
Draco knew that he was being jocular, but it was a surprisingly accurate description. Not that the two of them needed to know that; not yet, at any rate.
"Yes," he replied, smirking to himself. "And Harry should be all right for a while – did you have plans?"
"We were hoping you might want to come to Grimmauld Place today?" Pansy offered.
Draco winced as he realised he'd forgotten about that. Ron and Hermione were coming back on Saturday, and there was still so much to do!
"Thank you for reminding me! We have so much to do!" he almost shouted as he jumped up. "But .. today is almost gone! We have only four more days! And work at Hogwarts!"
"Calm down, amico," Blaise said, placing his hands on his friend's shoulders. "We know you are busy with Harry, so we have started already."
Draco looked at him quizzically.
"Started? But how did you get in? The wards should not allow it!"
Blaise gave him a sly look.
"We could not enter, true. But the Weasley boys, they could; and they have let us in. Come and see!"
When he arrived at Grimmauld Place the twins grabbed him and took him on a tour of the upstairs rooms. The progress astonished him.
"This is incredible," he said softly as they led him back to the first floor. "How have you managed to do so much in only two days?"
"Well," Fred replied with a smirk that would have done a Slytherin proud, "we had rather a lot of help …"
He opened the dining room door, and led Draco in. The Black family dining room at Grimmauld Place has a very special magical charm on it: the room can accommodate a vast number of people, the table magically, and automatically, expanding as required. Up till now, Draco had always thought of the room as a little on the small side, but he had appreciated that that made for intimate dining. But now… Now the room no longer felt intimate; on the contrary, the table now sported benches, rather like one of the tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Fred and George sat Draco at the head of the table and took a seat either side of him. Draco looked along to see Neville next to George, with Pansy, Theo, Dean, Luna, Seamus, Blaise, Millicent; on the other side, Angelina Johnson sat next to Fred, then, to Draco's great surprise, was Professor Flitwick, and next to him a couple of Ravenclaws that Draco knew by sight, then Bill and Ginevra Weasley, and Robin Banks sitting at the far end.
"Wow," he said, and looked at Professor Flitwick. "What's going on, Professor? I would have expected you all to be at Hogwarts?"
"Greetings, Mr Malfoy!" the tiny teacher twittered happily. "As you may recall, our progress at Hogwarts has been phenomenal, and we are a week ahead of schedule. When Minerva heard from her aunt that Mr Potter was likely to be indisposed for some time, and Mr Zabini approached me about possibly sparing a couple of people to help, I was delighted to simply pause operations there and work here instead. We have had a lot more help from past students as well; Oliver Wood, for example, has been tireless over the last two days. But he and the other past students tend to be busy at night with other things; the people around this table were able to stay to see you tonight."
Draco's mouth dropped open. He looked around the whole company, and felt tears threatening to fall. He blinked them away.
"So you all came to help out? Just for Harry?" He couldn't wrap his head around it; there was no possible advantage to all these people to come and fix Harry's private house; but they'd done it anyway.
"And for you," Neville replied. "It's what friends do."
At this, Draco could no longer hold back the tears. But no-one minded a bit.
Tuesday 16 June 1998
It took a few minutes for Barnabus Cuffe to realise that the tapping that he heard was not the hangover he had anticipated, but an owl at his window. He cast a Tempus charm to discover it was four o'clock in the morning. Who the hell was sending him an owl at this time?
He opened the window, and in flew one of the post-room owls from the Daily Prophet. He accepted the letter from it, and it flew off immediately, without waiting for reply or treat; but that didn't really surprise him. His staff knew better than to expect replies and his owls knew better than to expect treats.
It turned out to be a single scrap of parchment wrapped around a vial of potion. On the parchment was written, in his sub-editor's (thankfully!) inimitable scrawl, 'Drink this and come at once.' He cast a few charms on the vial, which revealed that it was exactly what it looked like: a hangover cure and pick-me-up all in one, the one favoured by senior Prophet staff because it was both very potent and easy to obtain without the Ministry finding out. The latter was important because the potion, like all strong potions, was addictive, and it would cause a scandal if it were known how much his staff depended on them. In all things, the Prophet preferred to tell the story, not be the story.
He took the potion, slightly miffed at how well his habits were known that they had sent it to him as a matter of course. After waiting the few seconds until he felt better, he picked up a handful of Floo powder, and sped to the office.
In the offices of the Daily Prophet, it was bedlam. Well, it always was at this time of the day, as the first copies came off the presses. He found the sub-editor on the printing room floor. The man looked at him, a pained expression on his face.
"Ministry orders, boss," he said, as he passed over a piece of parchment and a copy of the printed paper.
The parchment confirmed that the Ministry was using its prerogative to suspend the previous lead story 'with immediate effect' in favour of the one that had in fact been printed. It was, Cuffe noted as he turned very pale, personally signed by the Minister, and left no room for wiggling. From the look on the subbie's face, it had been delivered at the last possible moment, so the man had had no chance to run it by him before print. He knew they could do this, of course, as technically the State of Wizarding Emergency that had been declared when Voldemort had reappeared had not been lifted; but he didn't think they would.
"Bullies," he said, mostly to himself.
"Firm leadership," the subbie replied.
Cuffe groaned. Yes, he'd said that yesterday. They'd got him hoist by his own petard. He walked back to his desk and sat reading the article.
Life, Freedom and Truth -
A Ministry Response to Articles in this Paper
By
Dempster Wiggleswade
Recent articles in this newspaper have made much of events just after the Wizarding War, and at the engagement party of Mr Draco Malfoy and Mr Harry Potter. The Ministry has been asked for its input, and this reporter has been given the following press release from the Minister:
Cuffe read on, and his face fell.
The Prophet asks why Mr Potter's use of the so-called Deathstick was not monitored; but Mr Potter is a private citizen, and of age, and had won the allegiance of this wand, for, as we all know, the wand chooses the wizard. Surely, beyond the well-known proscription of Unforgivables, and a general duty of care to one another, the Prophet does not want the Ministry to dictate what a wizard does with a wand he has a legitimate claim to?
There was more on this score, but Cuffe knew that the wedge he'd hoped to drive between Shacklebolt and Potter wasn't going to be happening any time soon. Then came a section about the Ministry itself, and this was even more disturbing:
Of course we are delighted that the Prophet has questioned Ministry decisions. It is essential that your Ministry is kept accountable and on our toes; too often the Ministry has acted with a heavy hand, believing itself to be infallible. Minister Fudge was wrong to think that Voldemort had not returned, and Minister Scrimgeour was perhaps too zealous in his prosecution of alleged Death-Eaters. But let us ensure that the questioning happens in a friendly atmosphere, without descending to personal attacks. Let's leave the witch-hunts to the Muggles. We are here to build a better future for us all; and Mr Potter has graciously fallen in with all of the demands on him.
And on and on it went. There was stuff about the party; but as the Minister ponderously pointed out, it was not the Ministry's place to speak for Lucius Malfoy, nor did he answer to it other than in the same way as anyone else. The Ministry provided security for the Manor as it would for anywhere else that a Death-Eater attack was anticipated.
Cuffe put his head in his hands. He had been out-played, and he knew it. All the personal dirt that had been dug up on Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley was rendered useless. Hell, they couldn't even publish slurs against the Malfoys; they'd just look like pathetic losers if they printed it now.
By the time he reached the last paragraph, he was fuming with rage. He wanted to kill someone. He was going to get back at someone, if it killed him. And then, there it was.
While the Ministry does not condone intrusion into people's private lives, there is naturally a standard of behaviour that is required of persons in positions of trust. That includes Ministry staff; but it also includes staff of the Daily Prophet, as the Wizarding World must have confidence in those who report on the activities of its servants. So it is of considerable concern to the Ministry that we have learned that one member of the Daily Prophet staff has been using an unregistered animagus form. We feel confident that the Editor will give all assistance to ensure that the regrettable oversight of failing to register this form will be corrected without delay.
Skeeter. It had to be. He was going to lose his best reporter, he thought, as he reached for the bottle of firewhiskey.
No, he corrected himself, he didn't have to lose her. She was the biggest pain in the arse on his staff; but all he had to do was play dumb, offer her up to the Ministry, then beg for her to be allowed to stay on staff in, to begin with, a much more junior role.
It was, he knew, a peace offering. A deal, to maintain the often unhappy relationship between Ministry and paper. He could still have his scandal; it would just be Skeeter who bore the brunt of it.
"Serves the bitch right," he said to himself, as he tossed back his favourite breakfast: a simple combination of scapegoat and firewhiskey.
Lucius was all smiles as he finally walked into Grunnings Drills. The article in the Prophet had been perfect; it remained to be seen what Cuffe made of it, of course, but he was sure that the man would understand the deal he was being offered. And now here he was, performing yet another meet-and-greet, turning on the charm. Another day of tedium, really.
There was no mistaking Vernon Dursley. The comparison to aquatic mammals was irresistible; the man practically waddled up to him, and even sported what was called a 'walrus moustache', for Merlin's sake!
"Mr Malloy, Vernon Dursley, very pleased to meet you," the odious man said, extending his hand and shaking Lucius's own far too forcefully. Lucius winced inwardly; but the Malfoy mask held good, his face maintained a polite smile, and Dursley practically beamed at him. It was rather like having a too-attentive dog rub up on you, Lucius thought; only a lot less enjoyable.
"Mr Dursley, delighted to make your acquaintance. You are the Deputy General Manager, I understand?"
"Yes, sir," the man replied, beaming, and began to explain exactly what his position entailed. Lucius was amazed at how the man could spin a job description that was basically 'I do whatever the general manager tells me to' into what sounded like a difficult and responsible position. Lucius was almost impressed. But only almost. It didn't quite gel; and he could tell by the disapproving noises from the man at his elbow that Grunnings thought so too.
"Quite so," Lucius said after the man had rather embarrassed himself with his enthusiasm and run out of steam. "Of course, you would not, I suspect, be averse to taking on further responsibilities?"
One could almost hear the cogs in Vernon's brain turning. The only place to go was the Managing Director job; in his mind's eye, Vernon saw himself in that spacious office, lording it over the staff. It made a very pleasant picture indeed.
"Oh, no, of course not!" he began, the greed only too evident in his voice. Lucius cut him off smoothly.
"Very good," he said, turning back to George Grunnings, who was standing at his elbow. Lucius could feel anger pouring off the man in waves; he clearly did not approve of his employee's complete lack of tact. He smiled as he wordlessly cast a little charm Narcissa had suggested on Vernon Dudley.
This was going to be a lot of fun.
Later that evening, 'Luke Malloy' and George Grunnings had a quiet pint in a nearby pub. The Managing Director and his Deputy had been invited along; but, Grunnings explained, Collings had a prior dinner engagement, and Dursley seemed to have come down rather suddenly with a nasty upset stomach.
"How sad," Lucius observed, his eyes sparkling. "I do hope he recovers soon. And that it's not contagious."
"Yes, well, it is a concern," the other man agreed. "He has taken a lot of time off, what with that nephew of his and all."
"About that," Lucius said, spotting a useful opening. "I have been pursuing some enquiries of my own."
"Really? Oh, well, then, you'll know about the injunction and warrant, then."
"Yes," Lucius said, slowly. "I've also heard that there is another investigation about to start on the case. It seems that not all of the evidence that was presented was actually quite truthful."
"Really?" Grunnings said, raising an eyebrow.
"Indeed," Lucius replied. "There's some suggestion that Mr Dursley and the officer in charge, what was his name now, …"
"Darren Dyson," Grunnings said, a little too promptly. A quick non-verbal Legilimens established for Lucius that Grunnings knew Dyson had a reputation for dealing with difficult problems, not necessarily quite within the law; but that he didn't know the specifics of this case. Grunnings would never know it, but that ignorance had saved him a world of pain.
"Yes, that's the chap. There's an internal investigation about to start. All hush-hush, of course, mustn't say anything to Dursley or Dyson, you know, police furious and all that …"
"Yes well, of course," the Yorkshireman replied, looking rather worried. It wouldn't do for a respectable business like Grunnings' Drills to be caught up in anything illegal. "Not a word, then."
"That's right," Lucius replied. "Not a word."
For now, he thought, as he discreetly charmed the ale to taste like butterbeer so he could at least get it down.
When Grunnings left the pub, he wasn't feeling the best. From the sound of things, Dursley had not been straight with him. He didn't like that. Not one little bit.
George Grunnings was not a fancy man. He made no pretentions at all to being cultured, which had turned Lucius's stomach somewhat. He was a man of the people; he had no time for what he called 'lah-di-dah ways'. "I'm bluff, I am," he would say to anyone who would listen. But he was surprisingly tolerant for a man of his generation. He knew for a fact that two of his male employees were in a relationship together; but as long as they kept it discreet, he didn't mind. They were good workers, after all. There was even one occasion, that had passed into company legend, when he had stood up for them on a building site; the biggest bully on site had yelled 'Nancy boys!' at them, and without even needing to think about it he had yelled back that, unless the man wanted to shag them, it was none of his business. That had shut him up good and proper.
But he could not, would not, stand people who were not straight with him. If what Luke Malloy said was true, he'd have to rethink his whole opinion of Vernon Dursley.
He got home and went to bed, deciding to sleep on it and forget about the whole thing till morning.
It was a shame that he was woken up at two a.m. with what must be the same stomach bug that Vernon Dursley had had …
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have set up a thread for replies at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/56042-review-replies-for-returning-to-sanity/ . I will generally try to reply to posts before posting a new chapter.
While AFF and its agents attempt to remove all illegal works from the site as quickly and thoroughly as possible, there is always the possibility that some submissions may be overlooked or dismissed in error. The AFF system includes a rigorous and complex abuse control system in order to prevent improper use of the AFF service, and we hope that its deployment indicates a good-faith effort to eliminate any illegal material on the site in a fair and unbiased manner. This abuse control system is run in accordance with the strict guidelines specified above.
All works displayed here, whether pictorial or literary, are the property of their owners and not Adult-FanFiction.org. Opinions stated in profiles of users may not reflect the opinions or views of Adult-FanFiction.org or any of its owners, agents, or related entities.
Website Domain ©2002-2017 by Apollo. PHP scripting, CSS style sheets, Database layout & Original artwork ©2005-2017 C. Kennington. Restructured Database & Forum skins ©2007-2017 J. Salva. Images, coding, and any other potentially liftable content may not be used without express written permission from their respective creator(s). Thank you for visiting!
Powered by Fiction Portal 2.0
Modifications © Manta2g, DemonGoddess
Site Owner - Apollo