Draco Malfoy (muddied) wrote in afic, @ 2011-01-10 08:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | !group thread, character: draco malfoy, character: harry potter, character: seamus finnigan, player: deb, x player: myriam, x player: odyssey |
Who: Seamus, Draco, Harry, NPCs
When: 10 January, 2005
What: THE EVENT (early bird version)
Where: the Ministry
Rating: R for potentially disturbing imagery
Status: started in gdocs, ongoing in thread
When Draco had received the owl that morning, he had been just about to leave for Paris. The bags were packed, and he looked forward to seeing his daughter, even if it also meant seeing that damned cat. But the owl rerouted everything, instructing him to show up to the Ministry immediately. A quick check showed him that Narcissa’s time had not been changed, only his own. Draco glanced at his bags, wondering again if Potter had spilled everything, or if they had found out through other means. He sent a quick owl to Amelia to let her know he could not arrive until later, and quickly changed into clothing more appropriate for the Ministry.
Much of Draco’s funds were spent on allowing his mother to live as a Malfoy ought. For himself, he had become resourceful in order to stretch his funds as much as possible. He owned two sets of highly expensive dress robes which had been top of the line a few years before. In order not to be seen wearing the same robes over and over, he kept a tailor to modify the robes according to his specification. The materials were expensive, the tailoring was unique, and Draco’s reputation was intact at a fraction of the cost of owning racks upon racks of proper dress robes. Considering he only required them when being Seen at the Ministry, he found this appropriate.
By the time he walked into the Ministry, he was coldly angry, irritable at his freedom being curtailed again, and at the interference in his attempt to actually live his life. When he was met by a Hit Wizard, his smile sharpened in recognition. “Finnigan,” he drawled. “Are you my welcoming committee? Such a bright start to my day; I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see your smiling face.”
'Oh, how the mighty have fallen,' Seamus thought, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. The Irishman knew that it was mean and low of him to feel that way, but part of him (a rather large part, to be honest) couldn't help but think back to his final year at Hogwarts and feel a wild, feral triumph that one of his former tormentors now found himself in a completely different situation. And, Seamus thought smugly, at least this time around no one was randomly tortured or put into shackles and hung from any walls. A definite step up from the Carrows and their special brand of disciplinary means.
Smiling a completely false smile, Seamus inclined his head in a parody of a polite greeting. "I aim to please, Malfoy."
He gestured toward the elevators, his expression business-like once more. Fact was that Seamus had no clue what exactly was going to happen. His instructions had been as simple as possible: Get Malfoy from point A to point B and remain on stand by. Clearly this was going to be an easy day for once.
"Come on, they're all eager to meet you." 'And I'm really curious why,' Seamus didn't add and resisted the urge to adjust the collar of his robes. Compared to the other man's appearance he looked like something the cat had dragged in with his worn-out pants and the robes and shoes that had seen better days. A lot of them, actually.
Draco pinned the other man with a sharp look, anger channeled through that gaze. “So eager that they’ve called me in earlier than multiple other appointments. It’s good to know my presence is so important that you cannot live without it another week.”
He took his place in the elevator, standing straight and tall, refusing to let anything but his calm indifference show. Years of practice with his father, then the training as an occlumens, left him able to remain impassive, watching the door rather than Finnigan.
Seamus raised eyebrow. More appointments? Malfoy being called in earlier than the others? That was news to him and once again Seamus felt the familiar pang of annoyance at being nothing but a foot-solider for the Ministry. Some idiot who was called in to do the dirty work.
He clenched his jaw in frustration, completely failing in projecting the picture of calm superiority he would have liked to present. Sighing, Seamus turned to Malfoy.
"Personally, I could live without you for a lifetime," Seamus said, rolling his eyes at the other man's stance. "Now relax. I doubt they're going to bite you."
Draco’s gaze flicked to Finnigan, watching the play of expressions across the other man’s face. One eyebrow slowly arched. “I assure you, the feeling is quiet mutual. And I assure you, I enjoy dancing attendance upon the whims of the Ministry.” His dry tone showed the sarcasm clearly, not that anyone who ever read the journals could possibly miss how Draco felt about the Ministry’s strictures.
"Get ready to tango, then," Seamus replied just as the elevator came to a halt and a flutter of Ministry memos came flying in, circling above their heads. With a shudder that betrayed the elevator's age, it started moving again and the closer they got to their destination, the more curious Seamus got. If some officials wanted to see Malfoy and the man came without any further trouble, why was a Hit Wizard needed? Seamus bit his bottom lip nervously. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Did you piss anyone off? More than usual, I mean?"
Draco gave a faint shrug. “Not that I’m aware of, but then, has the Ministry ever needed an excuse to be completely unreasonable where I am concerned. I find this difficult to admit, but there are Muggle systems with a better sense of justice than our Ministry.” But then, what did that say? The Ministry was perpetually annoyed with Draco Malfoy, and he remained much the same in return. It was simply a fact of life, and a coffin of his own making. One of these days he would find a way to unmake it. He made a mental note to contact Potter that evening and try once again to sow the seeds of a nascent rebellion. He was certain there had to be one... he merely needed to nudge it properly in the right directions. People would listen to Potter, and Granger, and even Weasley. Draco himself could only be subversive by use of his nom de plume, and he couldn’t afford to lose the income from that by being overt.
Another eyebrow went up. "What do you know about Muggle systems? I recall you being so much above anything even remotely Muggle that you couldn't even be bothered to step in when children were tortured back at Hogwarts." It came out more angrily than intended, attempting to draw the conversation away from the fact that Seamus couldn't in good conscience defend what the Ministry was doing. They were unreasonable and downright discriminating and there had been a couple of mornings where Seamus had gone to work with the intention of telling his boss where to shove his job. And yet somewhere deep inside Seamus hoped for the best. Now that things had grown so extreme that even Hermione was named a ST...surely now things would calm down. Anything more extremely would be...unreasonable.
Suddenly it felt as if a cold hand gripped his insides and squeezed. How much more would it take until the Ministry was just as bad as the Carrows had been? Seamus cleared his throat and focused back on the present.
"We're almost there."
Draco kept his expression shuttered, his tone extremely dry when he responded. He’d made a mistake with that comment, but he wouldn’t want Seamus to know that. “When one has all the time in the world, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the vagaries and idiocies of various forms of government.” Which was not entirely untrue. He’d needed to know more and more Muggle details for his writing, and he’d spent a good deal of time researching exactly how things differed from the magical world. It gave him something to focus on other than his gilded cage, and Draco knew that he was at his best when he did not allow himself to wallow.
His gaze shifted to the elevator doors, waiting while they opened. He stepped out, not bothering to wait for Seamus to usher him forward, then looked at the doors along the hallway. “How drab and unexciting. Much like any other visit here.” He knew the drill by now: hand over his wand, answer questions, wait while they reviewed the tracking spells. It was tedious and demeaning, but hardly dangerous. But it was also on a schedule, and this was not that schedule.
"You really need to find yourself a hobby." Seamus remarked and followed Malfoy. This was unusual, even for the Ministry's tendency to make much more of a fuss about things that hardly deserved it. If he didn't know any better, Seamus would have thought he was leading Malfoy to an execution.
He kept walking quietly, turning a corner here and there, until they arrived at their destination: a rather unremarkable-looking door. He knocked and a moment later the door opened and a pale-looking Ministry worker gave him a short nod, urging them to enter.
"We're on a schedule here," the man said as Seamus cast him a sceptic look. This wasn't a normal appointment with the Ministry, that much was painfully evident.
Harry had only received his instructions once he had arrived in the room he currently occupied. The room where it was going to happen. When he left the room, he was told, he would be unable to discuss what had happened what had happened between these walls. That was a problem in itself, an issue he was already trying to resolve before the event had even taken place. There had to be a way to warn the others.
The knock on the door came and shook Harry out of his grim, panicked thoughts and into the grim, panic-ridden present. He was going to have to... It was unthinkable. It was barbaric. He couldn’t. When he didn’t move to answer the door, the man with the clipboard, a man whose name Harry didn’t remember because he didn’t want to remember, scoffed, rolled his eyes and murmured something derogatory about law enforcement personnel before opening the door himself.
Seamus?
Malfoy?
Harry blanched. Of course they hadn’t told him who his first victim was going to be. His jaw worked as he tried to warn him, wanted to tell Draco to run, run like he’d never run before. If he had had the... an implement of any kind, Harry might have been sorely tempted to knock Clipboard on the head and do just that, run and never look back. But he couldn’t. He had no choice. Odds were good that he was going to be sick.
Clipboard had turned to Harry, evidently expecting him to say something, and was once again disappointed by Harry’s apparent lack of dedication to his work and to his Ministry. “Hand over your wand and sit down, please.”
Draco’s back stiffened when he saw Potter standing inside waiting for them, and the expression on Potter’s face didn’t help his mood. Something was definitely off about this. Pride kept his back straight, his chin up as he looked at the guard, his features pointed. “I do believe that after all this time, I’m more than aware of the routine,” he drawled. “Please do be quick in your examination of my wand. I have other places I need to be today.” Such as Paris, with his daughter. His gaze flicked to Potter, keeping himself cool and calm, the nerves hidden. Later, his expression promised, they would discuss this change to routine and what it meant.
His gaze remained on Potter as he sat slowly in the chair. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they had him on edge, and yet he was, wishing one more time that mad Bellatrix had thought to teach him wandless magic when she was teaching wordless magic, as the former would do him far more good now, and any attempt to learn it would set off the Ministry’s notice.
Seamus' eyes widened as he saw Harry and part of him wanted to relax. If Harry was involved, odds were that it wasn't going to be too...morally ambiguous. He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully, then became aware of what he was doing and schooled his face into a blank expression.
He watched Draco sit without a fuss and that curious expression on Harry's face and finally Seamus couldn't hold it in any more. He had to know what's going on. Forcing an easy smile on his face, Seamus nudged the bureaucrat.
"So, mate, I see you've been thinking about redecorating the place? Nice job, really, but don't you think there should be a table to go with the chair? I hear flowers and wallpapers are big this year, too..." He trailed off as he found himself on the receiving end of the glare of the bureaucrat. Seamus raised an eyebrow. "What?" He asked, trying to look innocent. And yet, even he was aware that you could cut the tension in the room with a knife.
Seamus turned to look at Harry. What was going on here?
“I trust you can take it from here, Mr. Potter?” Clipboard asked, with one of those disdainful sneers he was so good at.
Harry nodded while he took a breath so deep he seemed to inflate a little. At least it’s not Hermione, he told himself. At least it’s not Luna. It’s just Draco.
Just Draco. Right. Like that changed anything at all. Hermione and Luna were next, weren’t they?
“Please present your Dark Mark and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said, once he was able to get his voice working again. It sounded veiled and too thick for his throat, and if someone were to look carefully, they might have noticed that his hands were shaking.
That was not a part of the usual script. “Why?” Draco’s tone was even, clipped and sharp. “You know I have it, there’s little point in this display. Check my wand, return it, and I will leave.” He reached for the left sleeve of his robe, rolling it as he made to stand, intending to show the Mark to Potter. As he moved to stand, the chair seemed to come alive, straps snaking around his body, legs and arms. As the straps pulled him back down, Draco pulled against them, trying not to panic as he felt himself trapped and vulnerable.
Leaning back again in the chair, he settled a dark glare on both Finnigan and Potter. When this was done, whatever this was, they would be hearing from him.
Wait a second straps?!? Seamus' eyes went wide and his jaw dropped in a very inelegant gesture. He took a step closer, his eyes darting wildly from one person to the next, all traces of mirth, faked as it had been, suddenly gone from his face.
"What is happening here?" He asked in a low voice, far too well aware that he was overstepping his boundaries. After all, Seamus was but a mere Hit Wizard. His job today included standing there and being obedient and not much else but somehow he found it difficult to convince his mouth to shut up. "Harry? What's going on?"
“That wasn’t necessary,” Harry told Clipboard, obviously meaning the straps, and leveling a glare in the man’s direction. He had to ignore Seamus. How did you tell the man that oh yeah, they were just going to be-... Fuck. He couldn’t find the words. Not in front of Draco.
“It’s procedure. For everyone’s safety,” Clipboard sniffed in return, obviously ignoring Seamus as well.
“Will you let us worry about our safety? Mr. Finnigan isn’t here to add personality to the room. Why don’t you go check on someone else?” Harry might not have been the authority in the room, but he certainly addressed the man as if he had been. He had no use for middle management brownnosers.
Clipboard straightened his spine and shot Harry a distrustful glare before peering down at his notes. Evidently deciding that Harry might not have been remiss in his strong suggestion, he turned tail, but didn’t reach for the door until he had leveled a glare in everyone’s direction once more. I’m watching you, that look said, before he opened the door. “I’ll be back shortly, then.”
The door clicked shut after the man.
“I’m sorry, Draco. Seamus. I wish I had a choice.” The problem was, he did have a choice. He could leave; leave the ministry, leave the slight advantage it gave him, become an ST himself. He had a choice, but what then? They would simply do this to Draco later. To everyone. To him, too. It wasn’t much of a choice at all.
“God.” It was almost a whine, a prayer. Someone forgive him. Someone... He sobbed once, just once, before catching himself and clenching his jaw tight to regain control of himself. Get this over with, he told himself, and he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. Harry stepped aside for the first time, to reveal a thin iron stick about a foot long with something at the end, a sort of thick bar. He picked it up out of its holder and said, “Draco Malfoy, born June 5, 1980. Graduated Hogwarts June 1998.”
The change was almost imperceptible unless one had been looking directly at the end of the iron rod, but shapes were formed; letters and numbers unique to Draco’s case, and it began to glow a bright orangey-red. Thankfully, and against all odds, Harry’s hands had stopped shaking, but his movements were too slow, sluggish, as though he were moving through a fog so dense it forced stillness into his limbs.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, blinking rapidly. “I’m so sorry.” Idiotically, he added, “Try to keep still,” before pressing the branding iron to Draco’s Mark.
Draco’s mask was impassive as he watched the tableau: Finnigan’s concern, the Ministry official’s dark looks, and Potter’s near breakdown. He refused to let anyone see it get to him, his head tipped, pointed chin in the air just a bit as he tried to appear relaxed. But he was tense, fingers gripping the edge of the chair, gaze locked onto Potter’s as he drew closer.
Draco could smell the heat, that metallic tang hitting him in the back of his throat as he drew breath in. He didn’t actually believe, at first, that Potter was going to do it. Not the bloody white knight. But the apology let him know it was happening and he yanked at his arm, trying to pull out of the bindings and feeling them wrap even more tightly around him in response. He grit his teeth, pulling as hard as he could even as the iron met his flesh.
A groan escaped before he managed to drag it back, breathing hard to try to get through the pain. Will it away, just like anything else. Lock the feel of his flesh searing, the sharp acrid sweet scent of burnt skin, stuff it into a box in the back of his mind where everything else hid. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t handle it, couldn’t maintain stoicism and in the end he screamed. The world was narrowed down to that one spot on his arm, the feel of the chair under his fingertips as he scraped them raw, and the way his gaze locked onto Potter’s. He refused to look away, even for one second.
Draco was not going to forgive this. Whatever tiny inroads had been made towards trust, they were gone. Potter obviously had no intentions to lead the rebellion, not if he were still here, doing this. That left Granger and no one else. Draco’s gaze showed anger, but also disappointment. He hadn’t expected Potter to do it for them, for the ex-Death Eaters. But he’d bloody well thought Potter would be there by his mate’s side, saving the world, as always. But now it seemed like the Boy Saviour was no Saviour at all.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real!
Seamus felt dizzy and sick and it took him a moment to realize that the world started swimming in front of his eyes because he had forgotten to keep breathing. His fists were balled tightly at his side and again, Seamus didn't even notice that he squeezed them so tightly that he had drawn blood which was pooling in the palms of his hands. Incapable of keeping his gaze off the branding time both seemed to slow and accelerate for Seamus. The image of the iron biting into Draco's flesh burned itself into his mind as permanently as the mark on the other man's arm was going to be while his thoughts seemed to race.
He could possibly free Draco and make Harry stop - Seamus had no doubt that he could easily convince Harry to stop - but there was no way the three of them could fight their way out of the Ministry. And then? Even if they could, what would happen then?
With a sinking feeling Seamus realized that for the moment none of them had much of a choice in the matter. It didn't keep him from being disgusted with himself, though.
"Are we..." His voice came out shaky, so Seamus cleared his throat and tried again. "We should at least do a healing hex against the pain." Why the hell hadn't he thought of that any sooner? Anaesthetics. They should have used those...but somehow Seamus felt that the Ministry officials hadn't mistakenly "forgotten" to add that to the procedure. Bloody sadists.
Harry held the brand to Draco’s skin for the prescribed amount of time despite Draco’s screams and the fact that he strained against the straps to get away, to escape the pain. As soon as he could, Harry pulled it away and dropped the rod to the ground with a metallic clang, taking a few steps back to distance himself from what he’d done. The first breath he took brought that acrid smell to the forefront of his awareness and Harry had to cough several times to keep from vomiting outright.
He nodded at Seamus’s suggestion, and though Draco hadn’t stopped staring at him (Harry could feel his eyes burning into him), Harry hadn’t dared look back. Couldn’t. His hands had started trembling again, so hard that his shoulders were shaking with it.
“I-. I- yes.” Harry nodded and, without looking at the two men, neither of whom would ever see him as anything but a monster, now, a monster Harry couldn’t even help seeing in himself, he picked up the discarded brand and returned it to its place on the holder. It was more of a pedestal, really, Harry thought, much to his disgust, and retrieved the potion and bandages provided oh so generously by the ministry.
He couldn’t bear to look at what he had done, but he didn’t have a choice. Harry was almost grateful to the tears for blurring his vision. He unstoppered the disinfectant potion (that would also, he was told, prevent any magic from healing it) and poured it over the burn. When came the time to put the bandages on, however, Harry couldn’t align the gauze, his hands shaking too violently to be trusted to do anything on a wound this bad.
“Seamus, I- I need your help.” Even his voice shook.
The scent of his own burnt flesh stung his nostrils, making Draco feel ill. He was done here. He needed to leave, but bound as he was, he couldn’t go anywhere. Instead he focused on not shuddering, the pain making him shiver nearly uncontrollably. “Let me go,” he said quietly, voice soft and dark and expecting obedience. “Undo the straps, and let me go. We’re done here.”