Draco lay in bed, harsh white light beaming down at him, staring at the ceiling without seeing. Not that there was anything of interest to see other than the occasional crack or water damage mark that could have easily been fixed with a simple swish of a wand, but for the prison board who believed that the bleak, bare-bones atmosphere made a strong, deterrent statement against recidivism.
He wondered, not for the first time that week, if he might be going crazy -- if, perhaps, the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the secret agents the previous week had been a very involved figment of his own imagination. Yet, the more he convinced himself that it had been, the more he felt his chest rise with the hope that he might actually be able to leave prison much, much earlier than expected, and he hated himself for it. By now, he should have known better than to let hope, that insidious beast, claw its way into his life again. Disappointment always hit hardest when you least expected it.
He could have conceivably gone on for the next twenty years here, unconscious with routine; but with the prospect of leaving now introduced into and tearing at his mind, his life here seemed nearly unbearable. Everything seemed more pronounced now -- food tasted worse; lights glared with a vengeance; noises that had once been a normal part of the prison climate now ricocheted off his eardrums like bullets and made him want to scream just to drown everything else out.
Time crawled by at a dying snail's pace, and even a letter from his mother brought him less joy than it had previously done, and he hated himself for that, too. It had been six days since he'd ended up in the medical unit -- he couldn't give the incident a real name; it wasn't a meeting or a conversation or anything until he could be sure it hadn't been a cruel dream -- and he had one more day to get through before he would either be let out, by some miraculous act of God or secret organisation, or he would finally make the transition from teetering on the jagged brink of insanity to actually losing his mind altogether.
The directive in her hands didn't make any sense. Ginny read it again, frowned again and looked up at her supervisor in confusion again. "Er, Brigid, does this actually say what I think it says?" she asked. "Do I need my eyes checked?"
Brigid Brennan, a petite blonde in her late thirties, adjusted her glasses. "Yes. And no, your eyes are fine. This comes straight from the top, Ginny. You can disagree with it all you like -- and unofficially speaking, I do, too -- but we need to get it done, or it's our arses on the line."
"I can't believe the Minister's pardoning Draco Malfoy. Unfair trial, my foot. So what if he was underage when he did all that stuff? He got what was coming to him," she muttered, folding up the parchment and pinching the creases together with more force than necessary. "And why do I get the dubious honour of carrying it out?"
"Because, my dear Miss Weasley, we're short on staff and the Minister likes your face."
"Yes, well, you know who doesn't like my face? Draco Malfoy. This is not going to turn out well."
"Just remember you're representing the Ministry and conduct yourself accordingly."
"Aw, that's no fun."
"You should have thought of that before you accepted a government job," Brigid said, smiling. "Now, go get everything together so you can set Malfoy loose on the streets tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Ginny said and saluted her supervisor. Picking up the file that had been sent down along with the Minister's orders, she added with a sigh, "Merlin help us all."
Ginny rooted through her handbag, making sure she had all the papers and Portkeys she needed for the unsavoury job she was to do this morning. Satisfied with its contents, she dashed to her bedroom for one last look in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her door. Nodding at her reflection, Ginny tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear -- up in a very professional french braid today -- and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. She'd decided to wear a suit for the occasion -- it had been worn only once, at her Ministry job interview two years ago, and due to the fairly relaxed nature of the isolated sub-department in which she now worked, had never had a need for the ensemble again, until now. She knew she didn't have to, but some disgustingly insecure part of her wanted -- needed -- to look good, to look better than Malfoy had ever seen her. He'd always had the ability to cut her down with just one snide word, and she wasn't going to give him any fodder if she could help it. He might be in prison, but that was no guarantee that the shame of being locked up would have softened his acid tongue.
She slipped on a pair of sensible heels and headed back to the living room to pick up her things before activating the Portkey that would take her to the prison that held Draco Malfoy.
Draco paced the length of his cell; it was a short walk in either direction, and he was making himself slightly dizzy having to turn around every few steps to be able to keep pacing. Appropriately, he felt like a rat in a cage, and soon, he was probably going to go stir-crazy or fall over from motion sickness. In either case, he supposed, it would pass the time.
"Oi. Malfoy," said a guard on the other side of the cell door, peering in through the bars. "You've got a visitor."
"What?"
"I said, you've a visitor," the guard repeated loudly and irritably, unlocking the door.
"Who is it?"
"How the hell should I know? Some girl," he said, shrugging unhelpfully.
Some girl. That ruled out his mother, who hadn't come past the first time, as well as Blaise, who dropped by once in a while to regale him with stories of drunken escapades that Draco was sure were fabricated, or at least heavily embellished, though it meant he was able to live vicariously through his friend for the allotted hour. Could it be a mistake? In his three years here he had never had any other visitors, and this Some Girl, whoever she was, was dredging up unwanted feelings of brief happiness that would only be dashed again, and he did not appreciate being temporarily heartened by some anonymous person.
He followed the guard out of his cell and, led by an invisible leash, to the visiting area, where other inmates were happily conversing with their families and friends.
The guard undid the leash spell, and indicated to Draco his visitor. "There she is."
At a corner table, holding herself stiffly with her back ramrod straight, sat Ginny Weasley.
"Bet you're wishin' she'd come for a conjugal visit instead, eh?" Not noticing Draco's look of horror, the guard chuckled at his own remark and ushered his charge to the table.
On his approach, Ginny stood up, fighting a frown. "Mr. Malfoy," she said in greeting. "Ginny Weasley. I'm sorry for the very short notice of my visit, but I --"
"Who sent you?"
Letting the frown win out, Ginny said, "The Minister."
"They did it?" Draco murmured.
"What?"
"Why has he sent you?"
"If you'll have a seat, I can explain."
Draco realised they were both still standing, and his hands were gripping the edge of the table. Releasing his hold, Draco slid into the chair, which was upholstered in some kind of sticky, green vinyl and squeaked as he sat down.
"As I was about to say," Ginny went on rather pointedly, "I'm here on behalf of the Minister's Office of Communications' Public Liaison subdivision. Minister Trench would have liked to be here himself, but unfortunately he has other pressing matters to attend to this morning, so it has fallen to me to relay this message to you." Extracting a piece of parchment from a file stuffed in her bag, she read its contents aloud. "'I, Augustine Trench, Minister of Magic, pursuant to the pardon power conferred upon me by my office, grant a full, free, and absolute pardon unto Draco Malfoy for all offences against the wizarding community which he, Draco Malfoy, has committed or may have committed or taken part in during the period from 1996 to 1998.' You'll get an official copy of the pardon. You can frame it," she said, her voice the quality of sour milk.
Although his expression remained carefully noncommittal, Draco was inwardly elated at the fact that what he had almost convinced himself was a vivid hallucination had actually come true. Partially, he reminded himself quickly; until he was actually outside and miles away from this place, he would do well to keep himself in check. He was not so overpowered by his emotions and rapid-fire thoughts, however, that he missed her tone of voice. "I take it you're not entirely in agreement with the Minister's decision?"
"I do as my job requires," Ginny replied, sidestepping the question -- the answer was obvious to them both, anyway. Regarding him a little suspiciously, she folded her arms and leaned backwards into her chair. "You don't seem surprised by this news."
"Maybe I'm too shocked to react appropriately. Shall I squeal with joy? Would that meet your standards?"
She looked at him carefully. At a quick glance he appeared the same as ever, infuriatingly relaxed and ready to pounce with a cutting remark stated in such a way that made it seem as though he regarded his target with as much importance as a speck of dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Upon closer scrutiny, however, she was pleased to see tension roiling in his neck and shoulders, and noted with great, though perhaps slightly shallow, satisfaction that she was approximately a million times better dressed than he was in his prison-issued white t-shirt and ill-fitting navy trousers. Deciding to leave his baiting aside, Ginny said, "The director of this facility has been informed of your pardon, and as soon as we're done here, you will be released, with all personal effects returned to you. I will accompany you to your home and," here her voice took on a slightly harder edge, "be at your disposal during your transition back into society."
"At my disposal?" he repeated. They'd sent a Weasley to wait on him? Under the table, he pinched his own leg to check if he was dreaming. He'd have a bruise later, but he was fairly sure he was awake.
"Yes," she said acidly, as if warning him against taking any advantage of this revelation, and stuffed the Minister's decree back into her bag of tricks.
"Sounds delightful."
"Mm. Yes. Minister Trench has scheduled a press conference later this afternoon to announce his decision, and he requests that you be in attendance."
"Does 'request' in this case mean what it actually means? Or is it more along the lines of, 'Show up or we'll rescind the pardon'?"
Ginny leaned forward, resting her arms lightly on the tabletop. "You're a free man, Mr. Malfoy. You may do as you wish. As a note of caution, however, I would suggest you personally inform the Minister of the reason for your absence, if that is the case, and I will add that the reason had better be a good one. Ministers generally tend not to like having their generous gestures thrown back in their faces."
"Understood. But, you see, I'm out of practice with the media; I'm not sure it would really be in anyone's best interests to have cameras and recording devices shoved in my face the very day I'm released. It's a rather emotional time for me," Draco said flatly, his arms crossed, daring her to suggest otherwise.
"Yes, of course. I can see that," she said, clearly not buying what he was selling -- and selling poorly, at that.
"Well. Now what?"
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Now you pack up your things and go home."
Her words unexpectedly struck him like a blow to the gut. He was going home. This was really happening. Draco let out a soft, shuddery laugh before biting back whatever outburst was threatening to pour out of his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay," he said quietly, his eyes cast towards the table.
Ginny saw his icy persona drop for a second and wasn't sure what to do with it. "Okay," she said.
They both stood, and Ginny hesitated for a moment before extending her hand to him. "Welcome back to normal life."
Reflexively, Draco reached his hand out, but pulled it back quickly when a guard from across the room called out, "No touching."
"Thank god," Ginny muttered under her breath.
He wondered, not for the first time that week, if he might be going crazy -- if, perhaps, the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the secret agents the previous week had been a very involved figment of his own imagination. Yet, the more he convinced himself that it had been, the more he felt his chest rise with the hope that he might actually be able to leave prison much, much earlier than expected, and he hated himself for it. By now, he should have known better than to let hope, that insidious beast, claw its way into his life again. Disappointment always hit hardest when you least expected it.
He could have conceivably gone on for the next twenty years here, unconscious with routine; but with the prospect of leaving now introduced into and tearing at his mind, his life here seemed nearly unbearable. Everything seemed more pronounced now -- food tasted worse; lights glared with a vengeance; noises that had once been a normal part of the prison climate now ricocheted off his eardrums like bullets and made him want to scream just to drown everything else out.
Time crawled by at a dying snail's pace, and even a letter from his mother brought him less joy than it had previously done, and he hated himself for that, too. It had been six days since he'd ended up in the medical unit -- he couldn't give the incident a real name; it wasn't a meeting or a conversation or anything until he could be sure it hadn't been a cruel dream -- and he had one more day to get through before he would either be let out, by some miraculous act of God or secret organisation, or he would finally make the transition from teetering on the jagged brink of insanity to actually losing his mind altogether.
The directive in her hands didn't make any sense. Ginny read it again, frowned again and looked up at her supervisor in confusion again. "Er, Brigid, does this actually say what I think it says?" she asked. "Do I need my eyes checked?"
Brigid Brennan, a petite blonde in her late thirties, adjusted her glasses. "Yes. And no, your eyes are fine. This comes straight from the top, Ginny. You can disagree with it all you like -- and unofficially speaking, I do, too -- but we need to get it done, or it's our arses on the line."
"I can't believe the Minister's pardoning Draco Malfoy. Unfair trial, my foot. So what if he was underage when he did all that stuff? He got what was coming to him," she muttered, folding up the parchment and pinching the creases together with more force than necessary. "And why do I get the dubious honour of carrying it out?"
"Because, my dear Miss Weasley, we're short on staff and the Minister likes your face."
"Yes, well, you know who doesn't like my face? Draco Malfoy. This is not going to turn out well."
"Just remember you're representing the Ministry and conduct yourself accordingly."
"Aw, that's no fun."
"You should have thought of that before you accepted a government job," Brigid said, smiling. "Now, go get everything together so you can set Malfoy loose on the streets tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Ginny said and saluted her supervisor. Picking up the file that had been sent down along with the Minister's orders, she added with a sigh, "Merlin help us all."
Ginny rooted through her handbag, making sure she had all the papers and Portkeys she needed for the unsavoury job she was to do this morning. Satisfied with its contents, she dashed to her bedroom for one last look in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her door. Nodding at her reflection, Ginny tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear -- up in a very professional french braid today -- and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. She'd decided to wear a suit for the occasion -- it had been worn only once, at her Ministry job interview two years ago, and due to the fairly relaxed nature of the isolated sub-department in which she now worked, had never had a need for the ensemble again, until now. She knew she didn't have to, but some disgustingly insecure part of her wanted -- needed -- to look good, to look better than Malfoy had ever seen her. He'd always had the ability to cut her down with just one snide word, and she wasn't going to give him any fodder if she could help it. He might be in prison, but that was no guarantee that the shame of being locked up would have softened his acid tongue.
She slipped on a pair of sensible heels and headed back to the living room to pick up her things before activating the Portkey that would take her to the prison that held Draco Malfoy.
Draco paced the length of his cell; it was a short walk in either direction, and he was making himself slightly dizzy having to turn around every few steps to be able to keep pacing. Appropriately, he felt like a rat in a cage, and soon, he was probably going to go stir-crazy or fall over from motion sickness. In either case, he supposed, it would pass the time.
"Oi. Malfoy," said a guard on the other side of the cell door, peering in through the bars. "You've got a visitor."
"What?"
"I said, you've a visitor," the guard repeated loudly and irritably, unlocking the door.
"Who is it?"
"How the hell should I know? Some girl," he said, shrugging unhelpfully.
Some girl. That ruled out his mother, who hadn't come past the first time, as well as Blaise, who dropped by once in a while to regale him with stories of drunken escapades that Draco was sure were fabricated, or at least heavily embellished, though it meant he was able to live vicariously through his friend for the allotted hour. Could it be a mistake? In his three years here he had never had any other visitors, and this Some Girl, whoever she was, was dredging up unwanted feelings of brief happiness that would only be dashed again, and he did not appreciate being temporarily heartened by some anonymous person.
He followed the guard out of his cell and, led by an invisible leash, to the visiting area, where other inmates were happily conversing with their families and friends.
The guard undid the leash spell, and indicated to Draco his visitor. "There she is."
At a corner table, holding herself stiffly with her back ramrod straight, sat Ginny Weasley.
"Bet you're wishin' she'd come for a conjugal visit instead, eh?" Not noticing Draco's look of horror, the guard chuckled at his own remark and ushered his charge to the table.
On his approach, Ginny stood up, fighting a frown. "Mr. Malfoy," she said in greeting. "Ginny Weasley. I'm sorry for the very short notice of my visit, but I --"
"Who sent you?"
Letting the frown win out, Ginny said, "The Minister."
"They did it?" Draco murmured.
"What?"
"Why has he sent you?"
"If you'll have a seat, I can explain."
Draco realised they were both still standing, and his hands were gripping the edge of the table. Releasing his hold, Draco slid into the chair, which was upholstered in some kind of sticky, green vinyl and squeaked as he sat down.
"As I was about to say," Ginny went on rather pointedly, "I'm here on behalf of the Minister's Office of Communications' Public Liaison subdivision. Minister Trench would have liked to be here himself, but unfortunately he has other pressing matters to attend to this morning, so it has fallen to me to relay this message to you." Extracting a piece of parchment from a file stuffed in her bag, she read its contents aloud. "'I, Augustine Trench, Minister of Magic, pursuant to the pardon power conferred upon me by my office, grant a full, free, and absolute pardon unto Draco Malfoy for all offences against the wizarding community which he, Draco Malfoy, has committed or may have committed or taken part in during the period from 1996 to 1998.' You'll get an official copy of the pardon. You can frame it," she said, her voice the quality of sour milk.
Although his expression remained carefully noncommittal, Draco was inwardly elated at the fact that what he had almost convinced himself was a vivid hallucination had actually come true. Partially, he reminded himself quickly; until he was actually outside and miles away from this place, he would do well to keep himself in check. He was not so overpowered by his emotions and rapid-fire thoughts, however, that he missed her tone of voice. "I take it you're not entirely in agreement with the Minister's decision?"
"I do as my job requires," Ginny replied, sidestepping the question -- the answer was obvious to them both, anyway. Regarding him a little suspiciously, she folded her arms and leaned backwards into her chair. "You don't seem surprised by this news."
"Maybe I'm too shocked to react appropriately. Shall I squeal with joy? Would that meet your standards?"
She looked at him carefully. At a quick glance he appeared the same as ever, infuriatingly relaxed and ready to pounce with a cutting remark stated in such a way that made it seem as though he regarded his target with as much importance as a speck of dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Upon closer scrutiny, however, she was pleased to see tension roiling in his neck and shoulders, and noted with great, though perhaps slightly shallow, satisfaction that she was approximately a million times better dressed than he was in his prison-issued white t-shirt and ill-fitting navy trousers. Deciding to leave his baiting aside, Ginny said, "The director of this facility has been informed of your pardon, and as soon as we're done here, you will be released, with all personal effects returned to you. I will accompany you to your home and," here her voice took on a slightly harder edge, "be at your disposal during your transition back into society."
"At my disposal?" he repeated. They'd sent a Weasley to wait on him? Under the table, he pinched his own leg to check if he was dreaming. He'd have a bruise later, but he was fairly sure he was awake.
"Yes," she said acidly, as if warning him against taking any advantage of this revelation, and stuffed the Minister's decree back into her bag of tricks.
"Sounds delightful."
"Mm. Yes. Minister Trench has scheduled a press conference later this afternoon to announce his decision, and he requests that you be in attendance."
"Does 'request' in this case mean what it actually means? Or is it more along the lines of, 'Show up or we'll rescind the pardon'?"
Ginny leaned forward, resting her arms lightly on the tabletop. "You're a free man, Mr. Malfoy. You may do as you wish. As a note of caution, however, I would suggest you personally inform the Minister of the reason for your absence, if that is the case, and I will add that the reason had better be a good one. Ministers generally tend not to like having their generous gestures thrown back in their faces."
"Understood. But, you see, I'm out of practice with the media; I'm not sure it would really be in anyone's best interests to have cameras and recording devices shoved in my face the very day I'm released. It's a rather emotional time for me," Draco said flatly, his arms crossed, daring her to suggest otherwise.
"Yes, of course. I can see that," she said, clearly not buying what he was selling -- and selling poorly, at that.
"Well. Now what?"
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Now you pack up your things and go home."
Her words unexpectedly struck him like a blow to the gut. He was going home. This was really happening. Draco let out a soft, shuddery laugh before biting back whatever outburst was threatening to pour out of his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay," he said quietly, his eyes cast towards the table.
Ginny saw his icy persona drop for a second and wasn't sure what to do with it. "Okay," she said.
They both stood, and Ginny hesitated for a moment before extending her hand to him. "Welcome back to normal life."
Reflexively, Draco reached his hand out, but pulled it back quickly when a guard from across the room called out, "No touching."
"Thank god," Ginny muttered under her breath.
Author notes: The wording of the pardon is copied from the US presidential pardon, with the bits specific to the HP universe swapped in.
"No touching" references a running joke in Arrested Development.
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