lavillanueva (lavillanueva) wrote in hp_tarot, @ 2008-08-07 19:12:00 |
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Harry let out a deep, frustrated breath. “That’s not your business,” he said irritably. “Can I see him, or not?”
She clicked her tongue, reached into the tower of files behind her and pulled one that read “Malfoy, Draco” across the top. “Here you are,” she said, sliding a sheet of paper to him. “Name, date, and time please. Oh, and a signature.”
Harry was halfway through signing his name before he realized the form was bare, save his entry. “Excuse me,” he asked, earning a wary look. “Er, is there another sheet, one that’s already been started?”
She flipped open the folder. Harry tried to catch what was inside but she snapped it shut before he could read anything. “No. Mr Malfoy has never had a visitor’s log started.”
“Not even for a lawyer?” Harry asked, incredulous.
“Matters of legal representation are confidential.” She said sternly. “If you’d like to see him before visiting hours are through, I suggest you fill that out and hand it over. Oh, and your wand as well; you can retrieve it when you’re through.”
“My wand?” Harry asked, fingers tightening around it. “Why? What do you think I’m going to do with it?”
For a moment, Harry thought she might not answer him, but then she gave a sort of half-nod and lowered her voice. “Depends on why you want to see him. If you’re a friend, then warming charms, cleaning charms, that sort of thing.”
“And if I’m not?”
She jerked her head toward the open window beside her desk, through which Harry could see a courtyard filled with rows of simple stones. “Where d’you think all the bodies came from?”
A cold wave rushed over Harry’s body, like someone had upended a tub of ice water over his head. “Here,” he said, thrusting his wand toward her. She accepted it and stored it in a small compartment beside her desk.
“On you go, then,” she said. “You’ll find Mr Malfoy on the twenty-second floor. The guard will direct you from there.”
* * *
The guard did direct him - and gave him a knowing look and a wink that made Harry duck his head and walk faster in an attempt to avoid further eye contact. He’d have a time trying to find Malfoy without the guard’s help, though, and the man knew it, so he stayed close at Harry’s heels and grinned as if they shared a dirty secret.
The only furniture in the small cell was a short, narrow cot. If Malfoy stretched full out, his feet would probably just brush the end - he’d never been the imposing figure his father was. But he wasn’t laying flat, he had his knees tucked into his stomach, and the cot was so thin his backside was hanging over the edge. Harry wondered briefly whether they used the same sized bed for all the inmates, or whether they’d brought this one in special for Malfoy, to take away all semblances of comfort and luxury.
He was considering the best way to alert Malfoy of his presence when the guard ran his wand over the row of bars. Malfoy sprung up immediately, dazed and not-quite-alert.
“Up, you! You got a visitor!”
“Visitor?” Malfoy replied, squinting toward the bars. There was no light in his cell; Harry and the guard were backlit by the torches lining the walls, shadows obscuring their faces. Still, it didn’t take Malfoy long to figure his identity. “Potter?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” As the recognition dawned on him, he stumbled from his bed and searched the room for somewhere to stand that would conceal the fact he was in a prison cell that wasn’t much wider than he was tall.
Harry looked away, tried not to focus on Malfoy’s uncomfortable surroundings. “Could you leave us alone?” he said to the guard, who backed away with a grin still plastered on his face.
“Er,” he started, wondering just what he should say now that he and Malfoy were alone. “You can sit down, if you like.”
Malfoy, who had been fidgeting with his robes, stilled instantly and dropped his hands to his sides. Obviously they hadn’t shrunk his robes to reflect his small stature; the prison-issue grey fabric pooled at his feet, covered his fingers and exposed too much neck. He’d never been large at school, but without his carefully tailored clothes he appeared no bigger than a child, dressing in his father’s robes.
“I’d rather stand,” he said, then crossed his arms over his chest. The action bunched up his robes so they didn’t seem to overtake him any more, but they still hung low on his shoulders and chest, and even in the warm glow of the firelight Harry could see his pale skin had gone nearly grey from the lack of sun. He recalled something he’d heard on the Muggle news once, about the human body needing sunlight to break down vitamins, and doubted it was healthy for the prisoners to be kept in the dark all the time. It couldn’t be healthy, not if they all looked as bad as Malfoy - and considering the boy had only been there a few months, Harry was sure there many who looked much worse.
“Fine,” Harry replied, unwilling to start a fight straight off. “Look, um…”
“‘Um?’”
Harry shifted his weight under Malfoy’s glare and decided he’d do better to blurt it out “Your father entered a Not Guilty plea with the Wizengamot yesterday. He’s claiming he was under the Imperius curse again.” Malfoy turned his head away, then looked back.
“And?”
“And, and we think they’re going to believe him. Or, you know, not believe him, but they’ll let him go just because he’s donated four million Galleons to the relief effort. And they think if they let him go, he’ll give more.”
Malfoy nodded. “Sounds like my father. What does that have to do with me?”
“We need - we need your help. You need to testify against him,” Harry said quickly. Malfoy’s eyes widened.
“You want me to testify against my father?” He asked, laughing over the words. “In exchange for what? The deeply satisfying knowledge that I’m doing the ‘right thing?’”
“No!” He knew Malfoy wasn’t going to take this well, even before he’d come. He wasn’t going to walk in empty handed. “If you testify against him, the Minsiter will give you a full pardon.”
Malfoy cocked his head and raised his eyes as though he were considering it. “Oh, that is a tempting offer. Let me see: tell the entire Wizarding World what an evil bastard my father is, have him and my mother disown me, and go down as a blood-traitor, all for the chance to get spit on as I walk the streets. Brilliant!” He took the few steps to his bed and lay down on it again, back facing Harry.
“Malfoy, come on! Think about this.”
Malfoy’s head lifted and he looked over his shoulder at Harry. “Are you so daft you don’t know a dismissal when you see one, Potter? I’m not testifying. The end. You can leave now.” He tucked his head back into the crook of his arm, and Harry did in fact know a dismissal when he saw one, but he didn’t care. He took a breath to reply, but was cut off by the bellowing noise of a Sonorous charm.
“Attention! Visiting hours will end in five minutes. Please see the attendant to sign out and receive your wands.”
Harry looked at Malfoy’s motionless form, then turned away. Lucius’ trial wasn’t for two months, after all; he could try again next week.
Week 2
“What’s that on your arm?” Harry asked after ten requests for Malfoy’s help and ten swift refusals. Malfoy, who had been lying supine on his bed with his arms crossed behind his head, started at the unexpected question.
“What?” He asked, glancing down at the exposed skin.
“On your arm,” Harry said again, leaning as close as the bars would allow. The skin just above Malfoy’s right elbow was a livid purple-blue. “That bruise. How’d you get it?”
Malfoy flushed and dropped his arms so the fabric fell over them again. “You try living around nothing but metal and stone, we’ll see how you fare.”
“I’d do better than to catch the wall with my inner arm, Malfoy, and I think you would too. Let me see it.”
Utter disbelief creased Malfoy’s face as he sat up. Harry couldn’t miss the way he held his arm wide, as if to keep it from brushing his side. “You want me to disrobe in front of you? Are you honestly that base?”
“I’m not asking you to undress, Malfoy.” The unintended innuendo gave him pause, but he managed not to blush. “Just pull up your sleeve so I can see.”
Malfoy looked as though he were going to protest again, and most likely deliver another insult, but then his mouth twisted into an ugly half-smile. “Sure thing,” he said, and pulled back the robes draped over his left arm to reveal the hideous black Mark tattooed there. Harry stared at it open-mouthed. He’d known Malfoy was Marked, of course, but he’d never seen it before.
“That’s-” he said, trying to rip his eyes away from the black ink. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m aware. Just thought you could do with a reminder of who you’re dealing with.” Malfoy held the fabric a moment longer, and even though he couldn’t see Malfoy’s face, Harry knew Malfoy was staring at him, looking at him looking at the Mark. Finally, Harry dropped his eyes and Malfoy released the cloth. “I’m not a charity case, Potter. I’m a Death Eater.”
“You weren’t a Death Eater,” Harry said. Malfoy raised his eyebrows and started to lift the edge of his robe again. “Not really.”
Malfoy placed his hands beside him on the cot, as if to balance himself, and gave Harry a solemn look. “Yes, really,” he said without a hint of mockery. “I took the Mark. I got the Carrows into Hogwarts. I tortured people, Potter: I am a Death Eater.”
“I don’t buy it, Malfoy. You were a scared little kid who did what his father said. That’s all.” Malfoy gave him a small smile.
“That’s some noble fantasy you’re entertaining, Potter,” he said without a trace of cruelty. “I wish I could say it were true.”
“Come on,” Harry pleaded. “You can still do the right thing here, Malfoy.”
Malfoy lay back down and folded his arms under his head again, displaying the bruise that had caught Harry’s attention earlier. “I am,” he said simply, fixing his eyes on the ceiling above him.
Harry sighed and rested his forehead on the metal bars. This was going to take a lot more work than he’d anticipated.
Week 3
“You know it’s not fair,” Harry said as Malfoy leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs in front of him.
“I’m sorry?” he asked. “My Legilimency skills just aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid. What’s not fair again?”
Harry fought the urge to growl. “Your dad, getting off free and leaving you here.”
“What makes you think he’ll just leave me here?” Malfoy asked coolly. “If my father can secure his own release, don’t you think he’ll manage mine as well?”
Harry pushed off from the bars and gave a frustrated grunt. It was lucky for Malfoy they had bars separating them, bars Harry couldn’t Apparate around; he’d have liked nothing better at that moment than to shake some sense into his stupid blond head. “That’s all that matters to you, is it? You don’t care how many people your father has killed? Or how about the fact that he tried to turn me in to Voldemort to save his own arse!”
“Or how about the fact that he’s my father?”
Harry stood flush against the bars. “He may be your father, but he was a killer first. He deserves to be in jail.”
Malfoy walked to stand in front of Harry, close enough to whisper but not enough to touch. “And what about you, Potter? What do you deserve?” Before Harry could respond, Malfoy raised his hand to the neckline of his robes and pulled down, the loose fabric shifting to reveal his bare chest and -oh, god- and the faint, pinkish-white scars that Harry had given him not two years before, glowing in the torchlight.
“I-” he started, but Malfoy cut him off immediately.
“Save it. I’m not interested in your apologies.” He adjusted his robes so the scars were mostly hidden, but now Harry knew where to look he could just spot the tips of them peeking out from the low collar.
“How do you know I was going to apologize?” Harry tried to sneer, but couldn’t quite manage. “You were trying to cast an Unforgiveable at me. I just did what I had to.”
“Oh, so that’s what I deserved, is that it? That’s great, Potter. I’m so glad they appointed you judge, jury and executioner. All that ‘trial’ shite was getting tedious.”
“I’m not saying you deserved it!” Harry protested. “I’m saying I was a stupid kid who didn’t know what he was doing. And neither did you.” He looked beseechingly at Malfoy, who laughed in return.
“You thought different back in school. Rewriting history now, are we?”
“I just told you I was a stupid kid too, Malfoy, what else do you want from me?”
Malfoy gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples. “I want you to get the hell out, but I’m not that lucky, am I?”
“Are you going to testify?” Harry asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
“No.”
“Then no,” Harry replied. “I’m not leaving.” Malfoy opened his weary eyes but before he could respond, the Sonorous-enhanced voice of the desk receptionist announced visiting hours were finished.
“Looks like the warden disagrees with you,” Malfoy said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Fine,” Harry huffed. “But I’m coming back next week.”
“Colour me surprised,” Malfoy said, collapsing back onto his bed.
Week 4
“You’re not looking at this objectively, Potter,” Malfoy said in a haughty voice as Harry banged his head against the bars. “What you’re proposing is a lose-lose situation. Not only would my family hate me, but I’d go down as a sniveling rat who’d sell out his own father to survive.”
“That’s just like you,” Harry spat. “Always thinking of yourself, never anyone else-”
“I wasn’t finished!” Malfoy shot him a nasty look. “My solution, on the other hand, serves everyone’s interests. My family stays out of prison, my father donates a fortune to all your wounded orphans or whatever, and the Malfoys are highly regarded philanthropists again. My solution is a win-win.” He sat back, a smug smile pasted on his face.
Harry glared back at him. “So you don’t mind going down as one more Malfoy who bought his way out of trouble?”
Malfoy shrugged. “It’s worked this long, hasn’t it?”
The way Malfoy said it, as though he could not begin to comprehend why it was wrong to cheat the system, almost caused Harry to give up just then. Maybe it was hopeless. Malfoy was right, Harry wasn’t offering anything he couldn’t get on his own, and get on more agreeable terms. He sighed.
“Don’t you care at all about doing the right thing?”
“The right thing for who?” Malfoy said, more gently than Harry would have expected. “You know as well as I do, it’s not going to help anyone to keep my father behind bars. It won’t bring anyone back from the dead.”
“Is that how you justify it?”
“There’s nothing to justify,” Malfoy replied in a tight voice. Harry could tell his patience was wearing thin. No, it had already been wearing thin - it was about to disappear altogether. “I’m doing what’s right for my family. And for a fair few people who’ll get some money out of it, I might add.”
“Money. That’s what you think, isn’t it? You think you can throw a few Galleons at people and they’ll forget what you’ve done, forget what they’ve lost. God!” Harry tried his best to dislodge the metal bars, kicked at them when they would not budge. Malfoy watched, amused, as Harry threw a fit. “I was right about you. You are pathetic. You’ve got your head so far up your own arse you don’t know which way is which anymore.”
Malfoy pulled a disgusted face. “Oh, that’s crude Potter. Not to mention rich, coming from a self-righteous prick like you.”
Harry stared at him. Part of him took offense to Malfoy’s accusation and wanted to fight, while part of him was sick of the back-and-forth they’d been engaging in for the past month. Malfoy was quicker and meaner and wholly lacking a conscience, or at least a conscience that took anything other than his family’s comfort into account, and Harry was tired of battling him at every turn and making no headway. And the more frustrated he became, the more it amused Malfoy. He knew if he started again, all he’d accomplish would be to put a smile on Malfoy’s face.
Considering Malfoy’s surroundings, however - the tiny room, the undersized bed, the stone ceiling that dripped on misty days, the ever-present bruises on his arms - he couldn’t help but wonder if that might be reason enough after all.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Malfoy continued to stare at him; Harry continued to look at anything but the jut of Malfoy’s bony knees and elbows from beneath his loose robes. Finally, Harry turned around, bracing himself against the bars as he slid to the ground, eyes closed.
“Whatever,” he said mildly. “Just let me know when you get over yourself.”
“Sure thing, Potter,” Malfoy said behind him. “You hold your breath until then.”
Week 5
“Look, Malfoy-”
Malfoy, who was curled into a foetal position with his back to the wall, held up a hand to cut him off.
“Can we just- take a break, for the week?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
Harry hesitated for a second; Malfoy looked awful, even more so than usual. Though it was hard to tell under his robes, he seemed to be wasting away, decomposing before Harry’s eyes. His skin was a mottle of blues, greens, yellows and dingy greys, his collarbone stuck out sharply - even his hair had thinned out. Harry felt a twinge of guilt before he reminded himself that Malfoy was the one keeping himself here; Harry was the one offering him a way out.
“If you want me to feel sorry for you, it’s not going to work.” Harry said, and felt the twinge of guilt again. Malfoy squeezed his eyes tighter shut and took a careful breath, but didn’t move otherwise.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” he said blandly, his eyes still not opening. “I’m just not in the mood today.”
“What, you think I am? You think I come here for the fun of it, Malfoy?”
“Please, just-” he moved one hand to hold his ribs gingerly. “Just lay off for today, all right? You can torment me again next week.”
Harry wavered. He only had a few weeks left to convince Malfoy; once Lucius had been cleared of all charges, they wouldn’t have another shot to try him. Not until the next Dark Lord tried to take over, at least.
“Look, Malfoy, I’m sorry but-”
“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice sounded strange, weak - like he was fighting to force the air from his lungs. “Leave. Me. Alone.” He opened his eyes and Harry could see that all the fire had gone from them; not even the torchlight flickered in his blank stare. “Please?”
Stubborn brat or not, Harry couldn’t resist the plea in Malfoy’s dull grey eyes. “All right,” he said, and fell into silence. Malfoy closed his eyes again. He probably didn’t even know that Harry stayed to watch him sleep.
Week 6
“Malfoy.”
“Malfoy.”
“Malfoy.”
“Are you going to talk to me?”
“I know you can hear me. Don’t pretend you can’t.”
“Are you seriously going to ignore me all day?”
“This is ridiculous. Malfoy! At least look at me!”
“I know you’re not dead. I can see you breathing.”
“Are you all right?”
“Damnit, Malfoy, what do you want me to say?”
“Fuck this. I’m not a mind reader. If you want something, you have to tell me what it is.”
“Fine. Great. Fuck you too. You can stay here the rest of your life for all I care.”
Week 7
“Malfoy,” Harry said, irritated. “This is stupid, and immature, and I don’t have time for it. Talk to me.”
Malfoy didn’t respond. Once again, he’d done nothing but lay in bed and ignore Harry for the better part of visitor’s hours, and Harry had just about had enough. He grabbed the thick iron bars that formed the door to Malfoy’s cell and shook them, wishing more than anything he could do the same to Malfoy. The clangs of metal against metal were loud and abrasive, but Harry could hardly hear them over the surge of anger in his head. The guard at the end of the hall was watching with interest but making no move to stop Harry, so he continued shaking the bars, over and over and over and-
“All right!” Malfoy shouted. “Merlin’s balls, Potter, would you lay off? The talking is bad enough, but you’re giving me a thundering headache and I can’t get any pain relieving potions in here.”
“Sorry,” Harry said, dropping his hands to his sides. “But I really don’t have time for your games. Your dad’s trial starts in a few weeks.”
“Yeah.” Moving gingerly and using only his right hand, Malfoy lifted himself into a sitting position. “I think you mentioned that once or twice. What’s it to do with me?”
Harry cursed the metal bars separating them for what must be the thousandth time. “Come on, Malfoy. We need you to testify.”
“Yeah, so you’ve said.” Malfoy rubbed his forehead - again with his right hand - and as he did, the wide neck of his robe slipped down his left arm to reveal a swollen shoulder nearly black with bruises.
“What the hell happened to you?” Harry asked, all thoughts of the trial leaving his mind.
Draco looked down at his shoulder and winced. “It’s nothing,” he said. “They can be a bit over-enthusiastic, at times.”
“They?” Harry glanced around.
“The guards,” Draco muttered, almost too low for Harry to hear. Certainly too loud to carry down the hall. He tugged his robe back into place and sat motionless.
“What’d you do?”
“What did I do?” Draco asked, almost laughing. “What did I do,” he repeated to himself, a manic look stealing over his face.
“Well?” Harry prompted. Draco’s glare was stony, resentful.
“It’s not so much what I did as what I wanted to do,” he replied.
“Which was?”
“Using the facilities without someone holding it for me.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Holding what- oh. Oh.” He looked away, only to catch the guard’s eye and give a furious blush. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
“Mr Potter,” the receptionist said, not looking up from the forms she was filing. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Harry made a frustrated noise and let his gaze fall to the window beside her desk, ripping it away again when the rows of headstones came into focus.
“All right then,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to lodge a complaint,” Harry said firmly.
Week 8
“For fuck’s sake, Potter,” Malfoy hissed before Harry had even stopped walking. “Will you never stop meddling with my life?”
He was laying on the bed again, on his back, knees bent and spread open. Harry stood to the opposite corner so he wouldn’t catch an accidental glimpse up Malfoy’s robes.
“I wasn’t meddling,” he argued. “I was trying to help.” Malfoy groaned.
“Of course you were,” he said. “You’re always trying to help. You’re always sticking your stupid face in where it doesn’t belong.”
“It does too belong, if you can’t-”
“God!” Malfoy flung his arms from his face and rolled over so he was nearly tumbling off the bed before climbing to his feet. “Are you really that thick? Why can’t you see more than five minutes in front of you?”
“I can see you’re up and walking around this week, Malfoy. I can see you’re using your arm again. I can see the bruises are gone. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Malfoy looked down to examine the shoulder than had been dislocated only a week earlier. “Yeah,” he said grimly. “That’s something.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you think about me, but if you think I’m going to come in here every week to see you all bruised and not do anything about it, you’re dead wrong.”
Malfoy laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Potter. You won’t see any more bruises.”
“Good,” Harry said, nodding. But something about Malfoy’s reaction gave him pause. “Why- why not?”
Malfoy gave him a level stare. “Not everything leaves a mark.”
Harry swallowed. He hadn’t thought of that, that the guards might come up with some creative interpretations of the warden’s instructions to keep their hands off the prisoners. But still-
“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this,” he said. “I’m the one offering you a way out, remember? You’re the one who wants to stay in this bloody place.”
“It wasn’t a bloody place until you came along, Potter!” Malfoy said, rushing toward him and prompting Harry to take a step back despite the bars between them. This time it was Malfoy gripping the bars, Malfoy trying to wrench them apart so he could do the same to Harry, Malfoy picking out a few choice hexes for next time he got his wand in hand. “It was fine! All I had to do was sit and wait until my father’s trial was through. And then you showed up with your grand plans, and your fucking pardons, and your complete disregard for anyone else’s life! Well guess what?” he spat, looking Harry in the eye and glowering down at him. “Not everyone loves the idea of a Death Eater getting a full pardon!”
Harry blinked at him and fought the urge to step back, further away from Malfoy’s furious eyes. “But we can-”
“I’m aware of what you can do, Potter. I would hope you’d have got the message: I. am. not. interested.”
Week 9
“Have you got short-term memory problems?”
“What?” Harry asked, confused. “No.”
“I just thought I’d ask,” Malfoy said, “In case there was a chance you don’t remember me telling you, just a week ago, that I do not want to testify.”
“Things change, Malfoy.”
Malfoy shook his head. He was sitting up this time, legs curled up Indian-style, with his back against the wall. He looked more comfortable than last week, though no less gaunt. Harry briefly wondered what Malfoy would look like under those baggy robes, the ones that concealed all manner of sins.
“No they don’t. Not this thing.”
Harry stepped close to the bars and took a deep breath. “Listen, Malfoy-”
“I’m sick of listening! I’m sick of listening, I’m sick of talking, I’m sick of waiting around for my father’s trial so I can be rid of this place. This place is bad enough without you around. Would you just piss off and let me pass the next few weeks in peace?” All hints of the snaky, sarcastic Draco who had once delighted in working Harry into fits of madness were gone. He was only just tired anymore, tired and anxious and miserable.
“That’s the thing,” Harry said, trying to find the right words and failing. “I don’t think your plan is going to work.”
“Sure it will.” Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, it’ll take a shiny Sickle or two, but nothing my father won’t pay.”
“It won’t be enough,” Harry tried to warn.
“Well, not an actual Sickle, Potter, it’s just an expression.”
“No,” Harry said sternly. “Your father’s money won’t be enough.” He waited until Malfoy looked straight at him, and took a breath. “Alecto Carrow plans to testify against you.”
“What?” Malfoy clamored off the bed. “And say what?”
“That you got them into Hogwarts. That you tried to kill Dumbledore.”
“But I didn’t-” Malfoy started, then bit off the rest of his sentence and looked down.
Harry was suddenly struck by the question of whether Malfoy had ever told anyone about that night on the tower. Whether the only two people in the world who knew the truth were standing within ten feet of each other on opposite sides of the bars of a cell in Azkaban prison.
“I know,” he said, earning him a questioning look. “I was there. I know you didn’t try to kill him.”
Malfoy nodded once, but didn’t respond.
“I don’t know if the Wizengamot will ignore what she says. I mean, I would, I would tell them what really happened,” he offered, “if you wanted. But I don’t know if it will be enough. It’s, I mean-” he looked at Malfoy apologetically. “It is true. Mostly.”
Malfoy turned his face to the side. “Why wouldn’t she testify against my father?”
“They already know what your father did, Malfoy,” Harry said. “But they don’t - no one knows about you.”
Malfoy nodded again, still facing away. “All right. Well. Looks like my father’s bank account will take a larger hit than expected.”
Harry sighed. “There’s nothing he can do, Malfoy. It’s going to be you or him. You just have to choose which one.”
Malfoy didn’t say anything - he didn’t even flinch - but Harry knew he had heard.
“I know he’s your father,” Harry said. “but he’s the one who deserves to be here, not you.”
Week 10
“Are you certain he’ll cooperate?” Shaklebolt asked Harry as they walked in the visitor’s entrance.
“I’m sure,” Harry said firmly. He stepped away from the team of Aurors and stood in front of the receptionist’s desk. “I’m here to see Draco Malfoy,” he announced.
The woman look up, startled. “We’ve had to make some policy changes this week, Mr Potter,” she said tentatively.
Harry fumed. “Policy changes? What changes? Is it against policy to release prisoners now? Or just to visit them?”
She swallowed a few times, as though there was a knot in her throat she couldn’t work out. “Not those sorts of policy changes,” she said, and tapped her finger against a sign on her desk Harry hadn’t noticed before. It read: “All wands must be surrendered before entering. No wands allowed beyond this point. No exceptions.”
Harry looked at it for a long moment. This was a clue of some sort, he should understand what it meant, he was an Auror for goodness’ sakes…
“I’m afraid,” the receptionist began, “we’ve had to dismiss one of our guards.”
Harry stared at her blankly. “Why?”
She sighed heavily and looked up at him. “Because, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy has had to be relocated,” she said, and pointed out the window beside her.