Chapter Text
(The Daily Prophet, special edition - reprinted to popular demand)
To the Editor,
The war is over. The guilty are in Azkaban, tried and condemned in mostly public trials, or crushed under burdensome fines intended to make examples of would-be dark wizards. The Ministry is restored.
So we're told. The war is over. The victors remain to tell the story.
Victors on both sides. I was there. I saw the victims of imperio arrested alongside the worst of Voldemort's loyal followers. I saw the Death Eaters when they took their masks off. They are some of the same faces I see behind desks at the Ministry. They may not wear his dark mark, but they were as willing as any Death Eater when it came to collecting taxes. Seizing assets. Following orders. Arresting muggleborns and blood traitors alike.
Contracts and official business didn't stop just because Voldemort pulled the strings.
Businesses are no closer to reopening than the day a Ministry flunky slapped a sign—noncompliant, don't buy—on any muggleborn or magical creature's shop. Licenses? Permits? Approvals? Just not happening.
The war is over. And it looks like the effects of the war are going to drag on another ten years if the Ministry has its way, with no chance for anyone to put their lives back together. Not unless you have a pair of galleons to rub together for one of Voldemort's old lackeys.
Ask me how I know.
Draco Malfoy
Ill-advised, of course, and reckless, spontaneous, a sign of how emotionally raw he was—Draco knew he shouldn't have written that letter. It had clearly left a mark. The Ministry had moved all of his deadlines ahead so that the Malfoy account didn't just bleed—it hemorrhaged. Asset seizures that should have taken months were done in days. He should have had time to auction off the manor's furnishings. Instead the Ministry had seized everything.
And the aurors now tromping through the manor muttered lines from his letter under their breaths as they pushed past him, examining every room in his home for contraband, for dark magic, for remaining wealth, for a galleon left in the corner.
"—you know who's lackeys, he'd know, the little—"
"Lumos charms, confirmed removal."
"There were doors marked here—"
"—already checked off with the movers, proceed."
There was nothing left.
The ancient oak dining table. The receiving room's settees and armchairs. The beds, wardrobes, vanities. His father's desk. His mother's potions laboratory. The entire library—minus a few books that had been conveniently burned. Side tables of inlaid silver and bone. The wine cabinet. The great mirrors that once lined the hall to the back gardens. The portrait frames. Candelabras. Chandeliers. Heirloom jewelry back to the Norman conquest. Tapestries. Curtains. Tea sets. Even the damn doors and the hearth tiles.
All in the name of removing lingering curses.
What could have been moved was sold. What couldn't be moved was stripped of magic. To the wizarding world, the manor was a worthless skeleton.
Draco leaned against the grand staircase, holding open an old book but not reading it, listening to the heavy footsteps in what had been his parents' bedroom, in his bedroom, in the kitchen and library.
"Oh, you can just wait here, Mr. Potter, sir. No need to trouble yourself over this. Just an inspection, can't really understand why they'd put you on something this minor."
Of course, Harry Potter was here. At least Harry didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He shadowed the aurors, clearly learning the procedures, the hero turned junior officer. Draco watched him over the pages of his book, the way Harry looked uncomfortable being fawned over by men twice his age.
Harry looked at him. Draco held his gaze a moment, then looked back at the book.
"Wait, there's something here—!"
Draco didn't bother moving. The aurors had tapped the walls, the floors, the ceiling, looking for hidden spaces. Now they'd found the loose pane under the stairs. One of them even crawled in, shining a lumos spell ahead of him like he expected a tunnel.
"What's down there?" an auror demanded, wand raised toward Draco.
"Dust," Draco said, still looking at his book.
"'Dust'? Then why wasn't the door open for inspection? What're you—?"
A great cloud of dust billowed out. The auror crawled back, knocking great clumps from his hair, patting off thick gray marks on his trousers. Draco idly waved the book to clear the dust from his face.
"A lot of dust," he amended.
"Oh, for…can we wrap this up already?" the auror said.
"All the charms're removed from the garden," someone said.
"Second floor's clear," another said.
"First floor's clear."
"Front's clear."
"We're all done here."
Someone stepped in front of Draco, a quick quill scribing on their ledger.
"Inspection and compliance verification fee, dark magic audit fee, residual enforcement cost, registry reconciliation…and expedience fee."
Draco glanced at the page and the rows of numbers. A hundred and twenty galleons, without the 'expedience fee' listed. He didn't bother to ask if they'd accept credit—the Malfoy vaults had been frozen and seized, and the fortune still hadn't been enough to pay the fines.
"'Expedience'?" Draco asked. "Is that new?"
The auror lifted his head and didn't answer. Across the room, Harry noticed the tension and looked up.
"There is a timeline for your submission," the auror said, putting extra emphasis on the last word. "Paper might get misplaced. Fall behind cabinets, the like. If it ain't filed in a timely fashion, the investigation might reopen. Be a shame, it would, you getting rearrested on account of filing late."
"…wait," Harry murmured, looking at the ledger. "People have to pay for their own filing?"
"Ministry 'lackeys' don't work for free," the auror said and turned the ledger away from him. "You'll learn. Just watch for now."
"Mm." Draco reached into his robe's pocket, retrieving the hundred-and-fifty-galleon promissory note he'd exchanged that morning. Then made a show of looking at the two gold galleons he lay on top. "That's it, then."
"Last ones?" the auror asked.
Draco's jaw tightened, but he held his temper.
"Last ones."
The auror smiled and put the coins and note in his robe. Signed the paperwork, tore off the top copy to hand over, then let the paper drop just short of Draco's fingers to flutter to the floor. The rest filed out, and the auror touched his hat with overpoliteness.
Harry grumbled something under his breath, retrieving the paper and offering it to Draco. "Was it really? Your last galleon?"
Draco took the receipt, looking over the numbers one more time. Then folded it up and snapped it shut in his book.
"It's fine."
Harry frowned. "Do…do you need a place? What are you going to do now?"
"As if anyone would hire a death eater," the auror called from the door. "C'mon, Harry, everyone's going."
"As if I would beg for a job," Draco muttered. "Go on. I'll be fine."
Harry still hesitated. "I'm serious. Will you be okay?"
The sincere tone took away Draco's sarcastic response. That was the first time anyone had asked that since his trial before the Wizengamot. Not even his parents had asked him that.
"You've…" Draco's voice was a whisper. He coughed and stood a little straighter, forcing himself to meet Harry's look. "You've done enough for my family already. For me."
"Your parents really went away and left you here?" Harry asked.
"I chose to stay," Draco said. "I'll be fine. At least it's a clean break. There's nothing left that the Ministry wants—no galleons, no sickles, not even a stray charm. They don't even want the manor."
Of course not. Stripped of its magics, it was less than desirable. It was an anchor around Draco's neck—it would take years to make it livable even as it crumbled around him. A muggle flat would be preferable to this husk.
"…even so," Harry said. "I just…"
Draco understood.
You just don't like to see the Ministry do officially what the dark lord couldn't. Destroy my family.
He gave him a small smile. "Seriously. Thanks. I'll live."
Harry gave him a last look, then turned and went out. And Draco was left alone.
A gust of autumn wind blew in from the open doors. Draco sighed and stepped through the leaves scattering across the floor. He put his hands in his pockets, looking up at the cloudy sky. Behind him, he heard the crack of apparation as Harry vanished.
At least the gardens hadn't wilted. Without the charms to maintain the landscaping, the hedges were overgrown, the ivy had run rampant up the walls, and the stone paths wandering along to the forest's edge were dotted with wildflowers. The peacocks, frightened off by the aurors, now lingered at the fountains half-full of rain water.
The manor looked like an abandoned gothic fantasy. Which was exactly how Draco had advertised its sale to the muggle world.
The book in his pocket hummed like a bee. He brought it up, and it transfigured back into a box holding a muggle cell phone. He had to shake the phone a couple times to clear the static. Magic and muggle frequencies didn't like to mix.
"…yes?" he said, looking up at the gray sky, then remembered to add, "ah, Malfoy speaking."
“This is Hart and Hare, calling with the confirmation of final settlement,” the voice said. “The manor asset has been liquidated under the trust directive. Title transfer is complete.”
He nodded, then remembered that the man on the other end couldn't see him. "I understand. Do you need anything else from me?"
“The remaining proceeds are now held for immediate transfer to the beneficiary. Do you authorize disbursement?”
Draco looked out across the empty manor. Windows open to the elements. Bricks turned dark with the recent rain. The trees lost their leaves in waves that gathered on the curb.
Home.
He breathed deep.
"Yes, I authorize it.”
"Thank you, sir. We'll need signatures later, but that concludes the transaction."
A crackle of static ended the call. He tucked the phone away again, taking a long breath. Then started the long walk down the road to the gate clanging in the breeze. He could have apparated, but the walk would clear his head. And, if he was lucky, the funds would be available in time to drop in on Knockturn Alley and the little tea shop he'd found. Time to pause and think and scheme.
He'd poked a hornet's nest with that letter. The Ministry had poked back with strength calculated to destroy the Malfoy line for generations.
Which, of course, was entirely why he had done so. The Ministry thought he was humiliatingly broke. Without a wand. Without friends, connections, or any defiance left.
In reality, with the sale of the manor, he had over 85 million of whatever muggles counted as their currency. He would wield that money like a weapon.